Sky Ghost (21 page)

“Barely,” was the man’s reply. “Why all these questions?”

Hunter just shrugged. “Might have something cooking. Maybe a different way of doing business.”

The guy laughed again.

“You? How can you change anything?” he asked Hunter. “You’re the newest guy on the Circle.”

“Leave the details to me,” Hunter told him.

The guy drained his drink in one great swallow and started on another.

“Well, whatever you have in mind, count us in,” he said with a slur. “It will be entertaining, if nothing else.”

Hunter finished his own drink, and then stood up. “Someone will be in touch,” he said.

But the man didn’t hear him. He was already nose-deep in his next glass.

Hunter headed for the door. Step one in a long process was complete. But one thought still lingered.

He passed by the bar.

“That guy,” he asked the bartender. “The CO. What’s his name anyway?”

The bartender snorted a laugh too. “If you don’t know who he is, you must be very new around here.”

“I am,” Hunter replied. “So?”

“That man’s name,” the bartender said, “Is Captain P.J. O’Malley.”

Ten minutes later, Hunter was trudging through the snow again.

He’d retrieved his bottle of Jack and his extra clothes and had started out over the hills once more. He was fairly drunk by now, dangerous in such freezing weather, but OK with him. The wind was not blowing, and the air was not cold. He’d convinced himself of that, and thus it was so.

About a mile away, he saw yellow lights. They were his next goal. And he was inside another state of mind again too. But this one had nothing to do with the stars or constellations.

His feet were stepping through foot-high snow.
Crunch! Crunch!
The noise he made with his boots seemed awfully loud.

That guy back at the 999th—his Irish face, his drinking habits, his old-at-35 demeanor. Damn, Hunter knew him. Knew him and had drank with him and had fought with him. He could feel it in his skin, in his bones and way,
way
in the back of his skull.

But who the hell was he?

Crunch! Crunch!
The snow was getting deeper and the ice harder but Hunter trudged on.

The voice in his ear back on the huge chopper. The man named Fitzgerald and that familiar Irish brogue. He was sure he’d known him too. But who the hell had Hunter hung around with in his previous place? A bunch of Micks? Is that why he was drinking so much? And what was next? A fistfight? A brawl with a Protestant?

The phenomenon of thinking he recognized people was the exact same feeling as déjà vu—whatever the hell that was. Maybe, though, it just happened to be that the two people with which he’d had this deep impression were Celtic. If it happened a third time, that might hold the key.

But that guy O’Malley, back at the 999th. He looked
so
familiar.

Crunch! Crunch!

The yellow lights were slowly getting closer, even as the wind became stronger. It was hitting him on the lee side now and he used it to move him along.

Crunch! Crunch!

What was it going to be like when he reached the yellow lights?

Forty minutes later, Hunter came up over the hill, taking his last swing of Jack and chewing his last piece of beef.

The first thing he saw on the other side were the frozen runways. Once again there were no fences, no guards patrolling the perimeter of the airfield. No less than eight dozen B-l 7/B-36 bombers were waiting in the snow beyond a group of buildings.

Appropriately enough, they were bathed in the yellowish lights.

Hunter let out a long cold breath. His second destination was now before him. Circle Base Four. The home of the 13th Heavy Bombardment Squadron.

The 13th’s operations hall was filled to capacity.

Every seat was taken, and some people were standing along the walls. No less than 16 officers were sitting atop a slightly raised stage at one end. Each one was crisply dressed. Each one had his own microphone. Cameras were running from three angles. Someone tested the mikes, and there was a squeal of feedback. The lights dimmed. The premission briefing had begun.

A huge moving map was projected on the screen behind the officers. It showed the British Isles.

Someone hit a special effects button and dozens of little cartoonish flames began popping up on the map. Obviously these were the targets intended for the 13th the next day.

Now little weather clouds were coming into view. They were thick over the North Sea, but clear over the British Isles. This brought a smattering of applause from the assembled bomber pilots.

