by Mack Maloney
“But the place is empty right now,” Hunter said, noting the lack of hustle and bustle that he imagined would be associated with such an occasion.
“That’s correct, Major,” Max the lawyer said. “Our season will open again tomorrow. It’s our biggest holiday of the year. Mister St. Louis will thrown out the first football and the game will be on again, for another three-hundred days.”
Hunter was fascinated at the idea. Sports as a city life? A never-ending football game? Bets from a piece of silver worth a dollar to nearly a quarter of a billion dollars?
They drove on, soon arriving at a palatial estate containing a building that was a cross between a hotel and a cathedral. It was surrounded by a high wrought-iron fence that stretched for a mile square. Many soldiers were on guard outside the fence; many tanks and armored personnel carriers were in evidence. Several small SAM positions were also directly placed around the perimeter. Inside the fence there was an area the size of a small city park, complete with trees, brooks and rolling greens. It was a golf course at one time, Hunter realized and now the place was still well-kept—and well-guarded. Hunter estimated another 200 or so soldiers patrolled these interior grounds.
The building itself, tall and red, with a rotating red beacon on top, was surrounded by a wide functional moat. It was at one time an exclusive golf club-cum-hotel, maybe a Hyatt or a Sheraton, before someone came in and did some extensive renovations. The building was big enough to house hundreds if not thousands of people. But as he soon learned, now only one man lived there: Louie St. Louie.
A quarter mile long road wound through the pleasant grounds leading to the moat. Four checkpoints also marked the way. The soldiers checked the limo at each checkpoint, and carefully scrutinized Gus, Max and Murray. Although all three were well-known in these parts, the soldiers went about their job professionally. Something about them sparked in Hunter’s memory, but he couldn’t grab hold of it. The last checkpoint was at the bridge, which was lowered for the limo to cross the moat.
Five minutes later, after a tour of the ornate lobby, Hunter was ushered in, alone, to the lush living quarters of Louie St. Louie, the man who served as designer, bankroller and, for all practical purposes, king of Football City. The room was huge. One wall was taken up by a long, well-stocked bar. Another looked like it doubled as a movie screen. An immense window faced the east and provided a view out over the grounds of the former golf course. The remaining wall was covered with pictures of football players and scenes from football games.
Sitting in a chair looking out the window was Louie St. Louie. He was a tall, white haired-man of about 60, dressed in an all-white, three-piece-suit. A dignified chin off-set his ruddy complexion and a quick, down-home smile. He rose immediately and greeted Hunter like a long-lost son, putting a bear hug on him that threatened the airman with suffocation. Hunter detected a distinct twang in his voice when he spoke.
“Major Hunter,” Louie beamed. “This is certainly an honor to meet you, sir. I am grateful for that, shall we say, little favor you did for me.”
“My pleasure,” Hunter said. The twang registered: Louie St. Louie was definitely of Texas stock.
“Well,” St. Louie said. “Come on in, boy, sit down and talk to an old flyboy, would you?”
“You’re a pilot?”
“I was,” Louie said, heading for the room’s wet bar. “Scotch, Major? Made yesterday.”
“Sounds good,” Hunter said, settling in a chair near the large window. Out on the grounds he could see a couple of hundred of the estate’s soldiers doing calisthenics. Others patrolled in and out of the dots of woods that marked the course.
St. Louie returned with two glasses and an unlabeled bottle of Scotch.
“I haven’t flown in years,” St. Louie said, picking up the conversation. “Not real flying anyway. I have a T-38 at the airfield. Fly down to Texas every great while. But I’m too busy here.”
“You flew before the war?” Hunter asked, taking a taste of the bitter, strong Scotch.
“Before and during,” St. Louie laughed. “B-52s. Stationed in Guam, moved back to California, when the shit hit. Me and my squadron took out half the goddamn Russian Pacific fleet with cruise missiles before they made us stop having so much fun. Fired the little buggers right off our wings. Go up with eight of them at a time. We must have flown fifty missions during the three weeks, bombing those Commie bastards right across the Pacific, all the way back to Guam, for Christ’s sake.”
