Wingman (25 page)

Hunter could see the Voodoo behind him, bringing up the rear. A familiar feeling washed over him. He suddenly felt aware of the presence of other planes. Sure enough, the C-47's battered old radar scope showed three jets gaining on them

"We got company," he said, reaching for the microphone. "Voodoo, this is Spooky."

"Go Spooky," Frost replied.

"Bogies to your six o'clock."

"We see them, Spooky. Do you still want to stick to the plan?"

"Affirmative, Voodoo," Hunter replied.

"Roger, Spooky."

Hunter knew the blips that were getting larger on the radar screen were the three pirate Super Sabres they had seen at The Pitts. He was sure one word was on the lips of everyone at the terminal, especially after the spectacular getaway.

That word was "diamonds."

The man in the black hat had found their shipment all right, Hunter theorized, but he had gotten greedy and foolishly told his superiors, the gunmen who controlled the airport. Instead of cutting him in on the action, they had cut his throat instead, then attempted to split the jewels among themselves. Hunter and Zal had arrived outside the Control Room door just as a fight broke out among the top gunmen inside. One flash grenade later, everyone in the room had been blinded and the next thing the gunmen knew, the diamonds were gone. An alarm had sounded and the chase was on.

Now, Hunter was sure, a desperate deal had been struck between the airport gunmen and the pirates. Get the jewels. We'll split later, 50-50. If the gunmen were foolish enough to deal with their erstwhile allies the pirates, the pirates were smart enough to know that if the jewels were recaptured there would be no dividing of the spoils.

Hunter checked the blips and saw the F-100s were gaining fast. Like most of the pirates' planes, the Super Sabres were equipped with night fighting equipment. Telling Al and Zal to hold on tight, he started evasive maneuvers, in an attempt to throw off the pursuers. But the jets stuck right with him.

"Spooky, this is Voodoo," Frost called. "Bogies gaining on you. Are you still roger on the plan?"

"Affirmative, Voodoo," Hunter said.

With that, Frost kicked in the Voodoo's afterburner and the jet fighter streaked by the lumbering C-47. He peeled off, taking one of the F-100s with him. The Voodoo was quicker and more agile than the Super Sabre. Frost put this to his advantage, executing a quick loop which put the Voodoo on the Super Sabre's tail. LeFleur, the backseat weapons officer, pushed a button and a Sidewinder obliterated the F-100.

But the F-101 kept right on going. It headed north and soon it was little more than a faint red light on the horizon. The two remaining Super Sabres were now right on the C-47. A voice crackled across the radio. "Okay, you piece of shit," the gruff voice said. "Your Canuck buddy has turned pussy. Follow us on a three-four heading, or we grease you right now."

Before Hunter could reply, one of the F-100s opened up, tearing his left wing with cannon fire and starting a major fuel leak.

"That's your warning shot," a voice on the radio laughed. "Now follow us while you're still breathing."

Hunter's left engine was now on fire, his fuel pouring out of the perforated left wing. One of the pirate jets pulled alongside him, the pilot dropping his flaps and landing gear to slow the supersonic airplane down to match the C-47's 150 knot speed.

"This is your last chance, Spooky," the pilot in the jet beside him radioed.

"Airfield is three-four, ten miles. You can't last much longer. Put it down there."

Hunter knew the pirate was right. Even an extraordinary pilot like Hunter couldn't keep the old bird together for more than another two minutes before it broke up. And it would be suicidal if they parachuted out-the pirates were well-known for strafing chutists. He would have to take his chances on the ground.

Now, all he had to do is find the pirates' air field . . .

They were somewhere high over western Pennsylvania. The terrain below him was black as coal and twice as rugged.

"There ain't nothing down there but trees and mountains," Al said, straining to look out the C-47's window at the ground below.

"Well, we'd better find something smooth real quick," Hunter said, eyeing his fuel indicator. It had already passed the empty mark.

The Spooky shuddered once, then started vibrating violently. The left wing was aflame, and would soon break off.

"Where the hell is their base?" Zal yelled, the anxiety evident in his voice.

