The Wingman Adventures Volume One

by Mack Maloney

  Hunter gingerly felt the body. It was still warm and gurgling. He was sure it was the man’s scream they’d heard. He frisked the body and found the bags of silver he had given the man. This told him two things: the man had found the diamonds. And that his killers had taken them, leaving the relatively paltry sum of the coin bags behind and escaping with the jewels.

  But they had left a trail. One of the murderers had stepped in the blood of his victim, and had left a set of bloody footprints. Hunter and Zal followed the trail and were soon outside a door marked: CONTROL ROOM—DO NOT ENTER.

  Hunter put his ear to the door and listened. He could pick up six distinct voices. Not flyboys either. Pilots had their own way of talking and this wasn’t it. He could hear the words “diamonds” and “asshole” dominate the conversation.

  He motioned Zal to get on the other side of the door. Then, he reached for the percussion grenade and pulled the pin …

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CAPTAIN FROST HEARD THE grenade go off. In an instant, he and LaFleur had their .45s drawn and were running toward the noise. The unsavory slave auction crowd obediently cleared a path for them, then laughed once the Sky Marshals were out of sight. Why get so excited over a little thing like a grenade going off? People yelled for the auction to resume. More young flesh was trotted out. More money changed hands. Just another day in The Pitts.

  “Hunter said he expected trouble,” Frost yelled to his lieutenant as the two Canadians sped through the empty, sometimes pitch black passageways. “Sounds like he found it.”

  He had …

  The Sky Marshals turned left into a partially lit corridor only to see Hunter and Zal at the far end, running out of a darkened section of the hallway and toward them at full speed. Hunter was carrying a sack in one hand, and a hand grenade in the other. Zal had his M-16 cocked over his shoulder, firing blindly. The sound of many angry footsteps was right behind them in the darkness. Not missing a beat, Hunter pulled the pin and tossed the live grenade over his shoulder. It bounced once then rolled back down into the dark part of the corridor …

  4 … 3 … 2 … 1 … Boom!

  The grenade went off with a flash. A blinding light, brighter than a hundred flares, filled the corridor. The explosion seemed to freeze everything and everyone in place. In that instant, Frost could see more than 50 gunmen were chasing the airmen. The illumination grenade stopped the pursuers in their tracks as they instinctively put their hands up to protect their eyes. Then his eyes too were blinded by the intense flash. By the time Frost could see again, Hunter and Zal were racing by him.

  “I got the diamonds! Let’s get the hell out of here!” Hunter yelled as he raced past.

  As if to emphasize his point, the corridor was suddenly filled with automatic fire. Bullets were whistling past them, ricocheting everywhere. The gunmen had recovered and were charging again, firing their rifles as they ran.

  Frost looked at La Fleur, shrugged once, then both Canadians joined Hunter and Zal in the strategic retreat.

  Led by Hunter and firing their weapons behind them, the four men raced through the maze of corridors until finally spilling out into the main terminal building where the slave auction was continuing. They were ignored by the crowd as they ran through the terminal and toward the door which led out to the runway. Outside, the C-47 waited, its engines turning anxiously. Hunter was the first to reach the escape door and he hesitated as the three others ran out. At that moment, the slightly bewildered gunmen reached the terminal, causing a few heads to turn in the crowd.

  Confusion. It’s the best cover to use to get away. He took his two remaining grenades, pulled the pins and held the clips. Just as the first of the gunmen spotted him across the crowded room, he let the clip go, reeled back and threw the grenade up toward the high ceiling. Boom! It exploded as it reached the pinnacle of its flight, brightly illuminating the room, and showering it with a million sparks. Once again, the bright flash stunned the gunmen, most of whom by this time had two large blue spots hindering their vision. This time, the crowd scattered. The room became a pandemonium of fleeing slave buyers and screaming, naked young girls. Some people dove for cover as the gunmen began shooting randomly. For good measure, Hunter pulled the pin on his last grenade and rolled it toward the middle of the terminal.

