Wingman (29 page)

Just trying to earn a living," Dozer said, smiling broadly.

St. Louie poured a drink for the Marine captain and the three of them sat down.

Well, Hawk," Dozer began. "We finally did make it to Fort Meade; problem was, the place was empty."

"So what did you do?" Hunter asked.

"Well, there wasn't a soul anywhere around the base, and it had plenty of food and provisions," Dozer continued. "So we left the citizens there with a few of our guys who wanted to stay put for a while. They stayed for about a year, but then had to leave before the territory went Mid-Ak."

Dozers' troops had voted to stay with him. They respected his intelligence and sought his guidance. He correctly surmised that in the anarchic continent, an army for hire might be in need in some places. So the 7th Cavalry walked west. They set up camp here and there, sometimes occupying abandoned or near-abandoned towns when possible.

Some of these occupations lasted several months or more. The local population-once they realized that Dozer's troops weren't rapists or New Order zealots-welcomed the well-armed, professional unit. The countryside was filled with gangs of gunmen and raiders during these early days. But none was so foolish to tackle an entire Marine battalion.

The 7th gradually worked by its way to the Mississippi, and would have probably walked right through the Badlands if they hadn't landed in Football City first. The city was just in its forming stages. St. Louie, knowing a ready-made security force when he saw it, offered to hire the whole battalion to help protect Football City and train its own fledgling army. The 7th voted to accept the offer and had been in the employ of St. Louie ever since.

"I knew you were coming, Hawk," Dozer said. "And, I'm glad you're here. You're not a minute too soon."

St. Louie started to say something, but caught himself at the last moment. "We'll talk business later, Major," he said, cryptically. "Have you seen our Grand Stadium?"

Hunter detected the cautious switch in St. Louie's voice.

"I was a big football fan before the war," he said, picking up on the subject.

"I'm glad to see it didn't die out completely, like just about everything else."

"It didn't, Major," St. Louie said, back to his relaxed self. "And it won’t either.

I won’t let it. It's too . . .
too American
."

He slapped his knee with a crack for emphasis.,

"Well," Hunter said, feeling some of the excitement too. "I hope I can catch a part of a game while I'm here."

St. Louie looked at Dozer. "Why, didn't they tell you, Major?" St. Louie asked.

"Tell me what?"

"Major," St. Louie said with a smile. "Tomorrow, at Opening Day. You're going to be the guest of honor."

The next morning, Hunter was sitting in St. Louie's special box at the Grand Stadium. The grandstands were filing up with people-the place held more than 250,000

and every seat would soon be taken. More people gathered outside to watch the action on two big TV screens. Football City had the only working TV system on the continent and they put it to good use.

Hunter watched as a hundred players each from the Gold and Silver teams went through their pre-game warm-ups on the field. Bands were playing. People were cheering.

Footballs flying through the air. A contagious excitement ran through the crowd. Hunter felt good inside as he took it all in. There was nothing on the continent to compare to this. Not in the old Northeast Economic Zone days of Boston, or Texas or out on the Coast. This was, for want of a better word-traditional. Traditional and civilized.

Hunter sipped on a gigantic Bloody Mary. The night before was a pleasant blur.

More pilot talk with St. Louie during dinner, more reminiscing with Dozer. This led to more drinking at St. Louie's estate. Then he was chauffeured to his suite of rooms at the city's finest hotel, followed by yet another tour of the town with Gus and the Marine captain as tour guides. Free drinks. Free gambling chips. A showgirl named Alicia.

Her underpants were hanging on his bedpost when he woke up. It took him a while to realize it-but he decided that this must be a vacation, the first one he'd had since his college days.

St. Louie was in the box with a couple of dozen other guests. The man had promised to talk business with Hunter after the game, so the airmen decided there was nothing to do but sit back and relax. Dozer was out on the field, supervising the security effort, his men sprinkled throughout the crowd in addition to Football City's regular army troop.

