by Mack Maloney
The overcrowded gun wagon rode through a checkpoint, past the perfectly preserved temple and pulled into a warehouse-turned-barracks next door. The group piled out and followed the House of David men into the building. Inside was a table with a meal already cooked and waiting for the patrol. Several elderly women wearing homespun aprons and wide smiles greeted the House of David men like family. Word was passed that there would be seven more eating, and within a minute, seven more meals appeared.
As they all sat down to the late-night meal, there were grateful handshakes all around—both Hunter and the commando team members knew the House men had saved their asses from a very dangerous situation.
Hunter was especially grateful to Zack Wack, the patrol leader.
“I feel I know you from somewhere,” Wack told the pilot as they sat and ate together.
Hunter looked at the man. He seemed familiar too. He was about 35, rugged, slightly balding, with a full black beard.
“Your name is Zack Wack,” Hunter said. “Could that be short for Zachariah Wackerman?”
Wack looked surprised. “Yes, it is,” he said.
“Was your father’s name Saul Wackerman?”
Now Wack looked absolutely astonished. “Yes, it was,” he replied. “But how would you know?”
Hunter’s mind went into instant flashback. When he and Dozer and the 7th Cavalry first arrived in New York after the war, Manhattan was in the midst of a battle between the National Guards of New York State and New Jersey. Dozer’s men had rescued a bunch of civilians, but one of them—an elderly man who had been proudly displaying the American flag—was shot in the back by a sniper. He died in Hunter’s arms, still clutching the small Stars and Stripes. This was the same flag Hunter carried with him. The man who died holding it was named Saul Wackerman. A picture in the dead man’s wallet showed a son who was in the Israeli Army.
Hunter reached into his pocket and pulled out the neatly folded, slightly tattered flag.
“Do you recognize this?” Hunter asked. “Could it have belonged to your father?”
Wack took the flag and felt it. “Yes, he said almost immediately. “My father was a tailor. He made this himself. I know his work. But how did you get it?”
Hunter took a deep breath, then said: “I was there when your father died.”
Hunter then told the man the entire story, much to the astonishment of the others who couldn’t help being caught up in the moving tale.
“So you’re the famous Hawk Hunter,” Wack said after a while. “We’ve heard of you, even in this place. We always admired you ZAP guys, then when we heard about Football City—well, we were ready to pack up and come out and join you.”
“I think your father would have told you to stay here,” Hunter said. “From what I can see, you guys are the only ones trying to preserve what this city once was.”
Wack shook his head. “It’s a crazy place,” he said, pouring out grape wine for all at the table. “We’re a small group. We’re doing okay now, but one never knows what tomorrow will bring.”
Hunter felt Dominique lean on his shoulder. She was more interested in sleeping then eating. He put his arm around her and she immediately dozed off.
“We’re in a lot of trouble out in the Badlands,” Hunter said, draining his cup of wine. “While we were busy fighting the Family, the Russians infiltrated six or seven SAM divisions. Brought in a whole cavalry unit, too. Apparently they’ve been in league with Viktor for quite some time.”
“We hear bits and pieces of it here,” Wack said. “It seems like this Viktor came from nowhere. When we first heard of him, it appeared as if he were a chairman of the board type—The Circle was supposed to mean an alliance between the Mid-Aks, The Family, the air pirates. But it’s Viktor who’s behind it all. He is The Circle. His boys have been sneaking around down here for a while, buying weapons and paying for them with drugs, or gold or young girls.”
Wack shook his head. “The worst thing about it all is that Viktor knew there were still a lot of crazies on the continent who would fight—for any cause—just as long as they were fed. They’re his puppets. Like Germany in the Thirties.”
“True,” Hunter said. “But puppets hang by thin strings. Break a string here and there and the whole thing tumbles down.”