There were a few moments of silence as St. Louie’s eyes wandered off into space. Hunter knew the man was thinking about the Great Betrayal, the stab in the back, brave men lost for no good reason.
St. Louie suddenly came back to the present with the clap of his hands and a great smile.
“But gosh darn it, Major, I sure admire your flying. I saw you guys perform once when I was up in Boston, before the Zone went Mid-Ak.”
“That seems like a long time ago,” Hunter said.
“That’s how things are these days, Major. We remember what it used to be like. Before the war. Before the New Order. Ever since, things seem to take longer. You can’t move like you used to. I miss it.”
“So do I,” Hunter agreed.
“You’ve seen our city?”
“It’s quite a place.”
“And it’s good for the people, Major. We’ve brought back more than half the original population, and thousands of people visit us every day. It gives them some excitement in their lives. There’s not much excitement any more if you ain’t a pilot or a soldier. People spend most of their time cooped up in their homes or wherever they live. They don’t want to take a chance being out at night with all the scum roaming around the continent. But there isn’t a whole lot that you can do at home either. Ain’t got TV like we used to. No radio really. No new books. Football City gives ’em someplace to go. Something to do. Some link with the past. It’s safe. We got sports. We got eating places. Music. Entertainment …”
“Women …” Hunter interjected.
“Wooo-eee, do we ever!” St. Louie laughed, reaching for the bottle to refill his glass. “They just come from all over, Major. They like it here. They ain’t bumping around some small town somewheres or getting raped or killed.”
“Sounds like it’s worthing fighting for,” Hunter said, his eyes traveling back to the soldiers drilling out on the fairway.
“Now, Major, I must confess something,” St. Louie said, draining his Scotch. “We have a surprise for you.”
“Surprise?”
St. Louie laughed. “Yes,” he said, getting up to push a button. “I want you to meet our commander of my private security forces.”
The security forces, the soldiers patrolling St. Louie’s mansion and grounds, and now visible out the window, drilling in the field below. They seemed familiar to him.
“Captain,” St. Louie called into an intercom. “Would you come in here please? Major Hunter is waiting to meet you.”
Hunter stood and saw St. Louie was wearing a look of undeniable delight on his face. The door beside him opened and a man in battle fatigues walked in. He, too, was smiling.
Hunter looked at the man. He was stocky, ruddy complexion and a mass of black hair.
Then the face registered.
It was Captain Bull Dozer …
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HE PUT A BEARHUG on Dozer. It was so good to see the man again. It was as if everything had come full circle.
“I can’t believe it,” Hunter told him. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Just trying to earn a living,” Dozer said, smiling broadly.
St. Louie poured a drink for the Marine captain and the three of them sat down.
Well, Hawk,” Dozer began. “We finally did make it to Fort Meade; problem was, the place was empty.”
“So what did you do?” Hunter asked.
“Well, there wasn’t a soul anywhere around the base, and it had plenty of food and provisions,” Dozer c
ontinued. “So we left the citizens there with a few of our guys who wanted to stay put for a while. They stayed for about a year, but then had to leave before the territory went Mid-Ak.”
Dozers’ troops had voted to stay with him. They respected his intelligence and sought his guidance. He correctly surmised that in the anarchaic continent, an army for hire might be in need in some places. So the 7th Cavalry walked west. They set up camp here and there, sometimes occupying abandoned or near-abandoned towns when possible. Some of these occupations lasted several months or more. The local population—once they realized that Dozer’s troops weren’t rapists or New Order zealots—welcomed the well-armed, professional unit. The countryside was filled with gangs of gunmen and raiders during these early days. But none was so foolish to tackle an entire Marine battalion.
The 7th gradually worked by its way to the Mississippi, and would have probably walked right through the Badlands if they hadn’t landed in Football City first. The city was just in its forming stages. St. Louie, knowing a ready-made security force when he saw it, offered to hire the whole battalion to help protect Football City and train its own fledgling army. The 7th voted to accept the offer and had been in the employ of St. Louie ever since.
