Chapter Eleven

“I was flying back from our raid on Groom Lake,” Hunter began. “I was heading east—to Vermont, maybe later to Cape Cod. I wasn’t even sure.

“About an hour east of Football City, I realize I’m running out of gas. I’d flown all the way from Nevada to the other side of the Mississippi on a single tank. The XL is fuel-efficient, but it doesn’t fly on pixie dust.

“I was looking for someplace to land when the reserve tank went dry. So I started gliding and found a runway in far west Pennsylvania, about twenty miles from Kecksburg, a place they call Mudtown. It was all lit up and their radio landing frequency had a loop recording about stopping for ‘gas, grub, and girls. …’

“I knew it was a honeypot. Looks like Vegas from the air, but some unsuspecting pilot lands, gets robbed at the rigged poker games or by hookers. The pigeon always gets separated from his billfold in those places.

“But I had no choice. I was descending from 65-Angels and coming down fast. The closer I got, the more the place looked like Dodge City. Wooden buildings, lots of smoke, people in the streets. I could hear the noise coming up from below even as I was gliding in, including lots of gunfire. A real nice place.

“Anyway, I landed with zero guidance from the airport tower. I could see people up there, but they weren’t paying attention to who was flying in. The fuel pumps were right next to the terminal and all lit up with neon signs and I was able to roll over to them. But that’s when it dawned on me I didn’t have any money. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d carried money. It didn’t matter, though, because no one was at the pumps. They were all padlocked. So I parked and climbed out.

“The airport was funky. Lots of weird airplanes: old fighters, shit-box bombers, homemade stuff. Stuff that looked like it couldn’t get airborne on a bet. All fixed wing, too, no choppers. And a lot of this stuff looked abandoned.

“I could hear yelling and cursing; there was a commotion nearby. I walked into the terminal, which was actually one huge casino, and there was a major brawl going on. Dozens of people throwing punches, breaking bottles, hitting each other with chairs. I could see at least five different kinds of uniforms involved and realized it was a handful of merc groups beating on each other. A five-sided gang fight.

“Lots of people were on the sidelines watching and cheering them on. Hookies, druggies, the usual. I asked one of the girls what was going on. She said, ‘The rescue mission isn’t going anywhere, but these idiots still want to get paid.’

“Turns out a private-hire copter had been shot down over Mudtown the night before. It had just taken off from the airport when a Stinger or something caught it. It crashed next to an old hotel in a rough part of town about two miles away. One of the passengers was carrying two suitcases full of pure silver. He wound up inside this broken-down hotel with a dozen private goons he’d hired as protection for the ride.

“Meanwhile, word gets around this guy is carrying silver worth three or four million at least. So a couple hundred of Mudtown’s meth heads get together and decide to relieve Moneybags of his luggage. You know how industrious those people can be, right? They surround the hotel and start blasting away with automatic weapons. And the only thing protecting this guy was his hired heat and that was becoming a little shaky.

“Moneybags started radioing for help—but just about then, all the radios in the town began crapping out, including those at the airport. He was able to get word out on a walkie-talkie that any mercenary group who could mount a rescue mission to the hotel would get a half million pure.

“Within an hour, local merc teams flooded Mudtown. No one big, just ten- to twelve-guy outfits. Freelancers. But by now the situation was very screwed up. No one’s radio worked, so these guys just went in helter-skelter, with no communications, no nothing. Most of them got chewed up after just a couple blocks, mainly because they were shooting at each other and didn’t know it.

“Finally, they agreed to draw lots and take turns going in. As soon as one group became pinned down after a few blocks, another would advance, relieve the first group, and go another few blocks before getting stopped, with another team moving forward to take their place. The leapfrog approach to war. Not that it made a difference. The fistfight in the terminal was about how the half million should be split when someone finally reached Moneybags. Just about everyone had spilled some blood already, so everyone wanted a piece.

“Meanwhile, no one can figure out a way to actually get to the money guy and haul him out. It was chaos. No one was in charge. No one was sober.

“The bar girl told me the local cops were trying to run the show. They were up in the airport’s control tower—that’s why they weren’t paying attention to flight ops. So, I went up there to see if I could angle a little gas from them and get the hell out of there. I find these five guys standing around a planning table, arguing.

