by Mack Maloney
He flew even higher — up to 40,000 and into the white mist of the huge, billowing cloud.
Betrayal. He felt that he had betrayed his own people — the other servicemen in Pacific American Armed Forces. The butchered frontier guardsmen and the sailors missing from the abandoned patrol boat. And how about the civilians that he pledged to protect? How had he served the murdered citizens of Way Out? No doubt the time he'd spent drinking and gambling and whoring and joy riding should have been put to better use.
And if he was such a great intelligence expert, what the hell happened down near Vegas? What the hell was going on over the Great Lakes? What the hell really happened to St. Louie's recon troops in the Badlands? And where the hell were those God-51 damned Russian jets?
Now he went even higher. 50,000 feet. 55,000, 60,000.
What the hell was he doing? Flying around, playing soldier. Harboring some stupid dream of reuniting his country. He knew he was the last of the sentimental Americans. Why couldn't he accept the reality of the New Order and just live with it? Make some money. Make a lot of money! He was once hired to retrieve some diamonds for St. Louie, a job that paid him more than $100,000.
Most of it was gone now — put toward purchases of PAAC-Oregon aircraft. And soldiering was the least profitable business to be in these days. Free-lance convoy protection duty. That's where he should be. Hire out to the highest bidder. He'd been offered incredible sums to ride shotgun for "special" cargoes. Let the rest of them fight it out. Why be a soldier? Why did he do it? He shook himself out of it temporarily. Questions. Too many questions…
He needed answers and he needed them now!
A faint ringing began in his brain. His ears perked up; his eyes cleared.
Within seconds, he could feel a very distinct buzz throughout his body, this one very recognizable. It meant only one thing. Aircraft. A lot of them. Out toward the east. Two, maybe three hundred miles away. He checked the time.
Just past 1200 hours. He checked his fuel supply. It was at 85 %. He checked his weapons. Four Sidewinders and a maximum load of cannon shells — all okay.
The sensation grew stronger. The hair on the back of his head was standing up. Trouble. This was trouble. He knew it. He had. to check it out. No time to call for the scramble jets. He had to act now. He booted in the afterburner and steered due east.
Chapter Six
It was a convoy.
Although he was still 30 miles due west of them, Hunter could see the airplanes quite clearly. He counted 11 Boeing 707s, four 727s, an H011 and two DC-9s — 18 airliners in all. They were traveling in the standard convoy formation; six groups of three-plane chevrons, each aircraft leaving a slight, wispy contrail in its wake.
But right away Hunter sensed something was very odd about the airplanes. There was no radio chatter at all coming from the airtrain — highly unusual as convoy pilots were known to be as talkative these days as truck convoy drivers were before the war. Hunter knew it had to mean the pilots were flying "booted," maintaining radio silence. Second, the airplanes were flying low, down around 10,000 feet. This was strange because it was better and cheaper to cut through the thin air at higher altitudes than the sludge down below 15,000. So most convoys cruised at 40,000 feet or higher, just to save gas.
But it was the convoy's direction that tipped him.
The airliners were traveling due north. Every big air convoy flying these days flew either northeast-to-southwest or vice versa. So where the hell were these guys going?
As he closed in on them, he ran another check on his weapons systems. He knew he would soon be showing up on their radar screens if not already. The convoy could simply be lost. But he doubted it and he wanted to be prepared for anything. Green lights started popping up on his weapons control panel. All his armaments were in good shape. He closed to within 10 miles of the airliners and flipped on his radio sending switch.
"Convoy leader, this is Major Hunter, Pacific American Air Corps," he said slowly. "I am at two-niner Tango from your position. Everything okay with your course-direction finder?"
Silence.
"Convoy leader," he repeated, closing to within five miles of the airliners and banking to fly a course higher but parallel to the leader. "Major Hunter, P-A-A-C here. Do you need course-direction assistance?"
Again, silence.
Hunter checked his own location. He was somewhere over the southern part of the old state of Montana, technically outside of PAAC's air space. But screw it, no one bothered much about such distinctions these days. He banked again to his right and in seconds was streaking over the first three-plane formation.
Instantly, he knew there was going to be trouble. The three airliners were typical in every way except one — each had twin-gun barrels protruding from its tail. Airliners with rear gunners were a rare item — they were the Rolls-Royce of airliners. And never did one see more than one or two and then only traveling with a 50-plane or bigger superconvoys. Yet here were three, flying side by side.
He banked hard to the right and executed a 180 turn which carried him over the second group of airliners. These three airplanes also carried rear guns. He swept back over the third group and confirmed they too were carrying.
But suddenly rear guns on airliners didn't bother him anymore. He had something new to think about. Looking down toward the southeast he could see four F-101 Voodoos rising to meet him…
He knew the jet fighters would show up sooner or later. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, he had felt their presence. No sane convoy master would assemble 18 big airliners without contracting some free-lance air cover. And, as this particular group of airliners was definitely shady, Hunter could only assume the F-101 s were too. He took five deep gulps of the pure oxygen for a quick jolt, switched on his own, specially-designed engagement radar and dove to meet the Voodoos head-on.
