Freedom Express

by Maloney, Mack;

  Despite the long day, the Wingman found sleep was still hard to come by. Many things were troubling him—not the least of which was the prospect of the whole Freedom Express mission going down the drain. If more information on Devillian and his army could not be found, then he knew Jones would order the train turned around when it reached the junction of Eagle Rock within the next twenty-four hours.

  So a clock was running, and it was almost as if Hunter could feel every second painfully ticking away.

  On top of all this, his own psyche continued to act somewhat unruly. It felt like his mind was beating to a very strange vibe, but he couldn’t put his finger on what was causing it. Odd thoughts kept bubbling up from deep down in his gray matter and shooting up through his mouth without stopping first in his consciousness.

  The overall result—a less than infallible trust in his normally right-on instincts—was somewhat frightening.

  He finally drifted off to sleep and immediately plunged into a very strange dream.

  He was all alone, out in the desert. It was the middle of the day—high noon, in fact—and the sun was beating down on him without mercy. High above—improbably more than one hundred miles up in the sky—a large airplane was circling. In one moment it looked like an airliner, in another like a vulture. And someone in that airplane was laughing at him.

  Then in an instant the day turned into night. Suddenly, he was looking up at the stars and imagining that a group of them had formed into a huge city—an enormous constellation connected by thin streams of red light.

  A second later, he was wide awake.

  “Airplanes,” he murmured, sitting straight up on the wing and feeling his sixth sense clicking back on track. “Right near by….”

  He scanned the moonless clear sky, and moments later his extraordinary vision detected the silhouettes of two fighters passing about fifteen miles to their south. Just then he saw something else in the southern sky. A bright flash of red—like a laser beam—shot out toward the two airplanes and stayed on for less than a second.

  But it was visible long enough for Hunter to figure out its purpose.

  “Wake up, Michael,” he yelled to Crossbow as he jumped down from the wing. “We’re going for a ride.”

  Sometimes the hardest things to look for turn out to be the easy things to find.

  Hunter had been sure the laser beam was being used as a directional device—a beacon flashed only momentarily which would direct pilots to their base from hundreds of miles away.

  Once the Harrier was aloft, he steered in the direction of the millisecond flashes and wound up about one hundred miles south of the territory where they’d been searching earlier in the day.

  Now, an hour later, they were down again, both men convinced they were close to finding Devillian’s headquarters.

  “We were probably fooled just like my ancestors,” Crossbow said as he and Hunter peered out at the desert through NightScope glasses. “I’m sure they searched for the House of the Stars on top of every mountain they could find. It probably never occurred to them that it was really on top of something like that.”

  Hunter could only nod in agreement. Finally things were beginning to add up.

  Off in the distance was not an enormous, Mount Olympus type mountain. Rather it was an enormous, mushroom-shaped mesa. It was surrounded by nothing but desert; not a single rise or hill of any consequence broke the horizon for 360 degrees around.

  The mesa’s strange shape was the key. Its crown was ringed with what looked like a necklace of sharp rock formations. This meant that anyone looking up toward its summit would be led to believe the top was jagged and inhospitable.

  But Hunter had the feeling this was not the case.

  “All this will make sense if that thing is really flat on top,” Hunter said.

  “Only one way to find out without being spotted,” Crossbow replied.

  Packing only the essentials of guns, ammunition and water, the two men set out across the pitch-black desert, heading for the mysteriously shaped mesa.

  Twenty minutes later, they found another piece of confirming evidence along the way.

  It was the wreckage of a Mirage III. A quick inspection convinced Hunter that it was the same airplane he’d damaged in the dogfight just before he’d first met Crossbow.

  “It ran out of gas,” Hunter said, pointing to the plane’s perforated fuel tanks. “The question is, was it only a few miles short of landing?”

  They continued walking. Twice more they saw airplanes following the quick flashes of red light toward the enormous mesa, then disappearing just beyond it.

  “Amazing,” Hunter breathed.

  “Frightening,” Crossbow replied.

  They were about halfway to their goal when another giant, yet near-invisible beam of red light suddenly swept across the desert floor, falling just short of their position.

  “A different laser,” Hunter whispered as they both hit the ground. “This one’s like a big burglar alarm. Break the beam and bells go off.”

  “Damn … whoever’s on top of that thing can cover every square mile in the area,” Crossbow said.

  “We’re going to have to dodge it somehow,” Hunter said.

  Crossbow stared ahead into the night. “Some cactus over there,” he said, pointing. “A few boulders over there.”

  Hunter was reading his mind.

  They lay in wait until the next sweep of light passed by them. Then, like two running backs trying to dodge a squad of linebackers, they dashed from cactus to boulders to more cactus to a gulley and back up to some more cactus, all the time trying to keep one step ahead—or behind—of the powerful, sweeping beam of laser light.

  Gradually, they zigzagged their way the final three miles to the base of the towering mesa.

  Chapter 25

  BURNING CROSS MASTER SERGEANT Hans Swek was fuming mad.

  As officer of the watch, it was his responsibility to make sure all of his sentries stayed awake and alert until sunrise. It was a job that demanded he also stay awake and alert, and this he usually did via a handful of amphetamines.

