There must be more than a thousand people down there, he realized.
A thousand people like those who attended air races, auto races, boxing matches, skydiving contests, all of them waiting to see someone make that final mistake that would cause flames to erupt or a parachute release to fail.
Buck took a deep breath. Tomorrow morning, at ten o'clock sharp, the contest would begin.
An inner voice seemed to call to him.
And that's when it's time for you to whip that guy to a fare-thee-well, Mr. Rogers.
"Yea, sure," he said aloud and suddenly laughed at himself long and loud.
He put the Messerschmitt down like a feather dropping gently to earth.
Chapter 12
Wilma sauntered across the airport ramp, high heels showing off shapely legs, a short, pleated athletic skirt swirling in a wispy flow. Her breasts were outlined by a form-fitting top with just enough cleavage to keep hundreds of eyes following her every movement as she headed for the Mustang fighter on the ramp. She watched Rocky Hoffman as he stood on the wing, looking down into the cockpit to make a last-minute check. She nodded to herself All their reports were perfect. The way Hoffman looked at her, his expression changing from mild interest to a bold leer, told her the nature of the man she was already thinking of as a creep. She played her part perfectly: the female entranced with the ace pilot. Hoffman almost seemed to peel away her clothes with his eyes. She stood close to him, giving the appearance of two people planning future get-togethers.
Okay, Buck, time for your entrance, she thought. She smiled to herself Buck had figured out his adversary right down to his toenails. A lady-killer, a big hero within the ranks of the Half-Breeds . . . crude, masculine, and completely endeared to himself
She saw Buck coming across the flight apron, his strides bespeaking anger at the sight of Wilma with Rocky Hoffman. Finally he stood before them and stabbed a finger at Hoffman. "What the hell are you doing with my girl?" he demanded.
A Life in the Future
Before Hoffman could reply, Buck turned angrily to Wilma. "I warned you about this guy. Stay away from him!" He grabbed Wilma by her wrist, pulling her toward him, almost dragging her along as he strode away from the Mustang.
"Hey, flyboy!" Hoffman shouted, laughing. "What's the matter? Can't you stand a little competition? Maybe your lady wants a real man instead of some retread!"
Buck stared straight ahead, barely able to conceal a grin. "Don't turn around," he told Wilma. "He fell for it hook, line, and sinker. The big he-man. Now he'll waste half his time thinking of how he's going to steal you from me."
She chuckled. "He did everything but drool."
"You'd make any man drool," he told her with admiration. "But thanks. Really," he emphasized. "It's working."
"Fill me in. Buck. I have a general idea of what you were doing, but you're the fighter plane expert here, not me."
"It's pretty simple," Buck said, laughing. "Hoffman just met me, and already he's convinced he's beating my time with you. Big hero type. Nothing has changed in four centuries when it comes to guys like him. He's all puffed up, and he'll be thinking of making time with you instead of clearing his mind of ever5rthing except this dogfight. What you just did increases the percentages for me."
For several moments, she remained silent. Then she slipped her arm through his. "Would it bother you," she asked quietly, "if he really was making time with me?"
Buck stopped, facing her directly. "Wilma, I—" He cut himself short. "I want my head clear of everything except the duel. Do you understand?"
She squeezed his arm, then slipped free. "I understand. Go get him. Ace," she said and walked away.
He went to the waiting German fighter. Representatives from the Niagara Orgzone on one side, the Half-Breeds on the other, watched his approach. He faced the small group of Half-Breeds gathered near the two planes. "Let's get right to it. Any change in the rules?"
A burly man in leather glared at him. "No change. You two take off and climb to three thousand feet. Hoffman comes back across the field from the east, and you come at him, same altitude, from the west. You both break to the right. You're the hotshot.
Buck Rogers
Rogers. You don't need special instructions."
"I'm going to kill your boy," Buck said quietly.
The man's jaw dropped, and then he regained his senses. "Go right ahead and try, mister. Hoffman eats iron nails for breakfast and spits out tacks."
"What's your name?" Buck demanded.