The lead '101 fired first, followed a second later by his wingman. No warning, no radio message asking Hunter to ID himself. It was shoot first, so no questions had to be asked later. The Voodoo pilots were probably air pirates signed on to make some extra money. But they had just made a big mistake by shooting at him. They would soon know who he was.
There was only one F-16 flying around these days and everyone on the continent knew who its pilot was and what he stood for. And now they had made themselves an enemy.
The two Sparrow air-to-air missiles flew by him, both missing him by 300 feet.
The Voodoos had tipped their hand, foolishly firing their Sparrows at him head-on when the missile was designed to be shot only when engaging from the rear. Hunter breathed a tinge easier. Despite the four-to-one odds, now he knew he had one advantage: These guys were shaky.
He aimed the F-16 right at the center of the four '101s and booted in the afterburner. The Voodoos scattered. He yanked back on the control stick. The F-16 stood on its tail for an instant, then rolled over on its back. A flick of the wrist and he was on the tail of Voodoos' second flight leader. The pilot tried to zig-zag his way out of Hunter's line of fire, but it was a useless maneuver. Hunter instinctively mimicked the Voodoo's movement. He quickly selected a Sidewinder and let it rip. The missile flew perfectly into one of the Voodoo's tail exhaust pipes and detonated. The blast broke the jet into two distinct pieces, both of which blew up seconds later.
One down, three to go…
He was already tracking his second victim, the lead flight wingman who had fired the second missile at him then attempted to flee to the east. Hunter pulled up and back and locked on to the Voodoo from long range. It was a distance shot for sure, but he fired anyway. The missile ignited and shot off out of his line of sight and toward its prey. Twelve long seconds later it hit. The '101 disappeared in a puff of black smoke a full 10 miles from Hunter's position.
"That was a three-point shot," he thought as he yanked back on the control stick and climbed to meet the two remaining Voodoos.
By this time the '101 pilots knew who they were up against. The pair lin
ked up and were now turning toward him. He let them. Would they be foolish enough to waste more Sparrows shooting at him head on? Or maybe they wanted to engage with their cannons. If so, then he'd return the favor with his Vulcan six-pack.
The Voodoos opted for the cannons, streaking close to him and simultaneously squeezing off timid bursts before diving away.
"C'mon boys," he said into his microphone. "You'll have to do better than that…"
The Voodoos pulled up in tandem and tried to approach him from the rear. He simply flipped the F-16 over on its back again and headed straight for them upside down. He put the jet into a slow turn to right itself, pressing the Vulcan firing trigger at the same time. The '16 shuddered as all six of the cannons opened up in a twisting murderous barrage. The lead Voodoo pilot never knew what hit him. His nose, then his canopy, shattered instantly. Smoke began pouring out of the open cockpit as the airplane started its long plunge to earth.
Now Hunter turned his attention to the last F-101. The fighter had taken a few hits and had broken away to the south. He was now intent on fleeing in earnest.
Hunter booted in the afterburner again and soon caught up with the Voodoo. The pilot knew he had no chance to shake the powerful F-16, so he took the safe route out and ejected, letting his airplane fly on unattended. The ever-conscientious Hunter deposited a Sidewinder into its exhaust tube anyway preventing the one-in-a-million chance that the jet's eventual crash would kill someone innocent on the ground. The missile obliterated the Voodoo as advertised. Off to the east, Hunter could see the pilot's parachute drifting slowly toward the mountains below.
The engagement was over. Now Hunter turned his attention back to the convoy…
The eighteen big airliners had disappeared in the time it took him to battle the Voodoos, but he quickly located them on his radar and floored it.
Gradually, off in the distance, the distinctive contrails once again came into view. The airliners had climbed to 45,000 feet in an effort to make a fast getaway. But the deception was lost on Hunter. He was soon riding off the wing of the last Boeing 707 in the convoy.
Just then his radio crackled. Someone, somewhere in the convoy had yelled
"Break!" and the airliners instantly obeyed. The eighteen airplanes started to scatter in all directions. Some climbed, others dove. Some banked left, some banked right. Soon the sky around him was a patchwork of contrail streaks. Yet he stayed right on the rear 707, intent on identifying it or following it to its eventual landing place.
Neither would happen. The rear gunner in the airliner foolishly opened up on Hunter as the plane banked to the left to cross in front of him. It was a stupid, risky maneuver.
He could see the big airplane's wing flap with the strain. The way the airliner was moving, Hunter doubted many people were on board. He tried to contact the airplane's pilot.
"707, 707," he said calmly into his microphone. "Cease firing and ID yourself."
His message was returned by another burst from the airliner's rear gunner.
Hunter routinely dodged the cannons shells and moved up to a position beside the big jet's cockpit. He could see the pilot inside, his attention fully devoted to flying the airplane.
"707, ID yourself," Hunter called again. Suddenly the big airplane did another quick bank to the left in an effort to ram him. Even Hunter was surprised by the desperate move, deftly pulling back on the control stick just in time to avoid getting hit by the airliner.
