by Mack Maloney
Syracuse. The once-bustling city stuck in the middle of upstate New York had long ago been evacuated, its residents now either scattered or citizens of Canada. But a new smaller city had sprung up, not in the middle of town, but at its airport. The Aerodrome they called it, and the last Hunter knew, an old friend of his was running the place.
The Aerodrome was a true product of the New Order era. Because most of New York state was now the Free Territory of New York, it was anything-goes as far as governments went. Most of the state was made up of small hamlets, where like the few larger cities not completely evacuated, the people had reverted to a kind of benign anarchy. Most of the people, though monetarily poor, enjoyed the set-up. But there was still a price to pay for the no-government-at-any-cost approach. Bandits perpetually roamed the deserted highways, and every so often, a roving air pirate squadron might blow through and terrorize the skies above the rugged mountainous country.
In the middle of this sat The Aerodrome, a haven of profitability and capitalism. It was all a question of location. Syracuse sat at an important crossroads of the air convoy routes. Single aircraft—cargo planes to fighters—used the place as a refueling stop. In the past, many air trains leaving Boston would fly a heading straight to Syracuse, where, if an aircraft had trouble—either mechanical or from pirates—it could set down safely. Smaller convoys flying down from Canada or from other places, would drop off goods and supplies at The Aerodrome for pick-up by other planes heading west. The base also afforded a large and well-staffed aircraft maintenance service; a place where an airplane could be overhauled, its engines torn down and rebuilt, its body rewelded, its avionics replaced or updated.
In many ways, the place was a modern version of the old-style truck-stop. Several eating establishments were located there, as were twice as many barrooms. Other enterprises—uniforms, used flying equipment, custom aircraft painting—thrived at the airbase. Many escort pilots and free-lancers called the place home. The currency ran from old silver coins to an occasional piece of gold or a diamond. And outright bartering—a short escort mission in exchange for a bellyfull of jet fuel, a paint job for a new landing gear assembly—was common.
So was the more deviant activity. While the half dozen large hotels surrounding the airport were converted into flophouses for weary pilots, the 20 or so smaller ones served as whorehouses. One of The Aerodrome’s main attractions was its Sodom and Gomorrah atmosphere. And flesh was just one commodity available. A black market flourished at the base. Guns, ammo, missiles, bombs, anything that could be attached to the underside of a jet or to its wings could be bought at The Aerodrome in any and all quantities. It seemed like everything—legal, illegal or otherwise—could be had at the place.
Although The Aerodrome started out as a private enterprise, all the activity at the base attracted many people to settle around it. Soon a city had arisen. Though born from the same idea as Jonesville—people liked safety in numbers in the New Order world—the place made Otis look like a hick town. More than 30,000 lived in the general vicinity, and more than three thousand passed in and out each day. The crime rate was high, the quality of liquor was low with the availability of a nice-looking piece of ass falling somewhere in the middle.
There was no police force, but common sense dictated the need for a standing army. Supported by the landing tax imposed on everyone flying through, the Aerodrome Defense Force—the ADF—was well-known for its tough, no-nonsense approach to protecting the base. ADF crews manned the radar stations, the SAM sites, the control tower and patrolled the border of the ten-square mile area claimed by The Aerodrome’s operators. A squadron of ADF fighters—flying vintage F-105 Thunderchiefs—kept a close eye on The Aerodrome’s airspace. The bandits, the air pirates and other troublemakers usually gave the place a wide berth. Of if they did find themselves at The Aerodrome, more often than not they would behave themselves, lest they feel the wrath of the ADF.
Syracuse was known to every pilot flying as an exciting, sometimes dangerous place. And every fly-boy from the Coasters to Texas knew there were two things you didn’t do at The Aerodrome: Arrive without filing a proper flight plan ahead of time and arrive without money.
Hunter was about to commit both sins at once …
“F-16, this is Aerodrome control.” The words burst from Hunter’s radio. “We are tracking you on an unauthorized approach. You have violated our airspace. Leave the area immediately.”
“I copy you, Aerodrome,” Hunter said, biting his lip. “I’m low on fuel. Just a minute or two left. Request permission to land.”