Hunter left the thought hanging. He reached in his pocket and pulled out Calypso’s gold box. For the first time since he recovered it, he took out the map that Viktor had deemed so valuable, quickly explaining how he got it to Wack and his men. Hunter unfolded it, expecting an elaborately detailed plan. But he was in for a surprise. It was a simple drawing showing—of all places—Yankee Stadium. An “X” indicated somewhere near the left field wall.
“What the hell does this mean?” he asked aloud, as the commandos and the House of David soldiers crowded around.
“The Stadium?” Wack asked. “That area has been abandoned for years. Nothing there. No people. No buildings of value. It’s a No Man’s Land.”
“Well whatever this ‘X’ is, Viktor was willing to pay three hundred million in real silver for it,” Hunter said.
He looked up at Zal, who was standing next to the Canadian commando commander, a man named Norton Simmons. “I’m going to see what this is,” Hunter said, pointing to the “X” on the map.
Zal looked at Simmons. “That means he’s looking for ‘volunteers,’” Zal said wryly, but with a hint of a smile.
“So I gathered,” Simmons said. He checked his watch. It was nearly 5 AM. “Well, we missed sub rendezvous anyway.”
He turned to his men. “What do you say guys? We in?”
The team nodded as one. Simmons turned back to Hunter. “For anyone else, I’d tell them to send me a postcard. But for Hawk Hunter, you can count us in.”
“Us, too,” Wack added. “If it will help in fighting The Circle. Because if they win in the ’Bads, sure as hell they’ll be here next—coming down on us.”
Hunter felt a warm feeling spread throughout his body. Courage. Dignity. Pride. Patriotism. Resolve. Democracy. All of these things and more were alive and well and dwelling in this place.
Hunter pulled Dominique’s naked body closer to him. The world was still spinning, but he had become used to the feeling by now. As always, his days seemed to last for years. Time moved in slow motion when he was in overdrive like this. Even now, lying in bed with her in a spare room that Wack had provided, sleep defied him. Instead he felt surges of power, anger, love, determination pump through his body. That he was in Hawaii only a few days before, then Wyoming, Arizona, New Mexico and now this—it was all too dreamlike. His senses rippled with electricity, his mind was racing. Calculations, permutations, probability quotients, the measurable effect of coincidence—they all had to add up if he was to be successful.
Going after whatever was hidden at Yankee Stadium was an unexpected yet calculated risk. He knew it meant at least one more day that PAAC and the others would have to carry on without the crucial fifth black box, but from the deepest part of his gut instinct, he felt he was making the right decision. Something so valuable to Viktor would also be valuable to the Western Forces, even if all they did was destroy it. So Hunter and his new allies were lying low during the daylight hours and planned to drive to the stadium as soon as night fell. Then Hunter knew he would have some tough decisions to make. And the first one would be what to do about Dominique.
He turned to look at her. Life was so strange and he knew it better than most. In all that time that she was missing, he had always felt like she was alive—somewhere. And he had vowed to find her. Now she was with him again. The woman who had haunted him since the first time they met was beside him, in the flesh. He had her again. Would he be foolish enough to let her go?
A wave of doubt clouded his mind. Why shouldn’t he just take her and take off? Go to Free Canada, live as normal a life as one could in the New Order world. Just what the hell was he running around the whole Godforsaken continent for anyway? This dream—this G
oddamn myth—that somehow, some way, he could magically put the United States back together again? He had to laugh. It was a joke. Imagine carrying around such an impossible dream of reuniting America again when there were thousands of Soviet missiles sitting in the middle of the country, a huge hostile army holding more than half the territory of the former U.S., and, thousands of Mongol warriors roaming the countryside, terrorizing, murdering, raping.
So why fight it? Why not just chuck it all, leave the wars to someone else? Grab Dominique and take a sub ride back to Canada and become a fisherman. Or a farmer? Or a crop duster?
There were plenty of reasons to do it.
