The two Brits began shopping, Hunter began to wander. He walked through the courtyard viewing the various advertisements hanging on the booths. “Sappers — Italy’s Finest,” one placard boasted. “Underwater Demo Is Our Speciality, Free French Navy,” another announced. There were booths and ads for regular infantry, mountain soldiers, ski troops, seaborne assault forces, installation protection services, artillery specialists. Others boasted “Complete Package Deals” such as a battalion of infantry, two squads of artillerymen, sappers, scouts, and combat engineers. Each group for hire claimed allegiance to a certain country or territory — some such as Nepal, Greece, Italy, and Free Yugloslavia Hunter recognized. Others such as the First Central Empire, the Red Coast Territories, and the Sunset Islands he had never heard of.
He walked through the bazaar and out toward the back of the fort. He had one question: where were all these soldiers the ads bragged about?
Even before he had a chance to contemplate it, he had his answer.
He stepped out the back of the fort to find a grassy valley. It was slight and perhaps three-quarters of a mile across. In this valley were thousands of troop tents and tens of thousands of soldiers. It was the home of the combatants for hire of the New Order world.
Hunter looked out on the sea of soldiers. Some were training, doing exercises, or involved in target practice. Others were sitting near their tents, cleaning weapons or attending to other equipment. Still others were lounging about underneath the valley’s many trees. The most popular spot in the valley was a large watering hole in its center. It was an authentic oasis, surrounded by a thick collar of palm trees and makeshift open-air barrooms.
Here too hundreds of flags fluttered in the breeze above the individual encampments. French. Swiss, Swede. Thai. Angolan. Irish. Hunter’s keen vision picked out a number of familiar patterns.
Then his head started buzzing. His mouth went dry. Off at the far end of the valley, too far out for even his keen sight to zoom in on, one flag in hundreds stood out. It seemed to be flying slightly higher, slightly stiffer in the breeze. He reached to his breast pocket, to the bulge of folded cloth he always kept there. He felt a lump in his throat.
Could it be?
Hunter started running. Down one dusty path to another. On to the dirt road that ran through the valley, skirted the watering hole, and led to the far end of glen. He was breathing heavily, his flight helmet clinking at his side. No one paid him much attention to him — he was just one soldier in thousands.
He kept his eyes fixed on the flag flying at the end of the valley, getting closer to it with every step. He started to make out its design. Still he ran on, avoiding collisions with jeeps, jogging squads of soldiers, and smelly camels. Soon he could pick out the definite shapes on the flag — the lines, the pattern. He ran faster. About an eighth of a mile away, his eyes started to water. He could see the flag more clearly. The stars, the stripes, then the colors …
There were red, white, and blue.
Chapter 10
Hunter saw his first Americans before he even reached the camp underneath the fluttering American flag. There were six of them, walking nonchalantly down the road toward the watering hole. They were wearing green overall fatigues, baseball hats, and sneakers. Each man had a patch sewn onto his uniform’s left shoulder. It too was an American flag.
Hunter ran up to them.
“Are you guys USA?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” one of them answered.
Hunter pulled out his own small American flag and said, “So am I.”
The Americans immediately eyed his major’s bars and instinctively snapped to a salute.
Hunter quickly saluted back. He wasn’t interested in such formalities now.
“I’m Major Hunter, formerly of the US Air Force,” he said, with pride evident in his voice. “What are you guys? Army?”
“No, sir,” one spoke up. “Just the uniforms are Army. We are US Navy, sir.”
“Navy?” Hunter asked. “What kind of Navy?”
“Most of us are submariners, sir,” another told him.
“Atomic or diesel?”
“Atomic, sir,” was the answer.
Bingo.
“Who’s your commanding officer, guys?” Hunter asked, already moving towards the American camp.
“Lieutenant Yastrewski,” one yelled.
“Just ask for ‘Yaz,’ major,” another called out.
Hunter reached the American camp, his eyes fixed on the large American flag that flew above its main tent. The flag was bigger and higher than those of other camps. It was the biggest one Hunter had seen since The New Order went down. The American camp, though much smaller than many of the bivouacs, was also more elaborate. He spotted a number of sophisticated weapons and a lot of top-shelf communications gear dispersed around the ten-acre site. He also noticed that members of other armies were present in the camp, mostly gathered around Americans near the state-of-the-art hardware. It appeared the Americans were instructing the other troops.
Hunter identified himself to the camp guards and was ushered into the camp’s HQ.
A small man — typical of submariners — came in to meet him. Unlike his men, this officer was dressed in Navy blues.
“I’m Lieutenant Yastrewski,” the slightly younger man said, shaking hands with Hunter. “First American Seaborne Assault, Repair and Support Group.”
“I’m Major Hunter, Pacific American Air Corps,” Hunter said. Immediately he knew his title sounded as strange to the submariner as “First American … ” did to him.
“I’m a pilot for the territory that was once called California, Washington, and Oregon,” Hunter clarified.
“There’s no more California?” the man asked.
Hunter shook his head. “Probably not as you remember it.” He was not surprised that the man didn’t know what was going on in New Order America.
“When’s the last time you were stateside, lieutenant?”
The man shook his head. “Not since the war, sir. I was stationed in Norfolk, Virginia. I suppose that area’s changed pretty much now too.”
Hunter nodded. “The whole country has changed,” he said.
“We hear bits and pieces,” the officer told him. “But not much.”
Hunter looked around the HQ tent. It was jammed with some of the most advanced electronics and communications gear he’d ever seen since the war. “Quite a setup you got here,” he told Yastrewski.
“Well, we try, major,” the Navy man replied. “Are you here to contract some help?”
“Well, friends of mine are,” Hunter told him. “Some Brits I hooked up with may be looking for some sailors with experience in nuclear operations.”
The officer was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Could I offer you a cup of coffee, major. Or a drink?”
Hunter smiled. “How about both?”
Five minutes later, they were sitting inside the camp’s chow tent, mixing muddy Algerian coffee with even darker Algerian liquor. A large pot of noodles, boiling in a creamy wine sauce, appeared. The lieutenant scooped out two bowls for them.
“How many men do you have, lieutenant?” Hunter asked between bites.
“Three hundred and seventy-six,” Yaz replied proudly. “We’re the smallest group here, but we are by far the best-equipped.
“Most of us were aboard the USS Albany when it went down off Ireland on the last day of the war. We made it to shore and a bunch of us stuck together. We kicked around for a year or so, doing some protection work. Then made it over to England. Got work driving a bunch of ferries back and forth over the Channel. Eventually we moved to France, then here. Been camped about five months now.”