“They barely looked up when I walked in. But then one of them did a double take and, you know, looked like he’d seen a ghost. He asked me, ‘Are you Hawk Hunter?’

“Turns out he was at Football City with one of the militias during the little war that followed the Big War. He was out there fighting the Reds just like we were. He’d watched the the hundred-plane raid from the ground. A real brother, but he couldn’t believe I was among the living.

“Before I could say anything, he asked me if I had a plan to get Moneybags out. He just assumed that’s what I was there for. He showed me a map of Mudtown and where the guy’s chopper got shot down and how he was surrounded by hundreds of meth freaks in this old prewar Holiday Inn.

“The guy said any rescue team would have to act quickly. The tower still had a walkie-talkie line open to Moneybags, and he’d told them the twelve hired goons who’d crashed with him had a contract that was due to run out at dawn the next morning. These guys weren’t especially hard core—more like gofers with guns—and this was definitely not their scene. They weren’t planning to renew. So, Moneybags was going to be high and dry if someone didn’t get him out toot sweet. I looked at the map and thought—”

Dozer interrupted him. “Don’t tell me you took the gig.”

Hunter nodded. “Yeah, I did.”

Dozer couldn’t believe it. “That’s more than just a little nuts, Hawk.”

“Some people would think so,” he replied with a shrug. “But I didn’t have any money. I didn’t have a job. I didn’t have anything. Just because I fell back to Earth doesn’t mean my pockets were filled with gold when I hit. If I wanted to fly, I needed gas, and to get gas, I needed some cash.

“So I checked out the map and Moneybags’s location, then I told them I’d fly in alone and pull him out. They said, ‘Wait a minute—you can’t fly in there—it’s urban. It’s crowded. No place to land. And we don’t have any choppers here.’ But I knew it wouldn’t be that much of a problem if I had the right airplane.”

“And that airplane was?” Dozer asked.

“Like I said, when I first bounced in, I saw dozens of rigs parked on the tarmac. All shapes, all sizes. No copters, but there was one plane that caught my eye. A little bird with big tires.”

“You mean that wind-up toy you just landed in?” Dozer asked from behind a cloud of cigar smoke. “I’m surprised you’re not wearing the big clown shoes that go with it.”

Hunter nodded. “Yeah, thanks for that. It turns out it had been abandoned there by some merc who’d bought the farm early in the fighting. The tower guys had no idea what kind of plane it was. But I did. It was a half-size STOL Highlander. Ever hear of them?”

Dozer shook his head no.

“They can land on a dime,” Hunter said. “And I mean, almost literally. High lift wing. Tiny frame, but big control surfaces. A powerful engine—and really freaking loud. They used them up in Alaska before the Big War to get hunters and sports fishermen into inaccessible areas, but I’m guessing by the circus colors, this one performed at air shows, because it also has a kind of improvised short-term hovering ability using oversize wing slats. Whatever the case, if the pilot knew what he was doing, he could land it in about five feet.

“I told them to tell Moneybags to be ready to move the moment his bodyguards quit. The Mudtown freaks gave the goons a free pass to get out in the morning—less trouble for them to deal with when they went in and rolled this guy.

“I took off in this weird little airplane and flew over Mudtown; it was about five minutes before sunrise, so we were cutting it real close. There were meth heads all over the streets going crazy, firing on this hotel and really tearing up the place. But to their credit, Moneybags’s goons were still firing back, and they had some big guns. Thirty calibers. A couple big fifties. Maybe even a flamethrower. It was insane. And no one was looking up, and they sure couldn’t hear anything, so I doubt if anyone spotted me. Still, there was a thunderstorm blowing in from the west, so I flew into it, to hide in the clouds for a little while, someplace I was sure nobody could see me.

“The sun came up, and Moneybags’s private goon squad punched the clock. I could see them running out of the hotel and climbing aboard two trucks the mooks must have given them to get them out of the way. Anyway, that was the signal for Moneybags to head for the roof.”

“The roof?” Dozer said, nearly spitting out a gulp of whiskey.

“I couldn’t land in the street,” Hunter said with another shrug. “Too much rubble, too many dirt nappers, too much lead flying around. Besides, that little plane really can land on a dime. The secret is those big tires. You need something to absorb that initial shock of setting down. If something can eat up that energy, you won’t need to roll more than a few feet. The bigger the tires, the shorter the landing.

