Return of Sky Ghost (16 page)

“See for yourself,” Y said.

He handed Hunter a mission viewing pad, or MVP. This was a flat screen device about the size of a hardcover book. It had a six-inch-square screen on it surrounded by a series of buttons and dials. Animated films could be back-projected onto this small screen, either by inserting an insta-film cassette tape, or via radio waves sent from just about anywhere in the world. MVPs had about a million different uses. This was how many combat pilots were briefed on their upcoming missions. The MVP would contain all elements of the mission, play them out as little cartoons on the screen, and then go with the pilots as a kind of guiding light throughout. It was the same with Army officers in the field, and ships’ captains at sea. The OSS in particular relied on the MVPs to keep their agents updated, in touch, and safe.

Hunter switched this one to Play and saw a map of South America materialize on the screen. Two-thirds of it was painted orange. The remaining part, Brazil and several smaller nearby countries, were painted blue.

Hunter knew exactly what the map meant.

“Brazil is finally coming into the war on our side,” he told Y.

“Good guess,” the agent replied. “Negotiations have been going on in Washington for two months, and they’ve reached what the diplomats call ‘the fruitful stage.’”

“What’s the timetable?”

Y shrugged. “Six weeks, maybe eight,” he replied. “We began shipping them shitloads of stuff even before the secret talks started. They’ve got enough materiel now to field ten divisions. In a month that number will triple.”

Hunter did the math. “Three hundred thousand guys—plus force of our own I assume?”

Y nodded. “We’ve got twenty divisions in an expeditionary force ready to sail. The Brits are sending five divisions. The Italians will do air support for the Brazilians. We might be looking at a pretty even-up situation down here in not too long.”

Hunter had to agree.

“Interesting …” he said.

“Go to the next page,” Y said, “if you want interesting.”

Hunter found himself looking at a close-up picture of occupied South America. The mountain ranges were highlighted in topographic relief and there were blue cartoonish stars above six of them. Hunter pushed the Continue button. The cartoonish mission film then showed six of the peaks being flattened off and tiny airplanes arriving. Once in place, the airplanes took off again and began bombing dozens of sites all over Japanese-held South America. Little flames and plumes of smoke appearing above the targets boasted future successes.

Hunter smirked. MVPs always ran like this—like a cartoon. It was a strange way to get briefed. All that was missing was the music.

“The Air Corps figures they can have six more LSD-protected air bases operating down here inside of four weeks,” Yaz explained. “Following your model here, they’re very optimistic.”

Hunter was getting mildly excited. Big things were happening in South America. The Japanese were already on the defensive. An invasion from Brazil, coupled with bomber strikes, carrier strikes, and insurgency actions could prove to be a hell of a fight, one the Americans and their allies just might win.

Hunter was glad that he was going to be a part of it.

But Yaz saw the look on his face and stopped walking. He took the MVP from the pilot and lowered his voice.

“I know exactly what you’re thinking,” he told Hunter, “so I’ll just be straight with you: They’re calling you back to the States.”

Hunter shook his head, as if this would somehow unclog his ears. He had to have heard Y wrong.

“Excuse me?”

But Y looked too grim-faced to be kidding.

“It’s true,” the OSS agent told him. “They’ve got something for you up north. I have orders to bring you back.”

Hunter was absolutely bowled over. Why in the world would
they
be recalling him now, just when things looked like they were about to pop in the U.S.’s favor?

Again, it was not hard for Y to read his mind.

“I don’t know why, Hawk,” he said. “And I couldn’t tell you if I did. You’re needed up north. That’s all I know.”

Hunter had to take a few moments before the news finally began sinking in. He looked around the base, and in a flash realized he’d actually miss it.

He checked his watch. Sara would be back in two hours. He’d have to tell her of course, hopefully spend some time with her, then he’d pack his things and check with the Super-A’s ground crew and …

“OK,” he told Y. “If I got to go, I can leave by noontime—or midafternoon would be better.”

But Yaz was shaking his head. At that moment Hunter noticed that the Beater crew had never shut down their main power plants. Nothing was being unloaded or loaded onto the Octocopter. It was suddenly obvious the aircraft wasn’t staying on the mountaintop for very long.

