Freedom Express (18 page)

While this went on, the citizens walked up and down the train, passing home-cooked cakes and pies to the soldiers on board.

The entire ceremony lifted the spirits of everyone on the train, bearing witness to Jones' report that news of the train and its mission had spread throughout the entire country, and into the uncivilized Badlands as well.

Yet, the men on board were holding on to a dire secret: Eagle Rock could possibly be the end of the line for the
Freedom
Express
.

Hawk Hunter watched the proceedings from behind the drawn curtains of the Control car.

He would have liked to take part in the celebration, but he knew it was much more important for him to write a lengthy report on his visit to Devillian’s headquarters.

It turned out to be a sobering task. Using Diamond’s

descriptions as well as his own memory to sketch Devillian's defensive lay-out, Hunter realized that any attack on the mesa fortress would be a costly proposition, in both lives and equipment. A land approach was, of course, impossible. A helicopter assault would be spotted from miles away, and even an air strike would run into the mesa's incredible wall of SAMs and AA fire, not to mention thirty or so enemy jet fighters.

Even a long-range missile strike would be chancy. Devillian had so many radar dishes spinning on top of the mesa, Hunter was sure at least a few of them were dedicated to close-in defense.

He also knew a weapon such as an antiradiation missile would have a tough time penetrating the electronic counter-measures shield around the plateau. Plus, such sophisticated weapons were in short supply. What was more, recent UA intelligence revealed that a squadron of Burning Cross aircraft had been deployed to the Santa Fe airport, and that many of its small tanker and cargo aircraft had moved there as well. Hunter was certain this was a direct result of his penetrating Devillian's inner layer. With his headquarters compromised, Devillian was no doubt expecting some kind of an attack on the mesa. By deploying some of his fighters and cargo-carriers to Santa Fe, he was simply buying some insurance. First of all, his vital fuel and supplies would be safe. And second, if the mesa was hit, the planes at Santa Fe would be called on to attack the attackers.

Hunter was a ball of nerves by the time he finished the first draft of the report. All of their efforts in locating and reconning the goddamn mesa had been for the purpose of devising a plan on how to attack the place.

But now, that seemed like an impossible mission. No matter how he looked at it, it appeared as if Devillian was holding all the aces.

The
Freedom Express
moved out of Eagle Rock around noon, again to a big ceremony given by the residents.

It had been decided long before that the train would stay in the town only as long as it had to. This was necessary in case Devillian's legions decided to attack the train while it was in station. The resulting battle from such an action would undoubtedly cause many civilian casualties and probably destroy the town in the process.

So as soon as the three-car mini-fort was disconnected, Catfish ordered the
Express
to move ten miles up the track.

The short trip west deposited the
Freedom Express
right at the foot of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Here they would again wait for a decision from Jones on whether to continue or not.

The Pentagon

It was getting to be late afternoon back in Washington.

General Jones sat alone in his office, drinking cold black coffee and trying to decide the fate of the
Freedom Express
.

He knew there were many reasons why he should not let the train continue. There were no illusions that no matter how heavily armed it was, the train could not defeat ten divisions of Devillian's troops, not to mention his warplanes and helicopters. The report he'd just received from Hunter detailing the madman's mesatop headquarters only underscored this fact.

But he had a new twist to considera very troublesome one.

This complication was that so many citizens across the

country were now rooting for the
Freedom Express
to succeed. With this glare of publicity the stakes had been raised. Jones was convinced that Devillian was very aware of the notoriety that the
Freedom Express's
mission was getting. Thus the battlelines for another struggle-that for the hearts and minds of America's citizens - were being drawn, and again, it seemed like the United Americans were playing right into the hands of the super terrorist. For just as they had undertaken the mission to bring law and order to the southern Badlands and therefore cement the legitimacy of their democratic government for the entire country, Jones knew that Devillian wanted the mission to fail and thus ruin those very chances.

This meant that whatever the outcome was, it would have to be high-profile and unambiguous. And this was what weighed on Jones' mind as he wrestled with his decision. To turn back would undoubtedly save many lives, but also it meant backing down to Devillian. To continue was to invite a back-breaking,

morale-busting defeat, one that could quite possibly lead to a wholesale slaughter, and maybe the collapse of the entire United American government.

Jones took a long, sad gulp of his ice-cold coffee in an effort to wash down the gloomy prospects. But it was no use: He knew that as a Commander-in-Chief, he should have ordered the train to return to Football City at the first discovery of Devillian's massive hidden power structure. The real reason he hadn't was Hunter's appeal for time.

But now the general felt that time was close to running out.

The train had just shut down at its new location ten miles outside of Eagle Rock when Catfish ran into the Control car.

"You guys have got to see this" was all he said to Hunter and Fitz before beckoning them to follow him.

They ran out of the car and up to the front of the train.

Once there, they were astonished to see that several hundred bronze skinned horsemen were blocking the tracks ahead of them.

"Now, who the hell is this?" Fitz cried.

"I'm not sure," Catfish replied. "Indians of some kind, I would guess."

Hunter had to agree. The band of horsemen looked like

something right out of a western movie. They were dressed in authentic Indian garb, and their faces were smeared with war paint. The only difference between them and their ancestors was that many of these warriors were armed with high-powered rifles and automatic weapons as well as bows and arrows.

Quickly the call went back for Michael Crossbow, and a strange stand-off ensued which amounted to a staring contest between the Indians on one side and Catfish, Hunter, Fitz and about fifty Football City Rangers on the other. However, unbeknownst to the mounted Indians, several squads of Catfish's elite Airborne troops were making their way through the forests on both sides of the track, a maneuver which would quietly encircle the newcomers.

