in his room, Frost could see a patch of sky, one which the howling winds had cleared of all fog, at least temporarily. Through it, Frost could see a bright patch of stars. They looked absolutely stunning at the moment, so much so that he raised himself up a bit just to get a better look. His view was somewhat limited, but he could still partially make out the Big Dipper and Orion.
Suddenly he spotted a small blinking light swiftly making its way across the sky. He knew immediately it was not an airplane; this object was traveling through space.
Could it be? he thought. Was there really any chance that the light was the Zon spacecraft, containing Hunter and his UAAF colleagues?
No, not really. As the flashing light passed from view, Frost was sure it was more likely to be a satellite or a piece of space junk than the captured space shuttle, especially at this latitude. Still, as Frost lay back on his bed, his thoughts went to his American allies and their continuous struggle to bring freedom and order to their very troubled land. Frost was a close personal friend of Hunter himself, having first met the Wingman several years ago at a place called the Pitt, once known as Pittsburgh. Frost had transported a cache of jewels for Hunter, who was working as a pilot-for-hire at the time. They’d been amigos ever since.
Frost ripped the cap off his third beer and drained it greedily. It felt like the high-alcohol-content lager was flowing directly into his tired veins, bypassing his stomach and liver entirely. Many things had happened since he’d linked up with the United Americans. The continent had been freed, invaded, and freed again. Major battles had been won in the Pacific and in Southeast Asia. Now Hunter and company were hunting for Viktor II in orbit. It seemed to be an appropriate culmination of all the hard-fought and hard-won victories. Where else should the climactic chase be, but in outer space? A pang of sadness went through Frost’s tired chest. If only he was up there with them…
His fourth beer brought more memories. Sure, the key wars had been won, but many men had died as a result. Brave souls and close friends. Bull Dozer, the one-of-a-kind commander of the original 7th Cavalry, United America’s first credible ground force. Dozer had been killed in a titanic last battle against the Russians in Washington, DC. Then there was Seth Jones, twin brother of Dave Jones, the C-in-C of the UAAF. Frost had never met the man, but from what he’d heard, he seemed to be nothing less than deserving of his reputation as the patron saint of the entire Free America movement.
There was Mike Fitzgerald, the godfather of the UAAF. Fitz had been a close friend of everyone in the UA inner circle, the kind of guy who’d made a million dollars no less than six months after the Big War had ended, only to give most of it away and join the UA freedom fighters. A ballsy pilot and an expert strategist, Fitzgerald had been killed preventing an enemy nuclear missile from obliterating Football City in the last stages of the war against the Fourth Reich.
Of all the men who’d passed on, Fitz was the one Frost, as well as everyone else, missed the most. Popping his fifth beer, Frost wondered what it would be like if Fitz were still alive; what he would think now that the American continent was finally free of all outside invaders. What he would think of Hunter’s high-speed chase in outer space…
Sometime during draining his sixth and last beer, Frost finally fell asleep. Dreams flowed through his head like clouds whipped up by a storm. First, he was back at the controls of the antique Buccaneer, then he was swimming in the Caribbean, then he was a child again, playing hockey outside his family’s home in Parry Sound, then he was back in the old Buck again.
It went on like this for sometime: Frost drifting in and out of montages of nonsensical dreams. Yet despite his depleted state and his belly full of beer, his instincts
Suddenly he spotted a small blinking light swiftly making its way across the sky. He knew immediately it was not an airplane; this object was traveling through space.
Could it be? he thought. Was there really any chance that the light was the Zon spacecraft, containing Hunter and his UAAF colleagues?
No, not really. As the flashing light passed from view, Frost was sure it was more likely to be a satellite or a piece of space junk than the captured space shuttle, especially at this latitude. Still, as Frost lay back on his bed, his thoughts went to his American allies and their continuous struggle to bring freedom and order to their very troubled land. Frost was a close personal friend of Hunter himself, having first met the Wingman several years ago at a place called the Pitt, once known as Pittsburgh. Frost had transported a cache of jewels for Hunter, who was working as a pilot-for-hire at the time. They’d been amigos ever since.
Frost ripped the cap off his third beer and drained it greedily. It felt like the high-alcohol-content lager was flowing directly into his tired veins, bypassing his stomach and liver entirely. Many things had happened since he’d linked up with the United Americans. The continent had been freed, invaded, and freed again. Major battles had been won in the Pacific and in Southeast Asia. Now Hunter and company were hunting for Viktor II in orbit. It seemed to be an appropriate culmination of all the hard-fought and hard-won victories. Where else should the climactic chase be, but in outer space? A pang of sadness went through Frost’s tired chest. If only he was up there with them…
His fourth beer brought more memories. Sure, the key wars had been won, but many men had died as a result. Brave souls and close friends. Bull Dozer, the one-of-a-kind commander of the original 7th Cavalry, United America’s first credible ground force. Dozer had been killed in a titanic last battle against the Russians in Washington, DC. Then there was Seth Jones, twin brother of Dave Jones, the C-in-C of the UAAF. Frost had never met the man, but from what he’d heard, he seemed to be nothing less than deserving of his reputation as the patron saint of the entire Free America movement.
There was Mike Fitzgerald, the godfather of the UAAF. Fitz had been a close friend of everyone in the UA inner circle, the kind of guy who’d made a million dollars no less than six months after the Big War had ended, only to give most of it away and join the UA freedom fighters. A ballsy pilot and an expert strategist, Fitzgerald had been killed preventing an enemy nuclear missile from obliterating Football City in the last stages of the war against the Fourth Reich.
Of all the men who’d passed on, Fitz was the one Frost, as well as everyone else, missed the most. Popping his fifth beer, Frost wondered what it would be like if Fitz were still alive; what he would think now that the American continent was finally free of all outside invaders. What he would think of Hunter’s high-speed chase in outer space…
Sometime during draining his sixth and last beer, Frost finally fell asleep. Dreams flowed through his head like clouds whipped up by a storm. First, he was back at the controls of the antique Buccaneer, then he was swimming in the Caribbean, then he was a child again, playing hockey outside his family’s home in Parry Sound, then he was back in the old Buck again.
It went on like this for sometime: Frost drifting in and out of montages of nonsensical dreams. Yet despite his depleted state and his belly full of beer, his instincts
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