As a teenager, Hunter had hated Dad’s seemingly constant parade of criticism; it wasn’t until he went to the Air Force Academy that he understood his father had been trying to toughen him up. All the criticism, all the harshness, had prepared him for the rigors of military training.
The only regret he has concerning his father is they never got the chance to fly together. It would have been awkward to be assigned to the same squadron as his father, or even the same air wing, but he would have liked to go up once as father and son. There are a few tricks Hunter could have taught his father, things he had learned when he joined the Thunderbirds and some he had come up with on his own.
The Cessna’s engine sputters, bringing back Dad’s warning to mind the gauges. The oil pressure is dropping; there’s probably a leak somewhere that he didn’t pick up before he left. He can hear Dad telling him that you should never go up in a plane without first inspecting it. Even during the war Hunter had at least walked around his F-16 to make sure it didn’t have any obvious problems.
The skyline of Tucson comes into view. It shouldn’t be much farther, which is good because now the engine is seizing. There’s more traffic on the highway again, but if nothing else he can try to land in the desert. That should be relatively flat.
The Cessna is down to six hundred feet as he passes over the edge of Tucson. He shouldn’t have much farther to go now to reach his destination. He passes over the football stadium for the University of Arizona, which like its Arizona State counterpart still has the remains of tents on the playing surface. Roaring over the rest of the campus, he sees packs of zeebs shuffling around as if they’re going to classes. He allows himself a slight grin to imagine zombie fraternities and sororities. Then he gets his mind back on business.
He passes over the Tucson airport. That’s not what he’s interested in. His target is Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. Not only did it house squadrons of active planes, it had also been the site of the Air Force’s “graveyard” for aircraft. Whole squadrons of fighters, bombers, and cargo planes had been left there to use either for parts or to perhaps be reactivated someday if needed.
Hunter isn’t sure what’s left there, but he has to hope there’s something he can scrounge that will let him continue his search for his missing friends and now his missing plane.
The radio comes to life. “Unidentified aircraft, this is Davis Control. Identify yourself or we will shoot you down.”
“Davis Control, I’m declaring an emergency. My aircraft has been losing oil. The engine is going to seize—” Right on cue the engine sputters again and then finally stops. “Right about now. I’m going to be coasting in. Over.”
“Understood. There’s a landing fee of fifteen gold pieces. It’s non-negotiable. Davis Control out.”
The radio goes dead. Hunter shakes his head. He doesn’t have fifteen gold pieces. He doesn’t have any money; he hadn’t been able to take any with him before leaving Snowcap Mountain and after that he hadn’t seen any need for it. That short-sightedness might get him shot now.
The Cessna is rapidly losing altitude. A runway is ahead of him; it looks clear enough for him to make it. The runway is long enough to handle B-52 bombers, so it should have more than enough room for the Cessna. He hears Dad’s voice telling him to relax. “It’s like a woman: don’t try to force it or nothing will happen.”
Hunter hadn’t understood that off-color joke until much later. Now he smiles a little as he guides the dying Cessna to the runway. The plane bucks violently as the wheels hit the tarmac. The Cessna bounces a couple of times, but then it’s finally down. He lets it coast to about halfway down the runway, where a jeep full of armed guys is waiting to greet him.
The Cessna finally stops. Hunter puts up his hands as the men from the jeep scramble out to surround him. One yanks the door open and then jams his M4 into Hunter’s ribs. “You got the money, pretty boy?”
“Afraid not.”
“In that case we’re going to have to take it out of your hide.”
A radio crackles to life. One of the guys puts it to his ear. “We got him. Roger,” the guy says. He turns off the radio, but doesn’t look too happy about it. “Boss wants to see him.”
The guy with the gun pulls it back slightly. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, pretty boy.”
“I guess it is,” Hunter says. Maybe his luck is finally turning around, not that things could have gotten much worse for him except to be bitten by a zeeb.
