Wingman (7 page)

knots, 120, 150. His heart was pounding-a promise he had made to himself was coming true. Up on the mountain he had vowed to fly again, somehow, some time. Now, he was doing it. He pulled back on the control stick and the F-16 lifted off the ground.

A tantalizing thrill ran through him. He was certain he could feel his heart pounding against his flight suit, the excitement was so intense. Like a fish back to water-or more accurately, a bird back to wing-he was again where he should be-flying.

His colleagues on the ground watched as the red, white and blue fighter tore down the runway and lifted off in a flash, a bright cone of fire pouring from the tail. They followed the plane as Hunter stood the '16 straight up on its tail and climbed. And climbed. And climbed. The fighter went straight up into the cloudless sky until it was out of sight. The former Thunderbird pilots shook their heads.

"Two years away from it," Toomey observed. "And the boy is still the best since Orville and Wilbur."

Hunter let the g-force flow through him as the plane climbed higher. It was

rejuvenating. The further he got from the ground, the better he felt. It was a classic battle between him and the law of gravity, and, when he was flying, he was winning.

He never wanted to come down.

Still the F-16 climbed. 25,000 feet. 30,000. 35,000. Up to 40,000. He was in ecstasy. 45,000. 50,000! 60,000! He could see the dark edge of the stratosphere above him. Was it all worth it? The time spent on the mountain, in a cocoon, waiting. At 70,000

feet-14 miles high and nearing 1200 mph-he let out a whoop! Goddamn! It was worth it, he decided at that moment. He had been reborn.

He turned the plane over in a backward loop and started down. Straight down. The gs increasing, the engine roaring, the ground getting close, real fast. His colleagues on the ground saw him coming, fast and true, like an arrow shot from heaven. No one had the control, the coolness of their friend Hunter. They admired him and, not so secretly, envied him.

He pulled up smoothly, barely 100 feet above the runway. Jones had wisely ordered the airspace above the field to be cleared, a standard procedure when the team flew their exhibitions. Work had stopped completely at the base as word that Hunter, "the greatest pilot ever born," was putting on a show. When the Thunderbirds performed in the old days, Hunter would do a solo spot, and it was always the crowd pleaser. As the entire base-pilots to sentries-had their eyes upward, it was clear that nothing had changed.

He ran through all the old stunts like he'd never stopped performing. Loops.

Eights. One point star-burst. Upside down crossover. Controlled stall. Four point turns.

Eight point turns. He ended the exhibition with a blistering low altitude buzz of the base. Even the seasoned pilots on hand had to let out gasps of admiration. The boy was born to fly.

Then, it was over. Time to come home. He set the plane down softly. The '16 had performed superbly. With a couple of squadrons of these, he thought, he and his friends could clear the skies of any opponent. He was itching for the chance. Hungry for action.

He rolled the plane up to the hangar and shut it down There, a ground crew appeared and helped him unstrap. He climbed down to the tarmac where Jones was waiting for him.

"Fair," the general said, coolly lighting a cigar to camouflage his smite. "Just keep your nose up and don't be so much of a hot dog and you'll make it."

"Yes, sir," Hunter replied, knowing he deserved some ribbing. "Thank you, sir.

How many more of these you got?"

Jones suddenly turned serious. "That's the bad news, Hawk." Hunter waited.

"We've looked all over, asked around, offered good money," Jones said slowly.

"Couldn't find a single one, next to this one."

"You mean . . . ?" Hunter said, fearing the worst.

"You're right on top of it, Hawk," Jones said, looking at the F-16. "The New Order got to all of them. Pranged them. The incredible fools.

" Hunter closed his eyes.

"As far as we know," Jones said, "this is the last F-16 left."

Later on that night, after chow and before the bourbon was broken out, Hunter and Jones sat in the pilot's lounge smoking cigars. The room was small and cramped, but homey, thanks to the half dozen overstuffed chairs that were jammed into it. Its walls were covered with snapshots of the Thunderbirds in action in the old days. In the corner, a VCR-the only TV available these days-cranked away, displaying a porn movie on a jumpy black and white screen. Hunter avoided watching it for fear he'd burst a seam. He couldn't remember the last time he'd made love to a woman. Was it in France?

