Freedom Express (4 page)

"You've assembled an amazing piece of work," Hunter said as they left the tunnel. "I didn't think there were enough engines and cars left in the country to put together something like . . . well like
this
"

Fitz gave a modest shrug. "It pays to have friends," he said in his thick brogue.

The two men walked farther up the line and eventually approached the midpoint of the train.

The middle "keystone car" really stopped Hunter in his tracks.

Mounted on a huge flatbed was one of the biggest guns he had ever seen.

He carefully studied the giant cannon. "Present from another friend?" he asked.

Fitzgerald, who at one time had run a profitable airfield operation in Syracuse before that city was destroyed in the Second Circle War, smiled again.

"Aye," he answered. "An old pal from my upstate New York days used to work in the Army's famous Watervliet Arsenal, making these big babies. He says this thing will toss a shell the weight of a Volkswagen about twenty miles."

"I believe it," Hunter said, admiring the gun's fifty-foot long barrel, on which someone had painted the name
Big Dick
. "Good name for it," he said. "But how did you ever get this thing down here?"

"Well, that was a little tough," Fitzgerald admitted. "Had to take it apart up there and haul it down here. Took a half dozen trucks the better part of a week."

The two friends moved on, inspecting the drop-off mini-forts.

Arranged in blocks of three, one car contained sleeping and eating quarters, the second was filled with medical supplies and equipment, and the third contained weapons and ammunition. These sets of cars were to be left at strategic points along the train's route, equipped with all the necessities for a small, well-fortified settlement, including a contingent of one hundred highly trained United American Army troopers.

As the two men approached the end of the train, they were joined by Captain Lamont "Catfish" Johnson, a towering black man who formerly played defensive end for the San Diego Chargers of the old NFL. Johnson was a relatively new member of the United Americans' high command, taking the place of his long-time commanding officer and friend, Captain John "Bull" Dozer, leader of the U.S. Marine's 7th Cavalry.

Dozer had died valiantly in a crucial battle between the United Americans and the Soviet Red-Star-backed Circle forces at the Washington Monument. Dozer still was greatly missed by Hunter and the rest of the group, both as a friend and a matchless warrior.

But Johnson was cut from the same mold. He had been tapped by Jones to recruit the best troops available for the train trip, and would be their overall commanding officer during the journey. With Hunter in charge of the aerial cover, the two would be working closely together.

Johnson greeted Hunter and Fitzgerald warmly.

"Quite impressive, no?" Johnson asked Hunter, as all three stood back and took one long look at the Freedom Express,

"A hell of a job," Hunter replied. "Now all we have to do is get this thing to LA."

"Are you that Wingman guy? You don't look so fuckin' tough.

" The hulking, nasty-looking man was swaying drunkenly over the table being shared by Hunter and the Catfish.

This is trouble, Hunter thought.

It was their last night in Washington before the
Freedom Express
was to pull out, and Hunter and Johnson were trying to fortify themselves in a bar located in what formerly was the Georgetown section of the city.

"Yeah. I'm Major Hunter," he said, standing up to find himself eye level with the man's chest. "So what?"

"So
what
?" the man slurred. "So if you're such a big friggin'

hero, how come you drink with niggers?"

Hunter instantly hit the man squarely on the jaw with a lightning left hook. The drunk staggered backward, stumbled a little, then fell forward, right across the table. Grabbing the man by the scruff of his neck, Hunter slammed his face twice on the table's beer-sticky surface, before shoving him to the floor.

At that moment, three other steroid-popping freaks drinking companions of Mr. Flat Face stood up and rushed the table.

Catfish was up on his feet in a flash. "This'll just take a second," he said to Hunter.

He picked the first drunk up off the floor and hurled him right into his three charging buddies. All four went tumbling over the bar and crashed into a row of beer mugs, sending broken glass flying in all directions.

With a symbolic wipe of his hands, Johnson calmly sat back down.

"How much do you suppose I’ll have to pay for those glasses?" he asked Hunter casually.

The crowd settled down as the bar's delinquent bouncers removed the four semi-conscious men. At that point another man approached their table. Hunter recognized him as the bar's manager.

His own face a mass of scars, his nose a mountain range of broken bones, the manager nevertheless grinned toothlessly. "Drinks on the house for the rest of the night," he said with a wink.

After the man left, Hunter took a healthy slug of his drink.

"After all this country has been through in the last few years,"

he said, "all the fighting, the deception, the destruction . . . you'd think we would have gotten rid of clowns like those guys."

Johnson drained his own glass and motioned to the waitress for another round. "Sometimes I think it's never going to go away, Hawk,"

he said sadly. "Hell, the Nazis are the worst of all, and although we kicked their asses down in Panama, I bet some of them are still around."

Hunter knew Johnson was probably right. Even though the United Americans had recently destroyed the Twisted Cross, the Nazi-based operation that had taken control of the Panama Canal, he too had the uneasy feeling that the Nazis were not completely kaput. Already the United Americans had received reports that one of the most fanatical jet fighter groups allied with the Canal Nazis, the notorious Skinhead Squadron, was still roaming about Central America and had been spotted as far north as Texas.

The waitress arrived with two more drinks and a message.

"You see those two girls over at the bar?" she asked. "They'd like to meet you guys."

Hunter's radarlike vision scanned the rail. One of the girls in question was an ebony-skinned beauty with long, inviting legs; the other was a very attractive and very shapely redhead. He looked at Johnson.

"Tempting, eh, Cat?"

