troops quickly dispersed through the field and took up positions along a tree line 100 yards away. As planned, these soldiers would be responsible for the perimeter defense while the conference was taking place in the town.
The doors of the Blackhawk opened and two
32
familiar figures stepped out. The first one was a tall, distinguished looking man-, clad in a three-piece, all-white suit. His clothes and his great shock of snow white hair gave him an evangelical look. This was Louie St. Louie, the creator, leader, and president of Football City. Formerly known as St. Louis, the city had become a "super-Las Vegas" after the New Order came in. St. Louie
—who despite his name was really a true-blue Texan —hired Hunter to retrieve a valuable diamond shipment of his, and later convinced the pilot to raise an air force and help defend Football City against a takeover attempt by the criminals known as The Family. Football City was nearly devastated in the war that followed, but its rebuilding programs — including revival of the year-long, open betting football game from which it took its name — were well under way.
The second man was shorter, with a mass of brown hair, wearing brown combat fatigues and a green beret. This was Hunter's old Thunderbirds' buddy, Mike Fitzgerald. The perky Irishman was now the top man at the Syracuse Aerodrome, the well known and notorious airplane "truck-stop" located in upstate Free Territory of New York. Fitz, a fiercely independent businessman, had made a fortune servicing jets moving across the convoys routes between Free Canada and the West Coast. For this occasion, Fitzgerald was carrying two cases of scotch.
Hunter and Dozer walked over to greet their friends.
"Howdy, pardner," Hunter said to St. Louie, shaking his hand.
"Good to see you, Hawk," St. Louie said, a wide 33
grin revealing a perfect set of white teeth. "Been too long, boy."
St. Louie went-to greet Dozer as Hunter approached Fitzgerald. "Hey, Fitz,"
Hunter said, kidding the Irishman, "Only two cases of booze. Think it will be enough?"
"Now stop with ya joking and take one of these, will ye?" the man said in a brogue that couldn't be cut with a buzzsaw. "Good scotch weighs a lot ..."
Hunter took one of the cases from him. The airman had to laugh. Here were two of his closest friends, both, who despite the New Order chaos across the continent, had still not only managed to survive, but had made millions of dollars in the process. At least capitalism was not MIA in the post-World War III age.
"So, Fitz," Hunter said as the four men walked toward the town "You have that hundred bucks you owe me?"
Fitzgerald, well known for his frugality, blanched. "I'm not here to talk over old debts, Hawker, me boy," he said. "We have work to do."
The old saloon was a mass of cracked veneer and plywood, dirt, dust, mud and broken windows. A smashed jukebox sat in one corner. Chintzy decorations hung ragged from the ceiling. The barroom's booths had long ago succumbed to age.
Yet the old place still had a quality of sleazy charm to it.
"Looks like it was a good place to get lost in, in its day," Hunter said as the four men walked into the saloon in the middle of the small town.
34
Dozer and Hunter retrieved a semi-sturdy table as Fitzgerald opened a few bottles of his scotch. St. Louie was heating a bucket of his famous Texas stew over a dozen cans of Sterno. A set of semi-clean plates and glasses were found and once everything was ready, the four sat down to eat and talk.
Hunter filled in St. Louie and Fitzgerald on all the strange happenings PAAC
had run up against in the past few weeks. Both men sat nearly open-mouthed as they listened to the stories.
"Dear mother of God," Fitzgerald exclaimed. "1 believe the whole damn continent is haunted . . ."
"You've been having odd things happen, too?" Hunter asked between mouthfuls.
"Aye, we have," Fitzgerald said. "Lights. Strange flying lights. Over the Lakes. We were getting
The doors of the Blackhawk opened and two
32
familiar figures stepped out. The first one was a tall, distinguished looking man-, clad in a three-piece, all-white suit. His clothes and his great shock of snow white hair gave him an evangelical look. This was Louie St. Louie, the creator, leader, and president of Football City. Formerly known as St. Louis, the city had become a "super-Las Vegas" after the New Order came in. St. Louie
—who despite his name was really a true-blue Texan —hired Hunter to retrieve a valuable diamond shipment of his, and later convinced the pilot to raise an air force and help defend Football City against a takeover attempt by the criminals known as The Family. Football City was nearly devastated in the war that followed, but its rebuilding programs — including revival of the year-long, open betting football game from which it took its name — were well under way.
The second man was shorter, with a mass of brown hair, wearing brown combat fatigues and a green beret. This was Hunter's old Thunderbirds' buddy, Mike Fitzgerald. The perky Irishman was now the top man at the Syracuse Aerodrome, the well known and notorious airplane "truck-stop" located in upstate Free Territory of New York. Fitz, a fiercely independent businessman, had made a fortune servicing jets moving across the convoys routes between Free Canada and the West Coast. For this occasion, Fitzgerald was carrying two cases of scotch.
Hunter and Dozer walked over to greet their friends.
"Howdy, pardner," Hunter said to St. Louie, shaking his hand.
"Good to see you, Hawk," St. Louie said, a wide 33
grin revealing a perfect set of white teeth. "Been too long, boy."
St. Louie went-to greet Dozer as Hunter approached Fitzgerald. "Hey, Fitz,"
Hunter said, kidding the Irishman, "Only two cases of booze. Think it will be enough?"
"Now stop with ya joking and take one of these, will ye?" the man said in a brogue that couldn't be cut with a buzzsaw. "Good scotch weighs a lot ..."
Hunter took one of the cases from him. The airman had to laugh. Here were two of his closest friends, both, who despite the New Order chaos across the continent, had still not only managed to survive, but had made millions of dollars in the process. At least capitalism was not MIA in the post-World War III age.
"So, Fitz," Hunter said as the four men walked toward the town "You have that hundred bucks you owe me?"
Fitzgerald, well known for his frugality, blanched. "I'm not here to talk over old debts, Hawker, me boy," he said. "We have work to do."
The old saloon was a mass of cracked veneer and plywood, dirt, dust, mud and broken windows. A smashed jukebox sat in one corner. Chintzy decorations hung ragged from the ceiling. The barroom's booths had long ago succumbed to age.
Yet the old place still had a quality of sleazy charm to it.
"Looks like it was a good place to get lost in, in its day," Hunter said as the four men walked into the saloon in the middle of the small town.
34
Dozer and Hunter retrieved a semi-sturdy table as Fitzgerald opened a few bottles of his scotch. St. Louie was heating a bucket of his famous Texas stew over a dozen cans of Sterno. A set of semi-clean plates and glasses were found and once everything was ready, the four sat down to eat and talk.
Hunter filled in St. Louie and Fitzgerald on all the strange happenings PAAC
had run up against in the past few weeks. Both men sat nearly open-mouthed as they listened to the stories.
"Dear mother of God," Fitzgerald exclaimed. "1 believe the whole damn continent is haunted . . ."
"You've been having odd things happen, too?" Hunter asked between mouthfuls.
"Aye, we have," Fitzgerald said. "Lights. Strange flying lights. Over the Lakes. We were getting
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