Death Orbit (12 page)

About halfway down the strip, Budda-Budda hit the throttles to max. The huge jet bomber suddenly leapt into the sky, the roar of its engines completely drowning out the cheers of the crowd and the ongoing cannon salutes. The big plane rose straight up, almost like a rocketship on its way to the stars, finally disappearing into the clouds at 20,000 feet.

Still, it wasn’t until five long minutes later that the roar of its engines completely faded away.

Off Cape Cod

T
HE BRIGHT YELLOW GRUMMAN J4F-1
seaplane came in for a very bumpy landing on the very choppy seas.

Though the small amphibian was more than 60 years old, it held its own against the high waves, rolling with the big ones and going through the small. Inside, the pilot tried to steer the one-man seaplane toward the beach, barely visible in the windy murk about 150 feet away. He hoped he could make the shoreline without destroying the precious little airplane. But if not, then that was how it would have to be.

At the moment, saving the classic Grumman was the least of his concerns.

It was now close to midnight and the tide was running extremely high here off Nauset Beach. The gigantic storm churning up the Atlantic was drawing closer to land by the hour, and the growing waves were just a small precursor of things to come. The wind was up to 40 knots and blowing out of the east, a most unusual direction for this time of year. The gale would not make the job of getting the small J4F-1 in to shore any easier.

It was not the typical coastline facing the sputtering airplane, either. For the most part, Cape Cod was flat, if irregular. From the Canal all the way up the crooked arm to P-town, the highest things were the dunes and the occasional steep hill. But here, at Nauset, there was a ridgeline that soared over everything else. They called it the Heights, and it was the highest point on the entire cape; as a result, the view of the Atlantic was spectacular. From here, the old-timers used to say, you could see France on a clear day.

But awe-inspiring and fanciful views were not on the mind of the Grumman’s pilot, either. At that moment, all he was concerned with was getting to dry land in one piece.

He steered the old seaplane to a course roughly parallel with the pounding surf. He was now about 100 feet out from the beach; a dangerous-looking jetty was nearby. There were only two ways he could do this: Pick a wave, ride it in, and hope for the best, or…

He didn’t even think much about the second option. He instinctively gunned his engines, twisted the nose of the seaplane directly toward the ocean shoreline, and pushed to full throttle. The wave that came along was a big one. It lifted the tiny seaplane up, its wings caught the roaring mist of the wave’s chicane, and the aircraft went into a brief, stuttering hover. Finally the engines kicked in and with one last burst of power, lifted the seaplane up and over the crashing surf.

It came down hard just a few seconds later and began skidding wildly on the soft white sand. The pilot quickly killed the engines, shutting down all power even before the plane stopped bouncing. The propellers fluttered as the seaplane lurched to the left and commenced to dig its portside wingtip into the ground. Around and around it went, once, twice, three times, and almost a fourth before finally coming to a stop in a cloud of smoke, exhaust, and billowing sand. Finally it lay still.

The abrupt touchdown had given a nasty crack to the head of the pilot, but he hardly felt it. The first part of his strange mission had been accomplished. He’d made it onto Nauset Beach alive.

Now for part two.

He popped the canopy door and climbed out onto the wing and down into the blowing sand. He was instantly soaked by the spray from the raging surf only about 20 feet away—but again, he hardly noticed it. Using a tie line, he secured the plane as best he could to the nearby jetty. Then he looked to the south, where the land rose up dramatically into a long line of heavily-vegetated bluffs called the Heights.

If he started running now, he thought, he could probably reach the top in less than an hour.

The long strands of salt hay billowed in the brisk wind like waves on the stormy ocean.

There were four and a half acres of hayfields in all; the northern edge of the largest one ran right up against the peak of Nauset Heights. From there, it was a sharp drop to the rocky beach some 500 feet below. The wind was always the strongest here.

In the middle of the hayfield was a small farmhouse. It was rustic, weatherbeaten to a picture-perfect pitch. A porch ran all the way around it; a set of creaky wooden steps led up to the front door. It was dark inside, except for the light from a candle. The wind, traveling through a porous section of the ancient chimney, gave off an eerie whistling sound. Somewhere off in the distance, an animal was howling.