They roughly escort him over to the jeep and then motion for him to get in the back. One of the guys stays behind to secure the Cessna, leaving the other three to take him along the runway and then onto a service road. The road winds around hangars, supply buildings, and then administration buildings. It comes to a stop in front of one of the administration buildings. One of the guys jabs Hunter in the ribs with the barrel of his M4. “Let’s go, pretty boy.”
“Yeah, sure,” Hunter grumbles. Two of them go ahead of him with the third behind him, periodically jabbing him with the M4 just to remind Hunter that he’s there.
They take him up two flights of stairs, to a frosted glass door still bearing the label, “Base Commander.” One of the guys opens the door to usher Hunter into an office with a lot of wood paneling and armchairs that probably aren’t real leather.
Like in a James Bond movie the chair behind the desk turns around. In this case it reveals a chubby little man with olive-tinged skin and a thick black mustache. The ends of the mustache bend upward as the man smiles. “Well, if it isn’t the famous Hunter Hawking.”
Chapter 13
“Jimmy DiMarco? What the hell are you doing here?” Hunter asks.
The guy behind him jabs him with the barrel of the gun again. “Show the boss some respect.”
Jimmy waves one hand at the guy. “Ease up, boys. This here is an old buddy of mine. We used to be roommates at the academy.” Jimmy snickers and then says, “I wouldn’t have passed if I hadn’t cheated off his papers.”
“He landed and he ain’t got no money,” the guy with the gun says.
“I think we can spot him this one time. You’re good for it, right Hunter?”
“Sure. You can take it out of that Cessna I came in with.”
“See, boys? Problem solved. Go take that to the hangar for inspection. From the sound of it, it’ll need an engine overhaul. Course Cessnas aren’t that much in demand.” Jimmy leans back in his chair. “Give us some privacy, would you, boys? Hunter and I got some catching up to do.”
Jimmy’s goons nod and then back out of the room like whipped dogs. Hunter shakes his head and says, “You’re quite the powerbroker now.”
“I’m a fortunate man. Right place, right time.” He motions to one of the armchairs. Hunter sits down. He’s glad when Jimmy pours him a glass of Scotch. He hasn’t had a decent drink since Snowcap Mountain was destroyed. “I heard about General George. What a shame. He was a hell of a guy.”
“He really was. The guys who did it came in a bunch of Russian planes. You seen many of those?”
“Not in these parts.”
“I saw one up in Phoenix. They jacked my plane on their way out.”
“That’s rough. I was wondering why you came in that little shit box instead of the X-29.”
“You heard about that, too?”
“People can’t stop talking about it. Those guys you roughed up in Portland even gave you a name: The Sky Ghost. What you think of that?”
Hunter shakes his head. “Sounds kind of silly.”
“Yeah, well, a ride like you had gets people’s attention. So what brings you here? Not that I’m mad to see my old roomie again, but I don’t think this is a social call.”
“I’m going to need a new plane. At least until I can find my old one.”
“I’d like to help you out, Hunter, I really would, but I’m running a business here. I can’t just give away a whole fighter.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“That depend
s what you’re looking for.” Jimmy takes a thick black book from the top of his desk. Inside are pictures of aircraft, each with a price listed. The World War II-era fighters start at three bars of gold. From there it goes up to a B-1 bomber for five hundred bars of gold.
“I don’t think I could afford anything in there.”
“Maybe we can work something out. I could use another mechanic on the line. We don’t just restore the old planes here. We do work on aircraft like yours that come in. It’s kind of like a truck stop for planes. Merchant convoys stop in here, get some fuel, maybe some spare parts, and do some business.” Jimmy finishes his Scotch and then says, “We even get pirates in here sometimes. I know what you’re thinking, but I can’t play favorites. It’s like Casablanca here, you know?”
“You’re right: I don’t like it.”