But there were more reasons why he couldn’t. Sure, he could leave the U.S., but he couldn’t leave it behind. And he could live with Dominique, but he couldn’t live with himself. The whole idea—the whole concept—of the United States of America was alive just as long as one person believed in it. Fought for it. Died for it. He was one person. But there were thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousand, even millions, of people who still believed in the dream. Still would fight for it. Die for it. Tell their children about it. The difference between him and all those people was that he—by a fluke of nature—could have a direct bearing on the outcome. That twist of fate—that he was the best fighter pilot ever born. He knew it. But far from being a glamorous calling, the responsibility was awesome—to the point that sometimes, in his darkest and deepest recesses, he resented it. And the life that went along with it was too hard for him to carry any false modesty about what he was.
So he could flee to Canada and be comfortable, even wealthy. But he wouldn’t be free. And neither would his country. And that made all the difference
Dominique turned to him, her eyes open only wide enough to let her tears flow out. She knew what he was thinking. They were psychically linked—probably she more to him than the reverse. He felt the pain well up inside his heart and catch him in the throat. Here she was, in his arms, after all that time. And yet he knew, that all too soon, he would have to let her go again.
They made love again, then they fell into a tightly locked embrace and finally went to sleep.
One hour after the sun set, two House of David Cadillac gunwagons passed through the last friendly checkpoint and started north. The first car—a converted hearse—featured an oddly-sized .35 mm cannon mounted on its hood and twin .50 caliber machineguns hanging off its sides. A small but powerful rocket launcher was installed in a homemade turret drilled into the center of the car roof. This car was filled with House of David night fighters, the best the group had to offer. Car Number Two, a converted limousine with Wack behind the wheel, carried Hunter and Dominique in the front seat with Zal, and the rest of the commandos riding in back. This vehicle was a land version of a recon aircraft. Its only “weapon” was a large camera mounted on the dashboard.
Both cars were heavily armored on the sides and the roof, wore metal skirts to protect the tires and featured cloudy, but secure-looking bullet-proof glass. Each was equipped with a CB radio, and as soon as the nine-mile journey to Yankee Stadium began, a non-stop racket of radio chatter commenced between the cars.
The route to the stadium that Wack had selected was the least treacherous of several. The two cars would move up Sixth Avenue, cut through Central Park, emerge at about 110th Street then cut over to what remained of the Henry Hudson Parkway. From there it was a straight line—more or less—to Yankee Stadium.
Wack and his crew were old hands at what they called “turf-busting.” That was, driving as fast as possible through another groups’ territory, zig-zagging so no one could get a clear shot at you. It was an acceptable practice in New York City these days, to a point approaching sport. But only the fastest survived. Helmets were required, as were elaborate seat harnesses. And, of course, no headlights could be used.
The two cars took off and soon enough, they were skirting the edge of CorpCat country at close to 60 MPH. Only a few shots were fired at them, and to no effect. Wack yelled over to Hunter that the Cats were too blown out from their ’scraper battle with Max-Army the night before to worry about the two House gunwagons.
Once off Sixth Avenue, the cars roared through Central Park, which to Hunter resembled nothing less than photographs he’d seen of the Ardenne Forest during World War I. In the intense moonlight, he could see the ground was churned up like a massive plow had worked it. Acres lay bare of trees or any vegetation. The various ponds and lakes were bone dry. Destroyed military equipment—tanks, personnel carriers, even a few downed helicopters—lay rusting; relics from the war between the New York and New Jersey National Guards. Beside many of the wrecks lay skeletons and parts of skeletons, their bones long ago licked clean by dogs, rats and other vermin.
After passing through the nightmare landscape of the park, the cars began picking up sporadic fire courtesy of soldiers of the Gwanda Nation. Their turf covered the area from West 110th Street to the George Washington Bridge, a critical long stretch of the journey. Wack expertly wheeled the big car back and forth, as Hunter shielded Dominique. The two gun wagon cars were moving at 70 mph, and all the weaving was causing a racket of squealing tires and burning rubber. With little damage done, Wack followed the lead car onto the Cathedral Parkway.