Or at least, it sounded like an animal…

It was now about 45 minutes after his dramatic beach landing and the pilot was exhausted. The climb up to the Heights had been much harder than expected, even though he’d found a helpful path early on. He hadn’t slept in nearly two days, and this hadn’t helped his ordeal any. Nor had he eaten or taken any fluids. So intense was his desire to come to this place, all thoughts of food and drink had vanished.

But now, finally, he was here.

He reached the gate of the rickety fence that ringed the small farm and paused at the sign that hung flaking and crooked to one side.

It read,
Skyfire.

The pilot took a deep breath and then walked the 50 feet to the front steps of the farmhouse. The wind was blowing even harder now, and the waves crashing on to the shore at the bottom of the bluffs sounded like cannonfire coming from very far away. He was crazy for coming here, he knew—crazy that he would think the answers to a slew of unanswerable questions might be found at this place.

He went up the stairs nevertheless; unbalanced or not, he had to go through with this. He cringed at each squeak of the porch boards but was finally an arm’s length from the door. Another gust of wind, another deep breath. Then he reached out and knocked twice.

There was no answer. He knocked again, this time a little harder. Again, no response. He rapped a third time, stronger, louder. At last he heard a stirring inside. A fourth and final knock.

That’s when the door finally opened and a beautiful blond vision appeared inside.

“Hello, Dominique…” he said with a weary smile.

“My God… Frost? Is that really you?”

Yes, it was him, and yes, he was insane—this he was sure of at that moment. He’d left his post up in Gander nearly 48 hours before, practically stealing the little seaplane to fly down here, in the worsening bad weather. And for what? To find out if he was really seeing ghosts?

“Frost… are you all right?” Dominique asked him; it was evident she was as surprised to see him as he was to be here.

“Yes, I’m all right,” he finally answered. “At least, I think so.”

She led him inside and eased him into the nearest chair. One small candle illuminated the room, though the embers in the fireplace were still aglow. The house smelled of cedar and hay and salt air. Crystal seemed to be sparkling from everywhere. Outside, the wind was picking up again.

Dominique went to her knees in front of him and took his hands in hers. A look of horror came across her face.

“My God, it’s not Hawk, is it? Is he… dead?”

Frost hastened to reassure her. “No, no, not at all. That’s not why I’m here…”

A wave of relief washed through the room. Dominique disappeared only to return a few moments later with a bottle of brandy and a larger candle. She poured a huge glass for Frost then lit the candlewick with a straw from the fireplace. Frost drained the brandy before she could put the candle on the table. She poured him another.

“So, then,” she asked, “to what do I owe this occasion?”

Frost smiled wanly and shifted in his seat. This was the part he’d been dreading. It seemed a dream to him now. Here he was, in Hawk Hunter’s house, talking to his beautiful girlfriend, and still he did not quite know why.

“It’s going to sound very crazy,” he stuttered.

Dominique tapped him lightly on the knee.

“Nothing could be crazier than what’s happening here,” she said. “Please, tell me…”

Frost sucked in another deep breath.

“We’ve known each other a long time,” he began. “True?”

“Yes, of course…”

“And have you ever known me to be—how shall I say it?—not
normal?”

Dominique shook her head, her long blond hair swishing beautifully as she did so.

“You are one of the sanest people I know, Frost,” she replied.

He gulped down some more brandy.

“I know you’ve studied the mystics,” he began again. “I know you’ve searched for truths among all the nonsense.”

Dominique gave a little shrug. It was true. The house at Skyfire was filled with books on mysticism, magic, the supernatural, and the paranormal. She’d been reading about such things ever since coming here. Not because she believed in all of it—much of it was pure bunk. What she was looking for, what she was hoping to find, were instances of legitimate extraordinary events. Just one piece of proof would, in effect, make it all true.

“I’ve read about a lot of things,” she finally replied. “But why do you ask this? Did you come all the way here just because…”

Frost held up his hand and gently interrupted her.

