“The engine could use some tweaking,” Hunter says. “Otherwise, she flies like a dream.”
For him it has been a dream, one he never thought he could live just a month ago. But as he returns his gear to the locker room and sees the maps in the war room, he remembers the reason General George bought the X-29 for him and summoned him to the island. The X-29 performed well enough in the impromptu air show, but now it will have to go to war.
Chapter 8
The X-29 was never designed as a combat aircraft. As part of the renovation process, Hunter and Gary had to reinforce the wings to add a couple of hard points for carrying air-to-air missiles. If he has need to, Hunter can carry six Sidewinder missiles under the wings and one on each wingtip now. There wasn’t a cannon onboard, but General George was able to find an old cannon pod to equip underneath the X-29 to give it a little versatility.
Besides the weapons, the avionics needed an upgrade as well. For another fist-sized diamond, General George bought the cockpit of a downed F-16 for Hunter to salvage for parts. He installed a new radar, a Heads-Up Display or HUD, and a targeting computer. Like the rest of the X-29s systems, Hunter rewrote some of the code to make the targeting computer faster and more reliable.
What the X-29 really needs is a paint job. It’s still sporting the glossy white paint with a thick blue stripe and thinner red stripes along the wings and fuselage. That’s fine for test flights, but in combat it’s like wearing a clown suit. But it’s probably not as bad as the Sabres or the Thunderbolt with their bright silver paint.
“It’s looking pretty sharp,” Gary says. Hunter shares his concerns about the paint; Gary shrugs at this. “It’s awesome. Really patriotic.”
“I suppose. Maybe General George can find some gray paint.”
“You’re no fun,” Gary says. “These days people got enough gray. What they need is some color. Something to give them hope.”
“We’ll see how she does.”
“Come on, Hunter, it doesn’t matter if this baby were Day-Glo. You’d still smoke anyone who gets close enough.”
“Let’s hope you’re right.”
There’s a loud rap on the hangar door. JP stands there, a clipboard in hand. “You got her ready to go?”
“For now. Why?”
“There’s a convoy approaching Spokane. Those pirates we told you about are probably going to go after them.”
Hunter pats the nose of the X-29. “I guess she’s going to get the old baptism of fire.”
***
All the X-29’s systems are showing green. He’s carrying the two wingtip Sidewinders, two more under each wing, and the cannon pod with two hundred rounds of 20mm ammunition. It’s a lot more than the X-29 is used to carrying. Besides the wings, Hunter and Gary boosted the engine’s power by twenty percent, enough that it should be able to get airborne without much of a problem.
Casey and Polly are standing by the control tower along with JP, Max, and some other spectators. Casey gives him a wave that he returns; she takes Polly’s wrist to force her to wave as well. This is his first combat mission since the liberation of Seattle; the first time he has really had to worry he might not come back to them. He probably should have said more of a goodbye in case something happens to him. In this day and age you can’t take that for granted anymore, especially not if you’re a fighter pilot.
He forces those thoughts from his mind when the control tower clears him for launch. The X-29’s engine revs to full power and then it lunges forward. It feels heavier, but it springs just as nimbly from the runway. Hunter does one circle around the island, waggling his wings at the crowd below. Then he kicks in the afterburner to scream away from Snowcap Mountain, a sonic boom left in his wake.
At more than Mach 2 it doesn’t take long for the convoy to appear in his radar. There are a half-dozen of them, all cargo planes from the size of the signatures. Two smaller signatures soon appear on the edge of the display, moving fast enough that they have to be the fighters JP spoke of. As the smaller signatures move closer to the cargo planes, the convoy begins to separate.
From what JP has told him, most convoys try to employ someone for protection, multiple someones if it’s a long trip. A guy with a fighter, an airstrip, and a stash of fuel and weapons can make a decent enough living, though like gunslingers in the Old West it might not be very long of a life. If you’re outgunned or just not very good, you can end up crashing and burning.