  But tonight was different. He had foolishly bargained away his nightly dose of speed to another sergeant. In return the man had promised him one of Devillian’s best young girls to do any and all of Swek’s bidding.

  The pre-arranged time had been nine o’clock; the place, a rocky area known as the Spine.

  Now it was close to eleven, and there was still no girl.

  Swek had already plotted his revenge. It would be a simple matter of bribing another sergeant to kill the double-crosser sometime soon. Twenty speed pills would practically guarantee it was done in a slow and painful manner. Another few pills would insure the body would never be found. Then, Swek would bribe someone else—someone he could trust—to get him one of Devillian’s girls.

  But now his main worry was staying awake. He’d never made it through night duty before without a bellyful of uppers, and he wasn’t looking forward to going cold turkey right now—especially in a place so goddamn spooky as this.

  Swek didn’t even want to think about some of the stories he’d heard since arriving at this place: the Indian ghosts they said you could see moving around on top, visions that always seemed to pop up around midnight. Swek would have passed it all off as hogwash if it hadn’t been for the fact that six of his soldiers had already mysteriously disappeared in just the last month alone.

  He stopped to light a cigarette. He was sweating and jittery and letting his imagination get the best of him.

  Maybe if I just took it easy for a while, he thought.

  The next thing he knew, he was looking directly into the eyes of an Indian.

  He had looked up from lighting his smoke, when he saw the man standing right on the edge of the mesa’s lip; so close, at first it appeared as if the figure was floating in the air.

  He was dressed just like the hundreds of Indians Swek had seen on TV back in Germany when he was a kid: long braids, l
eather pants and boots, bright-patterned body shirt.

  Yet it appeared as if he’d suddenly materialized out of the ethers. Swek immediately wet his trousers, so sure that he was face to face with a ghost.

  “Are … are you real?” he blurted out, taking several seconds before thinking to raise his gun at this apparition.

  That delay cost him his life.

  The Indian was real enough to grab Swek’s rifle barrel and give it a tremendous yank, sending it and Swek hurtling off the mesa and into the dark abyss below.

  All the way to the bottom, the terrified man’s screams echoed eerily across the vast desert. They ended with a sharp thump!

  Hunter and Crossbow pulled themselves onto the mesa top and hugged the ground, both men thankful they’d survived the torturous, back-breaking climb. Luckily, Crossbow had proved to be somewhat of a mountain-climbing expert. He had practically coached Hunter up the entire way, showing him footholds and ledges, telling him to avoid grabbing any vegetation growing out of the side of the rock.

  Now they were on top and waiting. But no other sounds reached their ears. It seemed the ill-fated rifleman had been the only guard in the area.

  Slowly, they rose, looked around and were astounded.

  “What the hell is going on?” Crossbow whispered urgently. “There’s nothing up here.”

  At first, Hunter had to agree. The top of the mesa did look completely empty. It was as if they had actually scaled the wrong mountain. Squinting through the darkness, he could see nothing but various rock formations, the clusters of large boulders that gave the optical illusion that the entire mesa top was jagged.

  But then he was able to turn up his extraordinary vision a couple notches, and slowly, things began to take shape.

  “Christ,” he whispered. “It’s not empty; it’s all camouflaged.”

  He pointed to several rocky shapes about one hundred feet away. By concentrating, they could gradually detect the edges of a huge sand-colored net that was covering what were actually several long, low buildings.

  “Barracks,” Hunter whispered. “See them?”

  Crossbow squinted some more, but then started nodding his head.

  Hunter pointed to a taller rock formation. “Radar set,” he said. “Hear the tone?”

  Crossbow was nodding even more quickly now.

  “Over there,” he said, pointing to more sandy clumps nearby. “Missiles … they look like SAMs.”

  “Great sun,” Crossbow exclaimed. “There are hundreds of them.”

  Despite their somewhat precarious position, Hunter still had to shake his head in admiration for Devillian. Not only were there more SAM sites than he’d seen in such a concentrated area before, there were also gun platforms, hangars, fuel dumps, ammo houses, radar dishes and a myriad of other military equipment on top of the mesa—all of it masterfully camouflaged. He’d never seen such a convincing deception. Between the unnatural coverings and the mesa’s geographical isolation, Devillian had managed to build a nearly invisible base; even from directly overhead, the place would have looked deserted.

  They took a few minutes to study the lay-out, absolutely staggered by the amount of weaponry on top of the mesa.

  “There must be a central command post here somewhere,” Hunter told Crossbow.

  They circled the barracks area and continued across the giant plateau, avoiding the sentries at every turn. Coming over the top of a low ridge, they found themselves approaching the edge of a dimly lit airfield. They ducked behind a couple of nearby rocks and once again surveyed the scene before them.

  First they saw the outlines to two rough, but serviceable, runways. It was what was on the far side of these landing strips that made Hunter’s spirits take a nose dive. Under low rows of masterful camouflage sat a fleet of at least thirty airplanes: Soviet Floggers, a few Skinhead Phantoms, some Mirages, a single Voodoo and several varieties of MiGs. There was also at least a squadron of Hind attack helicopters, as well as a dozen or so cargo choppers. All in all it was a deadly hodgepodge of aircraft.