"Maybe they're just trying to crash us, Major," Al said. "That's how they usually work."

"Hang on," Hunter coolly reminded them. "Those '100s have to land somewhere. As long as we're flying, we still have a chance."

Just then, the left side propeller broke off and let go, taking most of the engine with it. The C-47 yawed wildly to the left.

"Christ!" Al yelled as the plane almost flipped over. Zal was tossed like a puppet around the cockpit. It was all Hunter could do to battle the controls and try bringing the old plane back to level. The Spooky was shuddering so badly, he thought every nut and bolt must be ready to come apart. He finally managed to get the airplane somewhat leveled off, but he knew they had about 30 seconds left, tops. They were simultaneously running out of fuel, altitude and time.

Suddenly, a mile up ahead, runway lights blinked on. An instant later, other lights-in buildings, hangars and antiaircraft guns-came on. A control tower materialized out of nowhere. Searchlights went up. It was amazing. One moment he was looking out on a sea of darkness, and the next he was looking down at a good sized, one-runway airbase that just wasn't there moments before. The pirates had dug an airbase right out of the side of a mountain. It was perfectly camouflaged on three sides and almost impossible to see at night. He had to give them credit. If nothing else, the bandits were masters of disguise.

He had to fly straight in. The plane's controls were starting to fail. His left engine had completely broken away leaving the wing to flap away in the wind. The right engine was sputtering and choking out think black smoke. A lesser plane would have disintegrated long ago. But Hunter knew the Spooky would stay together until the last possible moment.

The two remaining F-100s, streaked past and went around again in order to land behind them. Below, he could see crowds of pirates had appeared along one side of the runway. He would have an audience for the landing. Assuming that he and his crew survived the crash, he wondered if they would survive the welcoming committee.

He came in wheels up, flaps down, floating along at 50 knots. Ten feet above the landing strip he cut the engine. Then, as softly as possible, he eased the Spooky down.

The flaming plane screeched as it touched the ground. It slid along the full length of the runway, the disabled wing and belly scraping the asphalt and sending up a shower of sparks. The left wing snapped off making the plane turn two complete 360s while still barreling along the runway. Finally, as it neared the end of the strip, the C-47 went nose down and ground to a halt.

They were down. Now they had to get out. He, Al and Zal quickly scrambled to the emergency hatch beneath the cockpit and squeezed through. Then they ran. Hunter could hear a distinctive hissing sound and knew an explosion was seconds away. Even the pirates nearby were hitting the deck.

"Down!" he yelled.

All three hit the hard surface and covered their heads. The plane blew up two seconds later, producing a fireball that leaped into the air and scattered pieces of debris all over them and the runway. The ground shook as two more explosions wracked the plane. Then there was only the crackling noise of fire.

The smoke cleared and the rain of sparkling debris stopped. They shook the pieces of airplane off their backs and tried to shake some sense back into their heads. Then they looked up. Standing around them were more than 100 men, all of them armed, all of them dressed in leather, all of them sporting shaved heads.

"You fucked up our runway, boys," one of them said. "That makes us mad."

Not as mad as you're going to be, Hunter thought. Hunter didn't have the diamonds; Captain Frost did. As planned, he had passed them to the Sky Marshal during the hectic moments back at The Pitts. He knew the Canadian would deliver them safely to Fitz and Gus-in fact, the jewels were probably already in their possession. So, in essence, Hunter had completed the mission. Now, all he had to do was live long enough to collect the $150,000 from Gus.

They were hustled up and pushed at gunpoint by six pirate guards toward a building located at the far end of the base. As they walked along, Hunter could see that theirs was hardly the first plane to crash at the base. In fact, wreckage of other planes-dozens of them-littered the end and sides of the runway. Many a plane had been forced down at the hidden airfield, their cargoes looted, their crews done away with. Hunter knew the pirates planned to treat them no differently.

They were pushed into the small, one-room structure that served as the pirates'

jail. It contained three chairs, a few empty oil drums, one window, and that was it.