Another switch was thrown, and now dozens of bombers were popping on the screen. Each one was unique, and they each bore different numbers, different paint schemes, different nose art. They looked oddly realistic. Even their little propellers were turning. More applause; some hoots. The individual pilots began busily writing down exactly where their particular airplanes were in the animated formation.

The briefing continued. The cartoon bombers neared their targets. Numbers up and down the sides of the screen showed bombing routes for individual packages, approach and egress paths, and projected weather for the ride home. At the very end, the words
Enemy Air Activity
flashed onto the screen. This brought a hush from the pilots. Then came the notation:
Details Currently Classified.

This definitely took the wind out of the room. The place became very quiet, and finally the animation ended. The screen disappeared into the ceiling and the curtains were closed—but the lights stayed down.

“OK,” someone called out finally. “What are we
really
going to do?”

Thus began a very strange discussion among the pilots. What the person meant was, where was the 13th
really
going to drop their bombs? In the ocean? Or on land somewhere?

“If we find the right place, with some buildings on terrain,” one pilot said, “we can turn on the cameras and at least get some photos of it. It would be a better way to prove we flew the mission than just dumping our loads into the sea again.”

“But where is such a place?” another pilot asked. “What piece of land can we unload over that’s not within range of some enemy aircraft? We can’t bomb the Faeroe Islands again. We’ve got too many films of bombing seagulls already.”

It was a real dilemma for the 13th. When the Wing CO went catatonic, most of the squadrons around the Circle just began operating on their own. Doing their own thing. Some flew regular missions. Some went overboard and showed initiative beyond what could be expected. Some sent up only a few airplanes. Some sent up the whole kit and caboodle. Some didn’t fly at all.

The 13th was different. They all wanted to fly their 50 missions so they could go home as heroes—so flying was never the question. However, they were all of the ilk that they didn’t want to risk their lives while fulfilling their mission quotas. So they became very adept at dumping loads and not meeting the enemy at all. They’d bombed the small Faeroe Islands many times already, just to get smoky film as proof of completing their mission. Most of the time though, they just dumped their loads at sea.

The mission to the Isle of Man two days ago had thrown a monkey wrench into this method of operation, though. For the first time in a very long time, some fighter support showed up. Small as it was, it had come as a shock. It also gave them a witness, which was the last thing they wanted.

So they had to improvise that day. They actually flew the mission, hoping that the enemy would do them a favor and shoot down the hero. When they saw him dive into two dozen German interceptors, they figured that was enough. They all turned tail and headed for home, dropping their bombs at sea. As far as they knew, the guy went down somewhere over the Isle of Man.

“How about dumping at the very northern corner of Scotland again?” another pilot asked.

“That makes damn good film, or we can edit some stuff together again and…”

And so the discussion went on. Two hundred pilots and officers, using big words and lots of military terminology, trying to figure out the best way to be derelict in their duty for yet another day.

Finally they decided that next time they went up, they would simply dump their bombs at sea.

That done, the top officer, the man who had led the mission over the Isle of Man two days before, came to the podium and asked: “Any questions?”

Only one hand went up. It was way in the back, in the last row. It belonged to someone who’d come late to the meeting.

“Yes?” the 13th CO asked.

“How come you guys are so chicken?” the voice in the back shouted out.

A gasp went through the hall. All heads turned. The man stood up. It was Hunter.

“Excuse me?” the very surprised voice from the podium asked.

“I said, why are all you guys so chicken? So yellow? What’s the secret?”

Some of the pilots stood up—but none advanced toward Hunter. As he knew they wouldn’t.

“You’re uninvited here, sir,” the CO called out from the stage.

“Too bad,” Hunter replied, feeling more than a little of the Jack.

With that, he walked down the aisle, climbed up to the stage, walked over to the CO, grabbed him by his starched shirt collar, and hissed at him: “Guess who I am?”

The CO was instantly shaking in his spit-polished flight boots.

“I…I don’t know,” he stammered.

“Well, here’s a hint,” Hunter said.

He drew his fist back and let the guy have it, right on the jaw.