"Who? Me?" Sudden laughter. "Lombardosa . . . what about it?"
Buck smiled. He was rubbing nerves every chance he had, and this clown might just jar Hoffman a bit more than the Half-Breeds liked. "Listen, Lombardosa, it looks like what hair you have left is brown. We can always change it to red."
'Teah? How you gonna do that?"
"Change places with Hoffman. You get your big fat butt into that plane and I'll meet you upstairs. When I scramble what few brains you've got all over the inside of your cockpit, everything will be one big red mess. Want to try me?"
Lombardosa jutted his chin forward. "I wouldn't want to take Hoffman's pleasure away from him," he said with a sneer.
"Big talk," Buck said coldly. "An3^ime you want to back it up, just let me know." Immediately Buck turned to the watching groups, then looked directly at Killer Kane. "Once we're in the air, there aren't any rules, right?"
Kane looked at the Half-Breed group, and to a man they nodded. A woman in a leather outfit stepped to the front. "Just so there's no doubt, flyboy, it's kill or be killed. If you bail out, Hoffman will gun you down in your chute."
"I'm not going to bail out. I haven't got any chute, and I won't need one. But thanks for clarifying the rules. It's kill Hoffman, whether he's in the air, on the way up, floating in midair, or on the ground. It should be interesting to see that blowhard try to outrun cannon shells." Buck smiled sweetly. "I might just slice him into chopped liver with the prop."
He walked back to his own group, nodded to them, then started for the ramp where the two fighters stood. Black Barney went with him. "That woman wasn't kidding, Buck. It's a fight to the death, all right, whatever the circumstances. If he bails out or crash-lands and tries to walk away from the wreckage, you've got to kill him. The way the Breeds look at things, if you let your mortal enemy escape when you've got him down, you're a weak-
A Life in the Future
ling and a fool."
Buck shook hands with Barney. "Take notes, Admiral. This should prove interesting to you."
He climbed into the cockpit, checking every control and switch. Then he fired up the powerful engine and ran through another gauge check. Barney stood on the wing, fighting the powerful airstream from the propeller. He leaned down, placing his mouth close to Buck's ear. ''Hals und beinbruchr he shouted.
Buck looked up at the man in surprise. "Where did you learn that?"
"I did my homework. I finally discovered what it means. German pilots always said it to each other before battle. 'Break your neck and a leg!' " He banged a fist on Buck's shoulder, climbed down, and pointed to the sky. A green flare arced high above them, the signal to taxi out to the runway for takeoff.
The wind was from the south. Perfect, Buck thought. They would each take off from opposite ends of the airstrip, each staying to the far right so they would pass one another as they lifted from the ground. Lined up, ready to go, both men watched for the bright red flare that would be their signal to take off and then do their best to kill one another.
The Buck Rogers at the controls of the lightweight Me-109G Gustav was no longer the quiet, amiable pilot he had been on the ground. Buck had adapted his persona from flier to fighter-pilot killer. In the air, a dogfight had room for only two kinds of people—the man who killed and the man who died. Dogfights were never won by rules but by the men who thought things through the best and flew all-out. Buck was determined that everyone watching would witness a lesson in execution.
That's the way the rules went down, but Buck had been in fighter combat before, and he'd listened to every word of that old master, Galland.
Buck Rogers
Buck began his fight the moment his wheels came off the runway, howhng with increasing speed for takeoff and a swift climb. That's what Hoffman expected. He didn't expect what happened.
As he moved the throttle forward, Buck hauled the stick as far back as it would go, his propeller blowing a mass of air back against the raised elevators. This rammed his tail down against the ground as power built up. The Mustang was already rolling when Buck popped the stick forward, went to full power, and jammed his rudder pedal down as hard as he could to keep slipstream and engine torque from spinning him around. The Gus-tav shot forward, accelerating swiftly. Buck glanced at his left wing, saw the Handley-Page slot moving back and forth, increasing lift to well above that reached in the same amount of time by the Mustang's laminar-flow wing. Then the slot slammed smoothly into its place against the wing, and Buck knew he had the speed he wanted.