“If you want, you can take your chances out there. We’ve thinned out the zeebs in the city, so you might be able to scrounge a vehicle and get out of town. If that Cessna doesn’t need too much work, I could let you take it out of here.”
“You’re a real humanitarian,” Hunter grumbles.
“I didn’t get to where I am by being soft. Me and a couple other guys pretty much rebuilt this place with our bare hands.” Jimmy goes on to explain that he had been an A-10 pilot stationed at Davis-Monthan when the balloon went up. They were held back in reserve, so they never had to go into combat.
Once the government dissolved, most of the base personnel took off. Jimmy saw the opportunity presented by sitting on the airplane graveyard. So long as they could keep the zeebs out, they had a chance to build a real moneymaking enterprise.
“Everything kind of snowballed from there. We’ve been doing great business the last eighteen months. I’ve got as much gold as Fort Knox. Silver, diamonds, rubies, you name it. If I wanted, I could probably take a swim in it.”
“And what stops some of these pirates from busting in here to take it?”
“We have our own defense force. I kept some of the good stuff for me: Eagles, Falcons, and even a Eurofighter Typhoon. I keep about a thousand more like those gents you met already, mostly to stop the zeebs from getting in here. All these people and noise draws them to the walls.”
“No incidents?”
“We’ve had an incident or two, but nothing major. A big part of that is because we don’t take sides.”
“I get it. The thing is, I’m kind of in a hurry to find those guys who stole my plane—and killed the general.”
“Look, you stay here a few weeks, you make some money, and you give me someone to share old war stories with. I’ll keep my ear to the ground for these Russian planes. People who come here do a lot of talking. I have guys who know how to listen. What do you say?”
Hunter sighs. It’s far from the optimal situation, but he doesn’t see much of an alternative. Wandering around in the Cessna would probably be about as dangerous as driving and he might fly around for weeks or months without finding a single bit of useful information. If Jimmy is right about people talking, he might have a better chance to find something out plus get himself a better plane for when he finds out who took the X-29.
“All right. Looks like it’s going to be the best deal I’ll get.”
“Great.” Jimmy leans across the table to shake Hunter’s hand. “Let me show you around the place.”
***
The base PX has become like a flea market, with vendors offering everything from food to airplane parts to companionship. A redhead with enormous tits rubs up against Hunter. She purrs, “Hey there, flyboy. You looking for a good time?”
“Maybe later,” he says, though it is damned tempting after three months without sex. He waits until they’re a few feet away to say, “Hookers?”
“Why not? It’s not like there are singles clubs left. Makes things a lot easier.” Jimmy pats him on the back. “You’re going to have to loosen up a little if you’re going to stay here. This isn’t a church.”
“That’s pretty obvious,” Hunter says, nodding towards a couple of scantily-clad women dancing in cages.
“You think this is bad, you should head back to Vegas. What’s left of that is really taking ‘Sin City’ to new heights.”
“I think I’ll pass.”
They exit the PX to continue touring the base. Most of the barracks have become makeshift hotels, where rooms can be rented for days or a few hours. Hunter knows better than to say anything about that. He doesn’t like to seem like a prude, but it’s hard to accept this new order.
Harder to accept is the presence of pirates. Most of them stand out like a sore thumb with their black leather jackets or vests and punk rock hairstyles. They generally look like motorcycle gang members who have decided to take up flying. It’s hard to believe many of them used to be professionals, even military men, before the outbreak and war destroyed civilization.
“What do you suppose makes someone do that?” Hunter asks.
Jimmy shrugs. “Desperation, maybe. A need to belong to something.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“I know you don’t like them, but they do a lot of business here.”
“So they can kill innocent people.”
“No one is innocent anymore.”
“There are still some,” Hunter says, thinking of Polly.
“Come on, I’ll show you where you’re going to be working.”
Jimmy leads him to the line of hangars where crews are working on planes of different types, from jet fighters to cargo planes to a Cobra helicopter gunship. Jimmy pats the Cobra’s nose. “This is the newest part of our defense force. Got it from a Marine air station along with this.”