Johnson smiled and then shook his head. "Already got a lady waiting for me at home," he said, quickly draining his shot glass of bourbon and getting up to leave. "And a family. They'll kick my butt if I don't get to it."

Several hours later, Hunter lay awake in his Washington apartment, staring at the ceiling.

Melinda, the redhead, was asleep next to him, one naked thigh still resting across his stomach, her full breasts warm and soft against his chest. She was snoring sweetly and contently. They had made love wildly for more than an hour until she collapsed, fulfilled but exhausted, and drifted off to sleep.

But sleep would not come for Hunter. The last thing Catfish had said to him just kept bouncing around his head.

" 'I already got a lady waiting for me at home.'

"Why can't I be like that? Hunter thought for the millionth time.

Why can't I have a lady waiting at home . . . for me?

He pulled Melinda closer to him, and she sleepily rubbed his chest. She was bright, beautiful and one of the most creative lovers he had ever met. Still, he wasn't completely satisfied. It was always that way a little corner of himself still ached for something more.

He knew, of course, the reason for this feeling was the beautiful Dominique.

Physically, they had spent very little time together. But ever since their first meeting in war-ravaged France several years ago, Dominique had never been far from Hunter, at least in his mind. And in his heart.

Sappy as it sounded, Hunter actually yearned for a world at peace, where he and Dominique could be together again, this time for good. But he loved her far too much to ask her to share the kind of life he was presently leading. There were still too many battles to fight, too many enemies who wanted him dead.

He had nearly lost her once, when she was kidnapped by the ruthless terrorist Viktor during the black days of the First Circle War. Hunter had rescued her then, but he knew that she would be in jeopardy as long as she stayed close to him.

So he sent her off to one of the few "safe" countries left in the world-Free Canada-where she eventually joined a human encounter group somewhere in the Canadian Rockies. She seemed to be in friendly hands-maybe too friendly. Through his friend, Major Frost of the Free Canadian Air Force, Hunter had learned that people belonging to these encounter groups often shared everything, including their beds.

Not surprisingly, Hunter desperately wanted to forget

everything else, fly to Free Canada and find Dominique. But he knew that was impossible. As much as he pined for her, he couldn't leave as long as his other great love-his country, America-was threatened by so many enemies. Someday, when the violence finally ended and the last foe of freedom was conquered, he would go to her.

But would that day ever come?

Under a gun-metal gray sky, the
Freedom Express
slowly pulled out of downtown Washington and began its long and uncertain journey westward.

Hunter and Catfish were in the first car following the string of twelve locomotives. This car was specially outfitted as the control and communications center for the trip, and therefore was dubbed simply "Control." From a central console, they could monitor the dozens of video cameras mounted on the train, giving them a clear view of everything that was happening on or near them. A radar screen provided constant surveillance of the air space above; a unique land sonar device would warn them of the unexpected up to a mile ahead.

A sophisticated radio/message center-complete with a retractable satellite dish on the Control car's roof-would keep them in secure scrambled radio and telex contact with Jones back in his Washington headquarters.

As the great train finally gathered speed, Hunter sat with his nose pressed up against the bulletproof window's remarkably clear glass, peering out at the Virginia countryside rolling past. It looked peaceful in the dim, early morning light.

Better relax now while I can, he thought, because it won't last long.

The United Americans didn't expect any trouble during the first leg of the journey. The eastern part of the country had been secure for some time, except for a few stray bandit gangs occasionally spotted in the former Kentucky region. But they wouldn't be a problem; they didn't have the firepower or the guts to tackle anything as imposing as the powerful
Freedom Express
.

Since the eastern part of the route was considered safe, it had been decided to load the majority of their troops on in Football City.

This way the weight of the train would be reduced for the first third of the trip, not only saving fuel, but also allowing the
Express
to make better time. To that end, elements of the United American 1st Airborne Division had been flying out of Washington and into Football City for the past three days, using a fleet of giant Free Canadian C-5 Galaxys as their mode of transport.

Hunter's Harrier jumpjet was securely moored on its specially designed flatbed car which was located several cars back from the Control car. Once they reached Football City and started into the Badlands, he would be flying surveillance missions several times a day. And, in case of an emergency, he could take off at any time if the need should arise, his living quarters/pilot ready room being in the car just behind the Harrier deck.

Nose still pressed against the glass, Hunter looked back toward the rear of the train. It seemed to stretch on forever, cutting its way through the countryside. He wondered if the original pioneers back in the 1880's felt as he did now: excited, yet apprehensive; anxious, yet curiously calm.

For him, he knew another great adventure lay ahead. Another mission to secure his country's freedom. And at its successful conclusion, he told himself, he would be one step closer to reuniting with Dominique.

"Coffee, Hawk?" Catfish asked him, shoving a mug of steaming Java under his nose.

Hunter took the hot liquid thankfully. Then he and Catfish settled down for a couple of quiet, uneventful days. They would be the last ones for some time.

"We've got company," Ben Wa called over to JT as the radar screen in his A-7E Strikefighter started to crackle. "See the blips?"

"I see them," JT confirmed, checking his own A-7's screen.

"Something tells me they ain't friendly.

"They had flown the Strikefighters from Washington to Texas the day before to enlist the crack team of helicopter pilots known as the Cobra Brothers for the
Freedom Express
adventure. This done, they headed for Football City to await the arrival of the train.

Now, one hour out of Dallas and somewhere just above the old Oklahoma-Missouri border, the six bogies had appeared. The blips quickly turned into a flight of F-4J Phantoms that suddenly emerged from a cloud bank to the A-7E's right. In seconds the Phantoms had turned and were taking dead aim on them.