Some convoys go without protection, whether because their escort dumped them or they can’t afford to pay for it. When that happens, those on the planes in the convoy are basically taking their lives in their hands. If they’re lucky, the pirates will overlook them to force down another plane. If they’re not, at best they’ll end up stranded in the middle of nowhere; at worst they’ll get a bullet in the head or left as food for a pack of zeebs.
Hunter watches the drama unfold on his radar, hoping he won’t be too late. One of the cargo planes disappears from his display; he can’t be sure whether it exploded in midair or if it was forced down. He tightens his right hand on the control stick, wishing he could do something to help.
It seems like an eternity before the convoy comes into sight. There are three C-130 Hercules cargo planes left. Tiny puffs of black smoke come from the sides of the C-130s; they must have machine guns installed like the old World War II bombers to try to scare off the pirates. It’s clearly not having much effect.
Hunter sees one of the F-104 Starfighters coming up behind a C-130. With its stubby wings and streamlined body, the F-104 was often called the “manned missile.” Part of that nickname also extended from the interceptor not being all that maneuverable at close range. That’s something Hunter plans to put to the test.
He banks hard to the right, dropping down almost right on top of the Starfighter. He might have been worried about the X-29’s paint job, but the pirate flying the F-104 had no qualms about color; his fuselage is fire engine red with black wings and a pointed devil tail painted on the otherwise black tailfin. The Starfighter doesn’t have time to react before Hunter has its tailpipe lined up. The tone sounds in his helmet to indicate a lock.
As he pushes down on the firing button on his stick, he hopes there aren’t any bugs in the targeting computer. A Sidewinder leaps from the rack beneath the right wing. Hunter pulls up to watch the Starfighter flare into a ball of flame.
The radio comes to life with chatter from the cargo plane pilots. “Did you see that?” “What the hell was it?” “Did our escort come back?”
Hunter looks around for the second F-104. It’s approaching the remains of the convoy from straight ahead. It’s painted the opposite of the downed Starfighter with a black fuselage and bright red wings. The heat signature is a lot smaller from the front, making it take longer for the targeting computer to get a lock. Too long, really; the Starfighter is getting ready to open fire on one of the convoy planes.
Without time for a decent missile lock, Hunter fires a burst from the cannon pod. Most of the shells miss, but a couple nip the tailfin. More importantly, it forces the other pilot to break off his attack run. He drops into a steep dive, probably thinking his opponent is flying some World War II-era plane that won’t be able to follow.
The X-29 has no problem following the Starfighter down to about five thousand feet. The F-104’s pilot is hoping to make a run for it, but Hunter isn’t about to let him go that easily. The Starfighter’s maneuverability is even more limited closer to the ground, giving Hunter a greater advantage. He manages to pull up alongside the Starfighter to get a look at the pilot with his devilish goatee. Hunter points towards the ground to indicate the pilot should set down.
The Starfighter pilot’s agitation is visible even from a dozen yards away, yet he’s no fool. He starts to slow down and then lowers his landing gear to help indicate his surrender. Hunter gets on the radio to the convoy. “Convoy, this is Major Hawking of the Northwest Allied Command. If you’re looking to regroup, you’re welcome to
land in Seattle.”
“Thanks for the invite, Major,” one of the cargo plane pilots says. “We’ll take you up on it. And when I see you, the first beer is on me.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Hunter says. “I have a little business to take care of first.”
Hunter stays behind the pirate until they reach his base, what used to be a stretch of I-90. With its compact wings, the F-104 doesn’t have much difficulty in landing on the highway and then taxiing up to a pole barn that had probably belonged to the road commission.
Hunter circles the area once before he brings the X-29 in for a landing. The wings of the X-29 aren’t as stubby, making it a little more awkward to pull up to the road commission building. Hunter shuts down the X-29, takes off his straps, and then pops the canopy. The hairs on the back of his neck go up to warn him in time to duck before a bullet would have taken off his head.