“F-16,” the tough-sounding voice of Aerodrome control replied. “You have violated our airspace. Leave the area immediately or you will be shot down. This is your final warning.”
Hunter didn’t doubt for a minute that they would shoot. He could see at least a dozen SAM sites ringing the base and was sure many more lay hidden in the dense forests which surrounded the base on three sides. He knew The Aerodrome was a valuable entity that needed constant vigilance and protection from pirates and other flying hostiles. And that was how it was in the heart of a Free Territory—shoot first and ask questions later.
“Aerodrome tower, this is F-16,” Hunter radioed, playing one of his two ace cards up front. “I am Major Hawker Hunter of the Northeast Economic Zone Air Patrol. I am unarmed. I am low on fuel. I am requesting permission to land.”
“’16, Aerodrome Tower,” the voice came back, a slight hint of hesitation in its tone. “Verbal identification no good. We are tracking you on our ground air defense system. You have less than minute before we launch. Leave the area, immediately.”
Time to show his last ace.
“Aerodrome control. Is Captain Mike Fitzgerald still in command?” Hunter checked his fuel. One minute left, tops.
“Launch sequence has started, F-16.”
“Tower, please inform Captain Fitzgerald that Hawker Hunter is requesting landing clearance.”
“Twenty seconds to SAM launch …” the radio crackled.
Hunter knew he had enough fuel to dodge one SAM, maybe two. But then he’d have to bail out and lose the ship. That was, if another SAM didn’t get him first.
“Ten seconds …”
He began to prepare for evasive action when a familiar voice sprang from the radio.
“How do I know it’s you, Hawker?”
“Because I’m the guy who taught you how to fly, you goddamned rum-soaked Irishman!” Hunter radioed back, his infrared detecting system warning him a SAM was about to launch. “Call off the SAMs!”
“Where?” the voice with a brogue asked.
“Nellis, Nevada.” Hunter said quickly.
“What did we do the night I got my wings?”
“I brought you out on the Las Vegas strip, got you shitfaced. Then you lost a month’s pay at the blackjack table.” Hunter said. “And if I have to ditch because of your fucking SAMs, I’ll personally kick your ass back to Caesar’s Palace …”
“Cancel SAM launch,” he heard the Irishman say. “Come on in on runway Two Left, Hawk. Wind speed 10 knots, south. I think you owe me a hundred bucks from that night and I want to collect.”
Hunter saw his infrared detector cool down, confirming the SAMs had halted their launch sequence.
“You’d better have a bottle of good stuff waiting, Fitzie,” Hunter said as he began his final approach. “Or I’ll turn out into a bag of shamrock fertilizer.”
Ten minutes later, Hunter was taxiing up to a runway station, where 20 or so nervous-looking ADF troopers were waiting. He shut down the engine, popped the canopy, and climbed out, only to find himself on the wrong end of twenty M-16 muzzles. Jumping down to the tarmac, he saw a familiar face emerge from the crowd of rifles.
It was the one and only Mike Fitzgerald, the only pilot who could fly a supersonic jet fighter into combat drunk, and live to tell about it.
“Hawker, me boy!” the diminutive red-faced, curly-haired Irishman said, planting a bearhug on him
. “Good to have the famous Wingman visit with us.”
“I should kick your ass back to Dublin,” Hunter said in mock anger. “If you had fired more than two of those SAMs, they’d be picking me up from here to Canada.”
“We just had to be sure it was you, Hawker, my friend,” Fitzgerald said with a classic grin. “Besides, if I’d shot off the missile, and you had lived, what then? I would have to charge you for it, now, wouldn’t I?”
Hunter had to laugh at the little guy. Born in Ireland, he somehow became an American citizen and immediately joined the service. And it was true, Hunter had taught Fitzgerald how to fly. It was back when Hunter was part of the Thunderbirds. All the members of the team did double-duty at Nellis Air Force training new pilots fresh from OCS. Fitzie was one of the last bunch Hunter had trained before he was accepted for the shuttle program.
