The Hot Pilots (15 page)

“Kind of borrowed,” Steve repeated slowly. “From Mister Cooper …” Cooper was the CIA station chief at Whetstone.

“Yes, sir.”

Steve was glad that he was wearing wire-rimmed aviator sunglasses with dark green lenses: They helped him to keep a straight
face. “What you’re telling me is that you hot-wired this?”

The airman nodded. “Just leave it running when you get to where you’re going, sir, unless you know how to start her up without
the key?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t admit it, son …”

The young airman had difficulty stifling his own grin. “I filled her up, so you won’t have any worry about running out of
gas.” He paused. “Begging your pardon, sir, do you think you might be able to return Mister Cooper’s Jeep by, say fourteen
hundred hours? That way I could put her back before he notices it’s missing.”

“I understand,” Steve said. “For the record, Air Force personnel do not steal vehicles. Off the record, I appreciate what
you’ve done.”

This kid had gone out on a limb for him. Whetstone was officially a CIA operation, which meant the spooks had authority over
the Air Force noncom personnel.

“I’ll be back in plenty of time,” Steve added, releasing the brake and putting the Jeep in gear. “If by any chance I’m not,
as far as you’re concerned, I never asked you for a Jeep.”

“Thank you, sir,” the kid said, looking relieved.

“Thank
you
, son.”

Steve drove away from the compound’s scattered clusterings of tents, trailers, and hangars, passing the airstrip where a matte
black Mayfly was parked on the ready line. The spy plane looked dismal and dispirited with its long, thin, drooping wings
propped up by wheeled struts to keep them out of the dirt, but as Steve had seen, once the Mayfly was airborne and those struts
were jettisoned, the black bird could really limber up.

Steve had made this trip to Whetstone because he’d wanted the men he’d recruited to know that he took a personal interest
in them, but being near the West Coast had also allowed him to squeeze in a week at the end of April to take his nephew camping
in the Santa Ana Mountains. Steve was grateful for that time with Robbie. The camping trip almost hadn’t come off. Back in
March, Steve’s sister had called to warn him to expect some blowback from Don on the subject. During that conversation she’d
asked again why Steve and Don were so frosty with each other, and again, Steve had ducked the question. What could he say?
The reason your husband hates me is because he caught me screwing his girl, the one he really wanted to marry
.

When Steve had first heard about Susan’s intention to marry Don he’d briefly considered coming clean with her, thinking that
she ought to know what she was getting into, bringing the guy into the family. At the last moment he’d decided to butt out,
figuring that everybody had the right to privacy about his past. Thinking back on it, Steve was glad that he’d kept his mouth
shut. When he’d visited the Harrisons in April the couple had seemed deliriously happy with each other, and with Suzy’s pregnancy.
Their baby was due the third week in January.

Steve was really glad that he hadn’t let that snafu concerning Linda Forrester spoil things for Don and Suzy.
Especially
now that Linda was ancient history for
everyone
involved …

The Jeep rattled and creaked as Steve steered around the worst potholes and rocks in the narrow, jutted road. The terrain
resembled Death Valley: sparse vegetation in a dusty, arid land the leached out colors of dried blood and polished bone. There
was a hot wind picking up. As Steve drove he hunched down, turning up his collar, grateful for his flight suit’s long sleeves
and trouser legs. The windblown swirling grit rasped unprotected skin, drawing blood like atmospheric sandpaper.

He reached the switchback turnoff for the cave. The steep, twisty, gravel-strewn incline up the butte was more a goatpath
than a road, but the Jeep had all wheel drive. As he dropped the transmission into low and began the climb, scrub lining both
sides of the road scraped against the Jeep’s wheels and fenders. He kept glimpsing scurrying movement just ahead of his front
tires among the rust-colored rocks and low, thorny bramble. He tried his best to ignore the slitherings and creepings. This
was snake country, but Steve didn’t mind reptiles; he’d seen his share of them during his tours of duty in the tropics. Snakes
were no big deal, but back at Whetstone they had been having some trouble with tarantulas invading the compound at night.
He did not at all care for those big, hairy mothers, striped like tigers, with a leg span as wide as a man’s outstretched
fingers. Nobody at Whetstone wanted to go near the fuckers once it was discovered that they could jump six feet in any direction,
including right into your face, so the recommended procedure was to use the bugs for target practice. This drove the CIA spooks
crazy because the only firearms on the compound were their ridiculously expensive, custom-built, silenced, long-barreled .22
caliber pistols that the pilots swiped out of the Mayfly survival kits.

