The reverend snorts at this. “You fool. You’ll never get off the ground.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Hunter raises his voice to address the reverend’s thugs and the Seabirds. “Put the guns down before I give the reverend a one-way ticket to Heaven.”
“You won’t do it, my son,” Reverend Shelley says loudly. Quieter he adds, “If you do, they’ll kill you.”
“Your guys are too loyal to let you die and the Seabirds don’t give a shit either way.”
As Hunter predicted, the reverend’s thugs set down their guns and raise their hands. One of the Seabirds slings his rifle over his shoulder and says, “Whatever, man. We were only told to get him to the airport.”
JP gathers up the weapons from the reverend’s men and then motions with one sub-machine gun towards the plane. “All right, ladies, get on board. I can’t promise you any pastures, but we got a nice setup.”
“You’re going to pay for this,” Reverend Shelley growls. “I’ll make sure of that.”
“I think you’re going to have other problems to deal with.” Hunter watches Casey get on board; she’s the last of the girls up the stairs. He shoves Reverend Shelley towards his guards. “You should probably stand back. These engines get pretty hot.”
Hunter scampers up the stairs. He pulls them up with him while JP covers him. Reverend Shelley remains standing where he was on the tarmac, glowering at Hunter. Hunter finally turns away to head up to the cockpit. The pilot’s skin is almost as gray as a zeeb’s, though a lot sweatier. “We don’t want any trouble,” Hunter says. “You can get out if you want and stay here. Or you can fly us to Snowcap Mountain and stay there. It’s up to you.”
“I…I think I’ll fly to Snowcap Mountain.”
“Good choice.”
Hunter lets JP take the co-pilot’s seat. He goes into the cabin to check on the women they rescued. They’ve all strapped in with the help of a blond stewardess wearing a uniform that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. She gives him a flirty smile. “Do you need any help with your seatbelt?”
“I’ll be fine,” he says. He drops onto a seat next to Casey. “Your daughter is all right. We made it to Snowcap Mountain without any problem.”
“That’s good. Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I had to leave you behind. We came back for you as soon as we could—”
“It’s all right,” she says. She leans over to kiss him on the lips. It’s just a little peck, but it’s the first kiss he has had since Misuko left him. “Thank you for finding me.”
“It was a stroke of luck.”
“I’ll say. If you hadn’t got there when you did—” She shudders, leaving the thought unspoken.
“Who was that reverend guy? Did he say what he wanted?”
“I don’t know. The other girls might have a better idea.” She pats him on the thigh. “You mind if I take a nap? I’m a little tired.”
“No problem. We’ll have someone check you out once we land.”
She nods and then closes her eyes. The Gulfstream lifts into the air so smoothly that it’s almost impossible to tell. It’s not a long flight to Snowcap Mountain, only about forty minutes. Some of the girls cry out with terror when the two F-86s buzz the private jet. Casey doesn’t even stir beside Hunter.
“It’s all right. They’re friendly,” Hunter says to calm the girls. He ducks into the cockpit to find JP on the radio. “They going to shoot us down?”
“No. I got through to the general. Looks like our buddy is already back there with the seaplane. He’s probably going to take credit for everything.”
“He can have the credit. It’s not like they’re passing out medals anymore.”
“Yeah. I just hope we got room for everyone.”
“We’ll make room.”
Despite that the pilot still looks ready to shit a brick, he lands the Gulfstream a lot more smoothly than Hunter brought down the helicopter what seems like a lifetime ago. The private jet taxies up to a hangar to make room for the Sabres to land. Hunter waits for the stewardess to bring down the stairs and then he takes the seatbelt off Casey.
She continues to sleep as he scoops her up from the seat. “We’re here,” he whispers into her ear. She mumbles something incoherent but doesn’t wake up.
General George is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. “If I didn’t know you were behind it, I wouldn’t have believed it,” he says.
“Mission accomplished, sir.”
