by Mack Maloney
“Then he explained how the silver was worth so much more now. And that the New Order Commissioner and his gang were nothing but a bunch of arseholes lying on the beach in Bermuda while the Mid-Aks go hogwild. So we fix his plane and he says he’ll be back.
“Soon, he is, with three more planes behind him. They need fuel. We got fuel. One needs a turbofan part. We go to the airline shop and juryrig one for him. He pays us. And they’re on their way. It was one of the first air convoys going across to the Coast and it landed here.
“And it never stopped. Today we’ve got ten runways operating. No waiting.”
Hunter was fascinated. If these were normal times, Fitz would have been many times a millionaire by now. As it was, the little man was very rich and powerful.
Hunter quickly told him his story. The triumph and the tragedy in Western Europe, the horror on the streets of New York City, his life on the mountain and his days with ZAP.
Then Fitzgerald asked him a simple, yet baffling question: “What are you going to do now, Hawker?”
It was a question he had no answer to.
“Long range, I’m making my way to a Coaster air base,” he told Fitzgerald. “Jones’s brother runs an outfit out there. But the bird is starting to get cranky. I need an engine job, some avionics work, some drop tanks and fuel.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place, my friend,” Fitzie said with a grin “We can do all that work right here and you can visit for a while. Relax. Meet some girls.”
“Sounds good,” Hunter said, downing his seventh—or was it his eighth—drink.
“Now, just permit me one moment of unpleasantness, Hawker,” Fitzgerald said. “How can you pay me for the work? Silver? Gold? A few diamonds perhaps?”
The question hit Hunter like a 500-pound bomb.
“How much will it cost?”
“Oh, I should say, at least fifteen bags of real silver, or a bag and a half of gold.”
Hunter felt his stomach turn. “I … I don’t have that kind of money,” he found himself saying. It was the first time in his life the problem had ever come up. He instantly realized that he’d always been taken care of—whether it was by his parents, or a scholarship or the military. He had never had to pay to fly before.
“Well, Hawker,” Fitzgerald said in that tone one person always assumes when money is coming between friends. “I can give you a break on some of the prices. Cut a little here and a little there. But you must pay for the materials. It’s the way we work here. I would like to give it all to you. But I can’t.”
“I understand, Fitz,” Hunter said. “It’s not your fault.”
Fitzgerald thought for a moment, then said, “Look, I can arrange to have you work for it. Earn your keep.”
Hunter’s spirits perked up. “You need a pilot?”
Fitzgerald slowly shook his head. “Well, not right away, Hawker. But we do need line mechanics. And you’re the best in the business.”
“Are you telling me I have to become a ‘monkey?’”
“It’s just temporary. You can fill in when we need a pilot, and work the line when we don’t.” He paused for a moment. “It’s really the only way that I can see.”
Hunter thought it over. “Well, if that’s what it takes …”
Fitzgerald clapped his powerful hands once. “Then it’s settled, then. You can stay in my quarters. I have the whole top floor of one of the hotels.”
“Just you on an entire floor?” Hunter said, reaching once again for the bottle.
Fitzgerald smiled and gave him an impish wink. “Just me and the girls.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HUNTER STARTED HIS JOB two days later. Fitzgerald pulled some strings and installed him as a crew chief for one of The Aerodrome’s busiest repair hangars. The work was routine. Stripping down engines from all types of aircraft. Checking the plane’s structure, its electronics, landing gear, control devices. One of his crew’s first projects was a complete overhaul of an aging Boeing 707. They had to convert the one-time airliner into a cargo plane for convoy duty. His twenty man crew, along with three other crews in the hangar, would have it working like new in a month’s time.
Hands down, he was the best mechanic on the base, so his duties increased. He was the one they called on for the emergency repairs that always seemed to land at The Aerodrome. He quickly became the trouble-shooter extraordinaire for the base. If there was a problem no one else could figure out, the call went out for Hunter and he always came through with the needed remedy.