“We got to go now, Hawk,” Y was telling him. “And I mean,
right now.”

Now a new feeling came over Hunter. He was getting pissed.

“Wait a minute,” he said with rare sternness. “I got loose ends to tie up here.”

Y was shaking his head. “Sorry, man. No can do.”

Hunter felt his temples flush. “These people in Washington. They realize I’ve been busting my ass down here for almost a year now? That I was eating snakes and bugs and wearing the same undersuit for six weeks at a time?”

Y was nodding. He was obviously in a bad position. On the one hand, Hunter was his friend; on the other, he had his orders from the highest levels of the U.S. government.

“They all appreciate your contribution, Hawk,” he replied. “Obviously they do. The whole upcoming air campaign is based on your work here. This counteroffensive would never be happening so soon if you hadn’t done all the grunt work. And they know it.”

“So?”

“So,” Yaz went on slowly, “there’s something maybe even bigger they want you to do. And to do it, we’ve got to go now. There’s a rocket plane over in Brasilia that’s already heating up its engines.”

Hunter began to say something—but stopped. What was the use of arguing?

He felt the weight on his heart double in size. He’d have to leave his airplane behind. His colleagues. And Sara. He wouldn’t even be able to say good-bye to her.

That hurt the most.

“We’ll leave a message for her,” Yaz said, reading his mind again. “Now … ?”

He indicated the waiting Beater.

Hunter just shrugged and together they started walking toward it.

Off in the distance he heard a jungle bird begin its morning song. The dawn was just an hour away; another day on the mountain would begin. And he wouldn’t be here.

As it turned out, he would miss Sara by less than fifteen minutes.

T
HE BEATER FLIGHT OVER
the predawn Peruvian jungle was, as always, a white-knuckle affair.

The Octocopter—any Octocopter—seemed to defy every major law of aerodynamics. It looked too big, flew too big, usually had a couple of engines out, or even in flames. It was gangly, loud, uncomfortable, slow, smelly, and forever unstable.

But it got the job done—at least this time. The light green hue of the Peruvian countryside gradually gave way to the dark emerald color of the Brazilian rain forests. The constant bucking and broncing and Hunter’s deep funk prevented him from enjoying the scenery. He found himself checking his watch every few minutes and thinking,
She’s just turning back to base now. She’s just beginning her prelanding checks now.

She’s just landing … now.

Finally he just slumped deeper into his seat, and closed his eyes. Surprisingly enough, he fell asleep. He dreamed he lived on a farm, somewhere back in the U.S.

It was on the edge of a cliff. With a little house. And a hay field. And the great blue Atlantic beyond.

Brasilia was a city in the middle of the jungle.

It was a futuristic design, from the eyes of someone forty years ago. Lots of strange-looking buildings, wacky statues, wide-open roadways. Stadiums. Weird globular structures that served little or no purpose. It was a place built to be people-friendly and was anything but.

The Beater swooped low over the center of the city and set down at the huge military air base on its eastern fringe.

Hunter and Y got off the noisy aircraft only to have their ears assaulted by the thunderous roar of jet engines. Gigantic unmarked C-919 Super Flying Boxcars were landing at the air base at a rate of one a minute, lugging in the materials of war for the upcoming Brazilian offensive. The staging area was thick with military equipment, from supertanks to artillery guns to rocket launchers to mountains of ammunition. There were also many troops in evidence. Brazilians, British, Dutch, Icelanders, and Americans. No one was wearing any insignia, though. Like the jumbo cargo planes, everyone was playing a game of deniability.

“Quite a show,” Hunter told Y as they walked along the very busy tarmac. “Isn’t anyone concerned that there might be a few eyes here in the employ of the Rising Sun?”

Y chuckled a little.

“There’s more than a few, I’m sure,” he replied. “But that’s the point. It’s no secret what’s going on here. I mean the Japanese would have to be complete idiots
not
to know. It would be impossible to hide all this—plus everything that is happening at seven other bases like this. So why not let them know just how big the punch is going to be? It will just put them more on edge—or at least that’s what Washington thinks.”