That’s when they saw the roadblock …
It was straight ahead of them, right at the entrance to the Hudson Parkway. There were four vehicles—two cars on the outside and two jeeps on the inside—parked in such a way as to block off the entire roadway. The roadblock looked to be manned by at least 20 Gwanda Nation warriors, fierce-looking men in jungle fatigues. Hunter pushed Dominique all the way down to the floor, then checked his .357 Magnum.
“Don’t worry, guys,” Wack said confidently. “We’ve been here before.”
Hunter saw the gunner in the car in front of them slip into position behind the turret-mounted rocket launcher. The driver of the first car called back to Wack: “Stay on my tail, Number Two. This is a Red Sea. Repeat, Red Sea. Sam’s aiming for the middle.”
“Roger,” Wack yelled into the radio, then back to his passengers. “Okay, guys, hang on!”
About 50 feet out the first car stopped swerving. The rocket gunner lined up a shot and hit his launch button. A wire-guided missile leaped from the turret and instantly hit square in the middle of the two center vehicles. The powerful rocket exploded in a ball of orange flame, lifting the first jeep up and off the ground, and knocking the second one back a good 10 feet.
Before Hunter knew it, the two House of David cars were speeding through the burning hole created by the missile. He could hear a few thuds against the cars as the Gwanda Nation soldiers fired at them. But the armor on the doors prevented any of the bullets from getting through.
Wack laughed as they burst onto the relatively safe Hudson Parkway. “Just like Moses, it works every time!”
The two car caravan reached Yankee Stadium without further incident. Outside, the huge bat that marked the stadium entrance for years now lay broken in several large chunks, as if a giant had smashed it. Slowly, the gun wagons circled the stadium, looking for a means of entry.
There was a garage door to the rear of the place which was both locked and rusted in place. A shot from the rocket car’s cannon took care of it, snapping its springs and causing the door to rise high enough for the two cars to sneak through.
They drove out onto the field, the high stadium walls giving them the feeling that they were in a dark valley. The place had fallen into disrepair, yet oddly, the bases were still in place, as was the pitcher’s mound. Hunter had been to the stadium as a boy, on all occasions watching the Yanks beat his hometown Boston Red Sox. Now it was as dreary as a place could be, another rusting symbol of a faded American dream.
They drove right out to the left field wall where they found another garage door, an entrance way that maintenance vehicles used to access the field. Another burst of cannon fire opened this door and soon the tiny band found themselves walking i
n a large, pitch black room.
Hunter was directing one of two high-powered flashlights Wack had supplied, Dominique glued to his side.
“What could be here, Hawk?” she asked. “Why would this place be so important to Viktor? He never mentioned it in all the time I was with him.”
“Beats me,” Hunter said, playing the flashlight beam over racks of old grass rakes and bags of baseline lime. “But he knew that Calypso had hidden something here, something he was willing to pay big numbers for. Something he must have thought would help him in winning the war in the ’Bads.”
Suddenly they heard Zal call out: “Hunter! Over here!”
They rushed to his side and saw that he had found yet another door, this one smaller and apparently installed fairly recently. A computerized combination lock held the folding door shut.
Hunter made short work of the combination, finally getting the computer to show three red indicator lights in a row. With the entire force standing around him, he pushed one final button and the door slowly began to rise.
“Well, Jesus Christ!” Zal was the first one to speak.
“Ditto,” said Wack, pointing his flashlight beam onto the object inside. The rest of the group could utter no more than a chorus of “Oohs” and “Aahs.”
For the first time in a long time, Hunter was speechless. So this is what all the fuss was about, he thought. He had had a clue even before the door opened, detecting a whiff of aviation fuel. Now he knew why.
It was an airplane hidden in the secret room. But not just any airplane. In fact, it was probably the only one of its kind.
“What the hell kind of jet is that, Hawk?” Zal, the experienced F-105 Thunderchief pilot, asked. “Those curves, that material, that design. It looks more like a kid’s toy.”
Hunter ran his flashlight beam the length of the small aircraft. Ah, yes. Those curves. That material. That design. He couldn’t contain his smile.