He couldn’t complain much about the work. The hours were long, but it actually felt good to get his hands dirty every day. His only flying the first month was taking the planes his crew had repaired aloft for a test run. He found himself behind the controls of a bewildering string of airplanes, from airliners to Piper Cubs, helicopters to fighters. The time he spent aloft became very important to him, whether it was in a creaky Boeing 727 or one of the base’s F-105s. He appreciated every second he was airborne. He had been denied flight once before—during his exile on the mountain—and he didn’t want it to happen again.
Meanwhile, is F-16 sat in a little used hangar at the edge of the base. He worked on it as much as possible, using used parts, in some cases designing new ones. The plane needed a complete overhaul, he had decided, but such a job would be expensive. Very expensive. Pricing it out with Fitzie, they had determined that he’d have to work for at least four months to get the repairs done and buy drop tanks and enough fuel to get him across the Badlands and on his way to the West Coast. He didn’t want to wait that long—he had never waited that long for anything, it seemed. But he had no choice.
Then he found out that he didn’t need to be in such a hurry to get to the Coast.
He had just completed his first month of work. After a long day on the line, he was sitting in one of the huge tubs found in Fitzgerald’s suite, soaking in the water’s warmth and enjoying a backscrub from one of the 10 maids Fitzie employed.
Fitzie’s maids were all young, beautiful, and willing to please. Fitzie had issued them uniforms that were part-bikini, part pub girl. He liked to boast that they were on call, around the clock, something Hunter could testify to. Every night since moving into Fitzie’s luxury quarters, Hunter had found the comfort of one, sometimes two of the maids. It was one of the best parts of his experience at the Aerodrome.
Fitz walked in while Hunter was getting toweled dry by Hunter’s favorite, an Oriental beauty named Aki.
“You need a drink, Hawker, me boy. We’ve got some bad news for yer.”
Aki immediately gave the towel to Hunter and walked to the huge, luxurious bathroom’s wet bar.
“Did you tell me that when you left Otis, a lot of your people flew out on a C-130?” a worried-looking Fitzgerald asked him.
“That’s right,” Hunter said, taking a drink from Aki. “All of the monkeys, a bunch of pilots and the base MPs. We were all supposed to link up out on the coast. Why?”
“They never made it out of Zone airspace,” Fitz told him.
“What?”
“A pilot just back from Boston said he saw a C-130 with ZAP markings sitting in a hangar there. He asked around, because he knew you’d want to know. They told him that the plane was jumped by six freelancers flying for the ’Aks. Tangled with the plane’s fighter escort, but the C-130 caught some bullets in the fight. It had one engine out and another burning when the free-lancers forced it to land at Logan. They got a hefty bounty price for it, too.”
“Jesus Christ!” Hunter said. “That plane was carrying some of the best flyboys and mechanics of ZAP.”
“I understand, Hawker,” Fitz said. “It sounds as if you shouldn’t be in such a hurry now. It would have been a small reunion out on the Coast.”
“I guess so,” Hunter said slowly. What’s the point in getting to the Coaster base if there weren’t more than a few of them out there? He had to wonder whether any of the others—the pilots who took off in the ZAP fighte
rs or the Crazy Eights—even made it.
“So, what happened to the people on board the C-130?” he asked Fitzie.
“They’re being held prisoner by the ’Aks. Got ’em all locked up—house arrest—in the old Government building in downtown Boston. Know where that is?”
“I sure do. When the ’Aks took over, they filled the place with women and kids, so we couldn’t launch an air strike against them there.”
“Aye,” Fitzgerald said, sipping a drink. “The ’Aks are big on insurance.”
“Fitz, do you realize that they are holding enough talent and experience to start an air force? And a damn good one?” Hunter said in frustration.
“I know, Hawker. But I can’t imagine any of your boys turning, can you?”
“No, not many. We had a few free-lancers who might. In fact, Jones was convinced that at least one of them was an ’Ak spy.”
“Sounds like the Mid-Atlantics. Fookin’ backstabbers,” Fitz spat out. “I hate them, too, Hawker. But I have no choice but to deal with them. If I don’t they’ll be on my ass, like they were on yours.”
