But Frost knew that, as a businessman, Karl had to choose his wars carefully.
Being on a losing side-or even winning but at a high cost-was considered very bad for business.
"This is what you can tell your friends," he finally said to Frost. "Convince me that the people-the re-353
maining Americans that they are fighting so valiantly to free-would just as soon accept the United American flag as opposed to The Circle, and I'll consider bargaining with them."
"Bargaining?" Frost asked. "On what terms?"
"Convince me first," Karl said. "Then we'll talk terms."
Frost shook his head. "These United Americans will not let you dictate a peace to them . . ."
Karl let out a hearty laugh. "I'm not talking about peace terms, Captain," he said. "I mean financial terms. Have them convince me that some aspects of the old sentimental American way of life exists, then I will talk business with them, just as I would talk business with the Soviets, or the New Order or the Circle. It's really that simple . . ."
Frost nodded in sudden agreement. "Maybe it is at that," he thought.
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The line of civilians stretched for miles.
It was hot and many of the old and the weak had fallen by the wayside. Their near-lifeless bodies were pushed or kicked into the highway's ditch and left there to die by their brutal Circle guards.
This was the scene on Route 95, the main thoroughfare that led into Washington DC from the north. But it was a tragedy that was being repeated on just about every major highway leading to the nation's capital. Tens of thousands of civilians, having been rounded up from the countryside by the Circle, were being force-marched to Washington.
And Yaz was one of them . . .
Just before the Battle of Syracuse, he and 25 of Shane's Rangers had been air-dropped near Annapolis, dressed and given the identities of civilians.
They were swept up in a Circle round-up just outside Baltimore and thrown into the parade of human misery that had just now reached the former nation's capital.
His job, along with the others, was to observe. Take in everything that was happening in DC. Shane, who Yaz had stuck close to, was carrying a miniature 355
radio/receiver in his special hollowed out boot. At least once a day, usually during the single toilet stop, they were able to get off a short, coded burst message back to the United American base at Syracuse.
Now that they were actually within the capital city, there was a lot to report. The question was, would the officers back in Syracuse believe it ...
It was past midnight when their group of about 5000 first reached Washington.
Their handlers ordered them to bed down out in the open in the Constitution Gardens, next to the once-famous, but now bone-dry Reflecting Pool. Exhausted, Yaz had fallen right off to sleep. But now, with the early morning light filling the red skies, he was roused by the guards and given a small tin can full of some slop they called
breakfast.
But as soon as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, Yaz realized it would be impossible for him to eat-j and it wasn't just because of the bad smell of the ' food. He was simply too amazed from looking at all the books ...
It wasn't until the full light of day that he found they were camped so close to the Washington Monument. And now, beside that once proud sentinel, he saw one of the most astounding and perverse accomplishments ever.
Right next to the Monument there was a tower rivaling it in height and built entirely of books. Tens of millions of books . . .
"How the hell did they do that?" Yaz asked Shane, who, like everyone else, was staring at the strange column. It was surrounded by an elaborate network of staging of the type used in building construction. "They must have packed them very tight or glued them together," Shane said, still not quite believing what he was seeing. "The staging keeps it
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together..."
Parked right next to the tower of books were a dozen gasoline trucks, their faded logos still betraying hints of names like Exxon, Sunoco and Gulf.
"So the ball players were right," Yaz whispered. "They're going to burn all the books they can find. All at once . . ."
"Destroy the culture, destroy the race . . ." Shane said angrily. "And they drag every civvie they can find to this place to watch the heart be cut out-or really burned out of the country . . ."
Just then the guards ordered everyone to their feet and soon they were marching again. They walked right past the tower of books, many people nearly gagging on the strong gasoline fumes that permeated the area. The books were being washed down with the gas via an elaborate system of pumps and hoses.
This told Yaz and Shane that the massive book burning would take place soon.
They walked across Constitution Avenue, past the hundreds of empty tractor-trailer trucks and alongside the White House. They could see Circle troops moving in and out of the former Executive Mansion and they were chilled to see a gasoline truck parked nearby.