It had been one hell of a day for Hunter-his reunion with the general and the Thunderbirds, Jones' updating him on the radical changes across the continent, the exhilarating flight, the shock of knowing that there was probably but one F-16 left in the world. It was hard for Hunter to believe that less than 48 hours before, he was still cooped up in the cabin on the mountain.

"Well," Jones said, finishing off a cup of coffee. "Do you want a job or don't you?"

"Job?" Hunter asked.

"Yes, Major. That's what one gets when one has to earn a living. It's a totally alien subject to you?"

It was true, from his childhood, through M.I.T., through the Air Force Academy and into the service, he had never held a
regular
job.

"Look," Jones said, leaning forward in his chair. "It's not much pay. Just enough to keep some silver-some real stuff-jingling in your pocket. But these days, what's to buy? Booze. Women. Cheap cigars.

"But I'll guarantee you all the flying time we can manage to give you fuel for.

And, it's your '16 if you want it."

"I accept," Hunter said quickly.

"Now wait a minute," Jones said, holding up his hand in caution. "Let me explain the job. We are talking about routine stuff. Escorting tanker deliveries, border patrol, training new guys if we get them planes to fly. Chasing pirates if they break our airspace is about the only action I can promise you. At least, for a while."

"I accept," Hunter said again.

"Will you wait a goddamn minute? You had better lay out your options, Hawk. Like I said, you could make a fortune as a freelancer, doing trans-continentals. There's a company, right up in Boston. Head-hunters, always looking for flyboys for convoy duty.

They'll pay you more in a week than I can give you in a year."

"But I accept
your
offer," Hunter repeated.

Will you cool your goddamn jets?" "Look, will I be working with you and the guys?"

Hunter asked.

"Yes," Jones said, with a wave of his cigar. But . . .

"And will I be flying that '16 out there?"

"Of course, but . . ."

"Then, I accept your offer," he said with a smile.

"All right, wise ass," Jones said in exasperation. "You're hired. Now, will you listen to me?"

"Go ahead. Boss."

"I'll kick your butt," Jones said, reaching for a label-less bottle of bourbon.

"You listen to me you hot dog . . ."

The general stopped for a moment, looked around for a glass, settled on an old Styrofoam coffee cup and poured himself a stiff double. Hunter realized that whatever Jones had to tell him wasn't a laughing matter.

Jones took a deep belt from the coffee cup. The stuff was rot-gut; but moonshine's biggest asset was that it was available. In the old days, you wouldn’t give it to your worst enemy.

"There's going to be war," the older men said deliberately.

Hunter was puzzled. "There's already been a big one. I thought
it
was the war to end all wars.' "

Jones sighed and shook his head. "No, I mean right here, on the East Coast. With the Mid-Atlantic Division."

"The Mid-Aks?" Hunter asked, looking out for a cup for himself.

"You got it. Things started to smell a few months ago. Little things. Here and there. Nothing that could stand on its own. But when you add them up ..."

"Things like what?" Hunter asked, after locating a chipped and cloudy tea cup and pouring himself a drink.

"Well, the boys in Boston have never got along with Mid-Atlantic. They feel they're just a little too cute for them. I mean, seeing them raise an army that could kick-ass on half the continent, that's nothing to be taken lightly."

"Especially when you have them for neighbors," Hunter added.

"Check. There ain't nothing between us and them except what's left in New York City. Boston figured that if they wanted to put people to work, like a People's Army, building roads, repairing things, then, what the hell?"

"People's Army sounds a little too familiar," Hunter said.

"I agree. It's Russian to the gonads. But still, Boston didn't mind all that much.

I mean, there are eleven other countries out there now, and several free zones and unclaimed territories .

"And the Badlands. And the pirates."

"Right. Who can blame them for starting an army? There's a lot of kookaboos running loose."

Hunter nodded in agreement, refilled Jones's cup and put a head on his own.

The general took a swig. "But it started with this shit at Fort Knox. I mean, they killed some people down there. Locals. People who just happened to live near the place, and who had some guns and squatted on it, using a little of the gold at a time.