“I’ll say so. And you found old Max too. I’d have thought he’d have gotten himself to Israel by now, but I guess we can always use another stick jockey. Especially with what’s coming.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“We’ve got the Seabirds on the ropes. Now’s the time to push. I’ve been on the horn with our allies. We’re scraping together everything we can. We’re going to hit them in about eight hours. I know you have to be exhausted—”
“No, sir. I’ll be ready.”
“Good. Come see me once you get her settled.”
“I will.” Hunter would salute, but both of his arms are occupied at the moment. JP leads him to the infirmary. Like everything else it’s not much to look at, but if the bullet did go through Casey’s leg it shouldn’t require any surgery.
He sets her down on a gurney and then puts a hand on her shoulder to keep her from sitting up. “You just sit here and rest. I’ll get Polly.”
“Thank you,” she mumbles. She gives him a sleepy grin. “You’re an angel.”
“I’m just a pilot,” he says with a wink and then starts towards the barracks to find Casey’s daughter for the family reunion.
Chapter 6
It’s hard for Hunter to believe he’s flying an aircraft as old as his grandfather. The P-47 Thunderbolt might even be older than that. It’s certainly a lot different than the F-16s he used to fly. The gauges and controls aren’t so different from the seaplane, which makes it a little easier to adjust.
The Thunderbolt is on loan from one of Snowcap Mountain’s allies. There wasn’t time to get the X-29 ready for combat and the other aircraft on the island already had pilots to fly them. So Hunter had gone with General George in the Sea Stallion over to an island off the coast of Vancouver, in what had used to be Canada. The general wanted to go there anyway to talk strategy.
The actual strategy is pretty simple: the Snowcap Mountain fighters will provide air cover for the Vancouver planes that will mostly be used to attack ground targets. During the bombardment, helicopters and the seaplane will ferry in about a hundred volunteer infantry troops to try to take control of Seattle. The hope is that the riot last night, combined with breaches of the zombie fences will have the Seabirds so off-balance that a large invasion force won’t be needed.
Hunter lets the Thunderbolt’s engine rev for a few moments before he taxies onto the runway. He’s wearing his flight helmet, but not an oxygen mask since the Thunderbolt wouldn’t get high enough to need it. In a way that’s too bad as a couple of shots of pure oxygen always helps to get him charged up before taking off.
The old fighter-bomber roars off the runway. Hunter can’t help letting out a little whoop as he gets airborne. He hasn’t flown a fighter of any sort since he left Okinawa. The airliner, helicopter, and seaplane are just not the same. Though he probably shouldn’t, he flicks the control stick to put the Thunderbolt into a barrel roll. The fuselage creaks, but it holds together.
“Knock it off, Hammer One,” General George’s voice comes over the radio.
“Sorry, General. Wanted to see what the old girl could do.”
“Just make sure you get it onto target.”
“Yes, sir,” Hunter says, properly chastened. This is a military operation, not an air show. Barrel rolls might be fun, but they use up fuel that could be used later.
Behind Hunter, four other aircraft form up. They’re all prop planes: two A-1 Skyraiders that were still in use in Vietnam, a Dauntless torpedo-bomber carrying regular
bombs today, and a B-25 Mitchell of the type used to bomb Tokyo in the Doolittle Raid. The Mitchell will hit the hardest targets while the others will be used on concentrations of Seabirds or zeebs.
They don’t have any radar, so Hunter has to keep an eye out for any Seabird aircraft. If he had gotten the chance, he would have sabotaged the planes he saw on the runway of the Seattle airport to make sure they couldn’t get airborne. Now he has to hope he or the fighters from Snowcap can deal with any enemy aircraft.
While he scans the skies for any bogeys, he can’t help thinking of Casey in the infirmary. The doctor there said she would be fine with some rest and antibiotics. The latter were in short supply, at least until they can get hold of a merchant who can sell them some. The doctor had kept her in the infirmary for observation, so Hunter had taken Polly over there to stay with her mom. Their reunion had brought a tear to his eye. Polly had climbed onto the gurney and then snuggled against her mother, who instinctually hugged her close. Only the coldest heart could have resisted a tear or two at that scene.