“You might have brought me down, man, but that don’t do shit for you on the ground!” the pirate calls out.
Hunter has to admit the pirate has a point. It was pretty foolish to follow the man to the ground, but Hunter didn’t want to waste an opportunity to obtain another airplane and supplies for the NWAC. The only problem now is to get that plane and supplies without getting his head blown off.
He scrambles down from the plane and then breaks into a run away from the X-29. The pirate isn’t stupid enough to shoot at the plane; he’s probably hoping he can take it intact to use himself or sell for a nice price. Hunter dives behind an orange road grater and then takes out his service pistol. When a couple of bullets ping off the road grater, Hunter gets an idea.
The passenger’s side door opens with a creak. Hunter crawls along the seat, hoping there’s a set of keys. There isn’t, which means he’ll have to hotwire it. He hotwired Dad’s GTO back when he was sixteen; this isn’t too different in principle. The wires beneath the dash spark once and then the engine growls to life.
Hunter squeezes down as much as he can in the driver’s seat. The road grater lurches forward, probably for the first time in two years. Hunter hears bullets ring off the front end, but the truck manages to keep plowing ahead.
When he gets to a straightaway, Hunter floors the accelerator. The road grater doesn’t pick up a lot of speed, but it’s enough to gain some momentum. He takes his foot off of the accelerator and then dives from the driver’s side, onto a patch of dirt that isn’t as soft as it looks. With the road grater still barreling towards him, the pirate is distracted enough that Hunter can get the drop on him. He shoves the pirate to the ground and then kicks the man’s gun away from him.
“You got two minutes to get out of my sight,” Hunter says.
“But—”
“One fifty-five—”
The pirate staggers to his feet and then sets off running down the highway. If he’s smart, he won’t come back here again. If he does, he won’t find much left of use.
Hunter opens the pole barn to find barrels of fuel and crates of machine gun ammunition and air-to-air missiles. There’s a cart already primed with fuel. Hunter gets behind the wheel to drive it over to the waiting X-29 to top off his tanks. While the plane refuels, he gets on the radio to contact General George and ask for a couple of helicopters—and someone to fly the F-104 back.
Chapter 9
When he gets back to Snowcap Mountain, Hunter finds one of the C-130s from the convoy parked at the end of the runway. He has barely shut down the X-29 and climbed down before he’s wrapped in a bear hug that lifts him from his feet. “There’s the man of the hour!” a man’s voice booms. Hunter recognizes it as one of the cargo plane pilots. He finally drops Hunter and then claps him on the back hard enough to stagger Hunter. “There’s the man who saved my bacon!”
“It’s no problem,” Hunter says. “I was just trying to help.”
“Those sons of bitches got three of my boys. They would have had all of us if you hadn’t come swooping in there like some kind of ghost. You sure gave those boys the what-for.”
“Uh-huh. Look, Mr.—”
“That’s Captain. Captain Phil Nation. I used to be based around here, over at McChord.”
“Really? My father was stationed there. He flew F-16s for the 512nd. Danny Hawking.”
“Don’t remember the name, but that might have been before my time.” Captain Nation throws an arm around Hunter’s shoulders. “You fellas got a bar around here? I could use to tie one on.”
“There’s an officer’s club, but it’s not much to look at.”
“I don’t need much. This point I’d take a crate to sit on and a bottle of warm beer.”
“I think we can do a little better than that.”
The officer’s club is a tin shack set up out of the way. There are only two mismatched tables and a mini-fridge powered by a generator to keep bottles of beer cold and a few ice cubes in the freezer compartment. Hunter takes out a bottle of beer for the captain and then one for himself. They clink them together and then sit at one of the tables. By all rights Hunter ought to go report in, but that can wait until later. More pressing is that he ought to let Casey know he made it back all right, though she probably heard the X-29 come in for a landing.
“That is one hell of an airplane you got your hands on,” Captain Nation says.
“Thanks. The general is the one who got his hands on it. I just fly it.”
