"Maloney, Mack - Wingman 02 - The Circle War UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maloney Mack)

But even with all of these reports troubling him, it was a more personal matter that, deep down, bothered him most. Before St. Louie and Fitz flew off at the end of the confab, to leapfrog into Free Canada for their refueling stop, Hunter had asked the Irishman if his spies had any word on Dominique. Ever since she had disappeared in Free Canada after a flight Hunter had put her on landed safely in Montreal, Fitz had assigned two of his best men to try to find the woman. Nearly two years had passed since, and they had come up with complete dead ends in all that time. Sadly, Fitzgerald had to report to Hunter once again that he had no news. Dominique was nowhere to be found.

These troubles wrapped Hunter in a mental cold blanket that lasted the entire flight back. Dominique. Always his thoughts were absorbed with her. Hunter

42

was a strikingly handsome young man; his looks, fittingly hawk-like in youth, were now more like an eagle as he reached his mid-20s. He was tallЧtaller than most pilots Чand sported a shock of golden, sandy hair, usually worn long. He was a genius (first certified at the age of three), an athlete, had a sense of humor, though usually taken as quiet on first meeting. He had never experienced any trouble attracting women Чfrom his days at MIT (where at 15, he was the youngest student ever admitted into that institution's aeronautical doctorate program) and before, all the way through his USAF and Thunderbird days. But no womanЧbefore or sinceЧhad ever affected him like Dominique.

They had met in a deserted French farmhouse where both had sought shelter during the wild days after the war had ended in Europe. They had spent one night together; he woke in the morning to find her gone. But later, she had come looking for him and found him at the ZAP base on Cape Cod. In what seemed to be a dream to him now, they had lived happily together at the base. But it was only for a few weeks. When a Mid-Ak attack on ZAP was imminent, Hunter put her on a flight to safe Montreal. Then she disappeared.

He was never the same. The yearning never stopped. There had been plenty of other women since for him. Sexual playmates all. But the thought of Dominique had stayed with him-a very private haunting since he last saw her.

Once the helicopters and escorts landed back at

43

the Coos Bay base Чwhich was known by all as PAAC-Oregon-Hunter immediately headed for the photo recon unit's very elaborate development lab. Although it was close to midnight, Hunter was glad to find the technicians still working on the infra-red video image of the mysterious Soviet jets. It was a painstaking job. Working with a computer that Hunter had helped design, each enhancement of the image took several hours of calculations and programming. And each program produced another, more defined video image which had to be electronically "cleaned up," also a long process.

The techs showed him what they had so far: they had been able to zoom in on the clearest image of the jet so much that they would soon be able to count the number of rivet spots on the jet's midsection. Once this number was established, it was a matter of calculating the overall size and weight of the plane, then using the additional information from Hunter's infra-red camera to determine the heat displacement of the aircraft. The techs hoped to match up these figures with previously stored data on Soviet fighter aircraft and come up with a reasonable guess as to what kind of jet Hunter photographed that day. It was intelligence work at its best-long, arduous, but in the end, hopefully fruitful.

The work looked promising but the technicians told him that a final determination was still about a day and a half away.

He finally headed home. Though exhausted, he couldn't sleep. He found himself wandering around

44

his huge log cabin Чa place he'd built himself. The house sat on a hill which overlooked both the base's runways and the Pacific Ocean. A twin-.50 antiaircraft battery was located to one side of the structure, the spinning dish of one of the base's operations radar sat on the other. The lodge itself was crammed with radios, electronic gadgetry, a larger, fixed antenna capable of pulling in signals from all around the northern hemisphere when atmospheric conditions were right. Some nights Hunter would sit and listen to the radio traffic for hours, searching for any clueЧlike a sudden burst of radio chatterЧthat might tip an impending attack on America from the Soviets to the west.

The house had no kitchen; he ate and drank at the base. But a well-stocked bar sat in the main living room. Close by was a huge fireplace that heated the structure all too well in the often-damp Oregon climate. Two of the rooms were filled with his books, their topics ranging from advanced aeronautical design to theories on setting zone defenses in basketball. Another room was reserved for weekly poker games at which he hosted the likes of Dozer, The Cobra Brothers, the Ace Wrecking Company pilots, Captain Frost and anyone else with a week's pay to lose. Still another, more private, room featured a waterbed whose dimensions approached those of an aircraft carrier, plus a single control switch which dimmed the lights and activated a continuous tape loop of sweet, electronic music.

On top of the house he had built a turret in which he installed a moderately powerful telescope. On clear nights he could be found studying the cosmos

45

through its lens. It was usually an exercise in wishful thinking for him. The most ironic day in his life was the Christmas Eve he arrived at Cape Canaveral to begin training as a pilot for the Space Shuttle, only to find that the Soviets had launched a devastating nerve gas attack on Western Europe and that his F-16 squadron was being activated. Although he had missed the chance to pilot the space shipЧjust one more thing he blamed on the Soviets Чhe never gave up his dream of flying in space one day.

Hunter lived alone but that didn't mean he slept alone. He had two frequent houseguests. Mio and Aki, two bisexual Oriental beauties who had first lived with him when he worked for a short time for Fitzgerald at The Aerodrome. They had moved west with him when he joined PAAC. The two girls ЧMio was 2.1, Aki 19 Чlived in a smaller log cabin he built nearby. But they spent most of their time at Hunter's, serving in every capacity from his maids to his mistresses. They kept his house neat and his bed warm. They instinctively knew when he wanted to be alone and when he wanted company. They also knew of the woman Dominique, whose name he had once whispered while he slept.

The house was strictly functional; it had very few decorations other than his aircraft design drawings cluttering up the walls. However, over the fireplace encased in a heavy glass and metal picture frame hung his most valuable possession. It was a small, now-tattered American flag. He had first come upon it in war-torn New York City right after the war. Trying to make it across town to the relative safety of Jersey, Hunter (who was traveling with Dozer's 7th

46

Cavalry at the time) saw an innocent man shot in the back by a sniper. The man was Saul Wackerman, a tailor who had been caught up in the battle that raged in Manhattan between rival National Guard troops trying to claim the island. These days New York City was a pit of anarchy, murder, street wars, drug dealing and black market arms sales. But Hunter never forgot Saul Wackerman or the look on his face when he died in Hunter's arms. He was holding this very flag in his hands at the time and Hunter took it from his body.

One of the rules of the New Order made it illegal to carry the stars and stripes Чa crime punishable by death. It was a law Hunter detested and habitually broke. In fact, during the ZAP days right through the Football City War, he had kept the flag folded up and in his pocket at all times, drawing strength from it almost daily. To him it represented his major goal, his dream, his reason for being. That was that some day, this country would be reunited again. Some day, there would be the United States again. He had vowed to make it happen. Or die trying. The flag was the symbol of that crusade.

He finally fell asleep for a couple of hours, but was up again and at the base before the sun had fully risen. He had work to do. Jones had placed the base on a Code Three Alert, meaning they were two notches away from a war or "attack-imminent" situation. As overall commander, it was Hunter's duty to make a status check on PAAC-Oregon's aircraft as well as the base's ground defenses.

47