Wingman (8 page)

The Boston Army is strictly paid soldiers, but they seem loyal. Small, but good. When I get through with the training of the Special Force here, we'll be better. The 'Aks don't go in for jets. Probably too stupid to fly them. They have some ships, and I hear they've been buying up helicopters. But they're too big, if anything, and they got a lot of territory to patrol and a lot of pissed off people under their control.

"On the other hand, we've got stable and easily patrolled borders to the west, thanks in part that New York State is now a Free Territory. The ocean covers our ass to the east and a friendly Canada sits over us.

"And the Coasters are the same way. No real enemies close by. They're the strongest west of the Badlands, with maybe the Texans a close third. The Mid-Aks are definitely fourth on the list, but they're trying like hell to be number one. God! I think I'd prefer those hoodlums in New Chicago than these bozos down in Mid-Atlantic."

"So, what 'smells?' “Hunter asked, draining his cup of hootch.

"Well, just this," Jones said. "I was up in Boston last week. Just making the rounds, seeing my contacts. They run everything out of a skyscraper now. The old Prudential Insurance building, I think it was called. It's one of the tallest things around."

Hunter knew the building.

"Anyway, suddenly, I start hearing things like: 'Maybe the Mid-Aks ain't that bad,' and 'They've changed their ways. They want to play it straight from now on.' "

"You're kidding?" Hunter was amazed.

"No shit. But you see, these guys in Boston didn't stop being politicians just because someone dropped the bomb. They're like the Texans. Texas didn't stop pumping oil, and the Boston politicians didn't stop making deals. I mean, these guys wrote the book on how to make a deal."

Hunter was familiar with it, having spent a lot of time in Boston when he attended Aeronautics School at M.I.T.

"What these Boston pols have their eyes on is a piece of that real gold," Jones continued. "I mean, forget the clad. The currency of choice now is silver. But that's only because there's so much of it still around. People settle for silver, but they do crazy things for gold.

"So now there's talk on the Leaders' Council about let's give the Mid-Aks a chance.

Exchange ambassadors. Get to know them. This kind of happy horseshit. Meanwhile, they're building the biggest goddamn army since the Civil War!"

Jones was silent once again. He was plainly worried about dragging Hunter and the other pilots into what could be a deadly situation. Not that they couldn't fend for themselves. But who wants to risk getting his ass shot off for a country that hasn't been around long enough to feel any kind of loyalty to?

"Well, the long and short of it, Hawk, is that one of the last things I heard when I was up there was some asshole talking about a 'mutual cooperation pact' with Mid-Atlantic."

"Sounds like they're going down the primrose path," Hunter said, sensing Jones's rising alarm.

“Oh, some of them want to get screwed, do you see?" Jones said. "There's really nothing in the Northeast Economic Zone that's not worth selling out for. And, if the Mid-Aks can come in the back door, well, it sure would make it a lot easier on them."

"So you mentioned something about a war?" Hunter asked, getting the general back to his original statement.

"Oh yeah," Jones answered. "But not right away. Maybe a year. Maybe longer. But it's coming. I can feel it. My bosses-the good ones anyway won’t let this dirty dealing go on, if they can help it. They might not be full military guys, Hawk, but Jesus, they have a better perspective on right and wrong than most of these chowder heads in Boston do."

"And you'll fight?" Hunter asked him.

"I don't know," Jones said slowly. "I don't have any real loyalty to the Northeast, although it sure is better than a lot of the gabonzo that's going down for governments these days.

"I'd like to fight because the Mid-Aks are like the commies in my eyes. They're pigs. No respect for human life or rights. They rape. They sell young girls. They kill old people and kids. What the hell ever happened to live and let live? I refuse to traffic with sub-humans!"

He took a slug right from the hootch bottle for effect.

"But if they got into the pants of the crooked pols in Boston, we'd be overwhelmed, I think. They'd start cutting our fuel rations. They'd start yanking me around, so I'd be missing the details of running this place. Just when things would be at the worst, the 'Aks would come down on us like a ton of bricks. When that shit starts happening, I'll know it's just a matter of time. And we could fight. But I don't believe in killing a lot of good pilots just because a bunch of politicians get screwed and like it."