  It went off just as he turned and ran out the door. The C-47 was already rolling toward the runway. Searchlights were clicking on, targeting the escaping airplane. Somewhere, a siren was blowing. Shouts, screams, and gunfire could be heard all over. Suddenly, the dead, dingy airport was alive in light and noise. Zal had reached the taxiing C-47. The Canadians had climbed into their jet and were quick-starting the engine. A searchlight on top of the control tower had the Voodoo in its beam and gunners in the tower started raking the jet with gunfire.

  Hunter stopped, aimed and fired at the tower searchlight, knocking it out with his second burst. The gunners turned their attention to him, but he was already running again at full speed, managing to stay one step ahead of the bullets.

  He could see Zal waiting at the open door of the C-47, reaching his hand out to help him on board. Just then, the gunmen burst out from the terminal building and onto the parking apron. He reached the rolling Spooky, bullets licking his bootheels as Zal hauled him aboard. The Canadians were just backing the Voodoo away from the terminal when the gang of gunmen started charging the slowly moving C-47. Its engine screaming, Frost swung the F-101 around, and aiming it toward the pursuers, squeezed off a burst of cannon fire. The deadly stream chopped up the gunmen, killing some and causing the rest to hit the deck. Still moving, the Voodoo swung around and was soon right behind the C-47.

  Both planes reached the end of the runway just as Hunter was settling into the pilot’s seat of the Spooky. Every searchlight in the airport was pointing at them, and several rocket propelled grenades were being shot at them. Luckily for them, no one in the control tower thought to turn off the runway beacons. The two long intermittent lines of blue lights showed the way out for the two airplanes. Under a hail of bullets and rockets, Hunter started his take-off roll.

  By this time, some of the surviving gunmen had recovered. They had commandeered an airport fire truck and now were speeding toward the airstrip. Zal was at the open cargo door, shooting at the truck as it approached the rolling airplane. Out his window, Hunter could see the truck was quickly gaining on them and knew he’d have to improvise the take-off. Guessing at the wind speed and direction, he gunned the old plane’s twin engines and yanked the throttle back.

  The truck was pulling just about even with the plane when Hunter suddenly hit 99 knots. He pulled up the gear and pulled back on the wheel. The C-47 leaped into the air, in about half the normal distance needed for a take-off.

  Frost, behind him in the F-101 had to shake his head in admiration for Hunter. No other pilot that he knew of could get a ship like that airborne so quickly. The fire truck full of gunmen now turned its attention to the Voodoo, but it was fruitless. The jet fighter streaked by them before they could even pull their triggers, leaving them in a trail of hot jet exhaust fumes.

  Once airborne, the two planes circled the field once then headed north. “Just another day in The Pitts,” Hunter said to Al and Zal.

  But the chase was just beginning.

  The plane’s clock had just struck midnight and they had just broken out of the perpetual cloud cover which always seemed to hang over The Pitts. The moon was full. Hunter could see the Voodoo behind him, bringing up the rear. A familiar feeling washed over him. He suddenly felt aware of the presence of other planes. Sure enough, the C-47’s battered old radar scope showed three jets gaining on them

  “We got company,” he said, reaching for the microphone. “Voodoo, this is Spooky.”

  “Go Spooky,” Frost replied.

  “Bogies to your six o’clock.”

  “We see them, Spooky. Do you still want to stick to the plan?”

  “Affirmative, Voodoo,” Hunter replied.
r />   “Roger, Spooky.”

  Hunter knew the blips that were getting larger on the radar screen were the three pirate Super Sabres they had seen at The Pitts. He was sure one word was on the lips of everyone at the terminal, especially after the spectacular getaway.

  That word was “diamonds.”

  The man in the black hat had found their shipment all right, Hunter theorized, but he had gotten greedy and foolishly told his superiors, the gunmen who controlled the airport. Instead of cutting him in on the action, they had cut his throat instead, then attempted to split the jewels among themselves. Hunter and Zal had arrived outside the Control Room door just as a fight broke out among the top gunmen inside. One flash grenade later, everyone in the room had been blinded and the next thing the gunmen knew, the diamonds were gone. An alarm had sounded and the chase was on.

