Hunter ignored the man.
"You got a hearing problem, jerk-off?" the air pirate said, louder this time.
But still Hunter didn't acknowledge him. Instead, he repeated his question to the girl.
"It's the Queen's outfit, mister," she said, straightening out her jacket.
"What's the big deal? All the girls are doing it . . ."
She was right. As more of Madam Meenga's "students" came toward him, Hunter could see they were all dressed in the same, alluring outfit.
"Who's The Queen?" Hunter asked her, once again paying no attention to the air pirate's rebuke, even though the man was drunk and his voice near the 90-decibel range.
"You know, man, 'The Queen,'" the girl said. "The one that Viktor nabbed? The one that all the Circle guys are in love with. She's the most. The absolute most! Everyone is into wearing her style . . ." She then shocked Hunter by pulling out a photograph that was exactly like the one he kept in his pocket.
"You must be new around here, mister," the girl said, showing him the picture.
"The Circle gave this snapshot of the Queen to all their guys. They went nuts over her. Fought a big war with some people out west. Of course, no one really knows who she is. But now these photos are like gold, man. I had to turn five tricks in one night just to get the cash to buy this one, and I'm never giving it up. It's the only way I can get my look right. . ."
Hunter couldn't believe it. Could it really be that the X-rated get-up that Viktor had Dominique wear for those infamous photos was now the fashion rage of hookers in New Chicago?
"Not just here either, man," the blonde told him. "All over the east, I hear the women are really getting into it."
Just then, the air pirate came up behind Hunter and screamed in his ear: "Hey asshole, I'm talking to you!"
For the first time, Hunter turned around and confronted the man. He was about 6-5, built like a barrel and with a face so scarred it looked as if he'd been ejected out of a canopy without bothering to open it.
"What's your problem," Hunter asked him.
181
"You're my problem," the man said threateningly, as a small crowd gathered around them. "No one just comes up and takes . . ."
Hunter cut him off. "Take a fucking walk . . ." he said, dismissing him.
The man became so enraged, it seemed as if steam would start pouring out of his ears.
Hunter had partially turned back toward the girl when he just caught sight of the punch coming. Instantly his hand was locked around the man's wrist, using the momentum to toss the pirate head over ass. He even managed to land a punch upside the man's face as he was tumbling by.
A gasp went up around them as the air pirate hit the hard marble floor head-first, echoing a brutal crack. Hunter's boot was on the man's chin in a second. "You were saying?" Hunter asked the man sarcastically.
Suddenly, the mayor himself was standing beside
Hunter.
"Jesus Christ, do you-j know who that is?" Crabb asked him in an urgent whisper. Even the two girls hanging all over him looked nervous.
Hunter just shrugged and pressed his boot harder into the man's face.
"I don't give a damn who he is . . ." he said to Crabb. "He's bothering me . .
."
Crabb looked like he would expire on the spot. "He's a group leader for McDeath." the mayor mumbled in Hunter's ear. "They're the guys who we hire for our air protection."
j
Hunter stared down at the man, who was just ' coming out of a semi-conscious state. He was so big, Hunter couldn't believe he could fit into the cockpit of a jet fighter.
182
"So, what do you want me to do with him?" Hunter asked Crabb.
"Jesus! Let him up!" Crabb said shakily.
Hunter complied and two of the air pirate's cohorts helped the man to his feet.
"You're a dead man," the pirate hissed at Hunter, his face no more than an inch from his.
Hunter hit him again. This time square in the jaw. The man once again hit the solid marble floor like a ton of bricks.
Crabb grabbed hold of Hunter's arm. "For Christ's sake will you stop!" he commanded. /| "These guys will drop an air strike on us in a second."
The man was back up in an instant, his face totally red from the blood and also from embarrassment. His two colleagues made a big deal of holding the man back.
"You're dead meat, mister," he screamed at Hunter.
Hunter cocked his fist back; as if to hit the man again. The air pirate cowered involuntarily, to the laughter of the crowd. He was being made a fool of-and by an expert, no less.
"This is a shoot-out!" one of the other pirates yelled.
A cheer went up from the crowd.
