Wingman (19 page)

"Still got my cannon, Hunter," Eddie boasted. "And you ain't got yours."

Hunter saw a stream of shells past him on the right. He zigged in that direction, just in time to see another burst shoot by on his left. A zag back to his left put him back on his original heading. When Fast Eddie tried to shoot low; Hunter would take the F-16 up a notch. He'd shoot high, Hunter would be scraping the treetops. Whatever the bounty pilot did, Hunter was a split-second ahead of him. While Eddie was spewing out every curse word in the book-and inventing new ones-Hunter was enjoying the view.

The high-speed cat-and-mouse game continued for miles as the F-16 twisted and turned through the river valley of the Berkshires, the F-104 in close pursuit.

Suddenly, the river disappeared and a mountain loomed straight ahead. Hunter saw it. Eddie didn't.

"Goodbye, Eddie," Hunter said as he pulled back on the stick and stood the F-16

on its tail. The Starfighter, notorious for its bad handling at low altitude, just kept right on going. It slammed into the side of the mountain, its fuel tanks exploding on impact, spreading burning jet fuel over a wide area and igniting a forest fire. God help us, Hunter thought, looking back at the ball of flame rising from the side of the mountain, if the Mid-Aks ever get any real pilots.

Thirty minutes later, he saw his immediate destination appear on the western horizon. A cross-check of his instruments confirmed he had about 10 minutes of fuel left-just enough to get where he was going. He started monitoring all UHF frequencies, searching for the right one on which he could announce his arrival. He knew he had probably already been picked up on radar and that dozens of SAM crews were tracking him. He just hoped they kept their cool long enough.

Syracuse. The once-bustling city stuck in the middle of upstate New York had long ago been evacuated, its residents now either scattered or citizens of Canada. But a new smaller city had sprung up, not in the middle of town, but at its airport. The Aerodrome they called it, and the last Hunter knew, an old friend of his was running the place.

The Aerodrome was a true product of the New Order era. Because most of New York state was now the Free Territory of New York, it was anything-goes as far as governments went. Most of the state was made up of small hamlets, where like the few larger cities not completely evacuated, the people had reverted to a kind of benign anarchy. Most of the people, though monetarily poor, enjoyed the set-up. But there was still a price to pay for the no-government-at-any-cost approach. Bandits perpetually roamed the deserted highways, and every so often, a roving air pirate squadron might blow through and terrorize the skies above the rugged mountainous country.

In the middle of this sat The Aerodrome, a haven of profitability and capitalism.

It was all a question of location. Syracuse sat at an important crossroads of the air convoy routes. Single aircraft-cargo planes to fighters-used the place as a refueling stop. In the past, many air trains leaving Boston would fly a heading straight to Syracuse, where, if an aircraft had trouble-either mechanical or from pirates-it could set down safely. Smaller convoys flying down from Canada or from other places, would drop off goods and supplies at The Aerodrome for pick-up by other planes heading west.

The base also afforded a large and well-staffed aircraft maintenance service; a place where an airplane could be overhauled, its engines torn down and rebuilt, its body rewelded, its avionics replaced or updated.

In many ways, the place was a modern version of the old-style truck-stop. Several eating establishments were located there, as were twice as many barrooms. Other enterprises-uniforms, used flying equipment, custom aircraft painting-thrived at the airbase. Many escort pilots and freelancers called the place home. The currency ran from old silver coins to an occasional piece of gold or a diamond. And outright bartering-a short escort mission in exchange for a bellyful of jet fuel, a paint job for a new landing gear assembly-was common.

So was the more deviant activity. While the half dozen large hotels surrounding the airport were converted into flophouses for weary pilots, the 20 or so smaller ones served as whorehouses. One of The Aerodrome's main attractions was its Sodom and Gomorrah atmosphere. And flesh was just one commodity available. A black market flourished at the base. Guns, ammo, missiles, bombs, anything that could be attached to the underside of a jet or to its wings could be bought at The Aerodrome in any and all quantities.

It seemed like everything-legal, illegal or otherwise-could be had at the place.

Although The Aerodrome started out as a private enterprise, all the activity at the base attracted many people to settle around it. Soon a city had arisen. Though born from the same idea as Jonesville-people liked safety in numbers in the New Order world-the place made Otis look like a hick town. More than 30,000 lived in the general vicinity, and more than three thousand passed in and out each day. The crime rate was high, the quality of liquor was low with the availability of a nice-looking piece of ass falling somewhere in the middle.