“So that’s what I did. Just as the Mudtown mooks started their attack for real, I landed on the hotel’s roof. Came down in one bounce—the plane worked as advertised. In that split second, you know what those clown wheels are all about.

“That’s when the storm arrived, and it started raining like crazy. Thunder, lightning, and so much firing going on; the mooks were just pulverizing the bottom floor of the hotel. It was so loud and confusing, I started wondering if anyone even knew I’d landed.

“So, I start looking around for Moneybags. Tracers were going over my head; all kinds of ordnance flying around. The thunder was tremendous, and there were lightning strikes like, just a few feet away. But that’s when it really got weird. …”

Dozer almost did another spit take. “Really? It’s going to get weird now?”

Hunter plowed on. “Moneybags finally shows up, carrying his luggage and running like a madman toward me from the other end of the roof. But right behind him are three more people, wrapped in blankets, and they’re running my way, too. I’m thinking, what the hell is this? No one said anything about him having friends. Besides, I’m flying a very small airplane.

“Anyway, they’re all soaking wet from the deluge, and I can hardly see them for the rain. I grab Moneybags, pull him in, and stuff him in the back, then I fit the other three in the front somehow. Meanwhile, the meth heads have finally figured out what’s going on, and now they’re firing mortar rounds up at us. I manage to turn the plane around, hit the throttle, and get out of there.”

Dozer held up his hand. “I guess I can understand how these toy airplanes can land short—but taking off?”

“It’s a little more complicated,” Hunter admitted. “What you do is gun the engine and fly off the side of the building. You go straight down—but only for a few seconds, until you get some air under the wing. Then you pull up into a stall, lower those big wing slats, and the plane stands on its tail almost like you’re hovering. The big tires help that, too, because it takes a couple of moments for the momentum to stop and the weight to transfer. Then you hit throttles again, and off you go, straight up.”

Dozer rubbed his temples. “I’m nauseous just thinking about it.”

“So was Moneybags,” Hunter went on. “He was hanging out the open window barfing the whole way back to the airport. He was a mess. Very embarrassing—especially in front of his girls.”

“‘Girls?’” Dozer asked.

Hunter nodded again. “The three unexpected friends were three gorgeous blondes. One hotter than the next. I couldn’t believe it when I was peeling them out of the airplane back at the airport and their blankets finally fell off.”

Dozer filled their whiskey glasses again. “Just how ‘gorgeous,’ may I ask?”

“I can show you exactly,” Hunter said. “But this is where everything really starts to go south.”

He retrieved a photo from the same pocket where he kept the tiny American flag and handed it to Dozer. The marine took one look and nearly fell off his chair. The picture was of an absolutely striking blonde, wearing a tuxedo jacket, nylons, and very little else. Sitting in a chair, low-cut blouse, staring right out at the camera. And those eyes …

Incredibly, Dozer knew her. It was Dominique, Hunter’s longtime girlfriend. And he’d seen this picture before. Thousands had been passed around the country during what people called the Circle War, a brutal conflict fought not long after the Big War ended and caused by the Russians creating an alliance of the worst anti-America gangs in the country. With superspy Viktor Robotov pulling the strings, the Circle went to war with the United Americans, a newly created alliance of patriotic groups battling to resurrect the United States, including Hunter and the 7CAV. This was when the Russians brought the Mongol hordes all the way over from Siberia to ransack America, only to find out horse cavalry was a painfully easy target for airpower, especially when Hawk Hunter was leading the attack. The Circle was eventually destroyed, causing Robotov to disappear for a while.

But early in the hostilities, this same photo of Dominique had been distributed by the Circle as a form of propaganda, a kind R-rated recruiting poster that appealed to every scumbag in the country. Not only was it of pinup quality—and back then, people hung them up everywhere—the underlying big lie was enticing: “Even Hunter’s girlfriend has joined us. She is our queen. Fight for her.”

It was crazy, it shouldn’t have worked, but it did. Dominique’s beauty brought thousands into the opposition army. A very weird episode in postwar America.

“Dominique. …” Dozer whispered, still studying the photo. “I haven’t heard her name come up in a very long time. She’s been off the radar at least since you went up in the shuttle.”