They were herded over to Lafayette Park, which was located directly across from the White House and told to sit. Here they saw Circle troops constructing more towers. But they weren't made of books.
"Jesus, are those baseball bats?" Yaz asked, studying a large, squat pile of interlocking pieces of wood. It looked like an elaborate child's construction of matchsticks.
"They've really got it in for the national pastime," Shane said with disgust.
"There must be fifty thousand bats in that pile."
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Next to the bats were several piles of baseball mitts, some old, some new.
They were stacked at least twenty-five feet high and gave the impression of gigantic, leather-sided igloos.
Beyond the gloves were piles of tennis rackets and golf clubs. Piles of hockey sticks and skates, football uniforms and helmets, partially-deflated basketballs, sneakers, tenspeeds, snow skis, water skis, even a pile of bocci balls.
"Jesus, these guys are as efficient as the Nazis," Yaz said. "All they need is baby hair and gold teeth . . ."
Shane nodded. "I think they take more than a few cues from Mein Kampf. . ." he said.
For the next two hours, Yaz and Shane and the other 25 members of the undercover team took mental notes of what they saw going on around them.
It would make for an astonishing report back to Syracuse.
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The F-16XL banked over the old city of Schenectady and descended through the early morning clouds.
Inside, Hunter spotted the three-runway airfield below him and flipped his radio to-the transmit mode. "Schenectady base, this is an aircraft of the United American Air Corps. I am requesting landing clearance . . ."
There was no answer.
"Schenectady, request landing clearance, over . . ."
Still nothing.
"Schenectady this is Major Hawk Hunter, formerly of the 16th Tactical Fighter Squadron, US Air Force, requesting landing clearance."
Suddenly his radio crackled. "Unidentified fighter, you can get in a lot of trouble using that handle," a voice on the other end said. "Everyone knows Hawk Hunter is dead."
Hunter refused to quote Mark Twain one more time. "I can assure you, Schenectady, that I am very much alive," he said. "If you grant me landing clear-359
ance, you can see for yourself."
While he was transmitting that message, Hunter lowered the F-16XL down to 1000
feet, and after first ascertaining that there were no hostile SAMs locked on to him, he did a slow, noisy turn over the base.
The long silence at the other end was suddenly broken.
"What the hell kind of airplane is that?" the voice asked, its owner getting a look at the 'XL for the first time.
"It's a long story," Hunter replied. "But I'd be glad to tell you if you clear me to land."
There was another silence, and finally the voice came back on: "You're cleared for runway one-three. And you'd better have a good reason for dropping in on us."
Hunter nodded. "I hope I do . . ." he said to himself.
Ten minutes later he was down and taxiing up to the base's main hangar. His airplane was immediately surrounded by no less than 100 troops, all of them heavily armed. He pulled the jet to a stop, slowly popped the canopy and stood up.
"Peace . . ." he said, holding his hand up, as if in an American Indian greeting. "Just here to talk . . ."
The place was an Air National Guard base before the Big War, home to a squadron of specially-adapted C-130 Hercules cargo planes. Since then, the base personnel had gone into business at the New York Hercules Heavy Air Lift Corporation. They were moving vans of the sky, renting out the big C-130s for heavy lift jobs.
They were in the right location to do so. Right nearby there was a factory that built electric turbines and generators. Now it functioned as a new and used
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parts exchange for those territories around the country that needed their turbines tuned-up every once in a while. The factory, which employed many of the people in the surrounding area, was the best customer for the "New York Hercs."
But Hunter was here to ask the Hercs a favor and it didn't involve lifting turbines.
A man dressed in a dark blue uniform appeared and told the soldiers to stand at ease. Hunter climbed down out of the F-16 and introduced himself. The officer did likewise-he was Colonel Stagg, the top man at the base. Luckily he recognized Hunter right away.
"So Hawk Hunter is alive . . ." Stagg said, shaking hands with him.