Hunter thought for a moment. Need to fight for a cause, the old man had told him earlier in the day. But he also wanted to serve the general.

"I'm with you all the way, sir," he said.

"Thanks, Hawk."

There was an awkward moment of silence between them. The general was like a father to him. He would go the extra mile and then some for the man.

"Just one more thing, Hawk?" Jones said.

"Name it, sir," he replied. "Get a haircut and a shave. You're a mess."

Just then, Ben Wa and Toomey burst in. They were obviously drunk, a state that Jones and Hunter were also reaching.

"Hawk, old buddy, your compadres have arrived!" Ben announced. "Girls?"

With that, four of the most beautiful girls in the world walked into the lounge.

There was a blonde, two brunettes and a redhead, each one wearing a tight sweater and short skirt, each one made up to the hilt. Each one obviously looking for a good time.

They had come to the right place. Hunter's eyes went wide and he felt a pulsating start up in his loins.

"Ladies?" J.T. announced. "Meet the famous Hawk Hunter, cover-boy, fighter pilot, whiz kid and astronaut-in-waiting.''

There was a round of greetings and an orgy of eyelash fluttering, but he was oblivious to it all. His eyes were transfixed on the redhead's breasts.

Jones leaned over to him. "Go ahead boy," he said. "Get your pipes cleaned. Just leave one for this old man and make sure you're down on the flight line at eight tomorrow morning."

Hunter took the redhead by the hand and headed for the quarters Jones had issued him earlier. It had been quite a day ...

Hunter settled into the base. For the next six months he enjoyed the surprisingly pleasant routine of a fighter pilot in the New Order world. It was a life of daily patrols of the Northeast Economic Zone's outlying borders, keeping an eye on the nearby sea lanes, and an occasional tanker escort mission. Jones had decided long before to leave the air convoy protection business to the freelancers. He needed live pilots-not dead mercenaries. Thanks to the growing power of the air pirates and the increasingly treacherous skies above the Badlands, the life expectancy of a free lancer was now measured in days.

Hunter was happy. He got all the flying time he wanted, a place to sleep, good chow, women. What more could he ask for? Except maybe a little combat action, now and then.

The continent was in a state of change, too. People were adapting, coming out of hiding. A regular little community-quickly nicknamed 'Jonesville’ sprang up on the base. Tired of living in groups or in hiding, some civilians occupied the abandoned GI housing outside the base. Others started building anew. Within two months of Hunter's arrival, there were more than 5000 people in the neighborhood. They liked the security of having an army and air force nearby to protect them from the unknowns of the post-war world. Many worked at the base, and Jones, the true-blue capitalist who became an unofficial Big Daddy
cum
-governor for the area, allowed the citizens to set up shops inside the fence. They even started their own militia-style police force.

What was better was that eligible women began frequenting the base, mostly party girls who loved mixing it up with the soldiers, especially the flyboys. Some were even charging for it, an enterprise Jones wisely let continue unabated. Every pressure needs a release, he would say.

Training of the Zone Air Rangers continued. Jones was able to dig up some

helicopters for them-eight big Chinooks, to be exact, dubbed "The Crazy Eights." The choppers were chock full of machineguns, rocket launchers, cannons, anything that could shoot. Within a few months, the former undisciplined, shoot 'em up army was becoming the crack special forces unit Jones had wanted it to be. They trained in airborne assaults, coordinated attack with air support and guerrilla/night fighting.

The size of the ZAR increased to 500, enough for Jones to take 250 of them and establish a half dozen outposts on the Zone's western borders. The string of bases served as combination frontier posts and early warning system. Each place had a working, though rudimentary, radar system. If anything flying was seen approaching the Zone's airspace, the news was flashed by clandestine radio sets to Otis. If the sighting was deemed possibly hostile, two ZAP fighters would scramble. There were two fighters-usually the F-4 and another smaller plane-on alert at all times. The ZAP radar net was also good for keeping track of the air convoys that left Logan Airport on a more regular basis. Knowing where every plane was helped the 50 or so planes get properly grouped for the long voyage west. But the service was a luxury and the convoy pilots knew it.

