Wingman (47 page)

"How much?" Hunter had to ask. It wasn't often a man got to know his true worth.

Are ye ready for this?" Fitz asked with a chuckle that could be heard through the crackle of the radio transmission. "One half
billion
dollars in gold!" "

A half
billion
?" Hunter was shocked. He knew he had made some enemies. But a half billion dollars worth?

"That's correct, Hawker," Fitz said back. "Five hundred million dollars. After you boys did a number on Boston, and with Baltimore gone, all the 'Aks have left is money-the gold from Knox. Now they're willing to part with it just to get your head on a platter."

"I guess I should be flattered," Hunter said.

"Aye, you should," Fitz said. "And you should also be keeping an eye out over your shoulder. There's a lot of bums out there who'd be kings with a half billion in gold in their pockets."

Hunter turned serious. "Any other . . . news?" he asked.

"About Dominique?" Fitz said. "No. Sorry. I sent three of my best men up to Montreal as you asked. They found nothing. The last time anyone saw her, she was getting off the Beechcraft Jones sent up. It's like she disappeared into thin air, Hawker.

Don’t worry, though. We'll keep looking."

There was a brief silence. "Thanks, Mike," Hunter finally said.

"Well," Fitzgerald radioed back. "I've always been a sucker for the good cause, be it blasting hoodlums or finding lost girlfriends."

The next day was the victory celebration. Those who survived gathered in and around the Grand Stadium. Huge barbecue pits were dug and tons of Texas beef cooked.

The Canadians delivered a plane filled with cases of whiskey. The Coasters sent wine and fruit. Fitzgerald himself arrived with five 747s filled with more than 1000 of the best-looking B-girls the Aerodrome could offer. The day's events included aerial demonstrations by the ex-ZAP pilots performing in the F-20s, and fly-bys by the surviving aircraft of the Free Forces air corps. Most of the pilots and all of the planes were in Football City to stay. In a matter of a few months, St. Louis had gone from no air corps to having the best equipped and manned on the continent.

The party atmosphere enlivened throughout the day and carried over into the

night. A huge makeshift stage had been set up and all the principals of the fight were seated there. The different groups of soldiers-from the Football City regulars to the Free Canadians and Texans to the volunteers-all stood in front of the stage.

Citizens-nearly fifty thousand of them-filled out the rest of the crowd.

Hunter looked at the soldiers on the stage. Sitting near him were the four pilots of the Ace Wrecking Company, next to them sat the Cobra Brothers. The former POW ZAP

pilots and mechanics came next, along with Fitzgerald and the ground crew from the Aerodrome. Dozer's officers were close by, their commander decked out in Marine dress blues and smiting from ear-to-ear.

The members of the Sea Stallion assault team were seated directly to his right; General Davy Jones, three of his B-52 pilots, plus T.J. and Ben Wa, sat to his left.

St. Louie was speaking to the crowd over a crude but effective public address system.

"We owe our very lives to the men sitting on this stage and to the armies that stand before it," he told the crowd, working the masses like a good politician. "It makes my heart feel good that there is still some humanity left on this continent."

The crowd greeted his words with thunderous applause. Many were holding candles or torches and many waved Football City flags.

And then suddenly, St. Louie was saying: "And now I want you to meet a man who fought like a hundred-or even a thousand men. I'm sure there isn't one among us who would disagree that without this man, it wouldn’t have worked out the way it did.

"Ladies and gentlemen . . . Major Hawk Hunter!"

The next thing Hunter knew, he was on. Standing before the microphones, looking out on the sea of faces and candles and flags. The applause and shouts of "Hunter!

Hunter!" rivaled the racket of the B-52 strike.

Hunter began slowly. "I didn't do anything that any one of you out there wouldn’t have done if you had the chance."

His voice was echoing throughout the Grand Stadium. The eerie glow of the

thousands of candles gave the ceremony a religious look.

"People around the world-especially in occupied Europe would like to think that we here have short memories," he went on. "They would like to think that we have already forgotten about what this country was like before they betrayed us.

"Well, I haven't forgotten. Have you?"

His answer came back, loud and strong, from the voices of nearly 70,000 patriots

"No!"

"I haven't forgotten that once a man could walk just about anywhere in this country and be free. I haven't forgotten that once a person could see what they wanted, hear what they wanted, read what they wanted, think what they wanted.

"And I remember the time-and it wasn't so long ago-when it was NOT against some law to mention the name of your own country. When you could fly its colors proudly.

When you didn't have to worry about who was looking over your shoulder, ready to pull a trigger when your back was turned."

The cheers from the crowd grew louder.

"Well, I think this is as good a time as any to say that we just aren't going to put up with those conditions anymore!"

More cheers.

"We can all break the law tonight! Break the New Order! Smash it! It was bogus anyway!"

More thunderous cheers.

"Tonight. We can throw off the chains! We can send a message to those who would enslave us that we aren't that easy. That we still pull together like the old days.

Before the New Order. I say GODDAMN the New Order!"

Deafening cheers rocked the stadium.

"We can't be afraid any more to say it! We should all say it. Together. We can break the spell. Break it now! Forever!"

The cheering was monstrous, sustained.

He reached into his breast pocket. The familiar shape of the flag was still there.

His mind raced as he took it out and carefully unfolded it. The Thunderbirds. The space shuttle. The War. The trip back across the ocean. New York. The mountain. Jonesville.

The 'Aks. Baltimore. A mountain in Vermont. The Aerodrome. The Pitts. Football City.

In the air over New Chicago. The final battle.

Three faces came into his mind. One was poor Saul Wackerman. One was the general.

One was Dominique. Where was she now? Alive or dead? Would he ever know?

He held the unfolded flag and looked at its colors. A rush ran through him as he stared at it. To think something as beautiful as this was once "illegal."

Never again!

"Never again!" he yelled into the microphone to the ear-splitting roar of the crowd. He slowly raised the flag above his head. "Never again shall we be afraid to hold this flag up proudly ..."

He took a deep breath.

". . . Or say the words: I am a citizen of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!"

The cheering turned into a chant. "USA! USA! USA! USA!" It echoed throughout the battered stadium and out across the countryside.

It would be a long time before Football City was quiet again.