“I knew you were coming, Hawk,” Dozer said. “And, I’m glad you’re here. You’re not a minute too soon.”
St. Louie started to say something, but caught himself at the last moment. “We’ll talk business later, Major,” he said, cryptically. “Have you seen our Grand Stadium?”
Hunter detected the cautious switch in St. Louie’s voice.
“I was a big football fan before the war,” he said, picking up on the subject. “I’m glad to see it didn’t die out completely, like just about everything else.”
“It didn’t, Major,” St. Louie said, back to his relaxed self. “And it won’t either. I won’t let it. It’s too … too American.”
He slapped his knee with a crack for emphasis.
“Well,” Hunter said, feeling some of the excitement too. “I hope I can catch a part of a game while I’m here.”
St. Louie looked at Dozer. “Why, didn’t they tell you, Major?” St. Louie asked.
“Tell me what?”
“Major,” St. Louie said with a smile. “Tomorrow, at Opening Day. You’re going to be the guest of honor.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE NEXT MORNING, HUNTER was sitting in St. Louie’s special box at the Grand Stadium. The grandstands were filling up with people—the place held more than 250,000 and every seat would soon be taken. More people gathered outside to watch the action on two big TV screens. Football City had the only working TV system on the continent and they put it to good use.
Hunter watched as a hundred players each from the Gold and Silver teams went through their pre-game warm-ups on the field. Bands were playing. People were cheering. Footballs flying through the air. A contagious excitement ran through the crowd. Hunter felt good inside as he took it all in. There was nothing on the continent to compare to this. Not in the old Northeast Economic Zone days of Boston, or Texas or out on the Coast. This was, for want of a better word—traditional. Traditional and civilized.
Hunter sipped on a gigantic Bloody Mary. The night before was a pleasant blur. More pilot talk with St. Louie during dinner, more reminiscing with Dozer. This led to more drinking at St. Louie’s estate. Then he was chauffeured to his suite of rooms at the city’s finest hotel, followed by yet another tour of the town with Gus and the Marine captain as tour guides. Free drinks. Free gambling chips. A showgirl named Alicia. Her underpants were hanging on his bedpost when he woke up. It took him a while to realize it—but he decided that this must be a vacation, the first one he’d had since his college days.
St. Louie was in the box with a couple of dozen other guests. The man had promised to talk business with Hunter after the game, so the airmen decided there was nothing to do but sit back and relax. Dozer was out on the field, supervising the security effort, his men sprinkled throughout the crowd in addition to Football City’s regular army troop. Back in the box, a squad of scantily-clad waitresses made sure everyone was well-cared for. At the stroke of noon, both teams—1000 players in all—took the field. The game was about to begin. Suddenly the stadium’s PA system sprang to life:
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the speakers boomed with an anonymous announcer’s voice. “Welcome to Opening Day!”
The crowd responded with a thunderous cheer. The vibrations shook the whole stadium including St. Louie’s box. Hunter felt a jolt run through him. Just like the old days, he thought.
The announcer continued: “Starting our program today will be the Football City Air Corps Aerobatic Team.”
St. Louie had told Hunter about the air demonstration earlier. The Football City leader confessed that the city’s air corps was the demonstration team; the city only had five jets, and they were rather harmless and antique T-33s. Despite the enormous wealth of the city, when it came to defense, the money was spent on hiring an army. The city’s jets—slow and unarmed—were strictly for show.
The crowd turned its eyes skyward as the jets appeared over the stadium. Flying in a standard V-formation the team executed a rather lukewarm series of loops, break-ups and eights. Hunter gave them an A for effort. The crowd, on the other hand, loved it.
St. Louie leaned over to him and said: “Someday, Major, we’ll have a real air force.”
Hunter looked at him and nodded. But St. Louie wasn’t smiling. He looked more like an old man than a dignified cowboy. “Some day, Major,” he continued with an ominous tone in his voice. “We’ll need it.”