  Now, Hunter was sure, a desperate deal had been struck between the airport gunmen and the pirates. Get the jewels. We’ll split later, 50-50. If the gunmen were foolish enough to deal with their erstwhile allies the pirates, the pirates were smart enough to know that if the jewels were recaptured there would be no dividing of the spoils.

  Hunter checked the blips and saw the F-100s were gaining fast. Like most of the pirates’ planes, the Super Sabres were equipped with night fighting equipment. Telling Al and Zal to hold on tight, he started evasive maneuvers, in an attempt to throw off the pursuers. But the jets stuck right with him.

  “Spooky, this is Voodoo,” Frost called. “Bogies gaining on you. Are you still roger on the plan?”

  “Affirmative, Voodoo,” Hunter said.

  With that, Frost kicked in the Voodoo’s afterburner and the jet fighter streaked by the lumbering C-47. He peeled off, taking one of the F-100s with him. The Voodoo was quicker and more agile than the Super Sabre. Frost put this to his advantage, executing a quick loop which put the Voodoo on the Super Sabre’s tail. LaFleur, the backseat weapons officer, pushed a button and a Sidewinder obliterated the F-100.

  But the F-101 kept right on going. It headed north and soon it was little more than a faint red light on the horizon.

  The two remaining Super Sabres were now right on the C-47. A voice crackled across the radio. “Okay, you piece of shit,” the gruff voice said. “Your Canuck buddy has turned pussy. Follow us on a three-four heading, or we grease you right now.”

  Before Hunter could reply, one of the F-100s opened up, tearing his left wing with cannon fire and starting a major fuel leak.

  “That’s your warning shot,” a voice on the radio laughed. “Now follow us while you’re still breathing.”

  Hunter’s left engine was now on fire, his fuel pouring out of the perforated left wing. One of the pirate jets pulled alongside him, the pilot dropping his flaps and landing gear to slow the supersonic airplane down to match the C-47’s 150 knot speed.

  “This is your last chance, Spooky,” the pilot in the jet beside him radioed. “Airfield is three-four, ten miles. You can’t last much longer. Put it down there.”

  Hunter knew the pirate was right. Even an extraordinary pilot like Hunter couldn’t keep the old bird together for more than another two minutes before it broke up. And it would be suicidal if they parachuted out—the pirates were well-known for strafing chutists. He would have to take his chances on the ground.

  Now, all he had to do is find the pirates’ air field …

  They were somewhere high over western Pennsylvania. The terrain below him was black as coal and twice as rugged.

  “There ain’t nothing down there but trees and mountains,” Al said, straining to look out the C-47’s window at the ground below.

  “Well, we’d better find something smooth real quick,” Hunter said, eyeing his fuel indicator. It had already passed the empty mark.

  The Spooky shuddered once, then started vibrating violently. The left wing was aflame, and would soon break off.

  “Where the hell is their base?” Zal yelled, the anxiety evident in his voice.

  “Maybe they’re just trying to crash us, Major,” Al said. “That’s how they usually work.”

  “Hang on,” Hunter coolly reminded them. “Those ’100s have to land somewhere. As long as we’re flying, we still have a chance.”

  Just then, the left side propeller broke off and let go, taking most of the engine with it. The C-47 yawed wildly to the left.

  “Christ!” Al yelled as the plane almost flipped over. Zal was tossed like a puppet around the cockpit. It was all Hunter could do to battle the controls and try bringing the old plane back to level. The Spooky was shuddering so badly, he thought every nut and bolt must be ready to come apart. He finally managed to get the airplane somewhat leveled off, but he knew they had about 30 seconds left, tops. They were simultaneously running out of fuel, altitude and time.

  Suddenly, a mile up ahead, runway lights blinked on. An instant later, other lights—in buildings, hangars and anti-aircraft guns—came on. A control tower materialized out of nowhere. Searchlights went up. It was amazing. One moment he was looking out on a sea of darkness, and the next he was looking down at a good sized, one-runway airbase that just wasn’t there moments before. The pirates had dug an airbase right out of the side of a mountain. It was perfectly camouflaged on three sides and almost impossible to see at night. He had to give them credit. If nothing else, the bandits were masters of disguise.

