by Mack Maloney
“Well, I’m sorry, ladies,” Hunter said. “But I’m on a very important mission. I have to retrieve something—a black box—that I’ve been told is hidden here. Have you seen such a thing here?”
The women looked at each other. The redhead seemed to be the spokesperson for the group. “Maybe,” she said, her interest growing. “What do you need it for?”
Hunter wanted to keep it simple. “My commanding officer needs it to get an old airplane of his back up and flying.”
The redhead smiled at him, while the other two girls broke into a giggle. “You mean the B-1s Project Ghost Rider of Eureka?”
Hunter was startled. How would she know that?
“Surprised, flyboy?” the redhead asked. She nonchalantly cupped her huge breasts in her hands and gave them a seductive scratch. Hunter felt his biological juices starting to act up.
“How do you know about ‘Ghost Rider’” he asked.
The women laughed again. “That’s all we hear about,” the blonde said.
“From whom?” Hunter was determined to get to the bottom of this one.
“From our ‘high priest,’” the brunette said, lowering the shotgun completely.
“‘High’ is right,” the redhead said with a laugh. She walked forward and extended her hand. “My name is Tracy,” she said, shaking his leather-gloved hand. “This is Stacy and Lacey.”
Tracy, Stacy, and Lacey?
“Or at least those are the names he gave us,” Tracy said.
“Who’s ‘he’?” Hunter asked.
“Our fearless leader,” said Stacy, the blonde. “Come on, we’ll show you.”
They led him to the door of the first bunker. The place looked like someone had jammed a concrete quonset hut into a wall of sheer granite. Hunter knew the bunker was built that way by the CIA for one reason: It was nuke proof.
Stacy opened the door and the three women allowed Hunter to go in first. It was dark inside, the only light being provided by about a dozen candles. The air was thick with a sickly sweet smell of incense mixed with the unmistakable scent of marijuana. There was music playing somewhere—a prickly, sour pinging that Hunter recognized as an Indian sitar. He had once owned one.
He was aware of several bodies moving at the far end of the bunker’s first room. Stacy closed the heavy metal door behind them and Hunter’s eyes instantly adjusted to the darkness. He saw a man, dressed in dingy white robes, sitting on a large chair in the bunker’s far corner. He had shoulder-length scraggly brown hair, a long, apparently unwashed beard, a headband and rose-colored sunglasses. He was drowzily smoking an elaborate looking water pipe.
Around him were four more girls. All of them absolutely naked—Hunter was sure of it this time. Water pipes lay strewn around the floor near them. One of the women had her head on the man’s right knee, her hand buried in his crotch. It didn’t matter; she was asleep. Another woman lay at the man’s feet. She, too, was out like a light. The two other women were embracing and kissing each other. Amidst the cloud of reefer smoke, Hunter thought he detected a whiff of opium.
“Major Hunter,” he said, hoping to wake the nodding man. “P-A-A-C.”
The man looked up. “Hunter?” he said, barely mumbling the name. “Hawk Hunter?”
The pilot was surprised. Did this man know him?
“Yes,” he replied. “Hawk Hunter.”
The man took off his sunglasses and even in the flickering candlelight, Hunter could see his eyes were bloodshot beyond recognition. He shakily pointed at Hunter and managed to wheeze out: “Eur-ee-ka!”
This was not some ordinary kook. Hunter took a good look at the man. Despite the long hair and beard, he knew he’d seen the man somewhere before.
“How do you know about ‘Ghost Rider’ and Eureka?” Hunter asked him.
“Ha! I know all about it,” the man said. A smile washed across his face, revealing a jagged set of teeth. “And I know all about Hawk Hunter.”
Then Hunter knew where he’d seen the man. It was in a photograph Jones had showed him. The man was Captain Travis, General Josephs’ aide-de-camp! This was the very man who, at Josephs’ direction, hid the black boxes.
“Hawk Hunter,” Travis said. “I saw you fly in an air show at Nellis. It was incredible, girls. I didn’t think an airplane could move like that.”
