Final Storm by Mack Maloney Read Free Book Online Page A

had lain abandoned for lack of any practical uses. It too had been damaged during the Circle’s brief occupation of the city. But even before that, the powerful ceiling fans used to inflate the synthetic-fabric dome had been shut off, allowing the roof to sag to within forty feet of the playing surface. The place became a dark haven for some of the shadowy figures who, for whatever reason, had chosen to stay in the old city since the war.
    But when the New United States Provisional Government realized that by opening the ex-VP’s trial to the public, the public might come in droves, they selected the Dome as the venue. The dome was reinflated, the insides cleaned up and prepared for the crowds to come. It was also re-lit and wired for a phalanx of TV cameras, which would be able to broadcast the trial to those areas of the country able to receive TV.
    That morning Hunter, Toomey and Ben flew the fighter escort for the KC-135 aircraft carrying the traitor and his lawyers to the trial. Even as they passed over the city before the sun was completely up, they saw that The Dome was thronged with people—ordinary citizens—pouring in through its concrete passageways.
    As it would turn out, although more than 50,000 people were able to get in, more than twice that number camped outside, content, it would seen, to follow the progress of the trial via the large loudspeakers erected outside the Dome.
    “Command, attention!” the Marine commander shouted out, bringing Hunter’s thoughts back to the flag-raising ceremony before him.
    As the last of the Marines marched off the parade field, all eyes on the reviewing stand turned toward the low rumble that was building in the eastern sky. Squinting into the rising sun, Hunter could make out the swift-moving shapes, racing ahead of the sounds from their engines. The four F-4 Phantom jets streaked across the sky in a tight diamond shape and seemed to join as one to disappear into the hazy western horizon. Only the scream of their engines told those on the ground that they were making a wide turn to pass by again.
    This time the Phantoms came in lower and slower, forming up in a tight chevron pattern, their leader in the center, two planes wingtip-to-wingtip, slightly behind on his right and left, and one tucked in behind him, offset just high enough to avoid his exhaust trail. As they neared the parade field, the Phantom in the number-two slot to the leader’s left eased back on his stick to bring the plane out of formation, its vapor trail describing a gentle swooping arc to the heavens as he climbed out of sight.
    The remaining F-4s, now with the vacant position in their tight pattern, flew on over the reviewing stand.
    The Missing Man Formation. A tribute by flying men to their companions, lost in battles fought and wars won but never forgotten. Every man assembled on the stand saluted and then bowed his head, each remembering fallen comrades who had paid the ultimate price for the victory that had cost them all so dearly.
    Hunter watched as the Phantoms sped away to land at the nearby Syracuse Aerodrome. As the reviewing stand emptied out, he lingered for a time to watch the flag the color guard had raised as it lofted with each burst of wind, high atop the shining flagstaff at the head of the parade field.
    Almost instinctively he reached into his left breast pocket and pulled out a small, frayed cloth. Carefully folded into a tight triangular shape, it revealed only a faded blue background arrayed with pale stars. Unrolling it to its full length, he stared at the red and white stripes creased and marked from being folded too long, and fingered its tattered edges.
    It was a small American flag, the same one he had taken from the body of a man he saw brutally murdered in New York City way back when Hunter first returned to America after the war. He always considered the man, his name was Saul Wackerman, as the ultimate patriot; someone who was shot simply because he was carrying