In the sea of conservative military types that flooded a base like Nellis, Fitzie had been a welcome addition. A real Mick in the middle of a bunch of Mormons. No one was quite sure how he made it through high school, never mind jet pilot training school. But the Irishman proved to be a whiz at engineering and an outstanding fighter pilot. Before leaving Nellis, Hunter recommended that Fitzie be considered for Thunderbird duty once he earned his full captain’s wings.
But his talent in the air didn’t keep him out of trouble on the ground, and therefore he was always a little too much for the T-birds. Nellis, being just a stone’s throw from the old gambling mecca of Las Vegas, provided every kind of temptation a fighter pilot could face. And Fitzie took them all on: brawling in the best saloons, sleeping with show girls, buzzing a casino at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning after losing at the slot machines the night before. Witnesses to the buzzing incident swear when Fitzie’s jet went by, every slot in the place paid out a full price.
“Electromagnetism,” Fitz had explained at the time. “Serves the bastards right for taking a poor serviceman’s money.”
Fitz snapped his fingers and the ADF troopers disappeared. “Are yer thirsty?” he said, smacking his lips.
“Only if you’re buying,” Hunter replied.
They started walking to one of the bars located in the base’s main terminal building. The place was strictly hustle and bustle, as busy as an airport terminal in the pre-war days. Everywhere, there were pilots, monkeys, soldiers, and women—lots of women. Just about everyone Hunter saw was carrying some kind of sidearm or rifle. Hunter instinctively put his hand to his belt, just to make sure his .45 was still there. It was.
“Been a long time, Hawker,” Fitzgerald said as they walked. “Been hearing a lot about you. Running your own air force and making things hard for our friends, the pirates.”
“You’re the one in the limelight,” Hunter told him. “You’re known as the Great Fitzgerald. The man who runs the famous Aerodrome.”
Fitzgerald gave a slight heel click and smiled. “We try, Hawker,” he said, watching two shapely female terminal workers walk by. “Oh, how we try.”
Besides being the only person ever to call him “Hawker,” Fitzie was one of his favorite people. They’d burned up more than a few bottles of scotch in their day. It was good to see his carousing buddy again.
“Sorry to hear about your base,” Fitz said, as they turned the corner into the crowded bar.
“Christ,” Hunter said. “News does travel fast. We were only thrown out yesterday morning.”
“Oh, but we were hearing rumors about it for a long time, Hawker,” he said. “We get a lot of scuttlebutt here. Usually, the lot of it is pure horseshit. But then again, sometimes it comes true.”
They reached a couple of barstools and Hunter was about to curse the Mid-Aks when he looked up and saw three of them, sitting at the bar.
His first instinct was to start throwing punches. His second thought was to reach for his service revolver. Fitzgerald squeezed both actions and calmly, but firmly, grabbed hold of Hunter’s arm.
“Be cool, Hawker,” he said, motioning the bartender to set them up.
“Jesus Christ, Fitzie. Mid-Aks? Here?” Hunter said, barely containing his anger.
“You’re in a Free Territory, now,” Fitzgerald said, his powerful hand still gripping Hunter’s arm, leading him to an isolated table. “They have as much right to be here as you. In fact, more so. They had the proper flight clearance.”
Hunter could barely control the urge to spit on the three black-uniformed men. “These guys are murderers, Fitz. They killed Jones, for Christ’s sake.”
Fitzgerald paused for a second. He, too, was close to Jones, a fellow Irishman. “Jones is dead?”
“Killed. Yesterday.” Hunter replied, the words coming out for the first time, hurting on every syllable.
“It was he who nuked Baltimore, then?” Fitz asked as the bartender brought a bottle of scotch and two glasses.
“Yeah, it was him,” Hunter said, taking a long slug of the whiskey. It felt good going down. “There was a coup in Boston. We had no choice but to bug out. Jones didn’t think it was worth it, to fight the ’Aks. At least, that’s what he told us. Then the crazy old coot tries to ditch me in a cloud and heads for Mid-Akland.”
“You were with him, then?” Fitz asked in a whisper.
“Yes,” Hunter said, tasting his second shot. “Followed him in, got two Voodoos off his ass then rode his tail until he dropped it. Or his plane dropped it. He took a piece in the chest during the final approach.”
