Wingman by Mack Maloney Page B

grounded as a damp fog shrouded the base. The weather only added to the gloom and isolation which was hanging over the Zone Air Patrol. Hunter sought refuge in the base bar. For hours, he sat alone at a table, staring at a half dozen used beer glasses. The place was nearly empty. Word of the general's grounding and its ramifications had carried instantly throughout the base and the club's usual party-party atmosphere was substantially subdued. Some of the freelancers they had employed had already given their notice and left the base, sensing trouble was on the way. In the bar, only a handful of local people sat drinking. There wasn't a ZAP pilot or monkey to be seen. The atmosphere around Jonesville was heavy with uncertainty.
    Something was coming . . .
    Hunter was drunk when she walked in. At first, the dim light over the club's doorway cast a shadow across her face, managing to transform her hair color into dirty blond.
    But as soon as she stepped into the brighter light near the bar, her hair returned to its natural, brunette color.
    She was small and sported a pert, nimble, curvy body. Her tiny, yet delicious looking breasts highlighted the blue, thin-strapped dress she wore beneath her raincoat.
    A slim figure and nicely rounded hips and rear added to the package. Her gorgeous legs completed the masterpiece. She was French. She was beautiful. And Hunter knew her.
    When he had first looked up, after waiting several crucial seconds for his drunken eyes to focus, he was convinced that he was out on his feet and dreaming the whole thing.
    But then, after asking the bartender, who had pointed in Hunter's general direction, she saw him and waved, he knew it was her. The strange days after the war came back to him in a flash. The black and red sky. The dark days and darker nights. His long dangerous trek from Spain to Scotland. She was the girl he had met along the way. They had both sought refuge in the same abandoned farmhouse near the French coast. She had held a shotgun on him for more than an hour, until he convinced her he was not a rapist or a Russian sympathizer. Then they had talked. Later, by mutual consent, he had taken her-and let her take him. It had been brief; she was gone the next morning. But this girl had haunted his dreams-asleep and awake-since the last time he'd had seen her.
    And she had just walked in the door.
    Dominique. He couldn't believe Dominique was standing in front of him, a mist welling in her eyes. He was on his feet, drunkenly trying to act like a sober gentleman, and failing miserably. It was surreal. This girl, the one who disappeared on that strange morning, was now here, in Jonesville smiling, if slightly taken aback at his boozy manner.
    He tried to talk, but gave up and just listened. How did she get here? She had always wanted to come to America. Now, she had raised enough silver-he didn't ask how-to buy herself out of Occupied France and onto a boat to Iceland. From there she caught the once-a-month flight over to Montreal. How did she know he was here? She had heard of the famous ZAP while in Free Canada, and that a young, skillful pilot named Hunter was one of its leaders. So she made her way to Boston, and finally, bought a ride to Otis.
    She got him to sit down and accepted his frantic offers to buy her a drink. They talked. She was thinking of staying in Free Canada or the Northeast Economic Zone as things were really getting out of hand in Occupied Europe. Terrorism, public executions, secret police, Russian soldiers on every corner, the every move of anyone the least suspect, monitored. Oddly, she told him just about the same things were happening in Boston.
    She had also thought about him since they last met and shyly admitted that one of the reasons she came across was to try to find him. She just didn't expect it to happen so soon.
    He asked her if she had a place to stay. She said no. He asked if she would stay with him. She said yes. She had to help him back to his