Chapter Eight
Our gyrocopter came down next to the two small craft and their crew.
On the far edge of the field stood a couple of dusty buildings with signs that were too flaked-off to read. The field looked clean and well used, and the control tower that overlooked it was well-maintained. People who had said that America Free State was all in ruins had given me the impression that we were about to fly into a war zone. It didn’t feel like that at all. It felt like we had landed in a dystopian landscape.
The people who met us when we landed were a younger man with blond hair and a short beard in a neat shirt and trousers, and a middle-aged man old enough to be his father.
They both greeted our surly border patrol guard, who made straight for the building that held the control tower.
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