"This guy's crazy," Hunter thought. He was also in trouble. Hunter could see smoke trailing from the 707's port-side outer engine. The violent maneuver must have snapped a fuel line or oil feeder pump. He knew what would happen next. The engine caught fire and ignited the fuel tanks in the 707's wings.
Within seconds the airliner's port wing was enveloped in flames. The big airplane started to go down. Flaming pieces of the wing were breaking off.
Then the starboard engines, themselves buckling under the sudden strain, began to smoke.
Hunter could only watch as the doomed 707 continued to lose altitude. He followed it down. 10,000 feet. 8,000 feet. 5000, He knew the pilot could not pull it out in time. 4000 feet… 3000. Except for one stretch of highway, the terrain below was all mountainous. It appeared to Hunter that the pilot was trying to steer toward the roadway. But at 2000 feet, an entire half of the jet's portside wing broke off, trailing a long plume of black, oily smoke with it. Hunter could see the airplane shake as it involuntarily banked to the left. It never had a chance to attempt a landing on the road. Instead it hit a row of trees at the end of a small valley, bounced once, hit again and plowed up the side of a small mountain. He watched as it kicked up a great sheet of flame and earth and smoke before finally coming to a stop.
Hunter dove and flew low over the crash. He knew there'd be no survivors.
Wreckage was strewn everywhere, but the main fuselage and the starboard wing were still intact, though smoking heavily. He briefly considered taking off and finding another airliner from the mysterious convoy. But on second thought, he became determined to return to this crash site and search the wreckage. He had to see who the hell these guys were.
He reconnoitered the long stretch of the abandoned highway nearby to see if it could handle the F-16. After two passes he decided to try for it.
Chapter Seven
There were only about two hours of daylight left when Hunter finally reached the crash area. The highway — a battered sign revealed it as Montana's Route 264 — proved long and straight enough for him to set down. He hid the '16 underneath an overpass bridge, and armed with his trusty M-16 and other equipment, had trudged for an hour through the forest to where the airliner came down.
He was soon at the base of the mountain, close enough to see where the huge letters "TWA" had been hastily painted over on the airliner's tail section.
The big airplane carried no other identification numbers, not unusual these days. The ground was still hot and steamy as a result of the crash; the heat was melting the shallow ground snow that covered the mountain. The big fire had died down, but he knew it was only temporary. There was still fuel in the crumpled starboard wing and it was only a matter of time before it got hot enough to blow. For now though, everything around him was very quiet — the only noise coming from the dozen or so small fires that crackled in the bushes around the wreckage, plus a low hissing from the wreck itself. He knew he had about ten minutes before the rest of the airplane went up. He checked the magazine on his rifle, then scrambled up the hill to what remained of the 707.
After a climb of 300 or so feet, he reached the back of the airplane. A rear door that had twisted off its hinges and was hanging from the fuselage now by only wires looked like a means of entry. A moderate amount of smoke was still coming from inside the aircraft. For this contingency, he had kept his flight helmet on and carried his emergency oxygen tank on his back. Now he lowered the helmet's clear visor flap and strapped on the air tank's face mask. He knew the smoke was toxic, and without the visor, it would have been difficult to see. He took a few gulps from the oxygen tank, then carefully stepped up to and inside the wreckage.
He was not surprised to find the airliner was empty. A full airplane would have hit the ground much harder and destroyed itself on impact. He looked around inside the cabin. It was a typical New Order Special: an airliner converted to cargo carrier by ripping out all the seats and replacing them with spider's webs of straps and fasteners to hold the airborne goods in place. He looked to the rear of the airplane, trying to locate where the rear gunner had been stationed. But that portion of the aircraft was crushed beyond recognition. He knew the gunner's body was buried in the twisted metal.
He started to walk toward the front of the airplane. It was slow at first — the airliner's hollowed-out fuselage was pretty battered. But even in the twisted mass of ripped metal and wires, Hunter realized the airplane had not been transporting the usual kind of convoy cargo. In fact, the floor of the airplane was covered with what looked
like straw or hay. He found several burlap bags that had ripped and scattered their contents around the airplane when it went down. He picked up one of the bags.
Printed in black lettering on its side was the word: "Oats."
"Oats?" Hunter said to himself in surprise.
He continued to pick his way through the fuselage and eventually he reached the cockpit door. It too was smashed and twisted, but he was able to squeeze through what was left of the passageway leading to the flight deck.
There was only one pilot and he was still strapped in his seat. The body was already stiff, its hands locked into a death grip on the control column. A large gash in the man's temple looked to be the cause of death although half the skin on his face was missing and his body was perforated everywhere with shards of glass. His green coveralls were soaked through with blood now turned black and inky. Weirdly, the man's eyes were still wide open; a look of crazed horror staring out of them. What was worse, the corpse's mouth was formed into a slight, grim smile. Hunter felt a chill run through him as he stared at the deathly grin.
He looked around the cockpit. No papers, no registration plaque. He was able to read the flight distance indicator. It read 419.10 miles. He filed the number away into his memory banks. Everything else on the control panel was smashed. He moved back to the pilot. Very carefully, Hunter patted the body looking for some identification. He found a single piece of folded heavy paper inside the man's breast pocket. Gingerly he removed the paper and unfolded it.