Fitzgerald knocked his back and poured both of them another. “Well, it caused quite a stir around here, I tell you. First nuclear bombing since the war and all.”
“Screw ’em,” Hunter said, his words seething with hate. “I wished I had been carrying, too. I would have dropped another right on their ass.”
A third shot was followed by a fourth. He could feel the whiskey taking effect on him. With his stomach empty, the liquor was speeding through his veins and right to his head.
“Well, you did your part, riding in with him,” Fitzgerald said with a wink. “If those ’Aks knew it was you who rode shotgun, they’d probably dynamite the whole frigging terminal just to get you.”
Hunter was tempted to tell him of his one-man bombing raid at Otis earlier that day, but decided to let it rest for a while.
Fitzgerald poured out yet another two shots and raised his glass. “To Jonesie,” he said, a touch of sadness in his voice. “The poor bastard probably thought he’d live to see the stars and stripes fly again one day.”
They toasted the general. Hunter had only buried him that morning, but it seemed like an eternity ago.
“He will not be forgotten,” Hunter said, raising his glass.
“Hear, hear,” Fitzgerald agreed.
Meanwhile, the Mid-Aks at the bar finished their drinks and left. A noticeable sigh of relief came up from the other patrons. It was like a great weight had been lifted from everyone in the room.
“What the hell are they doing here, Mike?” Hunter asked.
“On my sweet mother’s grave, Hawker, I can do nothing to prevent them from being here,” Fitzgerald said, his voice ringing with sincerity. “No one likes them. But they’re customers. And we set this place up to serve a customer. Anyone, as long as he pays, can stay.
“Look, Hawker, there are a thousand little wars going on across the continent. We can’t take sides in them, big or small. It’s bad for business. We can’t make any enemies. We have to stay neutral. That’s the only way it can work. We just don’t deal with pirates, but that’s only because they never pay their bills.”
“How the hell did you get involved here, anyway?” Hunter asked him.
Fitzgerald motioned the barkeep for another bottle.
“Right place. Right time,” he said with a smile. “I was laid up when the war broke out. Pranged an F-15 at Griffith AFB not far from here and busted up my leg. The war was over before they took the cast off. I walked out of the hospital the day they closed it down. Per the New Order. Everyone else left. Went to Ca
nada. They were convinced the Russians were coming.”
“So I heard,” Hunter said. “People told me they saw it on TV and in newspapers, saying the Russians were about to invade.”
“Aye! I saw them too,” Fitzgerald exclaimed. “Scared me shitless. We knew the Vice President was a Quisling. We knew he let the Red ICBMs through the shield. The early warning system was going off for a day and a half over the TV. I was convinced the Reds were going to march over the pole and come down through Quebec.”
“But it didn’t happen,” Hunter said.
“Aye, it didn’t happen. Things started to calm down. A few of us banded together at Griffith. I was really the only pilot around, and one of the senior officers. Everyone else had gone to war and never came back.
“We had a few fights with these New Order fanatics who showed up to destroy all the airplanes. Asshole disarmament freaks. We gave them trouble, but in the end, they would have overwhelmed us, so we took off, in an old C-47 Spooky. Only had enough juice to get us here. We landed. It was deserted, so we stayed. There were twenty of us. Sergeants, monkeys, a few lieutenants. They’re looking to me like I’m the leader. You know?”
Hunter had to laugh at that notion. The only thing he’d ever seen Fitzie lead was a tipsy conga line of show girls through the lobby of the Tropicana one night.
“We stayed here,” Fitzie continued. “There wasn’t a soul around. No airplanes, but plenty of food and booze. It was half party, half figuring out what the hell we should be doing.”
“One day, a plane lands. A Lear jet, mind yer. Its engine is coughing and spitting oil. The pilot climbs out and sees us. A bunch of servicemen with long hair and beards who haven’t heard a bloody thing since the New Order went down.
“He says ‘Can you fix the plane?’ and we say ‘Sure we can fix the plane. But what do we get from it?’ He says ‘A bag a silver apiece,’ and shows us a bag of real silver. Silver quarters, Hawk!