Back in the box, a squad of sanctity-clad waitresses made sure everyone was well-cared for. At the stroke of noon, both teams-1000 players in all-took the field. The game was about to begin. Suddenly the stadium's PA system sprang to life:

"Ladies and gentlemen!"
the speakers boomed with an anonymous announcer's voice
.

"Welcome to Opening Day!"

The crowd responded with a thunderous cheer. The vibrations shook the whole

stadium including St. Louie's box. Hunter felt a jolt run through him. Just like the old days, he thought.

The announcer continued:
"Starting our program today will be the Football City
Air Corps Acrobatic Team"

St. Louie had told Hunter about the air demonstration earlier. The Football City leader confessed that the city's air corps
was
the demonstration team; the city only had five jets, and they were rather harmless and antique T-33s. Despite the enormous wealth of the city, when it came to defense, the money was spent on hiring an army.

The city's jets-slow and unarmed-were strictly for show.

The crowd turned its eyes skyward as the jets appeared over the stadium. Flying in a standard V-formation the team executed a rather lukewarm series of loops, break-ups and eights. Hunter gave them an A for effort. The crowd, on the other hand, loved it.

St. Louie leaned over to him and said: "Someday, Major, we'll have a real air force."

Hunter looked at him and nodded. But St. Louie wasn't smiling. He looked more like an old man than a dignified cowboy. "Someday, Major," he continued with an ominous tone in his voice. "We'll need it."

He went back to watching the air demo team perform their routine. The crowd cheered with each maneuver. Hunter added his applause, although he could have performed the team's aerobatics in his sleep.

Suddenly, he knew something was wrong. Other aircraft were in the area. He could feel it. Even above the roar of the crowd and the noise of the Football City jets, he could hear other engines, more powerful, more threatening, heading their way.

He turned toward the northeast. Here they come, he thought. Just then a siren went off. The band stopped playing. The crowd let out a collective gasp. An instant later, five deadly-looking fighter planes streaked low over the stadium.

"Where did they come from?" someone in the box yelled. The jets were unmarked and painted entirely in black. They were all carrying air-to-air missiles.

"Who the hell are they?" someone yelled as the jets streaked over and began to turn.

Hunter began to shake with anger. He knew what kind of jets they were. A rage began at his feet and traveled at the speed of light to his head. He watched in angry silence as the fighters flashed over the stadium again and started to climb.

"Are they friendly?" someone else asked. The crowd began to move uneasily.

The Football City air demo was in the middle of a flyby high above the stadium.

Hunter doubted if the demo jets even had workable radar or radios. And he could tell the mystery jets were preparing to attack.

The intruder jets weren't F-4s, or F-8s or F-104s. Not Thunderchiefs or Voodoos or Super Sabres. Nor any other pre-New Order American design. That's what shook Hunter as he stared at the aircraft. His blood began to boil. He hadn't seen jets like these since the war. He didn't think he'd ever see jets like these again. But here they were, above Football City's Grand Stadium. In the middle of the continent. Ready to attack the unarmed performing jets . . .

"They're pirate jets!" someone yelled. Screams came from the crowd. The impending panic of a quarter of a million people rippled through the stadium.

"No, they're not!" Hunter yelled, bolting from the luxury box. "They're Russian MIG-21s! And they're going after the demos!"

Helplessness. It washed over the stadium crowd as the black MIG-21s attacked the unarmed Football City T-33 jets. two of the demos were simply blown out of the sky by the black fighters' firing their air-to airs. Two others twisted and turned as each was picked up by at least two of the mystery planes. The crowd seemed glued to its feet as the dogfight swirled above them. Another demo was hit. Its wing severed, it plunged toward the grandstand. The stricken plane wobbled as the pilot tried to steer it away from the crowd. But he couldn't. Too late the people in the stadium began to react.

The jet slammed into stands at the far end of the stadium, killing hundreds instantly and spilling burning jet fuel over hundreds more nearby.

