by Mack Maloney
“Diamonds?” Hunter said with a straight face. “What diamonds?”
Al almost burst out laughing. What boot? What plane? What diamonds? It all seemed to fit.
“Don’t give me that shit, you lousy nail driver,” the man screamed again. “I almost pranged my ass ’cause you fucked up the runway and now you’re going to play wise-ass?”
They obviously didn’t recognize Hunter.
“Slice ’em, Jaws,” one of the pirates told the screaming man. “Let ’em bleed and maybe the others will talk.”
“They don’t know where the jewels are,” Hunter said. “But I do.”
“So where are they, pretty boy?” Jaws demanded.
“Where they should be,” he answered. “At The Aerodrome.”
“He’s lying, Jaws,” the other pirate flyer said.
“Believe it, boys,” Hunter told them. “I passed them to the Canadians and they flew right to Syracuse. Why do you think he took off when you intercepted us? He could have probably knocked all three of you out of the sky if he and I didn’t have an agreement beforehand.”
The pirate named Jaws looked like he was about to blow a valve. A vein was bulging out of his head with such pressure, Hunter expected it to pop at any second.
“You son of a bitch,” Jaws screamed. “You got a lot of balls, buddy. We know you had a deal to pick up that shipment. If you were stupid enough to send that pisshead tax collector looking for it, then you ain’t smart enough to pass them to that Canuck do-gooder.”
Hunter looked the man in the eye. “You’re a stupid fuck, aren’t you?” he told him. “Do you think diamonds would survive a crash like that?”
The pirate guards looked at Hunter in disbelief. Jaws was the top man at the pirate base, and no one—friend or enemy—talked to the top man like that—and lived very long.
Jaws glared at Hunter. Then, oddly, enough, smiled. “I know you’re lying. Jewels don’t burn. They’re out in that wreckage somewhere. If we don’t find them by sunrise, you guys will help us look. You’ll eat that wreckage if you have to. And as soon as we get what we want, you’re dead meat. I’m gonna slice you up in a hundred little pieces.”
“No. Burn ’em!” the other pirate flyer said, producing a bottle of brown liquor.
The pirate named Jaws grabbed the bottle from him, “Gimme that, asshole,” he said, taking a long, sloppy guzzle.
“Yeh, that’s a good idea, Mouse,” Jaws said, wiping his mouth with this dirty leather flight suit’s sleeve. “If we don’t find the ice, I’ll tie you to the exhaust nozzle of my ’100 and start the engine real slow. Know what it’s like to get a face full of engine exhaust?”
Jaws reached into his pocket and came out with a handful of pills. Amphetamines, Hunter guessed. Taking a swig of the brown liquor, Jaws washed the drugs down, then passed some out to his men.
“It will be dark for another four hours, nail driver,” Jaws said, his eyes turning to glass as he spoke. “We’re gonna go through that wreck out there. You’d better pray that we find those diamonds. Because if you guys have to help us look, you’ll be begging for us to kill you by the time you’re through.”
With that, the hopped-up pirates laughed and left the room, locking the big wooden door behind them. Hunter heard Jaws order two guards to stand outside.
He looked at Al and Zal, who were cool and calm. He would have been surprised if they hadn’t been. They were, after all, ADF fighter pilots, highly trained and disciplined.
“This guy isn’t even making sense,” Al whispered. “What’s he think, we hid the jewels in a crash proof box?”
“He’s got to talk like that in front of his men,” Hunter said. “It’s a tribal mentality. He’s just missed taking in the biggest haul this outfit ever dreamed of. If he can’t produce, then the number two man might get some ideas about taking over.”
He was free of the bonds five minutes later. It was simple for someone who had been trained to eject from a jet fighter while flying at supersonic speed, usually in the middle of a dogfight, and battle with a tangled parachute and live to tell about it. Compared to that, a triple slip knot was no problem.
He freed Al and Zal and they carefully eased themselves up to the window. Outside, the far end of the runway was bathed in light. The pirates had brought up two searchlights and played them on the wreckage of the C-47. The pirate ground crews were sifting through the wreck as the ragtag crash crew nonchalantly doused the smoking metal with a firehose.