“Have you ever seen any proof of the actual existence of ghosts?” he asked her starkly.

A sudden chill went through the room. The wind picked up outside. Dominique gathered her shawl around her.

“You’ve… you’ve seen a ghost?” she asked him.

Frost looked up at her, his eyes beginning to glisten in the soft light of the candles. He slowly nodded.

“Not just any ghost,” he said, in a voice barely above a whisper. “Mike Fitzgerald’s ghost…”

Dominique stared back at him. She would have thought this was some kind of joke if Frost didn’t look so serious.

“It’s true,” he went on, after another greedy sip of brandy. “It happened the other night. Right after I came back from a patrol up at Gander. He was there, right in my quarters, as plain as day. He spoke to me. Just like he’d spoken to me a thousand times before. The only difference was, I could see right through the bastard!”

Dominique reached over to the cupboard and retrieved another glass. This one she used to pour some brandy for herself.

“I’d give anything to believe that this was nothing but a dream,” Frost went on. “At least then I’d know for sure that I wasn’t going insane.”

He looked up at Dominique. His eyes were glistening even more than before.

“But I was awake,” he said finally. “And Fitz was there. Right in my room.”

A sudden gust shook the old farmhouse from the roof to the cellar and back again. The two candles nearly went out. Once again, the embers in the fireplace stirred themselves back to life.

“He told me he had to come back,” Frost went on after another gulp of brandy. “He had to come back—though it was very hard to do. He had to come back because he had to tell us—his friends—that something very terrible is about to happen. To us. To the entire world. He knew of this thing, but he could not tell me what it was directly. He said there are signs of this thing—
this awful thing
—everywhere these days. He told me we should all be looking. The signs will become more obvious as each day goes on. Even the fact that he was able to come to me was a sign of what’s coming…”

Frost bowed his head again, too distraught even to sip from his glass anymore.

“It was all just too unbelievable.” He finally began sobbing. “Too crazy.”

Dominique laid her hand on his knee again.

“No, it isn’t,” she said.

“But I really don’t even know why I’m here,” he told her, just barely getting the words out. “I just felt… like I
had
to.”

She calmly got to her feet.

“Come,” she said. “I must show you something.”

Taking one of the candles, she led him out of the living room and into the hallway. Slowly, cautiously, they made their way up the darkened stairway to the second floor. In front of them now was the door to the master bedroom. Dominique looked over at Frost for a long moment. Then, slowly, she opened the bedroom door.

Inside, four young girls were sitting on the bed, staring out the window to the growing storm beyond. The oldest was no more than fifteen. They were all wearing bathing suits; they all looked to be a long way from home. They did not move in any way when the door opened; in fact, they were sitting incredibly still, almost like statues. And a strange glow seemed to be all around them. It was the same aura that Frost had seen around Fitz.

Frost looked over at Dominique, his mouth open, more bewildered than ever.

“They don’t know why they’re here, either,” she told him.

Cape Canaveral, Midnight, 24 hours later

T
HE FIRST SIGN OF
trouble around the defense perimeter of the Kennedy Space Center came in the form of a bird.

It was an estrich, a rare, gangling, cranelike bird that inhabited the marshes around the space complex. Shy, if imposing, the estrich came out only in the very early morning hours to feed on small fish in the many tidal pools north of the complex. It was almost never seen once the sun was up, and never, ever at night.

But now, an advance party of Football City Special Forces scouts saw one of the huge birds fly over their heads, its great wings making a distinct whooshing as it passed. A brief rustling had proceeded this strange event, and now the FCSF troopers, hugging the damp smelly ground about 200 yards north of the main defense line, were quickly putting two and two together.

Beyond them was a line of bullrushes, and beyond that, the beginning of an almost impenetrable tract of swampland that stretched all the way from the far banks of the Banana River. It was from here that the estrich had fled. Each trooper in the eight-man squad reached the same conclusion simultaneously. Somebody—or something—was out there, either in the bullrushes or in the swamp beyond.