If he had learned anything in his month at The Aerodrome it was a sympathy for Fitzie’s “If you pay, you stay” philosophy. It was business, not politics. In fact, since the Mid-Aks took over Logan, business had increased at The Aerodrome. The Free Canadians, many of which were actually ex-patriate Americans, shared the almost universal hate of the Mid-Atlantic. They refused to deal with them, so had been rerouting their convoys away from Boston and through Syracuse, adding more landing fee money to Fitzie’s already burgeoning coffers.
“Look, Hawker, this means you can stay here longer.” Fitzgerald said. “Enjoy yourself. Why go off fighting wars that don’t mean a pig’s ass? These days, it’s hired gun versus hired gun. There are no more issues. There are no more causes or flags to rally around. Why get killed if you don’t have to, just because you’re on someone’s payroll? It’s a different world out there, since you and I flew for the Air Force.”
Hunter had heard it all before. It was the essence of the reason Jones bugged out of Otis. It was a mercenary’s world. They were pawns in the new era of warfare-as-chess game. It was a game of bluffs and counter-bluffs. We’ve got more than you. We want your land. We’ve got ten thousand guns. You’ve got only five thousand. We’ve got a squadron of jets. You’ve got only a handful. Please vacate the premises. Go quietly. Find new work. We’re the new bosses. Our countries have merged and you’re out of a job. Argue and you die. And only the stupid mercenaries wound up dead.
Of course, personal disputes were common. The general’s retaliatory strike on Baltimore was personal. So was his own leveling of Otis. The streets of The Aerodrome—especially on drunken Saturday nights—were the scene of many a personal knife fight, gun fight, even an occasional bazooka fight. That’s why everybody—pilots to bartenders, monkeys to hookers—was armed.
It was Dodge City revisited. And more and more pilots were choosing to settle arguments over girls, guns or money, not in the main street, where dueling wasn’t permitted, but in dogfights. These aerial duels were fought high above a relatively unpopulated part of the Aerodrome’s territory, known by everyone as “the OK Corral.” The battles were photographed by gun cameras on chase planes and on the combatant’s planes themselves, making it all the easier for the betting people in the saloons below to wager on the outcome.
And countries carried vendettas against each other occasionally. But the day of massive armies facing each other were probably gone for a while. No one wanted it. No country could expect it of their soldiers-for-hire. Not when it was so easy just to move on and find another job. And it would be bad for business.
“Hawker, me friend,” Fitzgerald started again. “You can make a healthy living here. With no worries. You’ll be rich. You have a reputation, boy. You could hire yourself out as the best escort flyer around, once you get your bird back together. Fly for me. No one will ever want to tangle with you. You can make it on your name alone. You’ve earned it. We have the work. We have the booze. We have the girls! What more can you want, lad?”
Hunter could only shake his head. Who knows if anyone ever made it out to the Coast? Who cared if he made it out there or not? And what the hell were they going to do once they got out there? Fitzgerald’s offer was tempting, to say the least.
“Think about it, boy,” Fitzgerald said on leaving.
Aki appeared carrying a freshly pressed pair of his coveralls. She took the towel from him and smiled. Her hand found itself lingering between his legs.
“Dress now?” she asked.
He looked at her beautiful Oriental features. Almond shaped eyes. Long black hair. Beautiful brown skin. Her lithe figure accented by the Fitzie-designed revealing maid uniforms.
“Dress? Now?” she asked him again, her hand stroking his upper thighs and more.
He drained his drink. “Dress, later,” he said, leading her to the bedroom. “Think, later,” he said to himself.
Hunter decided to decide about his trip only when his F-16 was back flying. When in doubt, procrastinate, he thought. One thing seemed certain: there was no longer any hurry. He had all the time in the world.
Or, so he thought …
It was early one morning, a month and a half into his new job, when he was told to expect a big job to land within the hour. The plane would need a quick radar controls replacement. It was carrying valuables and was overdue at its destination.