Though it had worked out, Hunter still blames himself for leaving Casey in that situation. He knows the fuel situation was dire, but maybe he could have found another way. He could have checked for some more fuel stashed away in the town, maybe in a marina on the coast. That would have risked all their lives, but at least he would have tried. He supposes after two years holed up by himself, focusing only on survival, he had forgotten how to care for other people. Misuko, who had probably died trying to save others, would be ashamed of him.
In the distance he sees a trail of black smoke. It could be friendly, but he doubts it. “I’ve got possible contacts at one o’clock,” he says.
“We’re on our way to check it out,” JP calls back. “Stay frosty.”
“Thanks.” Hunter pulls back the throttle a little to buy some time for the fighters to arrive. The planes behind him do the same. It becomes clear after a minute that there are enemy fighters approaching and the Snowcap planes aren’t going to arrive in time. “Hammer Flight, throttle back as much as you can. I’ve got this.”
He pushes the throttle on the Thunderbolt forward. The old warplane still doesn’t move all that fast. Not only is it a prop plane, it was also designed for ground support with a heavy skin that’s not well suited to dogfights. He’ll just have to make do the best he can.
The shapes of the enemy planes soon become visible. There are two P-51 Mustangs, a British Spitfire, and a P-38 Lightning with its odd twin booms. This is it, Hunter tells himself. After more than two years, he’s finally going back into air combat; he hopes it’s like they say about riding a bike.
The secret to winning a dogfight isn’t to have a better aircraft than your opponent; it’s to outthink your opponent. It’s like a high-speed game of chess, only the loser has to try to bail out and parachute to safety instead of tipping over his king. Hunter has a parachute strapped to his chest, but he hopes he won’t have to use it today.
He starts a mental countdown of when he’ll be within firing range of the P-51s in the lead. Those and the Spitfire are his biggest worries. The P-38’s awkward design makes it far less useful for close-in fighting.
As soon as he’s within range of the Mustangs’s guns, he snaps the P-47 into another barrel roll. Before the Seabirds can react, he yanks the Thunderbolt back up to cut loose with his guns. He scores a few hits along the wing of one Mustang; white vapor spews from the holes like blood from a wound. The hits are definitely not fatal, but the pilot panics, banking hard to the right—straight into the Spitfire. There’s a puff of flame and smoke and then both old fighters are going down.
Hunter banks left to rake the right boom of the P-38 with his cannons. The right engine belches black smoke and then goes out. The Lightning still has one engine, but it’s losing speed and altitude now; it won’t be much of a threat.
The remaining Mustang gets behind Hunter enough to let off a few shots. Hunter brings the Thunderbolt up and then around in a loop. The Mustang is smart enough to already be banking away, but now it’s the prey instead of the predator. Hunter’s plane isn’t as fast or as maneuverable, but he can already predict the P-51’s next move before the pilot tries a loop of his own. Hunter is already in a counter-loop. The Mustang looms in his sights; he squeezes the trigger. Bullets shred the tail of the P-51; it wobbles along for a few seconds to give the pilot enough time to bail out.
The Lightning is on its way back to Seattle when Hunter catches up to it. He lines up the left boom and then pulls the trigger. The engine flames for a moment and then goes dead. Hunter looks over his shoulder to make sure the pilot gets out in time. Whether he’ll make it back to safety or not is another matter.
“Splash four,” he says. “I’ve got two chutes.” He relays the coordinates for one of the helicopters to come back to later. Then he rejoins the formation and heads towards Seattle.
***
The situation on the ground is worse than anyone had feared. It’s nearly impossible to tell from the air who are Seabirds, liberated prisoners, or zeebs. Hunter does one run over the city, but he doesn’t waste his ammunition shooting at anything.
“Let’s focus on the airport,” he says. He leads the other four attack aircraft south, to the airport he had left Reverend Shelley at. Did the reverend manage to get out or did the Seabirds keep him there?
There are a couple of ancient F-80 Shooting Stars on the runway, getting ready to take off. From the black smoke pouring out of the engines, Hunter isn’t sure they’ll be able to get airborne. The F-80 was the first operational jet fighter in the US inventory, but most of its action came as a trainer. Hunter fires a few shots ahead of the lead F-80; as he hoped, the pilot scrambles down, followed closely by a mechanic.
