Wingman (21 page)

"Aye, Fitzgerald said, sipping a drink. "The 'Aks are big on insurance." "Fitz, do you realize that they are holding enough talent and experience to start an air force?

And a damn good one?" Hunter said in frustration.

"I know, Hawker. But I can't imagine any of your boys turning, can you?"

"No, riot many. We had a few freelancers who might. In fact, Jones was convinced that at least one of them was an 'Ak spy."

"Sounds like the Mid-Atlantics. Fookin' backstabbers," Fitz spat out. "I hate them, too, Hawker. But I have no choice but to deal with them. If I don't they'll be on my ass, like they were on yours."

If he had learned anything in his month at The Aerodrome it was a sympathy for Fitzie's "If you pay, you stay" philosophy. It was business, not politics. In fact, since the Mid-Aks took over Logan, business had increased at The Aerodrome. The Free Canadians, many of which were actually ex-patriate Americans, shared the almost universal hate of the Mid-Atlantic. They refused to deal with them, so had been rerouting their convoys away from Boston and through Syracuse, adding more landing fee money to Fitzie's already burgeoning coffers.

"Look, Hawker, this means you can stay here longer." Fitzgerald said. "Enjoy yourself. Why go off fighting wars that don't mean a pig's ass? These days, it's hired gun versus hired gun. There are no more issues. There are no more causes or flags to rally around. Why get killed if you don't have to, just because you're on someone's payroll? It's a different world out there, since you and I flew for the Air Force."

Hunter had heard it all before. It was the essence of the reason Jones bugged out of Otis. It was a mercenary’s world. They were pawns in the new era of

warfare-as-chess game. It was a game of bluffs and counter-bluffs. We've got more than you. We want your land. We've got ten thousand guns. You've got only five thousand.

We've got a squadron of jets. You've got only a handful. Please vacate the premises.

Go quietly. Find new work. We're the new bosses. Our countries have merged and you're out of a job. Argue and you die. And only the stupid mercenaries wound up dead.

Of course, personal disputes were common. The general's retaliatory strike on Baltimore was personal. So was his own leveling of Otis. The streets of The

Aerodrome-especially on drunken Saturday nights-were the scene of many a personal knife fight, gun fight, even an occasional bazooka fight. That's why everybody-pilots to bartenders, monkeys to hookers-was armed.

It was Dodge City revisited. And more and more, pilots were choosing to settle arguments over girls, guns or money, not in the main street, where dueling wasn't permitted, but in dogfights. These aerial duels were fought high above a relatively unpopulated part of the Aerodrome's territory, known by everyone as "the OK Corral."

The battles were photographed by gun cameras on chase planes and on the combatant's planes themselves, making it all the easier for the betting people in the saloons below to wager on the outcome.

And countries carried vendettas against each other occasionally. But the day of massive armies facing each other were probably gone for a while. No one wanted it. No country could expect it of their soldiers-for-hire. Not when it was so easy just to move on and find another job. And it would be bad for business.

"Hawker, me friend," Fitzgerald started again. "You can make a healthy living here. With no worries. You'll be rich. You have a reputation, boy. You could hire yourself out as the best escort flyer around, once you get your bird back together.

Fly for me. No one will ever want to tangle with you. You can make it on your name alone.

You've earned it. We have the work. We have the booze. We have the girls! What more can you want, lad?"

Hunter could only shake his head. Who knows if
anyone
ever made it out to the Coast? Who cared if he made it out there or not? And what the hell were they going to do once they got out there? Fitzgerald's offer was tempting, to say the least.

"Think about it, boy," Fitzgerald said on leaving.

Aki appeared carrying a freshly pressed pair of his coveralls. She took the towel from him and smiled. Her hand found itself lingering between his legs.

"Dress now?" she asked.

He looked at her beautiful Oriental features. Almond shaped eyes. Long black hair.

Beautiful brown skin. Her lithe figure accented by the Fitzie-designed revealing maid uniforms.

"Dress? Now?" she asked him again, her hand stroking his upper thighs and more.

He drained his drink. "Dress, later," he said, leading her to the bedroom. "Think, later," he said to himself.

Hunter decided to decide-about his trip only when his F-16 was back flying. When in doubt, procrastinate, he thought. One thing seemed certain: there was no longer any hurry. He had all the time in the world.

Or, so he thought . . .

It was early one morning, a month and a half into his new job, when he was told to expect a big job to land within the hour. The plane would need a quick radar controls replacement. It was carrying valuables and was overdue at its destination.

Hunter looked at the repair order, radioed in from the plane minutes before, and was surprised at one of the entries. It read the flight had originated in eastern Europe, via Boston. This made him suspicious. Just like the Free Canadians who refused to do business with the Mid-Aks once they took over the Northeast Economic Zone, many of the companies flying in from Iceland had disdained landing at Logan, diverting to fields in Canada instead.

So it was a rare flight that came straight over from Europe to Boston. He checked its final destination and got another surprise: New Chicago. The city and territories controlled by the notorious organization known as The Family.

From what Hunter knew of The Family, he didn't like them. They sounded like a variation of the Mid-Aks; smaller, but just as treacherous; a good-sized army, but no air force that he knew of. The Family made its money on heavily taxing its citizens, gun sales, drug running and selling young girls on the black market. Another enterprise was selling protection to the smaller territories surrounding the city's borders. Their links to the air pirates were widely-suspected.

Now a cargo plane was flying from eastern Europe, stopping off in Mid-Ak territory and continuing on to New Chicago. Hunter was very anxious to get a look at this mysterious aircraft.

