by Ronald Kelly
"What are you talking about?" asked Skeeter. "What kind of ship was it?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," mumbled Wheeler.
"Well, tell me anyway, for God's sake!"
Before Wheeler could give his interpretation of the threat that had destroyed Boyett's gunship, Stokes's voice blared through the airwaves. "Attacker at eight o'clock! It's coming straight for me, right out of the damned trees!" There was the rattle of the Bell's fifty-caliber nose guns, then a brittle crash. "The sucker has stripped my freaking blades! I'm dropping like a stone!"
Another burst of flame erupted, this time from ground level as the Bell slammed into the mountainside, exploding on impact. A mushroom cloud of heavy black smoke rolled skyward.
"What is the source of the threat?" asked Skeeter. "Has anyone identified it yet?"
"I've spotted the enemy aircraft," said Wheeler. "It's flying low on the northern side, no more than a few yards over the treetops. I'm going to intercept and engage." There was a roar as the gunship angled its nose downward and dived toward its elusive target.
"Wait for backup, Wheeler!" demanded Skeeter. He was banking around the eastern face of the mountain now. "Repeat, wait for backup."
"Screw you, Skeeter. This bastard fragged Boyett. I'm going to put a missile up its ass!"
Over the radio, Skeeter Newland heard the sound of one of the Huey's AH-1G air-to-surface missiles leaving its launch pod. There was an explosion and a rebel yell from Wheeler, then two more missile fires. From the sound of the explosions, Skeeter knew that the offensive aircraft should have been in flaming fragments by now. But something was wrong. Wheeler's enthusiasm was swiftly changing into frantic frustration. He fired the missiles again and again, then resorted to the electric Gatling in the Huey's nose turret. "What's wrong with this son of a bitch?" grated Wheeler's voice. "Why won't it go down?"
Abruptly, Wheeler released a scream the likes of which Skeeter and the others had never heard, even during the Airmobile missions they had flown in the hectic skies of Vietnam. The Gatling continued to fire, as if Wheeler was depressing the button in sheer desperation. Then there came the sound of shattering Plexiglas and rending metal. "It's coming for me!" wailed Wheeler. "It's coming through the freaking cockpit for me!"
"What's happening over there?" demanded Skeeter, pushing his own gunship to the limit. "Is there anyone on the northern side who can tell me what's going on?"
"Good God, will you look at that thing!" came the voice of Drayton. "It's ripping right through the front of Wheeler's chopper. And it's…no, it can't be doing that!"
"What?" asked Skeeter. "What's it doing? And what the hell is the thing, for crying out loud?"
"It's a pilot's worse nightmare," said Hendrix, giving his viewpoint from the mountain's northern slope. The commander's gruff voice was rock steady, but it held a trace of emotion that Skeeter could only identify as awe.
Wheeler's scream stopped abruptly and his radio went dead. Then Drayton's voice resumed the panicked transmission. "It's coming for me now! Backup! I need some backup…fast!"
"I'm right behind you," said Yarborough. "What do you say we give this bastard a fifty-caliber enema?"
"I'm with you, buddy. Let's do it!"
"Negative!" blared Hendrix's voice over the airwaves. "Let Skeeter handle that monster. You don't have the heavy artillery that the Huey does."
"We're already on its tail, Colonel. It's running scared." The staccato of the transports' nose guns stuttered over the radio, then Drayton spoke up again. "Wait a minute! What's it doing? Damn, it's making a U-turn…and now its closing in on us!"
"Let's get the hell out of here, Drayton," suggested Yarborough. "We're no match for this baby."
"You can chicken out if you want to, but I'm going for it. I can take it. I know I can!"
"Dammit, Drayton, get away from that thing…can't you see that it's—"
Drayton began to shriek. "Teeth!" he shrilled. "Look at the freaking teeth!" Then there was an ear-shattering crash and Drayton's radio went dead.
"What happened?" Skeeter was at the northeastern point of the mountain now and gradually swinging into view.
"Drayton's bought the farm," said Yarborough in a tone of grim resignation. "And now it's my turn." Another crash of buckling steel and shattering glass crackled through Skeeter's earphones and then Yarborough was silent, too.
