But now, there was some rising tension over a glaring incident involving a small garrison of British troops getting carpet-bombed (accidentally) by a pair of F-15s whom mistook them for the Taliban—while out on the field, searching for the enemy.
Thirty-two British troops died in the attack and 132 were seriously wounded—half of them critically.
Bart didn’t like the idea of going to guns with their closest ally in the war on terror, but nobody may have a choice in the matter.
All it would take is one more match to light the powder keg. The young prince thought to himself, before he flipped the channel to something else.
A business report on Channel 9’s PBS station caught his eye and he watched the first ten minutes of it intently.
Like everywhere else, the recession was still in full swing, with many retailers and businesses closing up shop for good. Consumers had shut their wallets once again—once it became certain that there was no quick way to solve this latest economic crisis.
Even at his home of Surrey, things weren’t any better. So many of his subjects were out of work or struggling to hold onto the jobs that they had.
Some were forced on government assisted housing or government-assisted welfare because they couldn’t make ends meet—and nobody in London’s House of Commons had the answer on how to fix things.
Apparently, no one here has any clearer answer either—the teen thought as he listened to a prominent Republican senator complain about the way the government was handling the recession and then reflected broadly on how past Republican Presidents handled them.
The prince was a history buff—amongst other things—and knew that this party had no interest in the people. Only in what special interest groups wanted or what Corporate America wanted of them.
The Democrats were no better, but at least they tried to reform things for the betterment of the people.
But of course, change didn’t come without complaints. And from the tone of the prominent Republican senator, he was clearly unhappy with the way the direction of the country was being taken while under a Democratic majority.
They weren’t complaining like this when the last administration was in power and making a royal mess of things—even for the British people by insinuating that the British couldn’t stand up to the terrorists because they were hesitant at first to join in the fight after the towers fell in New York.
The door opened then and Bart quickly turned the TV off before Conrad Jones entered with a self-satisfied smiled on his handsome face.
Pushing his glasses up, he asked, “How are you holding your Highness?”
Bart waved the remote he had in his hand in the general direction of the now shut off flat screen.
“Just catching up on the news.” He offered in quiet defense of himself.
“Anything of interest?” Conrad asked, before taking the remote from him and turning it back on.
“Not so much these days. Just the usual.” The boy said in a distracted voice. He was clearly worried that his bodyguard would chew him out for watching anything but British television—when the secret got out that he had taken a serious interest in American politics and cultural diversity.
Torturous seconds passed as the prince waited to be called out for trespassing again, but it never happened.
Conrad listened to the part of the news which was being recapped on PBS and then he switched over to CNN.
“Interesting to say the least, your Highness. Did we learn something while I was away on an important call?”
“The recession has both countries in a painful vise.” Bart spoke up rather quickly. “Everyone is struggling mightily to make things work, or to meet their respective ends with what resources they have.”
“Not something we have to worry about, right?” Conrad sniped smugly.
“No. No, we don’t.” The prince was quick to agree.
The other man dropped the remote in the prince’s hand and patted him on the back of it.
“That’s what I like to hear.” Nodding to the limo driver up front, he added, “now let’s be off—shall we?”
The prince settled back into his and silently watched what was playing on CNN and suddenly found himself wishing that he could just get away from all this and do something completely different and unexpected.
But duty and honor would always hold him into check—no matter if he was the first in line for the throne—or in his case—?
Seventh.
CHAPTER TWO.
Vergennes Vermont.
Kina’s Courier Air Service
6:32 PM
I drank from my favorite mug and flipped through another three pages of a book in an aerospace manual—this one covering the complexities of an F-15C—the same ones whom bombed those British soldiers last week.
There was nothing here would could explain why a seasoned pair of vets could mistaken a small garrison of British soldiers for the enemy.
I spent the last few days running combat simulations inside the Peacemaker’s IFF virtual mainframe by taking on the role of one—and then both F-15C pilots.
Since I had access to the Defense Department’s files, I requested a map of the area (in Afghanistan), and had the computer recreate the exact same conditions which presented to both sides.
I fought on both sides for the next five hours and quickly found that that neither pilot was forewarned of the British troop movements, nor did the Brits ever tell their American allies that they were going out on patrol.
When I tried to communicate my results to the Defense Department, they thanked me by asking me not to get involved and by staying out of particularly sensitive matters like the recent bombing incident.
“The last thing we need is someone to sensationalize things and get a lot of people upset and our security breached for the enemy to take full advantage of.” The placating voice on the other end of the open channel berated me.
Then logged off—leaving me right where I sat in the forward cockpit: Astonished and at a loss for words.
Days later, I was still fuming over my mistreatment, and thinking dark thoughts about that asshole on the other end of the line.
I turned a page, muttering, “don’t you morons know that my uncle works for the Pentagon? He’s a major for Pete’s sake!”
But all of my complaints naturally went unheard by anyone working close by, because I couldn’t say anything to anybody here.