They walked by a parking area containing no less than two dozen huge jets, each one belonging to a major network or media outlet. ABC, NBC, CNN, CBS, CNT were all there as well as many international services. There were many long-distance, insta-film signal senders in evidence, thicker than trees in a forest. Battalions of media pretty boys, all in freshly pressed camos, were strutting around like herds of roosters. So many technicians were moving, their numbers rivaled those of the combat troops.

“This will be the biggest story in a while,” Hunter observed.

“Sure, if these guys can stay out of each other’s way long enough to cover it,” Y replied. “My personal opinion is most of them couldn’t cover a fire.”

Again Hunter felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. Even these weeny media guys would be closer to the action than he would.

It took them nearly thirty minutes to walk the length of the air base. Finally they reached the rocket plane station.

Hunter was still foggy on many things that existed back in his time, but he was fairly certain they didn’t have a lot of rocket plane travel Back There. Quick travel by aircraft burning rocket fuel was fairly commonplace here.

These “R-planes” essentially were passenger carriers. They did not employ jet engines to fly, but rather rocket motors, which were fed a continuous, but finite amount of fuel, usually just enough to get from point A to point B. The rocket planes were inherently more dangerous to fly, especially with all that volatile rocket fuel aboard. But they were smoother, could fly higher—and most of all, much faster.

The X-1, the first aircraft to break the speed barrier back in Hunter’s world, was a rocket plane. But after that, for whatever reason, the vast majority of airplane technology Back There had centered on the jet engine. Here, it was a little bit of both.

Hunter had ridden a few rocket planes since arriving in this world. He regarded them as oddities. They weren’t especially maneuverable. They couldn’t carry much in the way of weapons. Or carry much of anything at all. But there was one thing he couldn’t argue with: They were usually the quickest way to get someplace. And in military situations, they were especially useful because they went so fast that no jet aircraft could keep up with them.

He and Y went through the pretenses of booking themselves onto the rocket plane. The rocketport was run by an air service company called Global Airways, a poor attempt at a front company for the OSS. The plane itself was roughly one-quarter the size of a gigantic B-17/36, still a substantial size. It had been painted to look like a regular cargo carrier, but it would fool absolutely no one who was looking for it.

Hunter and Y were both weighed and assigned a seat. The inside of the R-plane was small and cramped, not dissimilar to the Concorde SST. Hunter got a window seat, of course. There were only three other passengers on board, Air Corps officers all.

Y had a word with the pilots and then sank into the seat facing Hunter.

“We got about four thousand miles to go,” he said, strapping in. “So if the winds hold true, our time to destination will be about fifty-five minutes. The pilots promise some interesting scenery about halfway through the jump.”

Hunter sat back and looked out the window, thoughts of Sara and Xwo Mountain momentarily overwhelmed by the sheer excitement of the upcoming rocket jump.

He loved flying—any kind of flying. Every time he strapped in or belted down, the sheer joy that ran through his body was indescribable. Even if he was taking off on a combat mission—even a very hazardous one—he always felt that way. An almost orgasmic rush simply at the anticipation of flight. He couldn’t have prevented this feeling if he’d tried. That’s just the way he was.

After a few minutes, the doors were closed and the engines began to warm in the rear of the R-plane. Two seconds later they were moving very fast down a long rail which angled skywards at its terminus. Three seconds later they were going off this scoop, the increase in elevation being spiked by the first-stage solid fuel boosters being lit. Then the primary rocket motors kicked in and off they went.

They climbed, wickedly, and nearly straight up. Past 5,000, 10,000, 15,000 feet. The g-forces were pressing Hunter’s body deep into his seat. His face distorted to the point of curling his eyelashes. Fighting to keep his eyes open, his mouth stretched back into a wide grin as he let this extremely pleasurable feeling wash through him.

The R-plane hit 30,000 feet, 40,000, 50,000, and still it climbed. The idea was to get as much elevation at the beginning of the flight as possible and then dump the booster rockets, turn the plane over, and use the liquid-fuel engine to power you through the thinner air to your destination.