Jimmy gestures to a small plane with a snub nose and bubble canopy. Its main distinguishing feature is that instead of one or two engines there are four nozzles, two on each side, that allow the plane to take off and land like a helicopter. Two of the nozzles are in pieces at the moment while the cockpit is shattered and the front landing gear is broken. “Can’t remember the last time I saw a Harrier,” Hunter says.
“It’s in pretty rough shape. Looks like the pilot had to make a crash landing. My guys say it’s going to need a lot of work. If someone wants to work on it in his spare time, maybe that someone could keep it—for a little while anyway.”
Hunter grins slightly. If he could get the Harrier working, it would be pretty useful to search for the X-29 and his friends. The Harrier was designed to land just about anywhere with a flat surface big enough for it to fit on; that would mean he wouldn’t have to spend as much time looking for runways. It can also carry air-to-air missiles and has twin 25mm cannons on the belly should he run into any pirates.
“Deal,” he says.
“I thought that’s what you’d say,” Jimmy says. “Now, let’s show you where you’ll be sleeping.”
Chapter 14
Life as a grease monkey isn’t as bad as Hunter feared it would be when he first started. The guys he works with are more than capable; most of them have been on the base since long before the outbreak. There’s a real challenge in diagnosing and repairing the various aircraft that come in, everything from pre-World War II stuff to more modern commercial airliners converted for cargo use.
The best part is when he gets to go up in one of the planes to test it out. No matter how old the plane is, it’s good just to get up in the sky again, even if it’s only for a few minutes. After two years at that hunting lodge, he doesn’t want to go that long again without flying if he can help it.
His latest repair job is an F-106 Delta Dart. It’s painted in the original silver, but the owner added a lot of dragons and skulls and such to match the tattoos on his body. The idea of flying a pirate aircraft doesn’t thrill Hunter, but after two months, he has managed to check his outrage and just focus on the task at hand.
He twists the Delta Dart around and then feeds it some throttle to put the refurbished engine to the test. The old fighter creaks a little, but it holds together. The engine soun
ds healthy enough, not once sputtering or stalling. “Looks like everything’s green,” Hunter says. “I’m coming back down.”
“Roger. We’ll be waiting.”
It’s a little disappointing to bring the plane back so soon, but Hunter still has a couple more to deal with today. After that, there’s his side project that’s almost nearing completion. Then he’ll get a chance to test drive it like the Delta Dart.
The F-106 lands with hardly a bump. Hunter cruises along the runway to pull up to a stop in front of the hangar where he was working on it. The pilot is waiting there, another greasy thug who looks like a reject from the Hell’s Angels. “She’s all yours,” Hunter says as he climbs down.
“You took long enough,” the pirate grumbles.
“You want it fast or you want it right?”
“Both.”
Hunter makes sure to hurry back into the hangar before the pirate can barbecue him with the F-106’s afterburner. The way some of these guys fly their planes, it’s a wonder they haven’t crashed yet. Jimmy would just say that helps to create repeat business.
His next case for the day is an F-100 Super Sabre. The fuselage and tail are painted red while the wings are painted black. The design is very familiar, as is the man who climbs down. Hunter pushes his baseball cap lower on his brow and looks down at his feet to make it harder for the man to recognize him.
“What seems to be the trouble?” Hunter asks, lowering his voice to make it less recognizable.
“Piece of shit engine stalled on me. Almost didn’t get it restarted in time.”
“I’ll take a look at it.”
“Yeah, you do that. I’ll be over at the cathouse.”
Hunter nods slightly. He waits until the pirate has gone to breathe a sigh of relief. The pirate didn’t recognize him from their confrontation at the old road commission base near Spokane. Things might have gotten pretty ugly then.
Army of the Damned (Sky Ghost #1) Page 10