  He had to fly straight in. The plane’s controls were starting to fail. His left engine had completely broken away leaving the wing to flap away in the wind. The right engine was sputtering and choking out thick black smoke. A lesser plane would have disintegrated long ago. But Hunter knew the Spooky would stay together until the last possible moment.

  The two remaining F-100s, streaked past and went around again in order to land behind them. Below, he could see crowds of pirates had appeared along one side of the runway. He would have an audience for the landing. Assuming that he and his crew survived the crash, he wondered if they would survive the welcoming committee.

  He came in wheels up, flaps down, floating along at 50 knots. Ten feet above the landing strip he cut the engine. Then, as softly as possible, he eased the Spooky down.

  The flaming plane screeched as it touched the ground. It slid along the full length of the runway, the disabled wing and belly scraping the asphalt and sending up a shower of sparks. The left wing snapped off making the plane turn two complete 360s while still barrelling along the runway. Finally, as it neared the end of the strip, the C-47 went nose down and ground to a halt.

  They were down. Now they had to get out. He, Al and Zal quickly scrambled to the emergency hatch beneath the cockpit and squeezed through. Then they ran. Hunter could hear a distinctive hissing sound and knew an explosion was seconds away. Even the pirates nearby were hitting the deck.

  “Down!” he yelled.

  All three hit the hard surface and covered their heads. The plane blew up two seconds later, producing a fireball that leaped into the air and scattered pieces of debris all over them and the runway. The ground shook as two more explosions wracked the plane. Then there was only the crackling noise of fire.

  The smoke cleared and the rain of sparkling debris stopped. They shook the pieces of airplane off their backs and tried to shake some sense back into their heads. Then they looked up. Standing around them were more than 100 men, all of them armed, all of them dressed in leather, all of them sporting shaved heads.

  “You fucked up our runway, boys,” one of them said. “That makes us mad.”

  Not as mad as you’re going to be, Hunter thought.

  Hunter didn’t have the diamonds; Captain Frost did. As planned, he had passed them to the Sky Marshal during the hectic moments back at The Pitts. He knew the Canadian would deliver them safely to Fitz and Gus—in fact, the jewels were probably already in their possession. So, in essence, Hunter had completed the mission. Now, all he had to do was live long enough to collect the $150,000 from Gus.

  They were hustled up and push
ed at gunpoint by six pirate guards toward a building located at the far end of the base. As they walked along, Hunter could see that theirs was hardly the first plane to crash at the base. In fact, wreckage of other planes—dozens of them—littered the end and sides of the runway. Many a plane had been forced down at the hidden airfield, their cargoes looted, their crews done away with. Hunter knew the pirates planned to treat them no differently.

  They were pushed into the small, one-room structure that served as the pirates’ jail. It contained three chairs, a few empty oil drums, one window, and that was it. The pirate guards didn’t speak a word as they roughly searched them, then tied them to the chairs. Hunter detected the smell of alcohol on them as they fastened him to the wooden chair.

  Once all three of them were secured, the guards checked the rope knots and left. Outside, Hunter could hear the pirate ground crew using a tow vehicle to hastily drag what remained of the C-47 wreckage to one side of the runway. Once the strip was cleared, the two circling Super Sabres landed. Hunter heard one of them run out of fuel just as it touched down. He knew the pilot would be particularly pissed off at them.

  A short time later, the door burst open and the two surviving pilots, followed by another phalanx of guards, trooped in.

  “Where are the fucking diamonds!” the lead pirate screamed.

  Hunter recognized him as the pirate flyer who had flown into The Pitts in the black F-100 sporting the laughing shark’s mouth. He was a big, dirty, fat slob of a man; Hunter had a hard time believing the man could squeeze himself into the cockpit of a jet fighter. He could smell liquor on the man’s breath; in fact, the whole group of pirates reeked of a boozy smell. They were far from a military unit, Hunter thought; these Stukas were little more than a band of two-bit murderers and thieves. And to think many of them were probably officers in the country’s armed forces at one time made them more of a disgrace to Hunter’s way of thinking.