“No sense wasting a perfectly good airplane,” Hunter mumbles to himself. A typical raid on an airport would destroy the planes on the ground as well as any fuel bunkers and ammo depots. In this case Hunter wants to leave as much intact as possible for salvage. From what he saw last night, the Seabirds aren’t the bravest lot; throw a good scare into them and they’ll scatter.
With that in mind, he concentrates on strafing close to the hangars without actually hitting anything. The same goes for the control tower, where he rakes the base of the tower without doing much damage. As he circles back around, he notices figures running out of the tower.
“This is Hammer One. I’m going after a target of opportunity. Hold tight.” He starts back north, over the mobs on the street. They’re still too tightly packed for him to differentiate innocents from combatants.
That’s not his target. His target is ahead of him: the Space Needle. As he closes in, there are puffs of black smoke. Someone has mounted anti-aircraft guns around the base of the tower. He zig-zags towards the building, climbing to level his guns at the observation deck.
It pains him a little to fire into the Space Needle. There might still be innocent people in there for one thing. For another the Space Needle is an iconic piece of American architecture. It’s unlikely any damage he does can be repaired, not for a long time.
Bullets tear through the windows of the observation deck. It’s impossible to see what damage he’s inflicting on the inside. Hunter banks around, avoiding the anti-aircraft fire as he lines up another run. More glass shatters, followed by a column of flame to indicate he hit something vital.
With the black smoke pouring from the Space Needle, he doesn’t need a third run. What he really wanted was for the Seabirds on the ground, already beset by rebelling prisoners and zombies, to see their command center up in smoke. That ought to take most of the fight out of them, making it easier for the troops coming in to clean up.
He flies over the city, squeezing off a couple of bursts at packs of zeebs on the edge. That’s about all the support he can manage at the moment, until someone gives him a specific target. Checking his fuel gauge, he won’t be able to stay up here much longer. “I need to land and refuel,” he announces.
“Hammer One, are you sure that’s a good idea?” General George asks.
“Not really, but I’m on fumes.”
“We’ve got a helo on the way. Make sure they get down safely and then land.”
“Yes, sir.” Hunter idly circles the airport, making sure no one tries to get into any of the airplanes left on the runways or take a shot at the Sea Stallion arriving on the scene. He waits for the dozen troops inside to jump out before he lines up an approach on the runway the F-80s were going to use.
The Thunderbolt isn’t the most nimble aircraft, but its weight helps to drag it to a stop before he can hit the end of the runway. By the time he taxies back around to where the F-80s are still idling, he finds a group of mechanics and pilots being herded by the Snowcap Mountain volunteers.
Hunter motions to one of the mechanics. “Think you can fuel up that P-47?”
“I…I guess so,” the man stammers.
Hunter pats the mechanic on the shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“Gary.”
“I’m Hunter. We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to free you.”
“OK.” Gary doesn’t seem convinced, but Hunter can’t really blame him. There’s no telling how long the guy has been a prisoner of the Seabirds. As Gary brings over a fuel cart, Hunter keeps a hand on his pistol. He doesn’t expect the mechanic to do anything, but there’s no sense being careless.
It takes about ten minutes to get the Thunderbolt fueled and the area cleared so Hunter can take off. Before he leaves, he asks the commander of the Snowcap Mountain troops, “You guys got it under control?”
“Yes, sir. Not much fight left in these boys.”
“Let’s hope not.” Hunter nods to the man and then pats Gary the mechanic on the shoulder. “Thanks a lot.”
The mechanic nods slightly. Then Hunter climbs up into the cockpit of the Thunderbolt. It roars into the air without a problem to rejoin the fight.
***
Most of the fighting is wrapped up by nightfall. There will undoubtedly be zeebs to be flushed out, but the Seabirds have either been captured or turned tail. Snowcap Mountain and its allies have taken Seattle.
Army of the Damned (Sky Ghost #1) Page 5