He handed the photo back to Hunter. “But what was Moneybags doing with a copy of this? I’m surprised any of them are left unstained.”

“Turns out Moneybags is a talent agent,” Hunter replied. “He informed me of this after he finally stopped blowing lunch. He’s also the one who told me the Reds had taken over New York City, and then he admitted he was working for some big-shot Russian Army officer up there. This officer had sent him across the country looking for a very particular kind of girl that some higher-up Russian officers in New York were demanding. We’re talking expensive prostitutes. That’s why he had all that money.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Dozer said, puzzled.

Hunter held up the photo of Dominique again.

“He was looking for women who look like Dominique,” he said with weary emphasis. “And this is the photo he was given to find women who were the closest matches. As strange as it sounds, it’s a status symbol among the high Red officers in New York to have a girlfriend who looks like Dominique.”

Dozer was almost speechless. “That’s very screwy, even for the Russians.”

“It gets screwier,” Hunter said. “Moneybags knew who I was right away, so he knew of my connection to Dominique. He paid me the silver reward, and then he actually apologized for what he was doing—said it was just a job, bringing high-priced call girls who just happen to look like my girlfriend to New York City. But he promised me on the spot that he’d give up the gig, let the three beauties go and leave the area.”

“Sounds like a wise decision on his part,” Dozer agreed.

“Yes—but he still felt he owed me a favor,” Hunter went on. “So before he left … he told me where Dominique is living.”

“No kidding?”

Hunter just nodded and swigged his drink.

“Hey, nice work,” Dozer told him, knocking the ashes from his shrinking cigar. “And you didn’t have to beat it out of him. Points for that. So … where is she?”

Hunter dejectedly glanced over his shoulder toward New York City.

“Up there?” Dozer asked. “With the Reds?”

“Right in the middle of the Big Red Apple,” Hunter confirmed darkly. “Living in Midtown at a very secure location. Word on the street says she’s the mistress of one of the very top Russians. That’s why all the underling officers want girls who look like her. It’s one way to kiss the boss’s ass.”

“Wow,” was all Dozer could say. This was crazy.

“I’ve been going nuts ever since he told me,” Hunter went on. “I keep asking myself the same questions, over and over. Why would Dominique be involved with the Russians? Is she a prisoner waiting to be rescued, or … is she a high-priced escort, discovered by some other talent scout? I mean if she’s on the arm of some big shot up there, and all his flunkies want call girls who look exactly like her, doesn’t it stand to reason that she’s a …”

He stopped right there. It was no mere dalliance he’d had with Dominique. They had a long history together. He’d met her in the darkest days following World War III. Moving alone through the devastated French countryside after the fighting had stopped, he’d needed shelter one night, and she’d given it to him. They’d fallen in love within minutes. Not only was she gorgeous, she was smart and funny and had a good heart. And Hunter had made her laugh—and sometimes that’s all that was needed. They’d parted painfully soon afterward, but then Dominique had surprised him a few months later when she’d made it over from France to be with him in what had once been the United States.

Because of the battles that followed, though, they’d been forced apart so many times even Hunter didn’t know the exact number. He was always being pulled in two directions. He wanted to be with Dominique, but he wanted to fight for his country as well. It was an ongoing struggle. Eventually, they’d withdrawn to a hay farm named Skyfire, on the elbow of Cape Cod. They’d wanted to lie low for a while and just be with each other. But before long, the times turned chaotic again, and because of the ever-present danger to America, there were wars Hunter had just had to go fight—and their time apart grew longer. If he remembered correctly, though, he’d been planning to quit the fight for good after that one last shuttle mission so he could be with her.

But he never got that chance.

“That’s why I’ve been flying around up there,” he told Dozer. “I had to do something, so I started looking for her—from the air. Sounds crazy now, but at the time, it made sense. I found a straight road near Trenton next to an old gas tank, and that’s been my base and my runway. I’ve been camping out there for about a week, flying at night, trying to sleep during the day.”

Their glasses were filled again.

