Sky Ghost (20 page)

No one came back.

The next day, the Wing was sent out to hit the 20 or so airfields where the Natters were based. It was a panic mission—and the Wing paid the price. One bomber out of 317 made it back. No fighters returned.

Hunter picked up the third report. This spoke of a massive 800-plane raid that the entire Air Corps, desperate for a victory, sent against the Natter bases along the French coast.

More than half the planes came home that day—because more than half the pilots turned around before they even crossed the coastline. Those that did were simply slaughtered by the rocket planes. Nearly 400 airplanes—
both
bombers and fighters—went down.

That’s when Air Corps Command stopped all bombing missions over the Continent. They simply couldn’t take the bomber losses. Even worse, the American side had been so certain the war was winding down—again—that they’d actually started pulling bombers back to the U.S. and mustering out their crews! Now they had almost no pilots.

The final blow came in the next report. Apparently bucking HQ’s orders, Jones, the Wing CO, had gathered some intelligence on his own and had put together a huge strike of bombers, training bombers, even cargo planes carrying bombs.

They went off to hit a Natter assembly plant in occupied Belgium. They ran into bad weather coming in on the target and that had thrown off the aiming mechanisms in the lead airplanes. Still, the Wing unloaded 12,000 tons of bombs on what they thought was the Natter factory—but it wasn’t. They hit a hospital for POWs instead. Then, on the outbound leg, they were attacked by hordes of Natters, Me-666s, and Horton flying wings. The Wing was decimated.

How bad was that day? One crew, it was reported, was so in the thick of it and so freaked out, they detonated their unused bombs and blew themselves up as well as five other planes around them.

Once again, no airplanes returned.

That’s when General Seth Jones sat down in his chair. He hadn’t moved since.

Hunter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Well, that explained a lot of the strangeness around here. Obviously the CO was a highly respected man back in the States and the last thing the Air Corps wanted to do now was sack him—morale would plummet even further. So they just let him stay up here, sitting in his chair and allowing what was left of the Wing to fly hit-or-miss missions over the UK.

Waiting for the end.

Hunter saw one final piece of paper in the CO’s lap. In many ways it was the most astonishing document of them all.

It was a letter of authorization from Jones naming an officer at Wing HQ to be his Adjunct-General. Hunter read the fine print and apparently this was a position where the so-named officer would in effect take over all duties for the CO. He would run the operations. He would run the missions. He would pick the targets. Everything.

Yet the place where the officer’s name was to be filled in was blank.

Hunter studied the letter. It was slightly stained, slightly dog-eared. It was obvious at least one person had read it besides the CO. And if one person was aware of its contents, then the entire Wing would be.

So to Hunter’s mind, it wasn’t that no one had seen the blank line to fill in—there simply hadn’t been any takers.

And why should there be? No one wanted to be the Captain of the
Titanic.
So they were just waiting around for the patient to the.

Now it was Hunter who sat down and became motionless in a chair. Staring out the frosted window, looking at the same view the catatonic CO had watched for nearly four months, he thought about his very strange life.

He was from somewhere else. He wasn’t sure where, but he had to assume that if he got here from there, then maybe somehow, someday, he’d be able to get back.

But how and when would that ever happen? He didn’t know, but deep inside he was certain it wasn’t going to happen while this screwy war was still going on.

He would need a great mind to get him back to where he came from, and the way he saw it, all the great minds were either working on the war or in hiding.

So, in the logical sway of things, it would follow that the quickest way for him to reach his goal, was for him to do whatever he could to shorten this war. Somehow. Some way.

It was a long shot—he knew that. But what was the alternative? Sit back and wait for the end? He wasn’t exactly sure yet what kind of a person he was back in his old life, but he knew at least he wasn’t someone who would just give up and wait for the book to be closed. Not without a fight. Not without trying something, no matter how outrageous.

He looked down at the letter of authorization. The CO’s signature was just a scribble, and the ink had stained, but it was still written by a man who knew he was fading fast—and wanted to do something about it.