There was no need for the Secret Service or the feds to come busting down my door and demanding that I surrender.
I turned another page and found myself staring at cut-away diagram of the plane and found nothing here of interest.
The F-15C was a pretty impressive aircraft, but it had nothing on my Triton-12 Peacemaker.
The F-15 had been designed for an earlier age where the Soviet Su-27 was the only real threat to US superiority in the air back in the day.
But the Triton-12 Peacemaker was supposed to represent a new revolutionary design concept for the next generation fighter—as it had included some low-orbital capabilities which would allow it to reach any place in the world or hit any target on the board.
Also included was a new form of stealth technology that allowed the plane to bend light around itself and becoming partly “invisible” in the process.
With a devastating new weapons’ package and an impressive countermeasures complement, the Peacemaker was supposed to go into service sometime in the mid-teens.
Damned budget cuts…I thought to myself—flipping to the next paged diagram.
Then my phone rang next to me.
Picking it up, I said, “Kina’s Air Service. We fly anything just about anywhere—day or night. How can I help you?”
“This is Oswald, Kee. Ted wants to know if you can fly some engine parts and spare equipment over to a General Electric mini-plant in southern Tennessee. A place just east of Memphis called Bolivia…excuse me: Bolivar. It employs some 4,000 people now—from its high of 12,000. But the Ai
r Force is still keeping it open because they need new replacement jets out on the front—” I picked up a pad of paper and started writing things down as quickly as I could—making use of an old map next to me and jotting down the coordinates to feed in the Peacemaker’s mainframe. “—and we’ll include a 4% surcharge for travel costs on top of the double-rate exchange.”
“Got it.” I said with a pen in my mouth. “When do you want me to leave?”
“Tomorrow morning if possible. Say eight or nine?”
I looked at the clock and nodded. “No problem. I’ll get the girl ready for tomorrow’s flight.”
“Thanks, Kee. I know we’d add on more, but things are pretty tight right now.”
“I know, Ozzy. Ted’s had to cut his workforce by 10% already and he’s been telling me about a possible bankruptcy because of the ongoing recession.”
“How about you?” He asked gently.
“Still hanging in there. But even I’m at my limits here. Had to furlough ten of my people last week and had the rest do a couple doubles just to keep the airfield from falling apart. You know how it is with 35 people these days—compared to the 150 you guys field.”
“Things will get better. You just have to have faith.”
Faith.
Is that all it’s come down to these days?
“I’m in no shortage of that, Ozzy. But what I fly on these is reality and a paycheck. If I can’t get things done, I’m worse than screwed.”
“Aren’t we all?” Ozzy said with a laugh, as I finished with the initial calculations and got ready to punch the data into the computer from a small notebook I carried with me at all times.
It was specifically designed for use with the Peacemaker and even let me check my e-mail from time to time. But I was more busy these days than I had time for the internet—so outgoing e-mails were sparse.
In a few seconds of chat-time with the Peacemaker’s navigational computer, I had the new coordinates uploaded and a course plotted.
A straight-down line at Mach 1.7 and another shorter line at Mach 1.3. But the trip wasn’t going to take me that long at any rate.
“Thanks, Ozzy. I‘ll see you in a bit.” I said quickly—suddenly realizing that I had the phone with me and hung up without saying goodbye properly.
But I was sure that Ozzy Harlison wouldn’t hold it against. The guy was a good friend and part co-owner of the supply company.
I waited for the Peacemaker to accept the new course as I looked around and saw just how cluttered the place was.
“Gotta clean up all this crap before I go to bed.” I promised myself—and the notebook dinged me.
COURSE PLOTTED AND ACCEPTED. The device flashed back to me. DEVIANT PARAMETERS ALSO?
I typed in “yes” just to be on the safe side. In most runs, I didn’t need to use the plane’s full stealth capabilities or anything else. I just kept a rack of Starburst ready to fly in case trouble came knocking.
The primary weapons systems were locked out by Yours Truly—I didn’t even have the Hammerheads armed at this point in the five years they were added to the plane’s well stocked inventory.
DEVIANT ACCEPTED, the notebook reported back. SYSTEMS ARE 100%; FULLY OPERATIONAL.
Goodnight Peacemaker. I thought to myself and powered down the Windows notebook.
Security wouldn’t be a problem. It was locked down tighter than Fort Knox and next to impossible to break into.
The plane across me stayed stock still at any rate—its armored nose pointed away from the hanger.
Tomorrow, I would have to get old Earl and tow my baby out. Then prep her for takeoff.
I smiled and walked towards her on my way out to the rear exit where my apartment lay anchored to—giving my jet an affectionate pat and a lingering caress underneath the nose as an added afterthought.
CHAPTER THREE.
7:19 PM.
