by Mack Maloney
Aki and her companion, another Oriental beauty named Mio, lifted him from the bath and led him to the bedroom. There, they made love to him and each other, then they stayed and watched over him as she slept for the next 24 hours.
He awoke from his deep sleep, well-rested and refreshed. Aki carried a message to him. It instructed him to meet Fitzie in his office as soon as he was able. Hunter dressed quickly, kissed Aki and Mio goodbye, then set out for the Irishman’s luxurious control tower office.
When he got there, Fitz had the pile of diamonds spread out before him on his desk. Gus was with him.
“Good work, Major,” Gus said, obviously pleased. “My employers are very grateful to you.”
“That’s right, Hawker,” Fitz said, examining each diamond with careful interest. “You’re in the chips now.”
Gus produced a strongbox that was held tight by a pair of padlocks.
“Here you are, Major,” Gus said beaming as he unlocked the box to reveal hundreds of bright silver coins. “Real silver, worth two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars?” Hunter asked, staring at the coins. “I thought our agreement was for one hundred fifty?”
“I said my employers were grateful, Major,” Gus said. “They suggested we sweeten the pot a little, as they say.”
“Well,” Hunter said, slightly embarrassed as he fingered the strongbox. “Please tell your employees that I’m the one who is grateful.”
Gus looked at Fitz, then back at Hunter.
“Would you like to tell them yourself, Major?” Gus asked almost sheepishly. “They would like to discuss further employment with you.”
Hunter was silent for a moment.
“Go ahead, Hawker, me boy,” Fitz said, taking his attention away from the diamonds for a moment. “They are rich men who need your help. And they’ll pay you for it. Go. Take your skills and let them make you a richer man.”
Hunter looked at his friend, then back at the silver. “It looks as if I’m already rich,” he said. “I’ve got enough here for fuel to fly the Coast and back ten times.”
“I said ‘richer,’ Hawker,” Fitz said, almost chastising him. “There’s plenty of money to be made, lad. Go make it!”
“He’s right,” Gus interjected. “My employees are very wealthy men. But with wealth, Major, come problems. Will you help us?”
Hunter thought for a moment. “Well, first of all, who the hell are your employers?”
“I can tell you now, of course,” Gus said. “Have you ever heard of Football City, Major?”
“Football City?” he thought for a moment. “The big gambling city out in the Midwest?”
“St. Louis, Hawker.” Fitz said, this time not bothering to look up from the gem he was examining.
“Formerly St. Louis,” Gus said, correcting Fitzgerald. “Football City is the enterprise my employers operate. It is a free territory that encompasses all of the old city of St. Louis plus much more.”
“But why ‘Football’ city?” Hunter was confused.
“Well, that is the major enterprise there, Major,” Gus said. “Let me explain:
“We know you are familiar with Las Vegas, having been stationed there for two years. Well, Football City picked up where Las Vegas left off. You see, Major, people love to gamble. Gamble on anything. It’s a relaxing yet exciting means of entertainment. In Football City, gambling is the way of life, just as it was in Las Vegas. But it is many times expanded. My employers actually bought all the working equipment left in Las Vegas after it was evacuated and shipped it east to St. Louis in the first year of the New Order.
“They started slowly, like any business. But they found out that just because the style of government here in the country had changed, people’s tastes—for gambling and other things—were not diminished one iota. Soon, people were flocking to St. Louis. To live. My employers were able to give them work. To protect them. We have a good sized army under contract and a small air force.”
Hunter was still puzzled. “And you support all this through gambling on football?”
“That’s correct, Major,” Gus continued. “There is so much money around, these days. There is enough real silver on this continent to make a lot of people very rich. But because a lot of the former population now lives in Free Canada, and that other territories aren’t as, shall we say, industrious, a lot of money that’s around eventually comes to places like the Northeast Economic Zone, or to the Coasters or to Football City.”
“But I’ve got enough money to last me a lifetime,” Hunter said. “Why should I want more?”
“Because you never had money before,” Fitz said to him, putting the diamonds aside and looking him straight in the eye. “So you’ve got yourself enough money to last a lifetime, have ya? Hah! You can never have enough money. Can’t you see that? It’s no longer like the old days, Hawker. This is a brave new world, my friend. My daddy, God rest his soul, used to tell me: ‘Money talks and bullshit walks.’ That’s truer today than when he said it. And the sooner you realize it the better.
“You have to stop living in the past, man. You think you’re up to date, but you’re wrong. Dead wrong. You went and played war with ZAP, and a fine outfit they were too. But it was nothing more than you reliving your life before the New Order. It was like you were in the Thunderbirds and with your old squadron, too. Well, that’s more like reliving your childhood. And you were being taken care of, just like in the service.
“Aye. Some people don’t need money—someone who’s living on his own in a shack in Florida or in Maine, hunting his own food, clothing himself. What’s he got to do with money? Nothing! What’s he need money for? Nothing! Well, half the people left on this continent are living like that. And, I have to think, they enjoy it!
