Freedom Express (5 page)

Suddenly a warning buzzer went off in both A-7 cockpits. It meant that the Phantoms were preparing to fire air-to-air missiles at them.

"
Damn
! I thought this air space would be safe by now," JT shouted into his A-7's radio.

"I guess we were wrong again," Wa replied, arming his own air-to-air missiles.

"How about we give them the old scissors trick?" JT suggested as he too armed his Sidewinders.

"I'm with you, partner," Ben replied.

Toomey expertly put his Strikefighter into a stomach wrenching dive while, at the same instant, Ben put the nose of his plane straight up and climbed a thousand feet in just a few seconds.

The perfectly timed maneuver momentarily confused the pilots of the attacking Phantom jets. After a delay of several crucial seconds, three of the jets dropped in pursuit of Toomey while the others went after Wa. But the Oriental pilot had disappeared into another high bank of clouds. The Phantoms followed-only to find Wa coming straight back down at them as they emerged from the cumulus, his nose cannon spitting fire and smoke. As he shot past them, one of the Phantoms exploded in flames, and the other was hit by a Sidewinder. Together, they began a deadly, downward spiral.

Meanwhile, Toomey had pulled out of his dive and brought his Strikefighter right under the belly of one of the pursuing Phantoms.

Lining up the F-4's auxiliary fuel tank in his Head-Up Display, he pulled his cannon trigger, and the Phantom was blown to pieces.

"One down," he reported to Wa.

"I'm way ahead of you," Wa responded calmly.

Suddenly another Phantom loomed in front of JT's HUD. Without a moment's hesitation, he squeezed off another blast from his nose cannon. The F-4 snapped in half and plunged in flames.

The remaining two Phantoms had seen enough for one day; the Strikefighter pilots were obviously masters of their craft. The F-4's quickly gave up the attack and fled to the south.

Normally Toomey and Wa would have pursued them, but in this case, there was another priority to be considered. The 1st Airborne's C-5's were shuttling between DC and Football City just a few hundred miles away. The Phantoms' ambush might have been a diversionary measure to occupy the Strikefighters while another attack was heading for the C-5's.

It was an unlikely scenario - but JT and Wa couldn't take any chances.

Quickly deciding they might be needed more as additional protection for the airlift, they kicked in their afterburners and headed for Football City.

Although they had no way of knowing, Toomey and Wa's quick and effective battle with the Phantom jets had attracted an audience.

A small group of men on horseback watched from far below as the planes exploded and dropped from the sky, crashing into the desolate wilderness of what once had been the northeastern corner of Oklahoma.

The leader of the group pointed to a funnel of smoke coming over a nearby hill.

"One came down over there," he said. "Let's take a look."

He spurred his horse in that direction, and the other riders quickly followed.

The men were American Indians-their bronze skin and high cheekbones bearing witness. They were remnants of the proud Oklahoma Shawnee Nation. Before the Soviet Red Star missiles of World War III had turned their homeland into a nuclear nightmare, they had lived peacefully on reservations in Oklahoma, somewhat forgotten by mainstream America, but basically more content than other tribes.

The leader of this small band of horsemen was Michael Crossbow.

He was the son of the pre-war chief of the Shawnees and, before the war broke out, was expected to take his father's place at the head of the tribal council as soon as the chief retired.

But Crossbow had always had other ideas.

Going by the name of Michael Crosse, he left the reservation at the age of nineteen and joined the world of the white man very successfully as it turned out. He won a full athletic scholarship to Princeton and surprised everyone by graduating with honors. He was working on his graduate degree in aeronautics at MIT when the war broke out. Enlisting almost immediately, he completed the Air Force's accelerated jet training program in record time and saw action in the last days of the war.

Most of Crossbow's family, including his father, were killed immediately in the Soviet's brief but awesome missile barrage. Others died from radiation poisoning during the next few months. Only a handful of the tribe survived, and bewildered and frightened at first, they wandered aimlessly through the desecrated land, trying to regain some of the long-dormant instincts of their ancestors for surviving in a hostile wilderness.

When he heard that American freedom fighters were striking back at the villains who had destroyed his country and people, Crossbow wanted to join them. But he could not turn his back on his people.

To survive, they needed a leader; he was their only hope.

Calling on every ounce of determination, courage and

intelligence that he possessed, he returned to the tribe and kept it together. Slowly, they rebuilt their lives, constructing primitive shelters, hunting for whatever game had survived the nuclear fallout, even beginning to grow some basic crops again.

Crossbow occasionally returned to his other world, venturing as far as Houston, New Orleans or Football City to trade and find out what was happening in post-war America. But he always came back to the tiny Shawnee settlement in the isolated, forgotten hills of Oklahoma.

He eagerly followed the successes of the United Americans. He had heard that the major cities in the East were free again, and he yearned to go there, to rejoin civilization. But not yet. He knew the survival of his people still could be threatened at any time by the continuing violence of the outside world. Just a week before, a small gang of bandits had raided his village; it was only his skill as a leader and a military strategist that enabled the Shawnees to repel the invaders.

And now, there was violence in their skies.

It took the small party of Shawnees only a few minutes to reach the nearest Phantom crash site. The fuselage was still in one piece, but it was charred and still smoldering. Pieces of the tail and the wings were scattered in several directions, the closest being several hundred yards away.

Crossbow dismounted and approached the wreckage. The pilot's partially burned body was still strapped into the cockpit. He reached into the scorched metal of the plane and pulled off the man's helmet.

Staring up at him were the grotesque, twisted-in-death features of a man that had been totally bald.