Once the air parade left the Zone’s airspace they had wing – usually-until they were in range of similar stations run by the coasters on the far side of the Rockies.

But despite troubles in the middle of the country, things seemed to stabilize-at least in the Northeast Economic Zone-now nearly three years into the New Order.

For the most part, all talk of alliances with the Mid-Atlantics died down. The Leaders Council silenced the troublemakers if temporarily and concentrated on making money. Jones had finally let his bosses know that he had hired Hunter
and
his F-16.

They were delighted. And once they realized that Jones had assembled nearly the entire former Thunderbirds demonstration team, requests for aerobatic shows started pouring in.

The ZAP put on impressive shows for visiting government or trade officials. The other countries on the continent-with the exception of the Coasters and the

Texans-barely had the equipment and manpower to put two or three jets into the air.

And here was ZAP, flying modern fighters and performing precision team aerobatics high above Boston.

Hunter loved doing the shows, although others in the team came to view them as a pain. Jones knew better. There were spies everywhere these days; more than a few of them, he was sure, had taken up residence in Boston. Any potential adversary-Mid-Ak, Family, or even Russian-watching the expert flying of the demo team had a very clear message to send back to their bosses: Don't tangle with ZAP.

The air pirates learned that lesson the hard way. Hunter had been at the base for about eight weeks when they first heard about a roving band of pirates operating on the edge of the Northeast's frontier. The area-once known as upstate New York-was now called the Free Territory of New York. Free Territory was just another way of saying,

"every man for himself." There was no central government as there was in the Northeast Economic Zone. Most of the major cities were evacuated during the war, many of the residents fleeing to Quebec. The people who remained lived in the many small towns and villages that dotted the Territory. These people simply governed themselves. Most of the time, it worked.

Sometimes it didn't.

As reports of the air bandits became more frequent, it was soon obvious that they were preying on anything that flew around the Catskills and all the way up to the Adirondack Mountain Range. In two weeks' time several planes-stragglers, solo artists-had been shot down. Others were forced to land, their cargoes stolen, their crews killed. The area wasn't too far from the well-traveled convoy routes, but this band of pirates-touchingly known as the Cherry Busters-were avoiding the big stuff and going after the small potatoes. What was worse, this happened before the ZAP radar string was brought on line.

Because every airplane that flies needs people on the ground to keep it that way, roving pirate bands always carried a substantial ground maintenance entourage. These mechanics-prisoners and ex-gas station owners mostly-traveled with the bandits, servicing the planes and occasionally acting as ground troops. They were paid by sharing in the booty. Frequently these ground support crews were as dangerous, if not worse, than the pilots they served. The Cherry Busters were no different. While the pirates'

terrorized the skies above, small villages and towns on the Zone-New York Territory border were attacked by the Buster's rampaging ground crews.

Jones had been watching the situation and had increased the air patrols in the area. He quietly dispatched a 100-man Ranger unit by helicopter to sit on the border in case it was needed. But there was little else he could do. The pirates were operating in an area that was out of his jurisdiction and Jones's Bosses in Boston warned him strongly and repeatedly that they wanted no part of anyone else's problem. As long as the pirates didn't violate the Northeast Economic Zone's airspace, Jones and ZAP was powerless to stop them.

But then the Cherry Busters made a mistake. The bandits' ground crews blew into a town that straddled the border with the Northeast Economic Zone and held it for three days. By the time the Rangers heard about it and got there, the place-once a town of 600-was in ruins, burnt to the ground. The Rangers found evidence of mass executions, torture, looting. The bodies recovered were those of old people and men, some of whom had fought back. As always, anything young and pretty was gone-young girls were the pirates most sought-after booty. Other women, those not quite measuring up to the pirates' standards, were found dead also, but not before they had all been brutally raped.