“What the hell is going on here, Travis?” Hunter said sharply, and loud enough to wake up the woman at the man’s feet.
“I am holding my position, Hunter,” Travis said with an air of woozy importance. “I’m guarding the black box. Following orders.”
“Whose orders?” Hunter demanded. The man was a disgrace. Hunter would never condemn anyone for partying every once in a while, but the self-indulgence here was a joke.
“Josephs,” the man blurted out, a stream of drool oozing out of the side of his mouth. “My general.”
“Who are these girls, Captain?” Hunter asked.
“Believe it or not,” the man said, another gross-out smile spreading across his face. “They used to be my secretaries. And look what I’ve done with them. They are now my goddesses. I am their priest. We are the Church, Major Hunter. The Church of the Canyon.”
Tracy came up and stood so close to Hunter he could feel her massive breasts brush against his flight suit. “Some priest,” she laughed. “He so zonked out all of the time, he couldn’t get it up on a bet. Look at Teresa and Isabelle. They have to make it with each other they need it so bad.”
Hunter couldn’t help but watch the two girls passionately kiss each other. Suddenly he thought of Aki and Mio back home in Oregon.
Hunter couldn’t waste any more time. “Look Travis, where’s the Goddamn box?”
The man looked at him. “What’s the rush, Major? Stay here with us. Hang out for a while. Lookit these girls, we got plenty go round …”
Hunter started to boil. “I know you haven’t the faintest idea of what the hell is going down in the Badlands right now, Captain. And I’m not about to explain it to you. Just give me the box and I’m gone.”
“It had better be for a good reason,” Travis blathered out, a gooey thread of spittle spilling out of his mouth. “The general didn’t want … just any bozo … to get into … Ghost Rider.” With that he slumped in his crude throne, and lapsed into a drug-induced blackout.
Hunter was tempted to slap the man awake. It was the continent’s most critical hour and here he was, dealing with a konked-out, drooling idiot.
He turned to Tracy. “What exactly did he tell you about Ghost Rider?”
She thought a moment. “He was always claiming that he was on this big deal secret mission. We were secretaries at the Eureka base, but we didn’t know what was going on, of course. He says his commander told him to hide four black boxes and bring the fifth one here. He was flying all over the place when the war broke out. Hawaii, Wyoming, somewhere. New York City.”
“Did he ever say where in New York City?”
She nodded. “He sold it to some guy named Calypso.”
Hunter was shocked. “Sold it?”
“I’m afraid so,” the pretty redhead replied. “He used the money to buy all the drugs you see around here.”
Calypso. Well, thought Hunter, at least he had some kind of clue to go into New York City with.
“How about the box in New Mexico?” Hunter asked. “Did he ever say where that one went?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered. “Some little dinky town in New Mexico.”
“Pecos?” Hunter asked.
“That’s the place,” Tracy confirmed. “That’s the last place he landed before coming here. Said it was really scary. That he had to—get this—fight a huge monster to hide the box. That’s also where he picked up all the dope.
“When the New Order came down, he had already told us about this place. Things looked hairy, so we bribed a chopper pilot to drop us here. By that time, the CIA boys were long gone. And they left the place unlocked! Travis landed in the Lear a few day
s later, stoned on his ass. Cracked up the airplane for good. Told us we were all under orders to protect the box until the right someone came for it. I guess that someone is you …”
“Can you get it for me?” Hunter asked, an element of charm sneaking into his voice.
She looked him straight in the eye. He realized she was very pretty and no more than 21. Her body was in great shape; her breasts being nicely out of proportion. “You do me a favor, Major,” she cooed. “And I’ll do you a favor.”
She took his hand and led him to another chamber, away from the marijuana smoke and sitar music. This room too was lit only by candles, but it was neatly kept. A large mattress covered with pink blankets took up half the space.
She turned and cupped her breasts again. “I haven’t had a real man in two years,” she said in all frankness. “Not since that fool out there told us the Russians were about to bomb the West Coast and tricked us into following him here.”