And maybe this was what Hunter was supposed to do, he thought. From the back of his skull, a voice was urging him on, telling him, yes
this
was exactly what he should do.

And then, a plan began formulating in his mind.

He sat there for at least half an hour. The wind blowing outside, the frozen officer not five feet away.

Then he simply stood up, folded the letter, and put it in his pocket.

Then he left the office.

I
T WAS 1800 HOURS
, six o’clock in the evening.

Dreamland base had been shut down tight all day as a fierce blizzard blanketed the Circle bases and halted all operations.

Alone as always in the large, ghostly barracks, Hunter had spent the day finally reading the manual on the Mustang-5. He was glad he had it, if just to pass the time, but he really didn’t learn anything new. Flying was doing, and if you’re doing then you were past learning.

The day also gave him time to build the plan which had germinated in his visit to the CO’s office earlier. Even he had to admit it was a monster of an idea. Multifaceted. Dangerous. Outlandish even. It made him wonder once again: Just who the hell was he in his previous life that he would even dream up the sort of scheme he was now contemplating? There was no answer to that, he guessed—so he didn’t dwell on it.

Instead, he just went with the flow.

A third set of thoughts had played on his mind all day too. It had to do with the last mission he’d flown, the one over Ireland with the 3234th. Why would it not let go of him? He didn’t know.

But in a strange way, that’s what the first part of his plan was all about.

The wind abated a little and Hunter took that as a sign that he should get moving. The weather here was unpredictable to say the least. He had to take advantage of any break in the squall.

He put the manual away and raided one of the barracks’ clothes lockers. He liberated two sweaters, an extra flight suit, two woolen hats, and a pair of thermal gloves. None of them appeared to have been owned by any of the deceased residents of the barracks. This was just fine with him. He climbed into the clothes, being careful to layer himself as he did so.

He’d secured a quart bottle of Hard Jack from the OC’s reticent bartender earlier in the day, 180 proof no less. He also bought a thick piece of dried pepper beef, a favorite of the maintenance crews. It was enough food and booze to man a small party. Now he took a long slug of the booze; it went down like gasoline. He took a bite of the beef, and it tasted worse than the booze—at first anyway. Thus fortified and bundled, he went out the back door of the barracks.

The bitter wind greeted him like a punch in the mouth. Another quick swig of Jack dulled that pain. Another chaw of beef would keep his mouth moving, important for what lay ahead.

He took a deep breath and took a look around. The wind had died down to a mere gale. It was cloudy as always, and some snow was still falling—but it would not be difficult for him to find his destination.

Over the snowy hills to the north, the glow of lights was intense, amplified by the low cloud cover. There was a definite orange tint to this glow. Halogen, Hunter guessed correctly. The lights were about half a mile away.

Then he turned to his left. Off to the northwest, there was another glow. This one was greenish, about two miles away. Beyond that, some more orange, and beyond that some more blues and greens. All around him, in an almost 360-degree sweep, the lights from the 12 bases which made up the Circle Wing glowed against the night sky like the aurora borealis.

He took another slug of Jack, a third mouthful of pepper beef, and then started off, up and over the first hill, trudging over the hard-packed snow and ice.

He would head towards the orange lights first.

The hike was not as bad as it could have been.

Sure the wind was blowing, and ice crystals filled the night air. But Hunter soon discovered he had the ability to put himself into another state of mind for the trek, just as he was able to put himself in another place while riding the long flights home from the UK bombing missions.

If he didn’t dwell too much on the wind and the subzero temperature, then it ceased being windy and cold. The stars helped too. The sky was hardly clear, but there were some occasional breaks in the overcast, and sometimes they were big enough for a patch of stars to peek through. The night sky was much different up here, near the North Pole, than it had been in the view from his prison cell. The stars seemed brighter, and there were many more of them. The clouds moved quickly and gave him only tantalizing glimpses of the most impressive constellations, but these were enough to keep him entertained during the long, icy march.