There was no police force, but common sense dictated the need for a standing army.

Supported by the landing tax imposed on everyone flying through, the Aerodrome Defense Force-the ADF-was well-known for its tough, no-nonsense approach to protecting the base.

ADF crews manned the radar stations, the SAM sites, the control tower and patrolled the border of the ten-square mile area claimed by The Aerodrome's operators. A squadron of ADF fighters-flying vintage F-105 Thunderchiefs-kept a close eye on The Aerodrome's airspace. The bandits, the air pirates and other troublemakers usually gave the place a wide berth. Of if they did find themselves at The Aerodrome, more often than not they would behave themselves, lest they feel the wrath of the ADF.

Syracuse was known to every pilot flying as an exciting, sometimes dangerous place. And every fly-boy from the Coasters to Texas knew there were two things you didn't do at The Aerodrome: Arrive without filing a proper flight plan ahead of time and arrive without money.

Hunter was about to commit both sins at once . . .

"F-16, this is Aerodrome control." The words burst from Hunter's radio. "We are tracking you on an unauthorized approach. You have violated our airspace. Leave the area immediately."

"I copy you, Aerodrome," Hunter said, biting his lip. "I'm low on fuel. Just a minute or two left. Request permission to land."

"F-16," the tough-sounding voice of Aerodrome control replied. "You have violated our airspace. Leave the area immediately or you will be shot down. This is your final warning."

Hunter didn't doubt for a minute that they would shoot. He could see at least a dozen SAM sites ringing the base and was sure many more lay hidden in the dense forests which surrounded the base on three sides. He knew The Aerodrome was a valuable entity that needed constant vigilance and protection from pirates and other flying hostiles.

And that was how it was in the heart of a Free Territory-shoot first and ask questions later.

"Aerodrome tower, this is F-16," Hunter radioed, playing one of his two ace cards up front. "I am Major Hawker Hunter of the Northeast Economic Zone Air Patrol. I am unarmed. I am low on fuel. I am requesting permission to land."

'16, Aerodrome Tower," the voice came back, a slight hint of hesitation in its tone. "Verbal identification no good. We are tracking you on our ground air defense system. You have less than minute before we launch. Leave the area, immediately."

Time to show his last ace.

"Aerodrome control. Is Captain Mike Fitzgerald still in command?" Hunter checked his fuel. One minute left, tops.

"Launch sequence has started, F-16."

"Tower, please inform Captain Fitzgerald that Hawker Hunter is requesting landing clearance."

"Twenty seconds to SAM launch ..." the radio crackled.

Hunter knew he had enough fuel to dodge one SAM, maybe two. But then he'd have to bait out and lose the ship. That was, if another SAM didn't get him first.

"Ten seconds ..."

He began to prepare for evasive action when a familiar voice sprang from the radio.

"How do I know it's you, Hawker?"

"Because I'm the guy who taught you how to fly, you goddamned rum-soaked Irishman!"

Hunter radioed back, his infrared detecting system warning him a SAM was about to launch.

"Call off the SAMs!"

"Where?" the voice with a brogue asked.

"Nellis, Nevada." Hunter said quickly.

"What did we do the night I got my wings?" "I brought you out on the Las Vegas strip, got you shitfaced. Then you lost a month's pay at the blackjack table." Hunter said. "And if I have to ditch because of your fucking SAMs, I'll personally kick your ass back to Caesar's Palace ..."

"Cancel SAM launch," he heard the Irishman say. "Come on in on runway two Left, Hawk. Wind speed 10 knots, south. I think you owe me a hundred bucks from that night and I want to collect."

Hunter saw his infrared detector cool down, confirming the SAMs had halted their launch sequence.

"You'd better have a bottle of good stuff waiting, Fitzie," Hunter said as he began his final approach. "Or I'll turn out into a bag of shamrock fertilizer.

Ten minutes later, Hunter was taxiing up to a runway station, where 20 or so nervous-looking ADF Troopers were waiting. He shut down the engine, popped the canopy, and climbed out, only to find himself on the wrong end of twenty M-16 muzzles. Jumping down to the tarmac, he saw a familiar face emerge from the crowd of rifles.