The strange, silent impasse continued for a few more

minutes until Michael Crossbow came running up the tracks.

Quickly reading the situation, he stared at the colors

being worn by the horsemen. At this point Hunter saw a very worried look come over his friend.

"Anyone say anything yet?" Crossbow asked.

"Nope," Fitz replied, never once breaking his gaze. "We've just been staring at these guys, and they're staring back."

Hunter turned to Crossbow. "Recognize them?" he inquired.

Crossbow continued studying the mounted army carefully.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," he finally said. "They're Piutes -and that means they are tough motherfuckers. I think the one in front is a chief named Bad River. His tribe is about the only one left in the southwest that still has enough manpower to mount a threat against anybody."

"Are they as unfriendly as they look?" Hunter said.

"Probably more so," Crossbow replied. "We'd better talk to them and see what they want."

At that moment, Fitz heard two, seemingly innocuous clicks of static come from his walkie-talkie. Actually, it was a message. "Airborne guys are in place," he whispered to Hunter.

"First sign of trouble, you guys hit the ground and stay the hell down."

Hunter nodded, at the same time hoping it wouldn't come to such drastic measures.

He and Crossbow slowly approached the tall, grim-looking rider that Michael had identified as Chief Bad River. Hunter half-expected the two Indians to start conversing in some strange tongue, but both spoke perfect English.

"Greetings, Bad River," Crossbow called. "I am Michael of the Oklahoma Shawnee Plains tribe. Our grandfathers were friends."

Bad River didn't say a word or move a muscle.

Crossbow raised his voice. "What are you doing here, my friend?"

"I could ask the same of you" came Bad River's sudden, deep-voiced reply. "You are a Shawnee. Why are you with these blacks and whites?"

"They are friends," Crossbow explained. "I am helping them get their train across the Badlands. In return, they will help my people against our common enemy."

Bad River looked at Hunter and the other United Americans.

"Are they not with the people who have been bombing us, killing our people and destroying our villages?" he asked.

Crossbow shook his head. "No-those are the people we are trying to defeat. We want to drive them from the Badlands and make this area safe again. Like before the war."

For a long time, Bad River continued to stare at the small group behind Hunter and Crossbow. Finally, he dismounted and slowly walked forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Hunter could see the well-hidden faces of the Airborne troops lying in wait on both sides of the track.

Bad River reached Crossbow and stood no more than a few inches away from him. "Our tribes have not always been friends,"

he said sternly. "But in these times, when there are few men to be trusted, I am forced to greet you like a brother."

"And I you," Crossbow replied.

Bad River gestured to Hunter and his group. "If you say these people are fighting our enemy, then I must believe you."

"It is an honor to have your trust," Crossbow answered correctly.

On that, the two Indians shook hands.

Crossbow motioned for Catfish and Fitz to come forward, and introduced them along with Hunter as the three men in charge of the train.

The men exchanged curt nods.

"We wish you no harm," Bad River said. "It is the devils who attack us with their airplanes that we seek."

"We are after them, too," Hunter said. "Perhaps you can help us. We can always-"

Suddenly Hunter stopped talking. He turned and quickly

scanned the southern horizon.

"
Aircraft
coming," he said, almost to himself.

The other men turned to look in that direction. At first, they could see nothing. Then came a low, rumbling sound, followed by six dark specks in the sky. The specks rapidly grew into a half dozen F-4 Phantoms, bearing down on the train.

Pandemonium broke loose on the ground. The Piute warriors scattered, as did the United American soldiers. Hunter was already running top speed down the tracks toward his Harrier car when the first pair of Phantoms roared over.

Alerted at the very last possible second by the train's fairly sophisticated radar system, a half dozen of the
Express's
antiaircraft crews were ready for the F-4's. As the six jets streaked over in three staggered pairs, the AA gun crews commenced firing. First only a few scattered pops could be heard but within seconds, a cacophony of gunfire filled the air, combined with the distinctive whoosh! of small SAMs being launched. The Phantoms were flying so low over the train that some of the Airborne soldiers hidden in the woods were firing at them with their various infantry weapons.

Yet, the Phantoms did not return the fire, nor did they drop any bombs. Instead they flew through the near-solid wall of lead and SAMs, careening back and forth and surviving the heavy AA fire. All the while their nose cannons were silent, their wings full of undropped ordnance. Just as quickly as they came, they turned and disappeared over the eastern horizon.

Nevertheless, Hunter was firing up his Harrier by this

time, determined to give chase.

Major Stef Drews was the United American Airborne officer in charge of the mini-fort so recently installed in Eagle Rock, New Mexico.

He had just finished a long meeting with the town's mayor and several of its leading citizens when his second-in-command rushed into the center car of the fort.

"Sir!" he shouted. "We just heard from the train. They say an enemy air strike is heading our way."

Drews couldn't believe it. Why would the attackers bypass the train and head for the small town? After all, the small fort was an unlikely target when compared to a prize like the two mile-long train. Yet even before he could tell the mayor and the others to take cover, the first pair of Phantom jets roared over the small town.

Drews' men went to work with such courage and efficiency he made a mental note to officially commend them afterward. No sooner had the Phantoms appeared than his twelve-man SAM team deployed and began keying in on the enemy F-4's. All the while, the citizens of Eagle Rock-they having been so deliriously happy at the arrival of the
Freedom Express
just hours before-were running for their lives.