“But how long could we survive like that? We’re men of technology, Hawk. We need it to survive. Or at least I do. And you do, too. We need the machines. They are our lives. We’re specialists. The hunter, the survivor, he’s a paleolithic. He’s able to get by. But can you? And for how long?
“So I know what you’re thinking. You lived up on that goddamn mountain for two years. Big deal, I say to that. Because you told me in the same breath that you were dying to get back. To come down off your fooking mountain. To fly again. Well, until you sprout wings, Major Hunter, you ain’t flying anywhere unless you got an airplane. And an airplane is technology. And technology costs money. And you will, from this day on, need money. The more you get, the more you’ll need. It’s the curse of the ‘Specialized Man,’ Hawker. Like always, there are the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots.’ You just became a ‘have.’”
Hunter was astonished at Fitz’s speech. It was an admonishment only a good friend could give to another. Hunter knew it was true. He was behind the times. Like it or not, this was the New Order. He couldn’t change that. At least not right away.
“Major Hunter,” Gus said after a while. “Please. Come meet with my superiors. See Football City for yourself. It’s a very worthwhile enterprise, and, as I said, my employers are very interested in seeking your advice, your help in matters of grave importance.”
“Look at it this way, Hawk,” Fitz said, returning his attention to the diamonds covering his desk. “They’ll be able to pay you a lot more than I can.”
“But there’s much more at stake here, Major,” Gus said. The tone of his voice was absolutely grim. Studying him, Hunter thought Gus looked like a man of 40 going on 62. Another veteran with the weight of the world on his shoulders. “We in Football City are being threatened. We are facing an enemy—dark forces, gentlemen—that, if successful, will wreak havoc across the continent and ruin what little bit of stability we have in America now.”
Hunter and Fitzgerald were silent for a moment. Both were surprised that something like the stability of the continent would affect someone like Gus. He seemed like a 100-percent mercenary.
Fitz had to ask: “Are you serious?”
“Deadly se
rious,” Gus said, his face going dark.
“Just who is this threat?” Hunter asked.
“I can’t say at the time, Major,” Gus said. “All I can say is that you will get all your answers from my employers in Football City.”
“And if I don’t go?”
“Then the continent will be in utter chaos in less than a year.” Gus replied, his somber but urgent tone not letting up.
“I’d like to help you out,” Hunter said. “But I’ve got to have some kind of clue of who you are fighting here. I’m assuming that someone wants to take over Football City?”
Gus hesitated, then answered, “Yes, that’s correct.”
“But you’ve got yourself a nice big army there, no?” Fitz asked.
“That’s also true,” Gus replied.
“Then,” Hunter pressed. “Why is it so serious? Who’s controlling these ‘dark forces?’”
Gus was silent for a long time. Then he looked up and choosing his words carefully, said: “My employers are convinced the orders to destroy Football City are coming … from Moscow.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
TWO DAYS LATER, HUNTER was flying the F-16 past the old St. Louis “Gateway to the West” arch. The giant white arch was now decorated with tens of thousands of flashing neon lights—beacons that could be seen for miles, enticing people to come and spend their silver and gold in Football City.
It had taken him two days to say his goodbyes. He had arranged to have $50,000 of his $200,000 split between Al and Zal. Fitz gave him a bellyful of JP-8 fuel free, and bombed up the F-16 for half the normal price. The Irishman agreed to keep in touch by radio, just to see what was up, but also to keep Hunter apprised of the comings and goings of the Mid-Ak planes that still occasionally put down at the Aerodrome on their way to New Chicago.
He spent the good part of his last day with Aki and Mio. He would miss the two Oriental bisexual beauties. Their baths. Their comforts. Their entertaining nights. They cried when he told them he was leaving. He promised, perhaps too hastily, that he would return.
In the end, he had agreed to follow Gus on to Football City only as a stopover on his trip to the Coast. He felt an obligation to make it to old California, just in case some of the ZAP pilots and crew had made it there. Always in the back of his mind were thoughts of the general and the captured pilots and the others from Otis being held in Boston. He couldn’t let them down.
The flight from Syracuse to Football City took less than two hours and gave Hunter a chance to road test the new, improved F-16. It was good to get back in the cockpit of the souped-up jet. He tested his unique, M61 cannon six-pack along the way and it worked perfectly. The plane itself felt lighter, faster, stronger. He was glad he had taken the time in Syracuse to overhaul it himself. Now he knew that every nut, bolt and screw had been installed and tightened by only himself.
He landed at the former St. Louis airport. The place looked a little like The Aerodrome; SAM sites ringed its perimeter, a dozen or more ack-ack guns did too. Soldiers in brown camouflage uniforms were moving everywhere. The airport was busy. Cargo planes would take off here to link up with the big convoys heading west. Because the city was so close to the Badlands, the airfield was the last stop for any stragglers in the convoys to put down, and live to tell about it.
A welcoming committee was waiting for him. It included Gus and two men who were introduced to him as Max and Murray. They had a stretch limousine waiting to bring him first to his quarters, then to meet their boss. But Hunter insisted on shutting down the F-16 himself. He trusted Gus, and the man assured him that the jet would be well cared for and placed under heavy guard. Only then would Hunter agree to leave it in the care of the airfield’s ground crew. All he took with him was a duffel bag containing a change of clothes, his M-16 and his bag of silver.