It was the one and only Mike Fitzgerald, the only pilot who could fly a supersonic jet fighter into combat drunk, and live to tell about it.

"Hawker, me boy!" the diminutive red-faced, curly-haired Irishman said, planting a bear hug on him. "Good to have the famous Wingman visit with us."

"I should kick your ass back to Dublin," Hunter said in mock anger. "If you had fired more than two of those SAMs, they'd be picking me up from here to Canada."

"We just had to be sure it was you, Hawker, my friend," Fitzgerald said with a classic grin. "Besides, if I'd shot off the missile, and you had lived, what then? It would have to charge you for it, now, wouldn’t I?"

Hunter had to laugh at the little guy. Born in Ireland, he somehow became an American citizen and immediately joined the service. And it was true, Hunter had taught Fitzgerald how to fly. It was back when Hunter was part of the Thunderbirds. All the members of the team did double-duty at Nellis Air Force training new pilots fresh from OCS. Fitzie was one of the last bunch Hunter had trained before he was accepted for the shuttle program.

In the sea of conservative military types that flooded a base like Nellis, Fitzie had been a welcome addition. A real Mick in the middle of a bunch of Mormons. No one was quite sure how he made it through high school, never mind jet pilot training school.

But the Irishman proved to be a whiz at engineering and an outstanding fighter pilot.

Before leaving Nellis, Hunter recommended that Fitzie be considered for Thunderbird duty once he earned his full captain's wings.

But his talent in the air didn't keep him out of trouble on the ground, and

therefore he was always a little too much for the T-birds. Nellis, being just a stone's throw from the old gambling Mecca of Las Vegas, provided every kind of temptation a fighter pilot could face. And Fitzie took them all on: brawling in the best saloons, sleeping with show girls, buzzing a casino at seven o'clock on a Sunday morning after losing at the slot machines the night before. Witnesses to the buzzing incident swear when Fitzie's jet went by, every slot in the place paid out a full price.

"Electromagnetism," Fitz had explained at the time. "Serves the bastards right for taking a poor serviceman's money."

Fitz snapped his fingers and the ADF Troopers disappeared. "Are yer thirsty?"

he said, smacking his lips.

"Only if you're buying," Hunter replied.

They started walking to one of the bars located in the base's main terminal

building. The place was strictly hustle and bustle, as busy as an airport terminal in the pre-war days. Everywhere, there were pilots, monkeys, soldiers, and women-lots of women. Just about everyone Hunter saw was carrying some kind of sidearm or rifle. Hunter instinctively put his hand to his belt, just to make sure his .45 was still there. It was.

"Been a long time, Hawker," Fitzgerald said as they walked. "Been hearing a lot about you. Running your own air force and making things hard for our friends, the pirates."

"You're the one in the limelight," Hunter told him. "You're known as the Great Fitzgerald. The man who runs the famous Aerodrome."

Fitzgerald gave a slight heel click and smiled. "We try, Hawker," he said, watching two shapely female terminal workers walk by. "Oh, how we try."

Besides being the only person ever to call him "Hawker," Fitzie was one of his favorite people. They'd burned up more than a few bottles of scotch in their day. It was good to see his carousing buddy again.

"Sorry to hear about your base," Fitz said, as they turned the corner into the crowded bar.

"Christ," Hunter said. "News
does
travel fast. We were only thrown out yesterday morning."

"Oh, but we were hearing rumors about it for a long time, Hawker," he said. "We get a lot of scuttlebutt here. Usually, the lot of it is pure horseshit. But then again, sometimes it comes true."

They reached a couple of barstools and Hunter was about to curse the Mid-Aks when he looked up and saw three of them, sitting at the bar.

His first instinct was to start throwing punches. His second thought was to reach for his service revolver. Fitzgerald squeezed both actions and calmly, but firmly, grabbed hold of Hunter's arm.

"Be cool, Hawker," he said, motioning the bartender to set them up.

"Jesus Christ, Fitzie. Mid-Aks? Here?" Hunter said, barely containing his anger.

"You're in a Free Territory, now," Fitzgerald said, his powerful hand still gripping Hunter's arm, leading him to an isolated table. "They have as much right to be here as you. In fact, more so. They had the proper flight clearance."