“That’s General George ain’t it? I seem to recall hearing about him during the war. And some hotshot pilot of his named Hawking.”
Hunter hopes he isn’t blushing too much at the compliment; the brief war in Asia is not something he likes to talk about given how it ended. “I just did what they paid me to, like everyone else.”
“You don’t have to be modest with me. No shame in being truthful about your skills.”
Hunter takes a sip of his beer and then asks, “How’d you happen to be out there with no escort?”
“We hired a guy, but when we got near Spokane he had ‘engine trouble,’” Captain Nation says, putting air quotes around the last two words. “Probably had it worked out ahead of time, the skunk. You can’t trust no one these days.”
“What were you carrying?”
“Odds and ends mostly. We had just finished a salvage run in Kansas City. Got a couple of cases of barbecue sauce if you’re interested.”
“Not really,” Hunter says. “I don’t think it would be that great with Spam.”
“Yeah, well, you want steak, I know where to get it.”
“Are you talking actual cow steak or ‘steak?’” It’s Hunter’s turn to put air quotes around the last word. Some of the “steak” merchants have tried to pass as cow meat more likely came from something in the rodent family.
“Hell, I can bring you guys the whole cow if you want. There’s a place outside San Antonio still breeding the longhorns. They’ve got a good setup to keep the zeebs out of there. We usually charge two bars of gold per head, but for saving my ass I’d give you one for free.”
“I think what we could really use is some breeding stock. Our teams have looked around, but we haven’t found anything local.”
“That might cost you, but I can get in touch with the distributor. Now, if you want pigs or chickens, there’s a guy up in Arkansas with a decent stock. He’s kind of a hermit, so it’s a bit tough to get to, but he and his kin have managed to hold the zeebs off.”
“Chickens would definitely be good,” Hunter says, imagining a plate of real scrambled eggs, not the powdered stuff they serve here. “I’m sure the general would be interested in making a deal.”
Captain Nation takes a gulp of his beer. “I heard how you guys knocked off the Seabirds. I never did much business with them. They were the kind more likely to slit your throat than pay you.”
“Or put you in chains.”
“Yeah. Slaves are one thing I don’t carry. Not even the female kind. Though if you’re looking for companionship, I know where you can get some.”
“I’m se
t on that front.”
“I sorta figured. Good-looking guy like you and a fighter jock to boot. You probably got women jumping through your window.”
“Just one—and a half.”
“A half? She a midget or something?”
“Sort of. She’s six.”
“Oh, hey, good for you, buddy. Never really thought about tying the knot myself—”
“We’re not married. Just really good friends I guess you’d say.”
“That’s fine. I ain’t going to judge. Not like there are many preachers around to get folks married official-like anyway.”
“Uh-huh.” Hunter hasn’t actually thought about the mechanics of getting married in this shattered world. The Northwest Allied Command doesn’t have an official bureaucracy in place yet for handling that kind of paperwork. He could ask the general to perform a ceremony in his semi-official capacity as the head of the NWAC, or maybe there’s a ship’s captain they could find—if Casey would even want to. If he would even want to. With how crazy the world is and with what happened to Misuko, a lifetime commitment might not last very long.
“Something wrong with your beer? You look a little green.”
“What? Oh, I’m fine. Have you seen the rest of the place? I can show you around.”
“A walk would be good. The air around here is nice and clean. Most places we go to scavenge, it still reeks of the dead. After a while you get used to it, at least until you go somewhere like this.”
They get up from their chairs to start across the base. As they walk, Hunter asks, “Do you guys have a base somewhere or do you just roam around?”
“Our base is wherever we can find room. The bright side is I guess we’ll only need half the room now.” Though Captain Nation smiles, it’s clearly an act. “I don’t suppose I could hire you away from here, could I? Someone like you watching our backs, we wouldn’t ever have to lose anyone again.”
“I’m pretty happy here,” Hunter says.
“I don’t blame you.”
Army of the Damned (Sky Ghost #1) Page 7