By the time the Texan had reached the northern face of PaleDoveMountain, the threat was out of sight. All he saw were twin explosions as both the Bell transports slammed into the mountainside, a hundred yards from where Hendrix's Red Team scaled a rocky cliff. Skeeter watched the copters crash and burn, but for only a split second. Drayton and Yarborough were already barbecue. Now his butt was on the line. He turned his attention back on the surrounding airspace, searching for the unidentified threat that had eliminated seventy-five percent of his air cavalry in a brief span of three minutes.
"Where is it?" Skeeter growled in frustration. "Where is the blasted enemy?"
"Twelve o'clock high!" warned Hendrix from where he stood at the top of the bluff. "Right above your head!"
Skeeter jerked the stick to the side and veered sharply to the left. A second later, something very dark and very large cut through the airspace he had just vacated. He steadied his chopper and swung it around so that he could get a good look at the dark threat as it corrected its flight path and climbed skyward for another attack.
"No freaking way!" muttered the lanky Texan. His eyes widened in disbelief.
There, screaming up at him from the wooded terrain below, was a sleek fighter jet; an F-16 Fighting Falcon with a shiny black finish and an iron-gray undercarriage. The cockpit looked to be darkly tinted. He could see no sign of a pilot, for the dome was pitch black in hue. There were no insignias or identification marks on the wings, tail, or fuselage to tell him who the enemy might be. But that didn't matter much to him. He was determined to shoot it down anyway.
"Listen to me, Skeeter!" commanded Hendrix from below. "Don't treat it like a regular aircraft. It's something else entirely…some sort of hideous monster in the shape of a jet. Evade for a moment and check it out before you attack!"
Skeeter didn't like to be told how to do his job, but he figured he ought to swallow his pride and take his commander's advice this time, especially since the carelessness of the other pilots had resulted in their defeat. He banked upward and cleared the nose of the attacking aircraft before it reached him. Skeeter wheeled around just as the black Falcon sped into the vast Tennessee sky. From this vantage point, the chopper pilot could see the bizarre differences that Hendrix was trying to warn him about. First of all, the F-16 left no visible jet stream against the pale blue backdrop of the sky. Second, as the plane maneuvered for another attack, it did not spin and turn like a regular fighter plane. Rather, it seemed to flex and twist, like something of pliable flesh and bone instead of uncompromising steel. And the most puzzling point of all was the motion of its wings. They flapped like those of a humongous bird, instead of remaining stationary and secure like the wings of a true jet.
The Texan circled his Huey around the lofty point of the peak and angled its nose skyward. He pressed the trigger switch on the end of the joystick, firing a missile square at the diving Falcon. The living jet glided smoothly to the side, evading the rocket completely. The rocket climbed into open space, then faltered, falling to the earth and detonating near the two-laned blacktop of the main highway.
Skeeter swept his gunship around, tracking the Falcon's progress. "I won't miss this time," he promised and punched the button twice. The missile pods barked smoke and flame, sending long needles of destruction toward the exposed belly of the aircraft. They hit the undercarriage of the fuselage, but when the twin explosions had died, there was no damage to be seen, only blotches of sooty discoloration. Skeeter chased the Falcon as it banked and turned for another attack, then glued his thumb to the fire switch for five full seconds. A steady stream of rockets bel
ched from the pods, peppering the black jet and engulfing it in a barrage of fire and shrapnel. But again, as the smoke cleared, it appeared to be totally unscathed. Its glossy hull was singed and scuffed, but showed no real damage.
The dark Falcon swooped downward, cutting sharply beneath the bottom of the Huey and momentarily disappearing from sight. Skeeter tried to pull up, but he was too late in acting. The tortured screech of parting metal rang from beneath the helicopter and then the jet was gone, shooting onward. Skeeter cocked his head and saw the landing skids of his Huey drop toward the earth, with the two rocket pods attached.
"Dammit to hell!" snarled Skeeter. "You just spoiled my chances for a smooth landing, you black buzzard!" He worked the stick, spinning in a steady circle. The dark Falcon was returning for another attack. The mercenary pilot centered the nose of the Huey and slipped his thumb to the alternate trigger; the one that controlled the electric Gatling gun.