"Tomorrow," the battered air pirate said. "At high noon. You and me go at it, fly boy."
"How?" Hunter asked him, legitimately curious.
"In fighters, how else?" the man sneered, still pretending to be held back by his buddies.
Both Fitz and J.T. instantly burst out laughing. They actually felt sorry for the man.
"I don't have a fighter," Hunter said honestly.
183
The injured pirate smiled, displaying a set of cracked and stained teeth.
"Don't worry, the mayor will set you up."
With that, he and his seconds stomped out of the hall.
"Is this going to be a duel type of thing?" Hunter asked Crabb.
The mayor nodded. "Yep," he said, almost sadly. "And it's really too bad. I was beginning to really like you guys . . ."
184
The next day dawned bright and cloudless.
Hunter was up early as usual, finding it nearly impossible to sleep. The sight" of the party girls wearing the same provocative clothes as Dominique had proved very unnerving. "Queenies" is what they called themselves, and if the one girl he talked to could be believed, the fashion was even more the rage back east, in the heart of Circle-held territory.
He ate breakfast and took a shower in the C-5's midget lavatory. Then, at ten on the button, he, J.T., Fitz and the rest of the Nozo's crew gathered around the C-5's radio. Within minutes they were in touch with Jones who was broadcasting back in Football City via a high-range band frequency that they knew wasn't compatible within any the Family used.
The most important news was about Ben Wa
185
and Yaz tracking down six of the mysterious tractor-trailers. Jones told them that the A-37's videotape had been analyzed and segments of it magnified to reveal the weld marks on the semis spotted near Terre Haute.
"Was there any sign of the gold APC?" Hunter asked.
"Negative," was Jones's reply. "Just the half dozen semis. Our thinking now is that the convoy split up right after bugging out of here."
"So what's next?" Hunter asked Jones. "Can you chopper in a strike force to the location, and have them see what's inside those trailers?"
"We're working on it," Jones replied. "The territory is heavy with McDeath pirates, so we're going to have to play it very safe."
Hunter told him about his confrontation with the McDeath air pirate the evening before.
"They're a tough bunch," Jones said. "Be careful."
"You, too," Hunter told him. "Good luck to the guys who are jumping in. And please let us know what you find inside those trucks. The smart money here says it's gold bullion."
"Or big leftover SAMs . . ." J.T. yelled in the background.
"Your guesses are duly noted," Jones said. "Personally I think they're carrying a load of uranium or something radioactive. Those trucks could be lead-lined for all we know. And if someone wanted to start making A-bombs again, you need the ingredients."
"That's a reassuring thought," Hunter answered dryly.
"How is your operation going?" Jones asked them.
186
"On schedule, with no problems," Hunter replied. "We've been real lucky in several respects. It pays well, too."
"Pays well?" Jones asked.
Hunter quickly explained how they'd made more gold than expected for taking out the Circle's SAM capability.
"Quite an enterprise," Jones told them. "Fitz must be tickled green . . ."
"How are things on that end?" Hunter then asked. "Will you be ready with Phase Three when we need you?"
"We're getting the equipment together right now," came the reply. "I'm happy to say that Elvis is adapting quite nicely to his role of military governor here. As you know, all our supplies will transit through this city, so his job is really crucial right now."
"He's a good guy," Hunter said, an opinion seconded by the others. "He can't help but do a good job."
"We've also got to do some more repairs to the airport here," Jones continued.
"It's a real mess, especially for the high-performance stuff. Then, we have to arm and outfit the former POWs and get them ready for the next phase."
"Well, we both have full dance cards," Fitz said.
They signed off with a promise to talk to each other in 24 hours.
No sooner was the transmission broken when the lookout spotted a small convoy of jeeps heading for the C-5.
Hunter waited for the knock on the C-5's hatch and opened it to find Mayor Crabb, blonde on one arm, a redhead on the other, plus the usual phalanx of security men.
187
"I hope you can drive a Mirage," he said right away. "It's the only bird I could rustle up on such short notice."