"But you see, it was the way the Mid-Aks did it. They didn't attack these folks right away. In fact, they did business with them. Then, they entered into a 'mutual cooperation pact' or something with these people, who were actually no more than four or five hundred, and calling themselves Kentucky Free State.

“Next thing you know, just when the Kentuckians thought they could do business with Mid-Atlantic- boom!-the Mid-Aks accuse them of some such nonsense, and they attack them. Wipe 'em out. It took all of an afternoon. Five hundred or more dead. The Mid-Aks sitting on top of a pile of gold. Who's going to say a thing?"

"Well, is it common knowledge about what happened?'" Hunter wanted to know.

"Maybe," Jones replied. "There ain't no more newspapers, Hawker. We used to complain about the press doing this and that. You know how much I hated sucking up to those bastards during the Thunderbirds' days. Now that they're gone, no one knows what the hell is happening on the other side of the mountain or in the next town over. We have one hundred million people still living on this continent, but ninety-nine point nine million of them are woefully uninformed."

"What did the New Order Commissioner and his goons do?"

"Not a thing. And they knew about the Fort Knox thing. That I know for a fact.

I've some good contacts up in Boston. Guys I've done favors for. They keep their ears to the ground and they keep me informed. The New Order heard about the Gold War within days of it happening. Did nothing."

"Go on," Hunter said.

"Well, the Mid-Aks used the gold to build an even bigger army and that's when they went after the Florida-Alabama Union. But it was the same style. First, they played it
cozy
with them, opening up trading centers on their borders. Letting people travel back and forth without much hassle. Then again with this 'mutual pact' shit. Course, these Florida-'Bama Unionist guys didn't exactly know what went down in Kentucky. Then the 'Aks proposed that the two regions 'merge,' to use their term."

"Right," Hunter said. "Just like when Hitler 'merged' with Poland."

"You're catching on, Hawk. But this time, the Mid-Aks didn't even wait for an answer."

"You mean they just walked in and took over?" Hunter asked.

"Just about," Jones said. "But first they started a diversion. Now, remember, not many people know this is really what happened. It was real early one morning. A couple of ships sailed in from nowhere, anchored off Miami and opened up on the city with big guns. Then they started offloading troops! In landing craft, yet! These guys, armed to the teeth and .all dressed in black, start splashing ashore. The Union guys don't know what the fungoo is going on. These troops could be from Cuba, for all they know.

So they stop 'em on the beach. Cut them up bad and bloody. But while they're doing that, the 'Aks hit them from the north. Poured in like ants.

"It took a little longer this time. There are some tough sons of bitches down Florida and Alabama way. I mean, Roll, Tide. They weren't like a bunch of hillbillies sitting on six billion dollars in gold. They fought back. Man, they had tanks, howitzers, a few choppers.

"But they had no money. And no money meant no air cover. And no air cover meant it was just a matter of time before the bigger army won. The Mid-Aks finally squashed them. Took about a month. It was a bloodbath. And from what I hear, the Mid-Aks didn't take kindly to the conquered population. Killed kids, old women. Sold the good looking women. Shit like that."

"And, again, the brave New Order was on the sidelines?"

"With their fingers up their whatzis. I mean, this happened practically right next door to them. Florida's not that far from Bermuda. They're either scared shitless of Mid-Atlantic ..."

"Or . . .?" Hunter asked. "Or they're in bed together," Jones said, worry crossing his face.

Hunter ran his fingers through his long hair. It sure didn't take the world very long to get screwed up. "You said, you've smelled other things?" he asked Jones. "Oh yes," the general replied.

"You see, most of the people on the continent want nothing to do with Atlantic.

I mean, we won't trade with them, and neither will the Coasters. The Texans demand real coin, up front from them, but that's not a problem, since they locked up the gold supply."

"Then the Mid-Aks are probably the richest of the countries," Hunter said. "But are they the strongest?"

"Not yet," Jones replied. "Right now, in the pecking order, with all things considered, we here in the Northwest are probably the strongest this side of the Badlands, and that's in good part because we're lucky. We have some airplanes and pilots.