Suddenly, his radio crackled.
“Casablanca control to approaching aircraft,” a high-pitched voice sang over the static. “We have you on our radar screens. You are on an unauthorized landing pattern. Break off! Break off!”
Hunter calmly pushed his radio transmission button. “Casablanca Control, this is an aircraft of the Pacific American Air Corps. I am requesting emergency landing clearance. I am low on fuel.”
“Break off,” the shrillish reply came back. “We are at over-capacity. Our airspace is at the critical point. We have no open landing zone for you. You are unauthorized.”
Hunter checked his instruments. He was twelve miles off the coast. He tapped the back of the throttle bar twice, slowing the F-16 down further.
“Casablanca Control, I am down to a hundred pounds of fuel. I must land.”
“We have no fuel for you,” the air controller came back. “You are unauthorized … ”
Hunter was carefully watching the action over the airport on his TV screen. The aircraft were stacked up ten high over the airport. More than forty airplanes at various altitudes were traveling around and around on the same lazy circling pattern. At the same time, other aircraft were taking off every thirty seconds from the airport’s single runway.
Hunter could tell that most of the air traffic was made up of airliners. 747s, 707s, DC-10s, Airbuses. Some appeared to be riding on each other’s tails. Airplanes were taking off just as incoming aircraft bounced in. The radio chatter was a storm of pilot’s voices, yelling out their coordinates and doing everything they could to avoid a midair collision. It was the most confusing aircraft handling pattern he’d ever seen. But somehow the overworked air controllers were making it work.
He checked his instruments again. Ten miles out, fuel getting lower. Time to negotiate.
“Casablanca control,” he said into his microphone. “What is your ‘landing authorization’ fee?”
There was only the slightest of hesitation, then the answer came back. “Small aircraft. Jet fighter. One bag of gold, or five silver.”
Steep, but expected. But he didn’t intend to pay anywhere near that just to land.
“Casablanca control,” Hunter called just as he reached the coastline. “I have one bag of silver. It’s yours if you give me landing okay.”
“Two bags,” came the reply.
“Bag and a half,” Hunter said.
“Land clear on seven,” the controller said, his shrill voice rising yet another octave. “Right behind the Air-India Jumbo.”
Welcome to Casablanca.
Hunter inserted the F-16 into the melee of landing and departing airliners. A fog bank in the night sky over the airport made the approach even more hazardous. He dodged at least a half-dozen airliners, nearly clipped the tail section of a stray 727, and actually landed ahead of the red Air-India 747. As his wheels touched the ground, a DC-10 was lifting off no more than 500 feet ahead of him.
He followed the line of yellow runway lights to a taxiing path lined with blue. The number of aircraft above the airport was nothing compared to what was on the ground. The place was a traffic jam of airliners.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asked himself as he rolled up to a very thin empty station point near the bustling terminal. There were people everywhere — some carrying luggage, others just bags on their backs. Men, women, kids. They were in the terminal, on its roof and walkways, even on parts of the runway. There were flashing lights everywhere and he could hear sirens even over the noise of his jet engine.
He noticed there was a slight twinge of panic in the way the crowds were behaving. The loading of a nearby DC-9 was not going at an orderly pace. People were pushing and shoving each other—squeezing themselves up the loading ramp and into the airplane. Fistfights were breaking out near other airplanes.
This isn’t just another busy night at the airport, he reasoned. It looked more like an evacuation …
He shut down the 16 and punched up his exotic anti-theft computer program. Once it kicked in, the airplane was not only theft-proof but, thanks to a zapping electrical charge that ran throughout its body, it was also tamper-proof. Convinced the airplane was secure, Hunter popped the canopy, grabbed his M-16, and climbed out.
The noise was deafening. He walked across the crowded tarmac, avoiding the crowds as best he could. He could see desperation in their faces, but they weren’t a refugee rabble. They looked well-fed and mostly well-clothed. Yet people were battering each other to get on the airliners. But why? He noticed another curious thing: the incoming aircraft were not discharging anyone. They were flying in empty, loading up, and taking off without so much as a wipe of the windshield.
There were a lot of bad vibes in the air. He felt like a full-scale panic could break out at any moment.
Instinctively, he looked around for some kind of police force or military presence. There was none. Nor were any of the aircraft of non-civilian design. His F-16 was the only military aircraft in the airport.
He made his way through the confusion to the control tower and found it too was a madhouse. There were more than forty air controllers, all barking orders into the microphones and frantically looking into their radar screens. The place was strewn with plates, half-eaten meals, pots of bubbling tea and coffee, and more than a few empty wine bottles. Hunter felt lucky he had made it down in one piece.
He was here to pay his landing fee, and perhaps get a little information. He sought out the head of the place, figuring this would be the man who should receive his “authorization fee.” A man sitting at a desk slightly away from the pandemonium seemed to fit the bill.
Hunter threw a bag and a half of silver onto his desk. The man looked up immediately from the Arabic-language newspaper.
“I own that F-16 that just came in,” Hunter told him.
The man looked him over. “Aren’t you Hawk Hunter?” he said with a surprised look.
Hunter was taken aback slightly. Who the hell knew him way out here?
“Yes,” he replied, looking into the older man’s steel-black eyes. He was completely bald: a small, tough, a very distinguished-looking Arab. “My name is Hunter. I’m from the Pacific American—”
“—from the United States Air Force,” the man said, cutting him off knowingly. “And the Thunderbirds. And the Northeast Economic Zone Air Patrol.”
Hunter was speechless. He knew he had made somewhat of a name for himself back in America. But had news of his exploits carried all the way over to North Africa?
The answer was no. However, a less-than-flattering mug shot of him had made the trip. The man reached inside his desk draw and came out with a bounty poster. It was for Hunter. His old service ID picture was on it, as were these words:
ONE BILLION DOLLARS IN SILVER OR GOLD FOR THE CAPTURE OR PROOF OF DEATH OF HAWK HUNTER, CRIMINAL WANTED BY THE NEW ORDER. COLLECTION POINTS: PARIS, THE BAHAMAS, MOSCOW.
“One billion?” Hunter blurted out. “Christ.” He knew The Circle had put a price of a half-billion on his head about a year ago. But a billion? Apparently the New Order had doubled the pot.
This would only mean more trouble for Hunter.
“I could shoot you right now and collect, major,” the man said.
Hunter had his M-16 off his shoulder and ready in an instant.
“But I won’t,” the man quickly added.
“What’s the matter? You don’t need a billion dollars?” Hunter asked defiantly.
“No, it’s because I know who you really are, major,” the man said, confidently lighting a long, dark cigarette. He was a native Moroccan. Hunter could tell by his accent. “And I know you’re not a criminal.”