Steve slowed down as he approached the cave entrance set in a jumble of the rock about twenty feet above a wide spot in the
roadway. As Steve pulled up he thought he was too late because he didn’t see another Jeep, but then he saw Chet Boskins beckoning
to him from the cave’s shadowy entrance.

Boskins was a slightly built, wiry twenty-seven-year-old, with short-cut, light brown hair and blue eyes. He was wearing sunglasses
and a tan cotton baseball cap, a white T-shirt, and baggy, silver khaki fatigue trousers, with double-snap, bellows-type pockets,
tucked into black, lace-up hiking boots. Around his waist was a canvas web belt from which dangled a pair of canteens, a sheathed
survival knife, and a flapped pouch.

Steve, mindful of the engine’s hot-wired ignition, left the Jeep’s motor running, and set the parking brake. He did know how
to restart the Jeep if he had to, but why bother? It had a heavy-duty cooling system so it wouldn’t overheat. Because he was
parked on a slight incline and couldn’t use the transmission to hold the Jeep in place, he wedged a couple of good-size rocks
behind the rear tires, and then made the easy climb up to the mouth of the cave.

“Sorry I’m late,” Steve told Boskins. “I couldn’t get a Jeep. By the way, where’s yours?”

“I came cross-country,” Boskins replied.

“You walked?”

“It’s only about a mile as the crow flies,” Boskins said, and then he grinned. “I won’t say no to a ride home, however.”

Steve followed him into the shallow cave, where it was at least fifteen degrees cooler, thanks to the underground spring that
trickled down out of one of the cave’s fissured walls to collect in the small pool the eons of dripping water scooped out
of the cave’s stone floor. At least fifty cans of beer bobbed in the pool. Boskins scooped out a pair of brews and tossed
one to Steve. Thanks to its time spent immersed in the water the can was frosty cold. Steve sighed happily as he pressed the
can against his forehead.

Boskins opened his beer with the church key he’d pulled from his belt pouch, and then tossed it to Steve, who opened his brew
and took a long swallow. As he drank, the sweat came popping out of his pores almost faster than he could take the liquid
in, but the cold beer nonetheless hit the spot.

This cave had been discovered by some of the pilots while on a cross-country training hike. Now, Air Foce supply personnel
kept the cave stocked with beer, and hauled away the litter of empties that periodically carpeted the cave floor as those
in the know spent as many evenings here as they could. The cave was kept a secret from the spooks, who had banned alcohol
from Whetstone. Steve felt honored to have been let in on the secret; he was, after all, technically straddling the fence
between the Air Force and the CIA.

Steve and Boskins settled side by side on a couple of the canvas camp stools that had been left in the cave, and lit cigarettes.
“Your note had me upset, Lowball,” Steve began. “What’s wrong? You’re not still upset over the way I waxed your tail the other
day?”

“Nah.” Boskins smiled. “I’ve already managed to forget that ever happened.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

“It’s not just
mah
prob’em,” Boskins said quietly in his languid, cowboy drawl. “We’re all mighty upset about what’s been going on, Stevie boy…”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

Boskins looked suspicious. “What you’re telling me here is you don’t know nothing about what I’m saying?”

“That’s right,” Steve replied.

Boskins extracted something from his belt pouch and tossed it to Steve. It tumbled through the air, glinting in the dim light
coming in from the mouth of the cave. Steve caught it and held it up to the light.

“A silver dollar?” he asked, puzzled, turning the coin around in his fingers.

“Open it,” Boskins said.

“Open—?”

“Just kinda twist it apart,” Boskins explained. “And do it careful like,” he cautioned. “It’ll be my ass if you lose what’s
in there.”

Steve noticed an edge and pried the coin slightly open using his thumbnail. He then twisted it the rest of the way apart.
Stuck inside with a bit of cellophane tape was a small straight pin. He looked up inquiringly at Boskins.