An hour later, right on schedule, the plane appeared high above the field,

circling while it received landing clearance. Hunter made sure that he was out on the tarmac when the plane came in. He began to smell a rat when he saw the plane was not of usual manufacture. It was a huge Antonev AN-12 cargo jet, one of the largest planes in the world. It was carrying Czechoslovakian markings, the sight of which started a slow burn inside Hunter's stomach. The Czechs were allies of the Soviets, partners in the crime of the century. He had fought them in the skies over Western Europe. He had no use for them here in Syracuse.

The enormous airplane lumbered in, touched down and taxied to a deserted end of the runway. Its engines still turned but it was soon apparent that no one was getting off. Only a handful of ground service vehicles approached the plane.

Hunter intercepted his mechanics who were heading to fix the big plane's radar.

"You guys take ten," he told his monkeys. "I'll do this one myself."

They gratefully accepted and handed him the radar replacement parts. He jumped into a jeep and drove out to where the plane was parked.

The fuel truck was just pulling away when he arrived. The cargo bay door in the rear of the ship was open and a man in a brown uniform motioned for him to come aboard.

This should be interesting, he thought.

And it was. He had to walk through the entire length of the aircraft, starting with its cargo hold. The plane was packed with crates clearly marked with illustrations as containing rifles, bombs and missiles. The officer, though terse and unfriendly, made no attempt to prevent him from taking it all in as he walked through the two-tiered plane.

They reached a ladder and he climbed up and into the plane's cockpit. The flight crew looked at him indifferently as he undid the broken-down radar control module and replaced it with the new part. They spoke sparingly, but when they did, it was in some East European dialect. For the most part, the crew sat quietly while he worked, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee.

The door to the passenger hold remained closed most of the time. But just as he was about to leave, the plane's navigator opened the hatch, probably on his way to the can. It was then that Hunter was able to see the valuables the plane was carrying.

There were probably 200 passengers aboard and every last one of them was a Mid-Ak officer.

He turned to the pilot and indicated the radar would have to be tested. The pilot pushed the appropriate buttons and a display of digital lights came on and flashed.

The radar was working. The pilot nodded his head and barked something to his crew. Hunter had an idea but he knew it would take quick action. He turned to the returning navigator and made a motion to his lips.

"Smoke?" he asked. "Can I bum a butt?"

It took a little more prompting, but finally the navigator nodded his head with understanding. He dug down into his coveralls pocket and came out with a pack of cigarettes. Hunter took one, then indicated his need for a match. The navigator, wearing a slightly put-out look, produced a small box of wooden matches. Just then his pilot barked at him again, and in one of those strokes of luck that always seemed to bless Hunter, the man handed the entire box of matches to Hunter, then gave him the thumbs out signal. The pilot was already running up the engines idle to taxi and it was evident that Hunter was only one holding things up.

He gratefully accepted the matches and climbed down the ladder. No escort this time; he would have to see himself to the door. The crew would pay dearly for this impoliteness.

Lighting the cigarette, he stuck the unlit end into the box of matches and then placed it in the straw packing atop one of the crates he was sure carried ammunition.

Then he hurriedly left the plane, jumped into the jeep and cleared the area. The big plane was already moving before he was more than 100 yards away.

He was back at the hangar just as the big plane started its takeoff. The cigarette had been burning for five minutes just as the plane got off the ground. His training had taught him an unsmoked cigarette will burn for six to seven minutes-it was one way a downed pilot could tell time. This time, the cigarette served as a fuse for a do-it-yourself time bomb.

The huge jet gained altitude and began its turn west when there was an explosion in the rear of the aircraft. It was followed by several others in quick succession as the crates of bombs and missiles began to ignite. The big jet shuddered once and started to fall. With another, much greater explosion, the Antonev plunged into a hillside about five miles from the base.

The shock wave created by the crash rattled things at the base. Everyone stopped what they were doing and ran to see the source of the explosion. They stared and pointed at the hillside, some of them not knowing it was the big plane that was burning fiercely five miles away. Some shook their heads at the sight of tragedy.

Hunter, however, spat in the general direction of the crash. His bomb had done its work. He didn't care what anyone had said, this was war. He had no use for either Mid-Aks or Russian puppets, nor The Family, whose arms and ammunition were still exploding at the crash site. Screw every last one of them.

The phone in his hangar rang several times before he answered it. He knew it was Fitzgerald. He knew that the base commander might take some flak from the 'Aks, or even The Family, for the crash, though he also knew no one could ever prove it wasn't an accident. He was expecting anything from Fitzgerald-even a dismissal. But he got a surprise.

"Hawker," the Irishman began. "Those boneheads. Did they pay you for that replaced radar part?”

Hunter almost laughed. "No, Fitz, sorry," he said. "All they had were Russian rubles."

"Oh, that is a shame," Fitzgerald replied. "And judging by that fire out there, it's going to be
awfully
hard to collect."

"Take it out of my pay," Hunter told him, as another explosion ripped through the wreckage of the. plane.

"I just might do that," Fitzgerald said hanging up.

The airport crash crew was just starting to react. Hunter had to laugh again as he saw the base fire trucks, sirens screaming, purposely driving toward the crash site with all the speed of a two-legged turtle. As truck drove past him, one of the fire crew looked way and gave him a mock yawn. Hunter gave him thumbs up signal. At least Hunter knew he Only wasn't alone in his dislike for Mid-Aks. Or their allies.

Over the next few weeks he often wondered what the mission of the crashed jet had been. East European arms and Mid-Aks advisors flying to New Chicago. It made for a dangerous, volatile combination. And at best, he knew his sabotage only delayed whatever the hell was in the works. Strangely enough, Fitz never caught any grief from anyone concerning the crash. No one even bothered to contact him concerning recovering the bodies, not that there was much left. Hunter also found this to be suspicious. The plane's mission was obviously something that had started out as a well-kept secret-only to be done in by a busted radar control. And a saboteur disguised as a monkey.