The horrible crash snapped the fans out of their stupor. Panic set in. In seconds the crowd was pouring out onto the playing field and rushing toward the exits. Now the screams and cries were as loud as the cheering that had filled the stadium just minutes before. People were crushed, trampled, suffocated beneath the on-rushing sea of bodies.

Another Football City jet was hit, right above one of the needle nose towers.

It was as if the mystery jets were intentionally firing on the unarmed planes when and where a crash would do the most damage. Again, the pilot struggled to control the jet away from the stadium. Again, he failed. He managed to miss most of the crowd, keeping the smoking jet level as it crossed across the length of the stadium barely 200 feet from the ground. But the valiant pilot could do no more. The T-33 crashed into the base of the needle tower at the far end of the stands. The structure shook once, teetered, then came tumbling down. A dozen or so technicians housed in the tower were trapped and crushed as the structure slammed into the fleeing crowd.

High above the stadium, the last demo plane was caught in the crossfire of two mystery jets and was hit simultaneously by two air-to-air missiles. It disintegrated in mid-air.

Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the black MIG-21s were gone. The attack had lasted less than a minute. Thousands lay dead or dying. Two fires were raging in the stadium; one where the tower had fallen, another where the jet had crashed into the stands. Tens of thousands of fans were still scrambling toward the exits, many others just stood in numbed disbelief. No one quite knew what to do. No one except Hunter .

. .

He was out the luxury box door before the first missile was even fired by the MIG-21s. He didn't have to see the dogfight. He could hear it and know what was going on. Knowing the exits would be soon filled with panicking fans, he opted for climbing out on one of the girders that supported the stadium stands. He shimmied down the beam and was soon out on the street beside the stadium. The noise of the crowd and the screams of the jets high above filled the air. He saw the first jet come crashing down. Quickly, he looked around, trying to get his bearings.
Which way was the fucking airport?
He had to get to his F-16 . . .

Frustration. It was no use. The streets were clogged within seconds. Injured people fell out of the stadium by the hundreds, burnt, crying, bleeding. It was utter chaos. Sirens were going off all around him. The smoke from the fires inside filled his nostrils. It smelled of burning flesh. The street was a mass of suffering humanity.

People grabbed him, some with burning clothes, others with burning skin. Overhead, he caught a quick flash, of the mystery jets-their ruthless work done-disappearing into the clouds. They would be far away before he could even get to the airport. He hated to give up so easily, but there was nothing he could do now. In desperation, he shook his fist at the sky.

Rescue vehicles were arriving. Soldiers appeared and started treating the

victims. Hunter looked around and began to think more rationally. He was needed here on the ground right now. People were dying. They needed help. His heart burning with hate, heavy with rage, he joined the rescue crews and started administering first aid.

He stayed there the entire day and most of the night, helping the survivors, recovering the dead. The lights usually used for the football games were turned to the parts of the stadium where the jet and the tower crashed. Rescue workers sifted through the debris, looking for more victims. The remains of the crashed T-33 still smoldered in the rubble. The sirens kept blaring; no one had bothered to turn them off.

Meanwhile, people were packing up and fleeing Football City in droves. Rumors, fueled by the fires rising out of the rubble of the stadium, raced through the city.

Another attack was coming. Get out while you can. Head for the hills. Once again, civilization came toppling down.

"Who were they?" Hunter asked Louie St. Louie. "Who would want to do this?"

They were in the cellar of St. Louie's estate, in a makeshift war room. Dozer and a half dozen other top officers of the Football City Army were there, trying to assess the situation. Despite his protests, St. Louie's security forces had hustled him away from the stadium as quickly as they could. The first thing he did was order his troops into the city to help the people who were left find bomb shelters. He redeployed the SAMs surrounding his estate to the downtown area, in case a second attack did come. His army was on full -alert, but aside from a few antiaircraft guns, he knew they would be helpless should the black fighters return.