The Mustang raced along the runway to pass him. Immediately Buck banged the stick to the left to lower his left wing and kicked in his right rudder. The Messerschmitt slewed wildly, seemingly out of control, careening directly toward the oncoming Mustang.
Hoffman stared in disbelief at the other fighter. He was sure Buck's plane was out of control and hurtling toward him, making a collision almost inevitable. Cursing, Hoffman knew he had to get out of the way of that clumsy idiot in the Messerschmitt. With barely enough speed to leave the ground, he horsed the Mustang off the deck, banking sharply to the right to escape the Messerschmitt.
Buck smiled. Hoffman was trying desperately to get enough fl3dng speed for full control response, but he hadn't had time yet. The Mustang trembled on the edge of a stall. One mistake now would put Hoffman into the trees and end his flight in a huge ball of fire. Hoffman lowered the Mustang's nose, holding the wings level for maximum lift, not daring to bank, sucking up the landing gear. Like the thoroughbred she was, the fighter accelerated smoothly from its long moment of peril. Hoffman smiled with relief Now he'd show that fool Rogers!
It's the small things that count; the preparations make all the difference, Hoffman thought confidently.
A Life in the Future
The Half-Breed's plane was much heavier than the Gustav he intended to destroy. No doubt Hoffman had access to the records that ballyhooed the Mustang as the greatest fighter of the Second World War. It never occurred to him that those records were compiled by the people who had won the war and thus could say anything they wanted. It was true that the Mustang was a superb fighting machine, but it takes more than that to wax your enemy.
Hoffman flew "by the book." He had no other source of information, so he followed the manual and had the fuel tanks of his fighter filled to the brim. That meant additional weight. Weight translates into less speed, slower climbs, and less maneuverability. Plane for plane, the Mustang and the Gustav were remarkably similar.
Buck had planned the combat with all the expertise of a chess master. He loaded enough fuel for no more than thirty minutes at full power. Anything beyond that would result in too much performance penalty, so he flew with less weight. That gave him performance advantages, especially in the tight maneuvers for which the Messerschmitt was justifiably famed. Buck also had his ground crew, who had babied this machine in its museum for years, remove the underwing gondolas housing the heavy cannons and shells. Those were intended for battle against American bombers, when massed firepower was a key factor. A pilot skilled in marksmanship could do far more damage against another fighter with only one nose cannon and two machine guns, provided he could put that firepower where it counted, in the opposing plane. Hoffman had taken off with six fifty-caliber machine guns, all with full ammunition loads. More weight, less performance.
But the Mustang was obeying his commands. Now he was building up speed so he could maneuver into position to battle Rogers on even terms.
Buck never gave him that chance. The only way Hoffman could gain a workable position in the air was a wide, climbing turn, so he could break away from the Messerschmitt, gain critical altitude, and keep his eyes peeled for his enemy.
What he never had the chance to see was the Messerschmitt building up great speed while the Mustang still floundered in its near-disastrous takeoff Buck climbed straight sunward, over-
Buck Rogers
boosting his engine to develop every ounce of power he could get. The Messerschmitt hauled upward with bulletlike velocity, its engine screaming. Buck brought the stick full back, flowing into a beautiful high loop, arcing over on his back and then accelerating downward. He came out of the sun like an avenging angel, aiming for the airspace through which he knew Hoffman must
fly.
The Mustang pilot scanned the sky, squinting as his gaze brought the bright morning sun into view with its blinding glare. Could that be a bird flitting across his vision? Then sunlight glinted off metal, and Hoffman knew he was caught in a trap of acceleration and climb, a metal insect about to be pinned against an invisible wall.
Buck fired. The nose cannon and machine guns arced away in curving tracer patterns. Explosions tore the engine cowling from the Mustang, smashing fuel and oil lines. Bright flames gushed back, penetrating through the firewall between the engine and the cockpit to lick out at the screaming Hoffman.