He went back to watching the air demo team perform their routine. The crowd cheered with each maneuver. Hunter added his applause, although he could have performed the team’s aerobatics in his sleep.
Suddenly, he knew something was wrong. Other aircraft were in the area. He could feel it. Even above the roar of the crowd and the noise of the Football City jets, he could hear other engines, more powerful, more threatening, heading their way.
He turned toward the northeast. Here they come, he thought. Just then a siren went off. The band stopped playing. The crowd let out a collective gasp. An instant later, five deadly-looking fighter planes streaked low over the stadium.
“Where did they come from?” someone in the box yelled.
The jets were unmarked and painted entirely in black. They were all carrying air-to-air missiles.
“Who the hell are they?” someone yelled as the jets streaked over and began to turn.
Hunter began to shake with anger. He knew what kind of jets they were. A rage began at his feet and traveled at the speed of light to his head. He watched in angry silence as the fighters flashed over the stadium again and started to climb.
“Are they friendly?” someone else asked. The crowd began to move uneasily.
The Football City air demo was in the middle of a flyby high above the stadium. Hunter doubted if the demo jets even had workable radar or radios. And he could tell the mystery jets were preparing to attack.
The intruder jets weren’t F-4s, or F-8s or F-104s. Not Thunderchiefs or Voodoos or Super Sabres. Nor any other pre-New Order American design. That’s what shook Hunter as he stared at the aircraft. His blood began to boil. He hadn’t seen jets like these since the war. He didn’t think he’d ever see jets like these again. But here they were, above Football City’s Grand Stadium. In the middle of the continent. Ready to attack the unarmed performing jets …
“They’re pirate jets!” someone yelled. Screams came from the crowd. The impending panic of a quarter of a million people rippled through the stadium.
“No, they’re not!” Hunter yelled, bolting from the luxury box. “They’re Russian MIG-21s! And they’re going after the demos!”
Helplessness. It washed over the stadium crowd as the black MIG-21s attacked the unarmed Football City T-33 jets. Two of the demos were simply blown out of the sky by the black fighters’ firing t
heir air-to-airs. Two others twisted and turned as each was picked up by at least two of the mystery planes. The crowd seemed glued to its feet as the dogfight swirled above them. Another demo was hit. Its wing severed, it plunged toward the grandstand. The stricken plane wobbled as the pilot tried to steer it away from the crowd. But he couldn’t. Too late the people in the stadium began to react. The jet slammed into stands at the far end of the stadium, killing hundreds instantly and spilling burning jet fuel over hundreds more nearby.
The horrible crash snapped the fans out of their stupor. Panic set in. In seconds the crowd was pouring out onto the playing field and rushing toward the exits. Now the screams and cries were as loud as the cheering that had filled the stadium just minutes before. People were crushed, trampled, suffocated beneath the on-rushing sea of bodies.
Another Football City jet was hit, right above one of the needle nose towers. It was as if the mystery jets were intentionally firing on the unarmed planes when and where a crash would do the most damage. Again, the pilot struggled to control the jet away from the stadium. Again, he failed.
He managed to miss most of the crowd, keeping the smoking jet level as it crossed across the length of the stadium barely 200 feet from the ground. But the valiant pilot could do no more. The T-33 crashed into the base of the needle tower at the far end of the stands. The structure shook once, teetered, then came tumbling down. A dozen or so technicians housed in the tower were trapped and crushed as the structure slammed into the fleeing crowd.
High above the stadium, the last demo plane was caught in the crossfire of two mystery jets and was hit simultaneously by two air-to-air missiles. It disintegrated in mid-air.
Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the black MIG-21s were gone. The attack had lasted less than a minute. Thousands lay dead or dying. Two fires were raging in the stadium; one where the tower had fallen, another where the jet had crashed into the stands. Tens of thousands of fans were still scrambling toward the exits, many others just stood in numbed disbelief. No one quite knew what to do. No one except Hunter …