“—now because of security concerns,” Conrad was telling the prince, “—I was only able to successfully procure you a private charter down to Augusta. No one else would do it because of what I told you. And because there had been rumors of possible assassination attempts.”
The prince nodded in understanding, but still had one question lingering on his mind.
“So why this particular charter service, Conrad? Other places have excellent charter planes or jets. Why couldn’t we use one of them?”
The man looked at his future king with a bit of patience and understanding.
So naïve, yet so very…young. He thought to himself, then smiled.
“While it is true that some charters have fast aircraft and could put you in your cherished lap of luxury, I dare say—that with today’s political climate—you wouldn’t be…er…safe for the duration of the trip.” The man explained at length. “It would pain me so if I had to explain to your parents what happened, or even Her Majesty—the Queen.”
“Her Majesty is in such frail health,” Bart reminisced, then added, “yes, my parents do worry about my safety—since those terror attacks on the subways awhile back.” Looking over, he said, “you worry too much, Conrad.”
The prince’s liaison and bodyguard appeared to be taken back by his Highness’s light scolding of him.
“That’s my job, your Highness. Your safety is of paramount concern to both me and the Crown. I’ve had to look after you since your but a small boy. And I would like to think that I’ve done a pretty good job at it.”
“You entered service when you were my age—right?” Bart inquired curiously.
That question surprised the older man.
“Yes. I was 15.”
“How were things back then?”
Conrad leaned back in his seat—next to the prince—and stared off into the velvet darkness which encompassed the interior of the stretch limo.
“Things were much different. There was less fear as there is now. People weren’t so scared of one another and nobody had to constantly look over their shoulder as they do these days.”
“I hear that some people here think their President is some kind of closet-practicing Muslim and he’s not even a natural borne citizen.” Bart thought to interject.
“That’s because there are those whom are so brainwashed by their own countrymen’s lies, that they’ll believe anything—even if its not the honest truth.”
“Glad that’s not how its like it at home—other than the senseless fear.” The prince said with a certain amount of pride in his voice. “We’re all English as far as the Yanks are concerned. Nobody can change that.”
Conrad nodded, pleased—then felt the limo turn off onto a dirt road.
“Ah! We are here, your Excellency.”
Bart looked up. “Already?”
“Yes,” the man said—turning down one of the windows. A soft breeze came through the limo—carrying with it the cloying scent of fresh cut hay and grass.
“Just like Surrey during the high summers.” Bart recollected. Then sneezed suddenly.
“Plus all the hay fever one could wish for.”
Conrad looked at him with some concern. “Do you need your allergy medications so soon?”
“Not for another five or six hours.” Bart replied. “I should be fine for the flight down.”
“And speaking of which—do you have any real objections to spending the night here?”
“No.” Bart said. “As long as it has some creature comforts of home, I should be okay.”
Conrad nodded—pleased with the prince’s response. It would make things go a lot smoother for him, that was for certain.
“Excellent. I’ll make the arrangements with the company’s owner. You stay here until I call for you, all right?” Conrad instructed—just as the limo came to a complete stop right in front of the hanger’s main door entrance.
Bart nodded. “I’ll be waiting.”
***
7:34 PM.
I came through the back door again—dressed in a flowing green robe and toweling off my long brown hair i
n the process. I had always thought of bleaching my hair—turning myself into a hot little redhead—but I never really found the time to do it.
Too many things on my mind as of late. I mulled to myself—just as I heard the front door bell jingle on its own.
Did I forget to lock it? I thought with horror and beat feet into the main hanger to make sure that nothing was out of place.
Nothing was.
My heart slowed from jackrabbit speed down to a nice and steady crawl and I felt like a complete idiot for thinking the worst.
Then I heard the tell-tale sound of the buzzer going off as it sometimes did when the regulars or new customers came calling—wanting my services.
“Coming!” I called out and made a quick dash to the main entrance and finding myself flustered in the presence of two very cute guys.
The first one looked to be about my age and very dashing and the second one was equally eye-catching, but much younger.
I put his age to be closer to 20—16 years my senior.
Still, both were yummy in my book and I couldn’t help but stare a bit just to commit their presence to memory.
The tall one with fashionable Ray-Band sunglasses stepped forward with a certain of elegance and extended a hand towards me.
“Ms. Kina Anderson?” He ventured with a dazzling smile and a sexy baritone voice to go with it.
For some unknown reason, I felt compelled to bow in their presence—seeing how the young man next to him trumpeted a certain level of royalty—even though he was dressed in a conservative light-brown jacket with some gold braids on the shoulder epaulets and matching gold trim running down the sides of his same-colored pants and red boots.
I took his hand and curtsied slightly. “You’ll have to excuse the mess and my outlying appearance here—since I just came out of a shower not too long ago.” I said in a slightly small voice—forgetting for the moment, my confidence and strong business sense.
The man smiled at me—revealing a nice set of dimples, white teeth, and sparkling blue eyes.
The Peacemaker Page 2