Hunter lowered his voice a notch. He was almost wistful. “When I flew over the city the first time, Bull, the most bizarre sensation went through me. You know how I have this sort of extrasensory thing …”

Dozer nodded. One of the elements that made Hunter such a great pilot was a kind of internal radar he had, a type of ESP that clicked on whenever enemy aircraft were approaching, warning him in advance to get ready for a fight. He didn’t talk much about this mysterious talent, but all his friends had seen it in action.

“Well, in the same way, I could feel a presence when I was up there flying around,” Hunter went on. “It was very freaking strong. And I’m thinking it must be Dominique. So I couldn’t help myself. I kept going back—and I kept feeling it. Buzzing around in that circus plane, looking into the penthouses of these three identical skyscrapers on Fifth Avenue—that’s where Moneybags said she’d be, most likely. I’ll tell you, it seemed like a party was going on every time I cruised by one of those places. I could tell: lots of booze, lots of sex. I used to wonder if I was going to look into a bedroom window one night and see her in there, between the sheets, doing you know what. But that didn’t stop me. I became obsessed.

“Then two nights ago, I caused a ruckus on the top floor of one of those buildings. People right up against the penthouse windows saw me do the hovering act, and I think it really scared a few of them inside. I couldn’t see all their faces, but I did see her. Or someone who looked a lot like her. It was only for a second, just a glimpse, before I started flying horizontal again. But it was enough to make me go back.

“So, the next time I showed up, which was last night, they started shooting at me. A couple of Yaks tried to grease me, and then they had gun trucks firing from everywhere. They even lit off a huge SA-2 SAM. But I was able to dodge it all until I ran into some debris caused by something going off, an RPG maybe, and I found my way here.”

He let his voice trail off for a moment and took a long drink of whiskey.

“I know she’s somewhere in New York City, Bull,” he said. “And after tonight, I think I know exactly which building she’s in. Moneybags told me she was in one of the three cookie-cutter skyscrapers along Fifth, but I think he was one building off for some reason. Before I got shot tonight, I had this incredible wave of intuition, and it was telling me that she might be inside the taller building next door, the one with the big red star on top of it. I didn’t see anything inside when I went around it, but the vibes I felt once I came close were overwhelming.”

Another swig of whiskey.

“If she’s anywhere, it’s there,” he said again. “I just know it. But again, is she a prisoner or a princess? That’s what I don’t know. And that’s why I’ve just got to get back up there and find out for sure.”

Dozer shook his head gravely. “I would caution against that, my friend. That would be extremely dangerous, especially if the Russians are so pissed now they’re willing to shoot big-ass SAMs at you. Plus, what happens if you do find her? A one-man rescue mission?”

“I’ve done it before,” Hunter told him. “I rescued her from New York City years ago. From another high-rise, in fact.”

“But the city wasn’t crawling with sixty thousand Russians back then,” Dozer reminded him. “And all this heavy weaponry. It’s a way different place today.”

Hunter leaned back in his chair and studied Dominique’s photo again.

“But I still need to do it, Bull,” he said finally. “I mean, look at me. I don’t even know what fucking universe I’m in. After everything that’s happened to me, I’m still very concerned about this Russian thing, but I just want to find her first. Talk to her. See what’s what.”

Dozer took his feet off the desk and pulled his chair closer to Hunter’s.

“Look, Hawk,” he said, “I appreciate that you love her. Everyone does. But time goes by fast these days. What we were all doing six months ago is already history, and what we were doing fifteen years ago is already ancient history. You know what I’m saying?”

Hunter nodded solemnly. “You think she might not want to be … rescued?”

Dozer winced at the pain he heard in his friend’s voice. But that was exactly what he meant.

“You have to at least consider the possibility,” he said. “I mean, this high-level Russian officer she’s with must know who she is, and must know how tight you two were. And women like her need protecting these days. And she’s attracted to powerful men—like you.”

“But would she really switch sides, Bull?” Hunter asked him sincerely. “Or is it maybe I’m actually in another universe where things like that don’t matter as much? Don’t people who’ve found each other generally stick together here?”

Dozer held up five fingers. “Don’t you remember?” he said with a grin. “I’ve been divorced five times. So you’re asking the wrong person.”

Hunter paused for a moment, then said, “Well, maybe I am in the wrong universe. And maybe in this one Dominique is different and not the same girl I loved. Or maybe I’m in the right place and she’s just changed.

“But either way … I’ve got to know.”