The Mustang canopy slid back. The desperate burning pilot threw off his harness and hurled himself away from the blazing fighter. Shuddering with pain, Hoffman knew he could still save his life—not with ancient technology but with a product of twenty-fifth century science, a jumping harness of Inertron with small but powerful reaction jets. As he fell from the wreckage of his fighter, he twisted the control on his chest. A small battery of enormous power energized the Inertron, feeding the superalloy into a pencil-thick wire connected to the miniature combustion chambers. As quickly as the belt was activated, tiny spears of flame reduced Hoffman's effective weight to barely five pounds, slowing his fall to a gentle downward drift. He had ten minutes of Inertron energy in his belt, more than enough to lower him safely to the ground. Just above the runway, autostabilizers took effect to keep his body upright, and his boots touched the surface.
He'd made it! He heard cheers from the watching crowd of Half-Breeds, but they were drowned out for the moment by the explosion of his fighter plane. Hoffman stood erect, burned and injured, but still defiant. He watched the Messerschmitt make a low turn over the nearby woods, nose down, the propeller a gleaming disc in the sunlight. Hoffman shook his fist at the
A Life in the Future
approaching plane. Rogers hadn't won, after all! You had to kill your opponent for victory to be claimed.
He was still standing with upraised fist when the propeller of the German fighter hurtled straight at his head and shoulders, a terrible whirling scythe that would in a matter of seconds slice him to ribbons. Hoffman prepared to die as the winged death hurtled toward him at more than four hundred miles an hour.
At the last possible moment, Buck hauled in the left rudder and snapped the stick to the right, crossing the controls. The left wing passed mere inches above Hoffman's head, the edge of the whirling propeller terrifyingly close. And then the plane was gone, curling upward into a giant victory roll. Hoffman collapsed limply to the ground. A hush fell over the watching crowd, afraid of what they would see.
Then Hoffman managed to rise to his knees, wobbly, struggling to stand erect. He stared in disbelief at the receding Messerschmitt, just as the crowd stared in disbelief at what surely seemed to them a dead man come to life.
Air Marshal Marcus Bergstrasser poked an elbow into the ribs of Killer Kane. "My God, d
id you see that? I think the whole group of Half-Breeds has just gone into deep shock."
Kane lit a thick cigar, clenching it happily in his teeth. "That was some beautiful flying, but the ending— Now, that was finesse. He could have gunned down Hoffman anytime he wanted to, in the air or on the ground."
They turned when they heard strangling sounds at the side of the runway. Wilma Deering wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve.
"That was the finest 'execution' of its kind I've ever seen," laughed Bergstrasser. "Major Deering," he added with unexpected stiffness, "I do recall that you, I, the Commodore here, and in fact every one of us warned Rogers that if Hoffman lived through this episode, then Rogers would be judged a failure. Shooting down his opponent wasn't the point—"
"But, damn, it sure was beautiful!" exclaimed Kane. "I've never seen any flying like that! Our young man is an artisteT He looked at Wilma, "No one is closer to Rogers than you are. Do I or
Buck Rogers
do I not recall you warning him to be certain to kill Hoffman— exhorting him, in fact?"
"Yes, sir, I did," Wilma said meekly.
"You're letting yourself get upset over details, Deering. Calm down, Major."
Bergstrasser looked at Wilma with an expression of deep satisfaction on his face. "Do you realize just what we can accomplish with what happened here today? It will be all over the internet by now. They'll be carrying pictures, video, background on the pilots. Before the next twenty-four hours pass, every outfit in the country will know the Half-Breeds have joined with us. There'll be another six or eight more gangs by the end of the week."
"And we'll blow up Rogers's skills to where he'll seem like a giant before we're through," added Killer Kane.
Wilma looked at both her superior officers with distaste. "Why do you feel you must push what happened? You'll get a lot more mileage out of this affair if you don't say anything. Everyone will expect us to crow about what happened. If we simply let the story get around by itself, it'll grow on its own."
Buck Rogers- A Life in the Future Page 13