She came closer to Hunter. Now he could feel the full impact of her large breasts on his chest.
“Take me,” she said softly. “Take me and I’ll give you the box.”
Hunter looked at her. The candles were highlighting her fiery red hair. She had movie star looks and beautiful green eyes.
“Please?” she asked, pressing against him.
Hunter had little choice. He had to retrieve the box and this appeared to be the easiest way.
He took her in his arms and kissed her. “Duty calls,” he said smiling.
The next morning he was attached to the catapult waiting to bring his F-16’s engine up to trim. The fuel leak only took an hour to patch and the base was stocked with leftover barrels of JP-8 jet fuel, which he used.
It had been quite a night. He got to know Tracy very well. Also Lacey and Stacy, who joined them later on. They hadn’t been with a drug-free male in many months either. Hunter did everything he could to make them happy. He felt sorry for them. They were stranded just like thousands of other Americans were when the war broke out. But in a way, they’d been lucky. Sure, they were stuck with the drug-soaked Travis, but they also had plenty of food, water and booze. In fact the secret base was stocked with enough food and libation for 100 people for 10 years. The Colorado River provided the fresh water.
And, at least at first, Travis had provided the entertainment. Tracy had told Hunter that the officer had used his New York City money to buy 200 pounds of marijuana in Pecos, along with several pounds of opium. The canyon hideout was to be his own little harem, under the guise of some crazy religion. A dream world of nude women, smoking dope and serving his every whim. It worked for a while. At one time all of the girls were smoking opium and Travis was firmly in command. But gradually he sank into his weirdness. Tracy, Lacey and Stacy knew there was life beyond endless drugs and orgies, so they gave up the dope and had been living straight for the past year.
They asked Hunter to get them out, but he couldn’t. Not right now anyway. The Lear jet was beyond repair, even for him, and the F-16 was strictly a one-man ship. With all-out war imminent to the east, he could think of no better place to be safe than in the impregnable bunkers. He told them to sit tight for the time being.
As promised, they gave him the black box. Then while Tracy cooked him a meal, Stacy and Lacey turned the dials and pushed the buttons that activated the catapult system. Three hours of boiling water and there was enough steam for a launch.
Now, as he gave them the thumbs up signal, the three were waving to him sadly. Travis and the others would continue their druggie ways, he knew. But these girls were smart. And pretty. And—for reasons he still couldn’t figure out—still bare-breasted. They’d make it, barring unforseen circumstances.
He felt the steam pressure build up under the F-16.
A massive cloud of steam rose up underneath him. He took one last look at the girls as the catapult activated. “Stay safe, girls,” he said as the F-16 rocketed forward.
Then he was gone …
Chapter Twenty
TIME WAS RUNNING OUT …
General Dave Jones sat alone at the enormous lighted table in the War Room at PAAC-Oregon. Before him were stacks of intelligence reports and more than five hundred recon photos including all of the pictures Hunter had taken of the Badlands SAM sites. Other photos were high altitude jobs, shot at great risk by the Texans, on the very edges of the Badlands where the perpetual haze that hung over the placed thinned out enough to take an occasional photo.
The officer had spent most of the past day and night correlating the information with previous intelligence reports—all of which were indicated on a lighted map of the continent that stood in the center of the room. Green cubes represented the Circle Forces, red blocks represented the Russians. The Pacific American armies—the newly dubbed Western Forces—were coded blue with their various volunteer allies colored white. At the moment, the green and red blocks outnumbered the blue and white by a 2-to-1 margin. The wizened officer looked at the photos on the table, then at the map stretched out before him and felt a chill go up his spine.