"That's what I've been trying to tell people," Hunter said, with no small amount of exasperation. "I guess no one wants to believe me."
Stagg took one look at his F-16XL and nodded. "Well, only one person could fly a jet like this," he said. "God, it's a beauty . . ."
Hunter had to agree. "It flies as good as it looks," he said.
They walked to Stagg's office and Hunter accepted his offer of a drink.
"Heard you guys made quite a racket out Syracuse way," Stagg said, pouring out two whiskeys. "Congratulations ..."
Hunter hit his glass in a toast and took a swig of the no-name liquor.
"Thanks," he said. "But the party is far from over. In fact, I'm here to ask for help. We can pay you. But I'll level with you, it's a dangerous job."
Stagg sipped his drink and lit a cigar. "We're open to any offer," he said.
"And it isn't every day that the famous Wingman drops in on us. Back from the dead, no less. So, let's talk. What's your problem?"
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Hunter gave him a quick update on the recent campaigns of the United American Army, the victories at Football City, New Chicago and Syracuse. He also told him about the approaching mercenary fleet and the huge demonstration being planned by The Circle down in Washington.
"We've heard rumors of that," Stagg said. "But we're just a small outfit up here. Too small to mix it up with anyone, never mind The Circle. They've been around here a few times. Not lately though. When they are, they leave us pretty much alone. Just as long as we pay our taxes, that is. We thought the IRS was bad!"
Hunter nodded. "Well, if things work out, you won't have to bother with any of them any more," he said. "We dusted most of their guys over in Syracuse. Hurt them bad. So bad they won't have any presence up here for a long time. If ever."
Stagg was genuinely happy. "I'm damn glad to hear that," he said, pouring out another drink for both of them.
"But we still have this problem of the mercenaries," Hunter said seriously.
"If they land and get a foothold on the east coast, the New Order will pay them overtime just to stay here and bail out the Circle jerks."
"What can we do?" Stagg asked.
It was the question Hunter was waiting for.
"I understand that before the Big War started, you used to fly cargo runs up to the Early Warning stations in the arctic? Is that right?"
Stagg nodded. "Sure is," he replied. "That's why we got skis on our Hercs. We were the only unit that was adapted for snow landings. They still come in handy these days too. Makes deliveries a cinch in the winter. . ."
"OK, I'm glad to hear that," Hunter said. "Now, for 362
the big question: could you land one of those babies on sand?"
"Sand?" Stagg asked, surprised by the question. "Boy, let me think about that for a moment . . ."
He did, then said: "It really depends, Major. How rough is the sand? Is it wet? Is it level?"
"It's not wet," Hunter answered. "And it's level. But it isn't fine stuff. In fact, it's fairly rocky."
Stagg thought it over a little more. "Well, it would probably tear up the birds' undercarryiage," he said. "But it could be done, I suppose ..."
"OK," Hunter said. "Then tell me what you think of this plan . . ."
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Captain "Crunch" O'Malley's RF-4 Phantom recon jet landed at the battered Aerodrome just after the F-16XL and the three modified C-130s of the New York Hercs.
"Good timing," Hunter yelled over to O'Malley as he climbed out of their venerable Phantom. "You've got some 'game highlights,' I assume?"
"Low-lights is more like it," O'Malley said. "There isn't a street or a park or a building within ten miles of DC that isn't covered with people. You know that when your infra red monitor starts flashing in the high end just picking up combined body heat that you got one hell of a crowd.
"It's like Woodstock, for all the wrong reasons . . ."
Ten minutes later they were sitting in a makeshift video viewing room, reviewing the tapes just made by O'Malley's spy cameras. Along with the crew of the RF-4 and Hunter, Stagg and two of his officers from the New York Hercs were in attendance.
"We were way up there as you'll see," O'Malley said, switching on the battery operated VCR. "We topped out sixty-nine thousand at one point. . ."
The video started playing with a long-range overall shot of Washington.
O'Malley had been correct when he told them the place was one massive people-and traffic-jam.
"God, there must be more than a half million people 364