There were 11 jet fighters parked at the base, all F-100s and all painted in bizarre, swashbuckling colors. A flag bearing the Stukas emblem flew above the field. There was a barracks and three other hangars on the runway, as well as a number of smaller buildings. All of the structures were painted in pine green camouflaged patterns. The hangar closest to them houses a couple of two-engine cargo planes. Another hangar further down the line looked like a repair shop; a stripped down F-100 sat out front. Another building was at the far end of the base, partially hidden by the edge of the thick forest. It was painted black, covered with netting and appeared locked up tight. Beside it was tied, of all things, a hot air balloon.
“What’s with the balloon, Major,” Al asked.
“Beats me,” Hunter said. “Look at the long rope beside it. Maybe they don’t fly it, but just let it up when they want to take a look around. Like an early warning system. They could see someone coming on the ground for miles away.”
“They have radar,” Zal said, noting the dish on top of the three-story control tower.
“Yeah,” Hunter said, straining to take in as much as he could. “But it isn’t spinning. A few ack-acks. But no big SAMs.” He filed the bit of information away in his memory.
“They have transport,” Al whispered, pointing to the ten two-and-a-halfs parked next to the maintenance hangar.
“That means there must be a way out of here on the ground,” Hunter said. “They probably double their monkeys as ground troops and go on raids, like when supplies get low. There must be more than a hundred of them here, counting their support people.”
At the far end of the runway, they could see the skeletons of more planes, aircraft the pirates had forced to land at the base, then looted, stripped for parts and discarded. The crews were all dead, Hunter was sure. The pirates very rarely left any witnesses.
It was three hours past midnight, time for them to get to work. They systematically began a search over the interior of the holding room looking for the jail’s weak spot. A weak spot meant escape.
The small building was made of plywood and logs, lashed together with rope. Its floor was stained with oil, suggesting it was once used as a storage shed. The structure’s wood was sturdy but its ropes were rotten. They immediately set to work quietly stripping away the hemp in the far corner of the hut.
It was a tedious job, but by working together, they were soon able to tear away enough of the rope to weaken the bond. Another hour passed, and they were able to wiggle some of the logs loose. This, in turn, loosened the plywood enough to allow them to sneak out the back of the hut.
Occasionally, Hunter would leave the work and press his ear to the door and listen to the guards left behind to watch them. He had heard them guzzling liquor earlier. Now he was sure they were passed out. And from what Hunter could see, the rest of the pirate contingent was on hand at the crash site.
They slipped out of the back of the hut and into the woods with ease.
With most all of the pirates at the far end of the runway, Hunter considered stealing one of the bandit’s trucks, but he didn’t have a clue where the access road was. Stealing one of the jets was out, too. He might be able to hot start one, and get it airborne quickly, but the fighters were all single-seaters. And the two-engine cargo planes would be harder to start, taxi and take off in.
That left only the hot air balloon. And why not? It was far enough away from where the pirates were going over the C-47’s wreckage. It looked unguarded and would be a quiet means of escape. He could w
orry about which way the wind was blowing later.
They easily made their way toward this dark end of the base. The pirates were terrible at security—they had no sentries, only one watchtower at the far end of the runway and not even a fence around the base. Lulled into a false sense of security by being isolated for so long, the pirates assumed no one could get in or out of their hidden base. But Hunter had been through enough to know that the first rule of any good soldier was “never assume anything.”
They reached the black hangar and made for the balloon. It was filled and suspended five feet off the ground, tugging at its rope; they wouldn’t have to light its burner until they were airborne—if they got airborne. Al and Zal climbed in and made ready to lift-off. But Hunter held up his hand, telling them to hang on for a minute. He sensed something. It was coming from the mysterious hangar. He had to see what was inside.
He quickly picked the rudimentary padlock which held the doors closed and was soon inside the hangar. He felt a wave of deja vu wash over him. He flashed back to the time he was inside the hangar at the base in Vermont where the general had left behind the motherlode of materiel. He was surprised by what he found then.
This time would be no different.
It was pitch black inside the windowless building. But there were airplanes inside; he was sure of it. What kind of airplanes? Jet fighters. The smell of JP-8 jet fuel was strong. But he would have to actually touch one in order to identify it.