The duel had been in the back of Hunter's mind all morning. Although it was an inconvenience, he knew there was a way to fit the aerial fight perfectly into their plans. "What's it packing?" he asked Crabb. "It's got a bolt for a single Sidewinder and that's it," the mayor replied, almost embarrassed by the answer.
"That's the best you could do?" Fitz said, coming to the hatchway. "A shitty French plane with one missile?"
"Hey, what do you think this is?" Crabb snapped. "We lost all of our own airplanes to the cowboys a long time ago. That's why we have to order out for our air support."
"And what's the McDeath boy flying?" Hunter asked.
Crabb didn't say anything, he simply pointed to a spot across the tarmac, near a rundown terminal building.
"He's right over there," Crabb said. Sure enough, Hunter could see the checkerboard pattern on the side of the pirate's fighter. He was fairly surprised to see the pirate would be driving a hot-shit Soviet-built Su-27
Flanker. There weren't many of the Soviet-built airplanes left in the world, never mind in the inventories of the air pirates.
"I count four missiles under his wing," Fitz said. "This is grossly unfair . .
."
Crabb just shook his head. "Look, guys," he said. "I like you. But we're in New Chicago now. These air duels happen about two times a week, 188
and that's in a slow week. It's the biggest bet in town; there's more action on these things than half the stuff down in Football City . . ."
"So?" Hunter asked, wondering what Crabb's point was.
"So, someone has to be the underdog, you see," he answered. "You know: point spread, odds betting, over-under?"
"He's got four missiles, I got one," Hunter surmised. "So let me guess-I'm the underdog."
Crabb slapped him on the back. "Now you're catching on," he said, squeezing his girls for good luck. He started to leave, turned and said: "Good luck, pal. And, really, I appreciate what you guys did for me. Nice knowing you . .
."
Hunter took more look at the Flanker then turned to Fitz and said: "Let's go, we've only got an hour before I have to suit up . . ."
"Go where?" Fitz asked.
Hunter looked at him for a moment. He assumed Fitz knew what he had in mind.
"Where else?" he said to the Irishman. "To bet that gold we got yesterday . .
."
"Will there be any rules of engagement?" Fitz was asking the second for the air pirates.
"What do you think, Potato-head?" the man answered gruffly. "We consider the fight on as soon as they start their engines. You'd better watch it: our man might just toss a grenade up your friend's ass before he even takes off!"
The crowd at the airport was enormous. They lined the terminal walkways and had spilled out onto the runway itself. TV cameras were everywhere-they would beam the duel back to New
189
Chicago's many barrooms, where even more people were betting on its outcome.
Those lucky enough to get close were filled with "oohs" and "ahs" looking at the pirate's Flanker. The jet was top of the line for the Soviets when the balloon went up in Europe. In looks, it resembled a cross between an Air Force F-15 Eagle and a Navy F-14 Tomcat, two airplanes thought to be non-existent in the New Order world. It carried four AA-10 heat-seeking missiles, plus a large gun the pirates had jury-rigged under its nose.
For Hunter's part, he was sitting in one of the crappiest airplanes he thought he'd ever seen. It was a Mirage in name only. More than half the avionics were gone-there was no engagement radar, no fuel gauge, no afterburner, no gun and one, rusty Sidewinder that was carrying half the normal load of explosive in its warhead.
A siren went off at exactly noon, signaling both pilots to begin taxiing to the runway. To say the air pirate was the overwhelming favorite would have been an understatement. Even as the two combatants were moving toward the take-off point, the air pirates were moving through the crowd, taking bets on their boy.
The match was delayed ten minutes as a small storm front moved through the area. No rain, but plenty of wind and low clouds, which would obscure the battle. So the jets waited at the end of the runway, their engines warming, waiting for the go-signal from the New Chicago tower.
Hunter took the time to catch a cat nap, and was aroused only after the tower controller had whistled into his microphone. "Wind down to fifteen knots," the controller told him. "You can begin your take-off roll as soon as your opponent
190
lifts off."
Hunter looked over to his left at the air pirate who was doing his last minute check before taking off. The man laughed at him, gave him the finger then streaked away.
"Real class . . ." Hunter said, disgusted.