  “There’s enough firepower sitting on top of this place to take over half the country,” Crossbow whispered.

  “Imagine what it could do to the train,” Hunter replied gloomily.

  Sergeant Josef Karls was worried.

  His bloodstream was pumping massive quantities of amphetamines through his system, yet he was hardly enjoying the buzz. Plus the handcuffed girl he was dragging along beside him was getting to be a real pain in the ass.

  Karls was supposed to meet his superior, Master Sergeant Swek, more than two hours ago. He had traded the girl to Swek in return for the speed that was now coursing through his system. But Swek was not at the rendezvous point, nor was he anywhere on the mesa’s perimeter.

  The girl struggled wearily as Karls dragged her back over to the rocky edge of the cliff known as the Spine, the spot where Swek was supposed to meet them two hours before. She was one of Devillian’s favorites, but that wasn’t why Karls was worried. The big boss didn’t mind his troops screwing around with his bevy of women—just as long as they videotaped it and provided a copy to him the next day.

  No, it was Swek himself that had Karls concerned. The man was known around camp as a hothead—someone who wouldn’t think twice about retaliating just because Karls was late in bringing this bargain bitch to the meeting spot.

  They reached the Spine, and still no Swek. His body ripping with speed now, Karls figured he couldn’t let the whole night be a waste.

  To this end, he roughly shoved the girl to the ground.

  “Whether it’s me or him,” he told her. “There’s not much difference.”

  With one massive swat, he ripped off the front of her robe, exposing her breasts. She was young and firm, just how Karls liked his women.

  “You look good, bitch,” he said cruelly. “But can you blow a horn?”

  He started to undo his belt buckle, closing his eyes, in anxious anticipation of the moment. When he opened them, he was startled to see a man in a fighter pilot’s helmet standing between him and the girl.

  One terrifying instant later, Karls was screaming at the top of his lungs as he plunged off the edge of the mesa and down to the desert floor below.

  The girl began to scream herself, but moving like a cat, Hunter was able to put his hand over her mouth before she could raise a sound.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said to her. “Believe me.”

  He looked directly into her beautiful eyes and detected something. Was it fear? Or was there a glimmer of hope there?

  The girl stared back at this stranger; neither the lightning bolt decoration on his helmet nor his somewhat disheveled appearance could disguise something burning down deep. His eyes … they were like no other. She saw daring and bravery there, but also kindness.

  Take a chance, her instinct seemed to be saying.

  Slowly, he lifted his hand from her mouth.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Diamond,” she replied softly.

  Hunter covered her over with the remains of her flimsy silk garment.

  “Are you a prisoner here?” he asked.

  “I’m a slave,” the girl answered with a whimper.

  “To whom?” Hunter asked, his voice betraying a note of anger.

  “A man named Devillian,” she replied tearfully. “I have to do whatever he wants.”

  “Not anymore you don’t,” Hunter declared boldly,

  Just then Crossbow appeared out of the shadows.

  “She’s coming with us,” Hunter told him, his tone indicating that any argument would probably be fruitless.

  “It’ll be tough going down the same way we came up,” the Indian whispered.

  “No matter,” Hunter said. “I’ll carry her down if I have to. If we all make it, she can give us more information about this place than we can ever gather here ourselves. Now let’s go.”

  Chapter 26

  Aboard the Freedom Express
r />   “OUCH!”

  “You’ve got to hold still if you want me to do this properly.”

  Hunter shifted uncomfortably in the chair. He knew Fitz was right, but at the moment it felt like his back was on fire.

  It was early the next morning, and they were in the Control car. The Irishman—being the jack-of-all-trades that he was—was applying a healthy dose of old-fashioned Witch Hazel to the two long series of scratches that extended the entire length of Hunter’s back.

  “Tell us again, Hawker,” Fitz said as he dabbed more of the stinging liquid to the wounds, “how didya get so mangled.”

  “I already told you,” Hunter snapped. “I had to carry that girl down the mountain on my back, and the only way she was able to hang on was to dig her nails into me.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Fitz deadpanned. “It’s just that these wounds look so, well, familiar. I remember a girl back in Cork. She had fingernails like switchblades. Aye, one night with her and me back looked just like yours.”

  Standing off to one side were Catfish and Tyler, both having to hold their hands over their mouths to keep from laughing.

  “Very funny,” Hunter said.

  Actually, getting off the mesa with the beautiful, extremely frightened Diamond clawing at his back had been the relatively easy part of their escape.

  It was crowding a trio into the Harrier jumpjet that had proved the most difficult. Even the zigzagged scamper back to the aircraft had been a breeze compared to the brain teaser Hunter had to unravel in order to carry three people in a cockpit barely designed for two.

  In the end he had solved it—quite painfully as it turned out—by lashing still more of his F-16’s avionics to the under side of the Harrier’s wing, thus opening just enough room in the cockpit for Diamond to squeeze between Crossbow’s legs. Then, by purging half his fuel, Hunter was able to lighten the overall weight of the aircraft enough to make it back to the train.