He walked with his hands blindly in front of him, hoping the first thing he touched wasn’t a face or a rifle barrel. He finally reached the pointed end of a plane. Running his hand along the fuselage, he could feel the long snout, the short, low wing and swept in rear quarter. Two air intakes up front, two exhaust tubes in the back. A 110-degree tail. A T-38? Could be, but this plane felt shorter. An F-5 Freedom Fighter maybe? It was the sister plane to the T-38 so it would feel the same. But the F-5, besides being rare, was a single-engined, subsonic fighter.
Then it hit him—an F-20! It had to be. The F-20 Tigershark was a souped-up, bad-ass version of the F-5; the same design but years away in performance from the T-38. He felt a chill run through him. The F-20 was his second most favorite airplane—next to the F-16, of course. How in hell did the pirates come to get possession of one? They were rarer than the F-5, probably as hard to find as an F-16.
But he did know why the bandits weren’t flying them. It was simple. They were too stupid. They didn’t have the know how. The F-20 was built 30 years after the pirates’ F-100s were rolled out. The advances in avionics, computers and aerodynamics incorporated into the F-20 made the F-100s seem like a kids’ toy. To fly one took more than just strapping in and taking off.
He walked along the hangar touching each plane, counting 12 in all. God damn, with 12 of these F-20s in the air, the pirates could kick ass on anybody. Yet, he could tell these planes had never been flown. They still smelled of fresh grease and their tail exhausts were practically brand new. Each plane may have been started once or twice for an engine test, but the birds had never left the ground. How they got there, he could not figure out, unless they were hauled up in trucks and assembled in the hangar. The fact that the place was locked up indicated the pirates knew the value of their treasure. But they were grounded by their ignorance.
He had to leave. He briefly flirted with the idea of leaving a fire which would eventually destroy the hangar and the classic airplanes, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. If he had one weakness, it was a respect for the beauty of a flying machine. He’d do anything to avoid destroying one. And so it would be with the F-20s. He knew the pirates would never learn to fly them.
And maybe he’d be back …
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
HUNTER HAD NEVER FLOWN a balloon before, but got the hang of it very quickly. Flying was in his blood. It came to him as naturally as breathing.
Hunter and Zal cut the ropes and slowly—silently—the balloon ascended. Above the black hangar. Above the nearby trees. Rising, free—like escaping from hell. Climbing above the bandit’s mountain base. Above the skeletons of the raped airplanes. They quietly passed over the remains of the C-47, looking down on the pirates who were still picking through the wreckage.
Hunter knew if they were spotted the pirates would try to pick them off with their anti-craft guns, or, failing that, scramble a couple jets to shoot them down. But he also knew it would be a while before their captors realized they were even gone. The bandits were too hopped up with drugs and jewel lust to worry about them. But eventually, the bandits would check in on them, and then the shit would hit the fan. The Stukas would discover there were no diamonds, no prisoners and that the hot air balloon was missing. He knew it would be the end of the line for Jaws.
They drifted for a while, not caring which direction they were going in, just as long as they were traveling away from the Stukas’ base. Eventually, he and Al were able to get the burner going without much trouble. Then it became a matter of letting air in to climb higher, and letting it out to descend. Lucky again, the wind was moving the balloon on a rough north-by-northeasterly course.
Hunter’s thoughts kept drifting back to the hangar filled with Tigersharks. How ironic that he had been able to touch the beautiful jets, yet not see them. It was like a dream. Suddenly, he wanted a woman. Any woman. Then he wanted a meal. Then he wanted to be behind the controls of his F-16 again.
He didn’t even think about the $150,000 …
Glad to be free again, they spent their time hanging over the side of the balloon’s basket, taking in the predawn scenery below. The sun came up and the terrain beneath flattened out from mountains to plains and valleys. The balloon, obviously stolen from its original owners by the bandits, was a bright red with yellow stripes. They were flying low and sometimes, they could see people watching them pass over. Some of them even waved.