He reached his first destination 55 minutes later. He topped an ice hill and suddenly, there it was before him. Four huge runways, a couple of dozen buildings, a half dozen maintenance hangars. About 100 B-24/52 bombers, lined up wing-to-wing on the frozen tarmac.

It was Circle Field #3. Home of the 999th Bomber Squadron.

Hunter made it to the edge of the base, stripped off his overalls and hid the bottle of Jack. There was no fence, no barrier preventing him from just walking on to the base. Just like his own airfield, security here was nonexistent.

He made directly for the base’s officer’s club. He found it quickly and was heartened to see the lights burning within. He pushed back his hair, took one more gulp of the icy air, and went through the front door.

The place was livelier than the club back at the 2001st. Much livelier. There were two fights going on when Hunter walked in. The floor was wet with booze, spit, and even blood. Fists connecting, bottles breaking, the mayhem seemed routine. But many people were just sitting around too. Clutches of unkempt pilots at out-of-the-way tables, eating, drinking, playing cards. The air was thick with both cigarette smoke and pot. This was obviously the normal state of affairs for this place.

Hunter drew few glances coming in, and quickly made for the bar. He ordered a whiskey, drained it, and then ordered another. Then he asked the bartender a question.

“Who’s the big cheese here tonight?”

The barkeep didn’t reply. He just nodded to a man sitting alone in one corner of the hall. His back was to everyone else.

“What’s he drink?” Hunter asked the bartender.

“Anything,” was the reply.

“Give me two,” Hunter said.

The bartender did so. Hunter walked over and put the two massive glasses of whiskey on the table, next to the six full glasses already there. Apparently everyone was buying drinks for this guy.

The man never looked up. He just stared at the new glass of whiskey in front of him. Hunter sat down.

And then it got a little weird.

He intended to ask the man about the current state of his depleted squadron—but before the words could get out, the man looked up at him.

Hunter nearly dropped his glass. The guy was in his mid thirties, just a touch of gray in his hair, a lot of Irish in his face. He was a little chunky, but very tough-looking.

And Hunter swore that he’d met him before.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man wanted to know.

“Do I know you?” Hunter asked him.

The man just stared back at him, and slowly took a long sip of whiskey.

“You one of my new pilots?” he finally asked Hunter, still sizing him up. “I wasn’t told I’d be getting any…”

“I’m from the 2001st,” he told the man. “You know? Right over the hill?”

This barely registered on the man.

“You here to borrow a cup of sugar?” he asked derisively—but Hunter could tell his heart was not completely in his bitterness.

“I’m the fighter guy who flew with you three days ago,” Hunter said, tasting his own whiskey.

The man laughed and took another swig. “Oh, that was you?” he asked. “Showed a lot of initiative, my friend.”

It might have been as close as he would come to getting a compliment out of the man.

“Just trying to do the gig,” Hunter replied. “You lost a lot of guys that day.”

The man swigged his drink and snorted.

“Where you been, pal? You read the papers? We’ve been losing guys like that for the past four months.”

“Any interest in trying to change that?” Hunter asked him point-blank.

“Besides staying on the ground you mean?” the man asked back.

“I mean finally doing something that will have some kind of effect on all this, instead of wasting eight hundred lives dropping bombs into a big hole in the ground,” Hunter told him.

The CO drained his glass of whiskey and let out another drunken cough.

“Anything is better than what we’re doing now,” he said.

“Your men feel the same way?”

“What’s left of them, yes.”

The man started on another drink. Two drunks went flying through the air right in back of him. He didn’t flinch a muscle.

“How many aircraft do you think are still operational here?” Hunter asked him.

The man shrugged and burped.

“We got about a hundred and six that can still get airborne,” he replied. “The whole Wing, counting trainers and cargo humps? Maybe eleven hundred or so. It was six thousand this time last year.”

“You think there’s enough pilots left to fly all those planes?”