War was fast approaching. He knew it. True soldiers sensed when the real thing was coming, and Jones’ body hadn’t stopped buzzing since Hunter returned from his one-man mission into the Bads. Now the combatants were making their final preparations. Two great armies—one marching east and the other marching west, were getting ready to collide head on. Soon enough, the land would be covered with the blood of its own. It seemed like such a waste …
Just about all the intelligence reports he had were bad news. The Circle armies had solidified their occupation of The Aerodrome and Football City and in doing so, now controlled all the free territories east of the Badlands. The Texans were really feeling the heat. There had been no less than a dozen raids along their border the night before. Once again the Mongols selected isolated townships as their targets, overwhelming their defenders at first, then counting on the air cover by their Russian cohorts for the second fist of a one-two punch. This time the Texas Air Force tangled briefly with the Soviet Yaks over the Red River before driving them away. But 12 more Texas towns lay in ruins, causing the Texans to speed up their full-scale evacuation of their border area.
The Western Forces were desperately trying to mobilize. Those already in the service were being sent east to the Denver forward base by any means possible. Some were riding in converted tractor trailer trucks, others on the one rail link still operating over the Rockies. Still others were flying. In all, Jones knew he had to move close to 45,000 men as quickly as possible.
Jones was also arming and equipping thousands of the volunteers who were flooding into Oregon and San Diego bases. Many of them were good fighters—militia men and free-lance border guard troops—and some of them were just able-bodied men who wanted to fight for the cause. Normally Jones would never have considered using them. But the situation was critical and he had no choice. If they were willing and could aim a gun, they were transported to the front.
And, as always, there were secrets …
Ghost Rider was really their only hope, but very few people outside of the PAAC High Command knew of its existence. The team of PAAC scientists and engineers—most of them CalTech people with a few former employees of the pre-war West Coast aircraft manufacturers like Boeing and Lockheed helping out—were working around the clock on the five extraordinary B-1s. Integrating the Ghost Rider system was a bitch, but early on the team had agreed that the one thing they couldn’t do was duplicate the five missing black boxes, because each one was different in its own right.
That’s why Hunter’s mission was so critical.
But one thing bothered Jones even more than the impending war situation. Something that nagged him, gnawed at his stomach and his psyche. It was one photograph set aside from the others. One of Dozer’s guys had found it tacked on the wall of an abandoned building they’d searched near Hot Springs, South Dakota. Others began turning up almost immediately.
Jones reached for it again an
d held it in front of him. It was the damndest thing. He was almost considering not showing Hunter. The photo was the first glimpse they’d had of this mysterious Viktor, yet Jones had immediately recognized him. Quite simply, the man looked like the devil incarnate. He was sitting in a chair in a bare room, leering at the camera. Thin face, pointed beard, strange slicked back hair, dressed entirely in black. Very military. Very dangerous. Jones knew the evil contained in the man’s eyes was without measure. This was the man behind it all. Was he a Russian? Was he an American? Jones didn’t know, and at that point, couldn’t have cared less. This was their enemy.
But the strangest thing of all was that sitting beside this Viktor in the photo was none other than Hunter’s girlfriend, Dominique.
And she was smiling …
Chapter Twenty-one
PECOS, NEW MEXICO WAS like a living hell.
The highway outside the small town was jammed with refugees from Texas fleeing the butchery of the Mongol raiders about a hundred miles to the east. Inside the typical throwback Old West town, a huge gun battle had been raging off and on for the past five days. New Order New Mexico was a so-called Free Territory—no central government, just every town for themselves. So an occasional gunfight was nothing new in Pecos. But this one was turning into a small-scale war.
It started with the local sheriff and his small deputized force shooting it out with a band of local criminals, troublemakers and looters. Then everyone who had a gun and a grudge to settle began to take sides. By the end of the second day, it had become impossible to tell who was shooting at whom and why.
The town’s two banks had been long ago robbed and many large buildings burned to the ground. The small airport had been bombed, the water supply destroyed and about half the high tension wires bringing electricity into the city had been dynamited. What was worse, someone had blown up all seven of the town’s gas stations and also a half dozen small oil derricks on the east side of town, leaving blazes that would take weeks to burn out. It made no difference in one respect, though; most everyone owned a horse and soon the equine was the preferred mode of transportation.