At one point, they saw above them a huge air convoy passing over at about 35,000 feet. None of them had ever seen a convoy from this perspective before and it was a magnificent sight. The big airliners-turned-cargo planes—707s, 727s, DC-10s and even a couple of Jumbo Jets—flew in three-point formations. There must have been thirty of them leaving an awesome white contrail pattern across the blue sky. Mixed in amongst the big planes were the smaller jets—fighters—weaving in and out of the formations, escorting the convoy. The airplanes produced a tremendous rumbling roar as they flew over. This group had probably taken off from Montreal and was heading for the Coast. Hunter felt good to see the jets. Finally, some evidence of sanity after the insanity of his life in the past few days—The Pitts and the Stukas’ base. Life—and commerce—goes on, he thought, despite the decadence that swirled around the continent. He wanted to be with them—flying as part of the convoy. Aiding the stability, keeping the contacts to the Coasters open. He reached into his back pocket and felt the reassuring folds of the flag he always kept there. Maybe, someday …
It was about two hours after sunrise when he knew other jets were approaching. About 10 miles out, coming at them from the north, there were three of them, trailing smoke and flying just barely above their present altitude of 2000 feet.
“I hope these guys are friendly,” Zal said, watching the planes approach.
“They could use us for target practice if they’re not,” Al said.
“Don’t worry,” Hunter said closing his eyes and detecting the distinct sounds of an F-105 engine. It was the kind of plane the Aerodrome Defense Force flew. “They’re good guys.”
The three jets were on them in a matter of seconds, passing them about a quarter mile out.
“Hey!” Zal yelled after getting a good look at the Thunderchiefs with the ADF markings. “That’s my plane!”
The jets made another pass, one closer in so the pilot could get a good look at the passengers in the balloon. Then all three jets wagged their wings and continued south.
“It’ll be good to be home,” Hunter said.
An hour later a crow
d appeared on the tarmac at the Aerodrome to watch as the balloon descended from out of the clouds. The jets had radioed that Hunter, Al and Zal were safe and heading toward Syracuse and word had spread fast around the base. They had all but been given up for dead.
The balloon landed and the first person to reach them was Fitzgerald.
“Do you always have to make things difficult, Hawker?” he said shaking Hunter’s hand and wearing a mile wide grin.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Fitzie,” Hunter laughed. “Frost get here okay?”
“Sure did,” Fitz said, with relief in his voice. “A good guy, he is. Not many people you can expect to carry two hundred million in diamonds for you these days. He told us that the last he saw of you, you was going down in the Spooky all aflame.”
“That was the easy part,” Hunter said.
“He wanted to bomb up here and fly back to look for you,” Fitz explained. “But we talked him out of it. We sent those three Thuds you saw out for you instead. But we knew that if we put an air strike on the pirate base—if we could find it, that is—the bastards would probably have killed you on the spot.”
“You are right there, my friend.” Hunter agreed.
Al and Zal had climbed out of the balloon and crisply saluted Fitzgerald.
“I’m recommending these two for promotions,” Hunter told him.
“Promotions?” Fitz said. “That will cost me money, Hawker.”
“They’re worth it,” Hunter said. “I couldn’t have done it without them.”
Hunter turned to the two men and shook their hands. He felt very close to them now. “I mean it guys. Thanks.”
“Anytime, Major,” Zal said.
“Sure,” Al added. “When you go back to get those F-20s, let me know.”
“It’s a deal,” Hunter told him.
“F-20s?” Fitzgerald asked excitedly. “What F-20s?”
Hunter put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s a long story, Fitz. Buy me a drink and I’ll tell you all about it.”
They drank and ate and drank some more. Then Hunter retired to the penthouse for a bath and a change of clothes. Aki was there, waiting to wash his back. She stripped off his clothes and eased him into the large sunken tub. As always, she climbed in with him. He lay back and closed his eyes, letting the hot water wash over him. He heard her clap her hands and was aware that another woman had joined them in the tub. He drifted off into a half-sleep, feeling the four hands work all over his body, soothing his wounds, both physical and mental. It seemed like he’d been gone for years, yet it had only been a couple of days. Like a lot of his adventures, the days seemed expanded—weeks of action compressed into a few hours. It was the way he had always been. It was the way he liked it.