Hunter looked at the repair order, radioed in from the plane minutes before, and was surprised at one of the entries. It read the flight had originated in eastern Europe, via Boston. This made him suspicious. Just like the Free Canadians who refused to do business with the Mid-Aks once they took over the Northeast Economic Zone, many of the companies flying in from Iceland had disdained landing at Logan, diverting to fields in Canada instead.
So it was a rare flight that came straight over from Europe to Boston. He checked its final destination and got another surprise: New Chicago. The city and territories controlled by the notorious organization known as The Family.
From what Hunter knew of The Family, he didn’t like them. They sounded like a variation of the Mid-Aks; smaller, but just as treacherous; a good-sized army, but no air force that he knew of. The Family made its money on heavily taxing its citizens, gun sales, drug running and selling young girls on the black market. Another enterprise was selling protection to the smaller territories surrounding the city’s borders. Their links to the air pirates were widely-suspected.
Now a cargo plane was flying from eastern Europe, stopping off in Mid-Ak territory and continuing on to New Chicago. Hunter was very anxious to get a look at this mysterious aircraft.
An hour later, right on schedule, the plane appeared high above the field, circling while it received landing clearance. Hunter made sure that he was out on the tarmac when the plane came in.
He began to smell a rat when he saw the plane was not of usual manufacture. It was a huge Antonev AN-12 cargo jet, one of the largest planes in the world. It was carrying Czechoslovakian markings, the sight of which started a slow burn inside Hunter’s stomach. The Czechs were allies of the Soviets, partners in the crime of the century. He had fought them in the skies over Western Europe. He had no use for them here in Syracuse.
The enormous airplane lumbered in, touched down and taxied to a deserted end of the runway. Its engines still turned but it was soon apparent that no one was getting off. Only a handful of ground service vehicles approached the plane.
Hunter intercepted his mechanics who were heading to fix the big plane’s radar.
“You guys take ten,” he told his monkeys. “I’ll do this one myself.”
They gratefully accepted and handed him the radar replacement parts. He jumped into a jeep and drove out to where the plane was parked.
The fuel truck was just pulling away when he arrived. The cargo bay door in the rear of the ship was open and a man in a brown uniform motioned f
or him to come aboard. This should be interesting, he thought.
And it was. He had to walk through the entire length of the aircraft, starting with its cargo hold. The plane was packed with crates clearly marked with illustrations as containing rifles, bombs and missiles. The officer, though terse and unfriendly, made no attempt to prevent him from taking it all in as he walked through the two-tiered plane.
They reached a ladder and he climbed up and into the plane’s cockpit. The flight crew looked at him indifferently as he undid the broken-down radar control module and replaced it with the new part. They spoke sparingly, but when they did, it was in some East European dialect. For the most part, the crew sat quietly while he worked, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee.
The door to the passenger hold remained closed most of the time. But just as he was about to leave, the plane’s navigator opened the hatch, probably on his way to the can. It was then that Hunter was able to see the valuables the plane was carrying.
There were probably 200 passengers aboard and every last one of them was a Mid-Ak officer.
He turned to the pilot and indicated the radar would have to be tested. The pilot pushed the appropriate buttons and a display of digital lights came on and flashed. The radar was working. The pilot nodded his head and barked something to his crew. Hunter had an idea but he knew it would take quick action.
He turned to the returning navigator and made a motion to his lips.
“Smoke?” he asked. “Can I bum a butt?”
It took a little more prompting, but finally the navigator nodded his head with understanding. He dug down into his coveralls pocket and came out with a pack of cigarettes. Hunter took one, then indicated his need for a match. The navigator, wearing a slightly put-out look, produced a small box of wooden matches. Just then his pilot barked at him again, and in one of those strokes of luck that always seemed to bless Hunter, the man handed the entire box of matches to Hunter, then gave him the thumbs out signal. The pilot was already running up the engines from idle to taxi and it was evident that Hunter was the only one holding things up.
