Free Wingman by Mack Maloney Page A

You're a mess."
    Just then, Ben Wa and Toomey burst in. They were obviously drunk, a state that Jones and Hunter were also reaching.
    "Hawk, old buddy, your compadres have arrived!" Ben announced. "Girls?"
    With that, four of the most beautiful girls in the world walked into the lounge.
    There was a blonde, two brunettes and a redhead, each one wearing a tight sweater and short skirt, each one made up to the hilt. Each one obviously looking for a good time.
    They had come to the right place. Hunter's eyes went wide and he felt a pulsating start up in his loins.
    "Ladies?" J.T. announced. "Meet the famous Hawk Hunter, cover-boy, fighter pilot, whiz kid and astronaut-in-waiting.''
    There was a round of greetings and an orgy of eyelash fluttering, but he was oblivious to it all. His eyes were transfixed on the redhead's breasts.
    Jones leaned over to him. "Go ahead boy," he said. "Get your pipes cleaned. Just leave one for this old man and make sure you're down on the flight line at eight tomorrow morning."
    Hunter took the redhead by the hand and headed for the quarters Jones had issued him earlier. It had been quite a day ...

CHAPTER SIX
    Hunter settled into the base. For the next six months he enjoyed the surprisingly pleasant routine of a fighter pilot in the New Order world. It was a life of daily patrols of the Northeast Economic Zone's outlying borders, keeping an eye on the nearby sea lanes, and an occasional tanker escort mission. Jones had decided long before to leave the air convoy protection business to the freelancers. He needed live pilots-not dead mercenaries. Thanks to the growing power of the air pirates and the increasingly treacherous skies above the Badlands, the life expectancy of a free lancer was now measured in days.
    Hunter was happy. He got all the flying time he wanted, a place to sleep, good chow, women. What more could he ask for? Except maybe a little combat action, now and then.
    The continent was in a state of change, too. People were adapting, coming out of hiding. A regular little community-quickly nicknamed 'Jonesville’ sprang up on the base. Tired of living in groups or in hiding, some civilians occupied the abandoned GI housing outside the base. Others started building anew. Within two months of Hunter's arrival, there were more than 5000 people in the neighborhood. They liked the security of having an army and air force nearby to protect them from the unknowns of the post-war world. Many worked at the base, and Jones, the true-blue capitalist who became an unofficial Big Daddy cum -governor for the area, allowed the citizens to set up shops inside the fence. They even started their own militia-style police force.
    What was better was that eligible women began frequenting the base, mostly party girls who loved mixing it up with the soldiers, especially the flyboys. Some were even charging for it, an enterprise Jones wisely let continue unabated. Every pressure needs a release, he would say.
    Training of the Zone Air Rangers continued. Jones was able to dig up some
    helicopters for them-eight big Chinooks, to be exact, dubbed "The Crazy Eights." The choppers were chock full of machineguns, rocket launchers, cannons, anything that could shoot. Within a few months, the former undisciplined, shoot 'em up army was becoming the crack special forces unit Jones had wanted it to be. They trained in airborne assaults, coordinated attack with air support and guerrilla/night fighting.
    The size of the ZAR increased to 500, enough for Jones to take 250 of them and establish a half dozen outposts on the Zone's western borders. The string of bases served as combination frontier posts and early warning system. Each place had a working, though rudimentary, radar system. If anything flying was seen approaching the Zone's airspace, the news was flashed by clandestine radio sets to Otis. If the sighting was deemed possibly hostile, two ZAP fighters would scramble. There were two fighters-usually the F-4 and