The Shawnee leader had seen Skinheads before. He knew their reputation as the crudest and craziest of all the aerial terrorists of the post-war world.

And he suddenly felt very afraid for his people.

The
Freedom Express
pulled into Football City two days later, right on schedule.

Hunter and the Catfish were met on the platform by none other than Louie St. Louie, the beloved, uncrowned king of Football City.

Always a high-rolling entrepreneur, it was St. Louie who just after World War III had turned the old city of St. Louis into the new gambling mecca of the continent. Rebuilding its decaying and bombed-out sections, St. Louie oversaw the construction of blocks of casinos, entertainment palaces, restaurants, saloons and high-priced cathouses.

And at the center of this universe was a football game.

But not just any football game-this was a 24-hour-aday, 365-day-a-year football match between a pair of 500 member, free-substituting teams and played in a vast, 500,000-seat ultra-modern stadium located just outside the downtown section of the city. Bets could be placed on any part of this super game, from individual periods right up to an entire year's match. This constant action, along with the never-ending flow from the overcrowded, wildly popular casinos and nightspots, generated staggering amounts of revenue that dwarfed the glory days of the old Las Vegas.

Of course, the money brought problems to Football City, as all sorts of unsavory elements descended on it from all over the country.

In a brief four-year period, a number of battles had been fought for the control of the city, and it had been occupied for a time by the Red-Star-backed Circle Army. Now, with the United Americans back in charge of much of the continent, things had calmed down a little in Football City. But not completely. It still was a magnet for a lot of unscrupulous types who were out for a quick buck and anything else available for the grabbing.

Still, Hunter enjoyed his visits here, and he always liked seeing Louie St. Louie again.

After everyone on the train had disembarked and settled, St.

Louie invited Hunter and his friends to join him in his private box at the football stadium for an evening's relaxation before the train left for the Badlands the next morning. Gladly accepting St. Louie's offer, they headed for the stadium in the man's thirty-two foot custom built limo.

The Catfish was especially enthusiastic about watching some football again; he had seen very few games since his NFL days.

"And now I can even bet on them," he said.

At the stadium, a reunion of sorts took place. Toomey and Ben Wa were there, along with Crunch O'Malley and his sidekick from the Ace Wrecking Company, Captain Elvis Q, both of whom had also signed on for the Badlands mission. Their role would be extremely important.

As good as he was, Hunter and his Harrier would not be enough to provide air cover for the Freedom Express. It would be up to the Ace Wrecking Crew and their highly sophisticated F4X Super Phantoms to seek out and, in some cases, secure the handful of airstrips that would be needed along the train's route. This way, their aircraft, as well as those of JT, Ben and other UA pilots, would be close enough to respond quickly if trouble arose.

The action on the football field was fast and furious when Hunter, Catfish and St. Louie arrived. Now, as the others settled in to watch, Toomey and Wa took the Wingman aside and told him about their skirmish over Oklahoma.

"No idea who they were?" Hunter asked.

"They didn't stick around long enough for us to find out," Toomey said. "And we didn't pursue because we figured we'd better get up here right away, just in case they were part of a gang that was going for the C-5's."

"Which they weren't as it turned out," Wa added.

"Still, that was smart thinking, guys," Hunter said. "Plus, for all we know, those bandits may have been going for the Galaxys, and they ran into you first."

"I'd hate to think that was the case," Wa said.

"Well, in any event, it sounds like you were in the right place at the right time," Hunter concluded.

For the next hour, the others put all thoughts of the Badlands out of their minds as they enjoyed both the gridiron and the betting action. All except Hunter-the sneak attack by the F-4's was still puzzling him.

Gradually he filed it away to worry about later, and soon, he, too, was into the swing of the game.

But this enjoyment didn't last long. Just after the 314th quarter had ended, Hunter glanced over at Louie St. Louie and thought he detected a worried air about his friend.

During a rare time-out on the field, Hunter leaned over to him.

"Something bothering you?" he asked.

"I'm not sure, Hawk," the older, silver-maned man replied. He pointed toward a group of people seated a few rows away from his private box. "See that guy over there, with the red hair?"

Hunter nodded. "His name is Duke Devillian. He's been hanging around this part of the country off and on since before the war. Used to be a small-time hood-just a pain-in-the-ass kind of guy."

"You must get plenty of that sort around here," Hunter said, devouring a foot-long hotdog.

"True," St. Louie answered. "But this guy has some pretty nasty political leanings. In fact there were a lot of rumors about him trying to resurrect the Klan in these parts."

"
The Ku Klux Klan
?" Hunter asked, stopping in midbite.

"That's the one," St. Louie replied somberly. "Anyway, he dropped out of sight for a little while. Now he's back, and all of a sudden he's a big shot. Tossing around money, traveling with an entourage. Look at those guys with him."

Devillian was surrounded by about a dozen rugged-looking men.

Despite the generally festive atmosphere of the stadium, these apes wore solemn expressions. They also appeared to be more interested in looking around at the crowd than in watching the game.

"Almost looks like a gang of bodyguards," Hunter observed, finishing his dog and washing it down with a beer.

"That's what I thought," St. Louie said. "Somehow, he seems to have made some pretty powerful connections. And with scum like him, that sort of thing makes me real nervous."

One of the biggest reasons Hunter had survived his many brushes with death over the past few years was the fact that he possessed a type of extrasensory perception-sort of a built-in human early-warning system. In the cockpit of a plane, for example, he could always tell when a hostile aircraft was approaching, usually sensing it even before his radar kicked in. This special sense didn't desert him when he was on the ground. He just had a way of knowing when danger was present.

So whenever a vaguely uneasy feeling started creeping over him, he took it seriously.