"Your name is Zack Wack," Hunter said. "Could that be short for Zachariah Wackerman?"
Wack looked surprised. "Yes, it is," he said.
"Was your father's name Saul Wackerman?"
Now Wack looked absolutely astonished. "Yes, it was," he replied. "But how would you know?"
Hunter's mind went into instant flashback. When he and Dozer and the 7th Cavalry first arrived in New York after the war, Manhattan was in the midst of a battle between the National Guards of New York State and New Jersey. Dozer's men had rescued a bunch of civilians, but one of them — an elderly man who had been proudly displaying the American flag — was shot in the back by a sniper.
He died in Hunter's arms, still clutching the small Stars and Stripes. This was the same flag Hunter carried with him. The man who died holding it was named Saul Wackerman. A picture in the dead man's wallet showed a son who was in the Israeli Army.
Hunter reached into his pocket and pulled out the neatly folded, slightly tattered flag.
"Do you recognize this?" Hunter asked. "Could it have belonged to your father?"
Wack took the flag and felt it. "Yes, he said almost immediately. "My father was a tailor. He made this himself. I know his work. But how did you get it?"
Hunter took a deep breath, then said: "I was there when your father died."
Hunter then told the man the entire story, much to the astonishment of the others who couldn't help being caught up in the moving tale.
"So you're the famous Hawk Hunter," Wack said after a while. "We've heard of you, even in this place. We always admired you ZAP guys, then when we heard about Football City — well, we were ready to pack up and come out and join you."
"I think your father would have told you to stay here," Hunter said. "From what I can see, you guys are the only ones trying to preserve what this city once was."
Wack shook his head. "It's a crazy place," he said, pouring out grape wine for all at the table. "We're a small group. We're doing okay now, but one never knows what tomorrow will bring."
Hunter felt Dominique lean on his shoulder. She was more interested in sleeping then eating. He put his arm around her and she immediately dozed off.
"We're in a lot of trouble out in the Badlands," Hunter said, draining his cup of wine. "While we were busy fighting the Family, the Russians infiltrated six or seven SAM divisions. Brought in a whole cavalry unit, too. Apparently they've been in league with Viktor for quite some time.
"We hear bits and pieces of it here," Wack said. "It seems like this Viktor came from nowhere. When we first heard of him, it appeared as if he were a chairman of the board type — The Circle was supposed to mean an alliance between the Mid-Aks, The Family, the air pirates. But it's Viktor who's behind it all.
He is The Circle. His boys have been sneaking around down here for a while, buying weapons and paying for them with drugs, or gold or young girls."
Wack shook his head. "The worst thing about it all is that Viktor knew there were still a lot of crazies on the continent who would fight — for any cause — just as long as they were fed. They're his puppets. Like Germany in the Thirties."
"True," Hunter said. "But puppets hang by thin strings. Break a string here and there and the whole thing tumbles down."
Hunter left the thought hanging. He reached in his pocket and pulled out Calypso's gold box. For the first time since he recovered it, he took out the map that Viktor had deemed so valuable, quickly explaining how he got it to Wack and his men. Hunter unfolded it, expecting an elaborately detailed plan.
But he was in for a surprise. It was a simple drawing showing — of all places —
Yankee Stadium. An "X" indicated somewhere near the left field wall.
"What the hell does this mean?" he asked aloud, as the commandos and the House of David soldiers crowded around.
"The Stadium?" Wack asked. "That area has been abandoned for years. Nothing there. No people. No buildings of value. It's a No Man's Land."
"Well whatever this 'X' is, Viktor was willing to pay three hundred million in real silver for it," Hunter said.
He looked up at Zal, who was standing next to the Canadian commando commander, a man named Norton Simmons. "I'm going to see what this is," Hunter said, pointing to the "X" on the map.
Zal looked at Simmons. "That means he's looking for 'volunteers,' " Zal said wryly, but with a hint of a smile.
"So I gathered," Simmons said. He checked his watch. It was nearly 5 AM.
"Well, we missed sub rendezvous anyway."
He turned to his men. "What do you say guys? We in?"
The team nodded as one. Simmons turned back to Hunter. "For anyone else, I'd tell them to send me a postcard. But for Hawk Hunter, you can count us in."
"Us, too," Wack added. "If it will help in fighting The Circle. Because if they win in the 'Bads, sure as hell they'll be here next — coming down on us."
Hunter felt a warm feeling spread throughout his body. Courage. Dignity.
Pride. Patriotism. Resolve. Democracy. All of these things and more were alive and well and dwelling in this place.
Hunter pulled Dominique's naked body closer to him. The world was still spinning, but he had become used to the feeling by now. As always, his days 285 seemed to last for years. Time moved in slow motion when he was in overdrive like this. Even now, lying in bed with her in a spare room that Wack had provided, sleep defied him. Instead he felt surges of power, anger, love, determination pump through his body. That he was in Hawaii only a few days before, then Wyoming, Arizona, New Mexico and now this — it was all too dreamlike. His senses rippled with electricity, his mind was racing.
Calculations, permutations, probability quotients, the measurable effect of coincidence — they all had to add up if he was to be successful.
Going after whatever was hidden at Yankee Stadium was an unexpected yet calculated risk. He knew it meant at least one more day that PAAC and the others would have to carry on without the crucial fifth black box, but from the deepest part of his gut instinct, he felt he was making the right decision. Something so valuable to Viktor would also be valuable to the Western Forces, even if all they did was destroy it. So Hunter and his new allies were lying low during the daylight hours and planned to drive to the stadium as soon as night fell. Then Hunter knew he would have some tough decisions to make. And the first one would be what to do about Dominique.
He turned to look at her. Life was so strange and he knew it better than most.
In all that time that she was missing, he had always felt like she was alive — somewhere. And he had vowed to find her. Now she was with him again. The woman who had haunted him since the first time they met was beside him, in the flesh. He had her again. Would he be foolish enough to let her go?
A wave of doubt clouded his mind. Why shouldn't he just take her and take off?
Go to Free Canada, live as normal a life as one could in the New Order world.
Just what the hell was he running around the whole Godforsaken continent for anyway? This dream — this Goddamn myth — that somehow, some way, he could magically put the United States back together again? He had to laugh. It was a joke. Imagine carrying around such an impossible dream of reuniting America again when there were thousands of Soviet missiles sitting in the middle of the country, a huge hostile army holding more than half the territory of the former U.S., and, thousands of Mongol warriors roaming the countryside, terrorizing, murdering, raping.
So why fight it? Why not just chuck it all, leave the wars to someone else?
Grab Dominique and take a sub ride back to Canada and become a fisherman. Or a farmer? Or a crop duster?
There were plenty of reasons to do it.
But there were more reasons why he couldn't. Sure, he could leave the U.S., but he couldn't leave it behind. And he could live with Dominique, but he couldn't live with himself. The whole idea — the whole concept — of the United States of America was alive just as long as one person believed in it. Fought for it. Died for it. He was one person. But there were thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousand, even millions, of people who still believed in the dream. Still would fight for it. Die for it. Tell their children about it. The difference between him and all those people was that he — by a fluke of nature — could have a direct bearing on the outcome. That twist of fate — that he was the best fighter pilot ever born. He knew it. But far from being a glamorous calling, the responsibility was awesome — to the point that sometimes, in his darkest and deepest recesses, he resented it. And the life that went along with it was too hard for him to carry any false modesty about what he was.