The limo ride through Football City was eye-popping. It was obvious why no one called it St. Louis anymore. The place no longer even faintly resembled that old city. A massive reconstruction project had been undertaken. Gone were the slums and the seedy downtown business district. In its place a city of gambling and entertainment establishments had been planted. Now the downtown contained block upon city block of casinos, night clubs, restaurants, barrooms, hotels and what he was sure were high class whorehouses. The new city stretched for a mile in every direction. The streets were so brightly lit from the establishments’ marquees, that street lights weren’t needed. There were people everywhere, walking, talking, drinking, eating, leaving one casino to duck into another.
There were all kinds of people. Soldiers, airmen, cowboys, Canadians, children, couples—some who could only be described as tourists—who looked as if the bomb had never been dropped. And there were women. All kinds of women. He saw showgirls walking down the street in their costumes. He saw hookers, fine looking mamas of all races. Young girls, older women, women dancing naked in the windows of casinos. Women dressed like men. Possibly some men dressed like women. He saw a lot of women wearing men’s suitcoats, vests, ties, hats—and miniskirts. Others wore only bathing suits. Some were even topless. Everywhere he looked, he saw women.
“The woman to man ratio is 3-to-l,” Gus told him.
“This places makes Las Vegas look like a crap game in the backroom,” Hunter said, his eyes glued to the window of the limousine.
“That’s right, Mr. Hunter,” Murray said. “It’s more like Disneyland. You do remember Disneyland, don’t you?”
Murray was a small, balding man around 50 years old. Hunter wouldn’t be surprised later when Gus told him that Murray took care of the books for the city. He may have been one of the few accountants to survive World War III. Max, a tall, thin, scholarly type around 40, was the city lawyer, a nearly ceremonial job in a place where just about everything—short of murder and rape—was legal.
Gus was the fix-it man. They all worked for a man they called The Boss. His real name, Hunter would find out later, was Louis St. Louis, or, bowing to the local dialect, Louie St. Louie. He was the kingpin of the whole operation; the person, according to Gus, who conceived of the city, designed it, financed it, built it, and now reaped the profits. It was hard to believe he’d done it all in less than five years. But Hunter knew Louie St. Louie was now at least $200 million richer, and according to Gus, the man was very anxious to meet the pilot who had delivered his diamonds.
They turned a corner and ahead of them loomed a mammoth stadium. It covered more than 20 city blocks, and was magnificently lit by at least a hundred sky-high light towers. The outside walls of the stadium were made of marble, with authentic gold inlay. Thousands of flags and banners flew in the breeze above its walls. It had a retractable dome, many ramps and walkways leading in and out, plus two very tall needle-nose towers, one at each end, that afforded anyone sitting in them the best seat in the house. The whole thing was beautiful—a beautiful monstrosity.
They pulled up in front of the stadium so Hunter could get a good look at it.
“Major Hunter,” Gus said. “You wanted to know why we call this place Football City. Well, this is why.”
“You play football here?” Hunter said, looking at the awesome structure.
“Well, not just any football, Major,” Gus said. “Professional football. Football people who can remember what the old NFL was like can enjoy.”
“And let me guess,” Hunter said. “Football everyone can bet on.”
“That’s correct, Major,” Gus said. “The revenues we need to survive here in Football City come from betting The Game.”
“The Game?” Hunter asked. “You make it sound like there is only one game played here.”
“That’s quite correct, Major,” Max told him. “There is only one game. A game that never ends.”
“What?”
“It’s true, almost,” Gus continued. “It’s just one long game of football. It doesn’t end until the season ends and the season is three hundred days long. The Game goes on, day after day, twenty-four-hours a day. The teams
—and there are only two—are made up of five hundred men each. They substitute constantly, man for man, and team for team. The game always goes on. The point spread is always changing as the players enter and leave. The betting always constant.”
In the pre-war days, Hunter loved football as much as the next guy. But a perpetual game?
“People can bet by the periods, quarters we used to call them,” Max explained. “Or by the halfs, or by a match, which is four quarters. Some high rollers will bet by the day, or the week, or the month.”
“The diamonds you picked up for us?” Gus asked. “They were payment from a man who had bet the entire three-hundred-day season.”
“And lost?” Hunter asked.
“And lost,” Gus confirmed.
“Lost two-hundred-million,” Murray the accountant interjected. “That’s the kind of money we are dealing with here.”
“The final score last year was seventy-six thousand, nine-hundred eighty-one to seventy-three thousand, four-hundred fifty-two,” Gus said. “It was pretty close until the end when the Gold team suffered injuries to six of its quarterbacks in less than two weeks.”
“The Gold team?” Hunter asked.
“Right,” Gus answered. “The two teams that always play each other are the Gold and Silver. A lot of the players are actually NFL players who were on teams when the war broke out. We scoured both coasts for good players. A lot of them are from Texas too. They are terrific athletes, and they make good money. Trouble is, there are so many of them that a lot of the players don’t even know the majority of their teammates.”