“A suicide pin,” Boskins said.

“A what—?” Steve burst out laughing, thinking this was some kind of joke, but his laughter faded as Boskins frowned, straightfaced.

“The spooks told us that they developed some kind of new poison,” Boskins said. “All you got to do is jab yourself with that
there pin and according to the spooks you’ll be dead quicker than a two-dollar blow job from a big-city whore.”

“Holy shit,” Steve murmured, holding at arm’s length the half of the coin that contained the pin.

“’Course, that one there’s
supposed
to be a dud,” Boskins elaborated. “According to the spooks it ain’t been dipped or soaked, or whatever.”

“What are you doing with this thing?” Steve demanded.

“That spook in charge of survival training—”

“Woodrow Brown?”

“Yeah,
him.
” Boskins scowled. “Ole woody-pecker Brown issued them to us last week, telling us that when we train we got to go with a
full kit.” He shook his head. “Some survival training. Guess we’re only supposed to survive long enough to stick ourselves
…”

Steve carefully fit together the two halves of the hollow coin, and then tossed it back to Boskins. “Look, Lowball, I’m not
sure I see your beef … I mean, you were in Korea. You know what kind of treatment downed pilots received from the Commies.
There’s no reason to think the Russians are going to treat you any better.”

Boskins looked angry. “What you’re saying is that you agree with the spooks that if we go down we oughta kill ourselves? Save
the diplomats the trouble of trying to negotiate us home?”

“I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying that if it comes down to it, whether you allow yourself to be captured alive is totally
up to you. Nobody can force you to stick yourself with that pin. It’s your decision … All the spooks have done is give you
the option …”

“That’s what the spooks tole us,” Boskins said skeptically. “They said only us pilots can decide if death is preferable to
being tortured into telling the Reds all about the Mayfly project. Only
we
can decide if it would be more honorable to die than to embarrass our country—
and
their fuck’n
agency
—”

“Right,” Steve said.

Boskins spat. “But then they told us something
else
. That whatever we decided about
ourselves
, it was our duty to make sure that no part of the aircraft falls into enemy hands.”

“How are you supposed to do that?” Steve asked.

“The spooks are putting a bomb in each airplane, right behind the pilot’s seat. Our orders are to activate the fucker right
before we bail out. And get this.
Supposedly
, we got seventy seconds before she blows, but I’ll tell you something, Stevie. Not one of us pilots believes that.” His smile
was sardonic as he held up to the light streaming into the cave the phony silver coin. “Every one of us would bet our
bottom dollar
that as soon as we activate that bomb it’s gonna blow. No way would we have a chance to bail out.”

“You think the spooks want you to take the death before dishonor route whether you want to or not—”

“That’s right, Steve. Did you know we’re supposed to fly with no I.D. or personal effects? On one hand the spooks are telling
us it’ll be up to us to decide for ourselves whether to be taken alive or not, and on the other hand they want to make damned
sure we’re not carrying anything that’ll identify us as Americans. You know the airplane don’t carry no markings at all …”

“You guys don’t think your country is going to be there for you if you get caught …”

“Right again.” Boskins nodded firmly. “That’s just what we think, and I was elected the one to come tell you that we also
think it stinks. We don’t trust the people we’re working for, Steve, and in our kind of work, that mean’s there’s gonna be
trouble at some point down the line.”

Steve nodded. “Your job is going to be tough enough without having to be worried about getting stabbed in the back.”

“The bottom line is that we’re Air Force men, used to doing things the Air Force way,” Boskins continued. “The way you explained
this assignment I thought we was taking part in a military reconnaissance operation. I never figured on being turned into
a spy, or being treated like one by the enemy if I should fall into his hands.”

“You guys deserve to know that you won’t be forsaken,” Steve agreed.

Boskins, nodding, looked relieved. “I knew you’d see it our way…” He paused. “A bunch of us were figuring that since you brought
us in, you could fix things up for us …” He hesitated. “That is, if you got the clout …”

“I’ll certainly talk to them about this, Lowball.”

“You’ll talk to Brown?” Boskins sounded pleased.