The man was more stunned than hurt. Another gasp went through the room. But again, no one moved.

“Hey, what is this?” the CO yelled.

Hunter didn’t reply. He just hit him again.

This time the guy went down like a sack of bricks. He quickly scrambled to his feet—and Hunter hit him again.

And again. And again.

Hunter kept hitting the man, the man kept getting back up and Hunter just kept hitting him again.

It got to the point where the guy’s lips were bloody, both his eyes were blackened, his cheeks were puffed out like a doll. And Hunter’s hand was getting sore just from hitting him.

So finally he just stopped. He reached down, grabbed the guy, and said loud enough so the fancy microphones could pick it up, “I was your fighter cover the other day,” he said, “and if you chicken bastards ever try running out like that again, I’ll shoot you all down myself. Got it?”

There was silence in the hall.

Hunter slammed the man’s head into the podium.

“I said, Got it?”

A murmur rose up from the crowded room. It sounded deep and ashamed. “Got it,” the voices said.

Hunter slammed the man’s head on the podium again and then let him drop to the floor.

Then he climbed down off the stage and left the hall unopposed.

Phase two was complete.

Colonel Crabb was the only person on the Circle who had his own car.

It was a DeSoto, of course. One of their latest all-weather vehicles, called the VistaWagon. It was a combination limousine, all-terrain vehicle, and taxicab. It had huge seats inside, a well-stocked bar, a small kitchen, and an outstanding music system. Outside it was able to move through the ice and snow thanks to six huge heavy-treaded tires and a host of Accu-drive options.

Crabb had just left Circle Base Eight, had cut across the hills, and picked up two of his girls at Base Five. They’d been booked there for a “private” performance of a dance called: “Nursery Rhyme #17—Jill & Jill.”

It was one of Crabb’s favorites.

Now he was climbing another hill, keeping his car on the very narrow ice road while six of his dancers lounged in the back, all in various stages of undress.

Crabb had been driving these dark snowy paths for nearly a year now—he’d been “entertaining” at the Circle bases for that long, and while the pay was good, he was kind of stuck here. While the crowds for his type of entertainment would undoubtedly have been bigger back in the U.S., he felt it was his duty to stay here now that things had changed so drastically. He felt his services were needed more than ever.

But in all his times of driving the back iceways, never once had he picked up a hitchhiker.

But there was a first time for everything.

He came upon Hunter walking alone just as it began snowing again.

Crabb beeped twice; he recognized the young fighter pilot from the 2001st’s OC performances. On the first beep, Hunter whirled around, and with perfect timing, stuck out his thumb as if he were indeed hitchhiking.

Of course, Crabb stopped.

“What happened to you?” he asked Hunter. “Land your airplane at the wrong place?”

“No one back there would know what to do with it if I did,” Hunter, replied, indicating the yellow haze of the 13th’s airfield about half a mile back.

“Only place we don’t play,” Crabb told him. “Tried it once. The girls got scared, and I never got paid.”

“Not surprised to hear that,” Hunter replied.

“Need a lift back to The Dream?” Crabb asked. “I’m going that way eventually.”

Hunter looked inside the vehicle and saw half a dozen dancers from the Colonel’s show huddled among the rear seats.

“You sure you got room?” Hunter asked.

Crabb winked.

“Sure,” he replied slyly. “But I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you to sit in the back. That OK?”

Hunter took another look in at the girls, huddling together, young painted faces smiling back at him. He took a sniff. They smelled great.

“Yeah,” Hunter said climbing in, “I think I’ll manage.”

“I got one stop to make,” Crabb told him. “Over at Base Six. That OK?”

Hunter started to comment what a coincidence that would be—that’s just where he wanted to go. But he stopped himself and just nodded.

“Yes, that’s fine with me,” he said instead.

There were no lights blazing in the ops hall at Base Six.

Not electrical ones anyway.

Crabb pulled his car up to the front of the place and dimmed his headlights.

“Quiet here tonight,” he told Hunter. “Not that that’s so unusual.”

“Can you give me about 20 minutes?” Hunter asked him.