Skeeter fired. The six barrels of the machine gun spun, expelling lead projectiles at an incredible rate of six thousand rounds per minute. The fifty-caliber rounds seemed to have no visible effect on the airborne demon.
They riddled its body and wings with all the fatality of spit wads. Several of the rounds ricocheted and penetrated the windshield of the Huey. One found the lobe of Skeeter's right ear and tore it completely off, then punched through the headrest of his seat.
The Falcon circled him, slowly and steadily. Skeeter maneuvered to keep the jet in sight, never letting up on the Gatling gun. After a while, the Falcon tired of its game of aerial cat-and-mouse, and came in for the kill. Skeeter watched in growing panic as the beast loomed nearer, losing the deceptive appearance of a common aircraft and beginning to look more and more like some hellish blackbird. Long razor-sharp talons sprouted from the wings and the cone of its nose split horizontally in the center. It gaped like the maw of a shark, flashing row upon row of jagged gray teeth.
Skeeter Newland tried to avert the confrontation, but the thing was suddenly upon his craft. The narrow head of the bestial jet tore into the front of the Huey, shattering the windshield and ripping the instrument panel away in an angry gnashing of triangular teeth. Skeeter screamed and tried to escape, but there was no place to escape to. The sharp talons punched through olive drab steel, hooking onto the sides of the copter. In midair, the living jet clung to the faltering Huey like a black widow spider closing upon a snared fly. The ebony cockpit appeared to be no cockpit at all, but rather a gigantic black eye, staring in at him with dark malice. Then the pointed snout found what it had been searching for. It lashed out, the fangs burrowing deeply into the center of Skeeter's chest, attacking the Alamo tattoo with much the same savagery and ruthlessness as did Santa Anna during his invasion of the Spanish mission at the end of its thirteen days of glory.
As Skeeter Newland's internal organs were hungrily exorcised from his body, the pilot sensed the strain of the Huey s engine as it sputtered and died. Despite his agony, he could feel the momentum of the downward plunge as the vast weight of the winged monster pulled the helicopter toward the earth. There were quick flashes of blue sky and green forest, as well as the presence of the dark thing with its muzzle buried in the hollow of his chest. Then there was a tremendous crash and a crushing wave of blackness as both attacker and prey slammed into the northern side of PaleDoveMountain with earth-shattering force.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Joe Nickles was climbing out of his squad car in front of the Tucker's Mill town hall when an explosion echoed from the southern limits of PeremontCounty. He turned his head just in time to see a fireball blossom over the distant peak of PaleDoveMountain a few miles away. A small group of state troopers were standing at the front entrance of the municipal building, watching as the burst lost its intensity and died into a cloud of dense black smoke.
"That was the third one in the last few minutes," said Officer Olsen as the captain approached the building.
"You mean there has been more than one explosion?" asked Nickles.
"If that's the case, then why the hell aren't you guys up there checking it out?"
"We've got orders to stay put," said Officer Tom Purnell. "Lieutenant Ashton made it clear that no one makes a move until you get here and give the word."
"Well, I'm giving it now, by God! Head on out to PaleDoveMountain and see what's going on. In the meantime, I'll gather up the other guys and join you as soon as possible. I've got a helicopter and another dozen men coming in from Knoxville, but they won't be here for another thirty minutes, so I reckon we'll just have to do the best we can until the reinforcements arrive."
Purnell and his partner, Frasier, hopped into their patrol car and lit out. Nickles took Hal Olsen aside, for he knew the man to be a law officer he could trust. "Do you have any idea why Ashton held you guys back? I mean, it sounds like there's a freaking war going on over there."
"I'm not sure, Captain," said Olsen. "The lieutenant has been acting mighty strange ever since we started investigating that mess over at Rebel's Roost last night. It's almost like he's dragging his heels on purpose. Even when that lady came in this morning—"
"What lady?" asked Nickles.
"Some elderly woman…I think she said her name was Compton. She was all fired up about Sheriff Mayo's disappearance. She claimed that something had happened to him up on PaleDoveMountain. Ashton wouldn't do anything about it, though. He just said he would talk to you when you arrived."