The pirate guards didn't speak a word as they roughly searched them, then tied them to the chairs. Hunter detected the smell of alcohol on them as they fastened him to the wooden chair. Once all three of them were secured, the guards checked the rope knots and left. Outside, Hunter could hear the pirate ground crew using a tow vehicle to hastily drag what remained of the C-47 wreckage to one side of the runway. Once the strip was cleared, the two circling Super Sabres landed. Hunter heard one of them run out of fuel just as it touched down. He knew the pilot would be particularly pissed off at them.

A short time later, the door burst open and the two surviving pilots, followed by another phalanx of guards, trooped in.

"Where are the fucking diamonds!" the lead pirate screamed.

Hunter recognized him as the pirate flyer who had flown into The Pitts in the black F-100 sporting the laughing shark's mouth. He was a big, dirty, fat slob of a man; Hunter had a hard time believing the man could squeeze himself into the cockpit of a jet fighter. He could smell liquor on the man's breath; in fact, the whole group of pirates reeked of a boozy smell. They were far from a military unit, Hunter thought; these Stukas were little more than a band of two-bit murderers and thieves. And to think many of them were probably officers in the country's armed forces at one time made them more of a disgrace to Hunter's way of thinking,

"Diamonds?" Hunter said with a straight face. "What diamonds?"

Al almost burst out laughing. What boot? What plane? What diamonds? It all seemed to fit.

"Don't give me that shit, you lousy nail driver," the man screamed again. "I almost pranged my ass 'cause you fucked up the runway and now you're going to play wise-ass?"

They obviously didn't recognize Hunter.

"Slice 'em, Jaws," one of the pirates told the screaming man. "Let 'em bleed and maybe the others will talk."

"They don't know where the jewels are," Hunter said. "But I do."

"So where are they, pretty boy?" Jaws demanded.

"Where they should be," he answered. "At The Aerodrome."

"He's lying, Jaws," the other pirate flyer said.

"Believe it, boys," Hunter told them. "I passed them to the Canadians and they flew right to Syracuse. Why do you think he took off when you intercepted us? He could have probably knocked all three of you out of the sky if he and I didn't have an agreement beforehand."

The pirate named Jaws looked like he was about to blow a valve. A vein was bulging out of his head with such pressure, Hunter expected it to pop at any second.

"You son of a bitch," Jaws screamed. "You got a lot of balls, buddy. We know you had a deal to pick up that shipment. If you were stupid enough to send that pisshead tax collector looking for it, then you ain't smart enough to pass them to that Canuck do-gooder."

Hunter looked the man in the eye. "You're a stupid fuck, aren't you?" he told him. "Do you think diamonds would survive a crash like that?"

The pirate guards looked at Hunter in disbelief. Jaws was the top man at the pirate base, and no one-friend or enemy-talked to the top man like that-and lived very long.

Jaws glared at Hunter. Then, oddly, enough, smiled. "I know you're lying. Jewels don't burn. They're out in that wreckage somewhere. If we don't find them by sunrise, you guys will help us look. You'll eat that wreckage if you have to. And as soon as we get what we want, you're dead meat. I'm gonna slice you up in a hundred little pieces."

"No. Burn 'em!" the other pirate flyer said, producing a bottle of brown liquor.

The pirate named Jaws grabbed the bottle from him, "Gimme that, asshole," he said, taking a long, sloppy guzzle. "Yeh, that's a good idea, Mouse," Jaws said, wiping his mouth with this dirty leather flight suit's sleeve. "If we don't find the ice, I'll tie you to the exhaust nozzle of my '100 and start the engine
real
slow. Know what it's like to get a face full of engine exhaust?"

Jaws reached into his pocket and came out with a handful of pills. Amphetamines, Hunter guessed. Taking a swig of the brown liquor, Jaws washed the drugs down, then passed some out to his men.

"It will be dark for another four hours, nail driver," Jaws said, his eyes turning to glass as he spoke. "We're gonna go through that wreck out there. You'd better pray that we find those diamonds. Because if you guys have to help us look, you'll be begging for us to kill you by the time you're through."