A cold suspicion crept into the mind of Joe Nickles, a suspicion that he hoped was false. "Round up the rest of the fellows, Olsen, and break out the shotguns. We're going up the side of that mountain and find out what's going on. But first, I'm going to have a little chat with the lieutenant."
The state police captain entered the town hall and walked down the corridor to the county jail. He stepped in quietly and made it to the open doorway of the sheriff's private office before Frank Ashton was even aware that he was standing there. The lieutenant was counting something beneath the concealment of the desktop, carefully hiding it from the troopers in the outer squad room. When Nickles cleared his throat, Ashton nearly jumped out of his skin. He quickly crammed the mystery bundle back into its envelope and tried to conceal his sudden nervousness.
"What have you got there, Frank?" Nickles asked him calmly.
"What do you mean, Joe?" countered Ashton. An uneasy grin cut across his pale features.
Joe Nickles stood there in indecision for a long moment. He found his temper rising as he sensed the hidden guilt in Ashton's eyes. Then he did something that he thought he would never have to do during his long career as a state policeman. He unsnapped his holster strap and drew his gun on a fellow law officer. "The thing you've got in your hand…toss it on the desk."
"What do you think you're doing, Joe?" said Ashton, swallowing dryly.
"I hope I'm making one hell of a mistake. But I won't know until I see what's in the envelope."
Reluctantly, Lieutenant Ashton brought the brown envelope into view and tossed it across the desk at his superior. Nickles kept his gun trained on the man's chest while he picked up the envelope, opening the flap with his thumb. Inside was an inch-thick stack of hundred dollar bills.
"There must be over twenty thousand dollars in here," he said. His voice was hard with anger and disappointment. "What is this, Frank? A bribe from Eco-Plenty? Payola for keeping the troopers away from whatever's going on up at the mountain?"
"You're crazy, Joe," laughed Ashton. "Dammit, man, we've known each other for fifteen years—"
"Don't pull my chain, Frank. Just tell it to me straight."
Ashton's face tightened and he averted his eyes from the captain. "I refuse to say anything else until I talk to a lawyer."
Joe Nickles felt like shooting the traitorous lawman right then and there, but he resisted the urge and kept his finger steady on the trigger. "Okay, if that's the way it is, I'm going to have to lock you up until we get the situation on PaleDoveMountain straightened out.
Unbuckle your gun belt and lay it on the desk." After Ashton had done so, Nickles nodded to his chest. "And the badge, too."
Ashton looked stricken. "Is that really necessary?"
"In my opinion, yes it is," said the captain. "Besides, that badge is no longer yours. You've already sold it and your honor to that damned corporation."
Under gunpoint, Frank Ashton was marched through the center of the squad room, much to the surprise of the junior troopers. Nickles took him to the cellblock and locked him in one of the two cells. "Should I read you your rights, Frank?" asked the captain, with more than a trace of sarcasm.
"No," replied Ashton dejectedly. "I reckon I know them well enough by now."
Without another word, Nickles left the lieutenant confined behind steel bars, to ponder his involvement with Eco-Plenty and suffer the guilt of the awful mistake he had made. Grimly, the captain returned to the squad room.
"What was that all about?" asked a dumbfounded trooper named Kissler.
"I'll fill you guys in later," said Joe Nickles. "But now we've got a job to do." He looked around and saw that there were only six troopers present, armed with revolvers and pump shotguns. With the two troopers who had left moments before, that meant a scarce eight men under his command. It would have to do for now, though. From the thundering barrage of missile fire over Pale Dove Mountain, he knew they were probably biting off more than they could chew rushing up there on their own, but the reinforcements were a good half-hour away and he simply couldn't afford to wait for their arrival.
After the ten members of Red Team had finished scaling the rocky bluff, they moved across a partial plateau, crossing a babbling brook that bordered a dense stand of forest. Frag Hendrix took the point, leading his men toward their new objective. The sunlight that broke through the leafy foliage overhead was misty with smoke. Up ahead, just beyond the trees, was the point of impact where Skeeter's crippled Huey and the demonic black Falcon had hit the upper reaches of PaleDoveMountain with the destructive force of a meteorite.
