Attack on Area 51 (3 page)

Though very old, the plane he was flying—an F-86 Sabre jet, built in the early 1950s—was easy to see because he had it at full throttle, causing a long trail of fiery exhaust to shoot out of its tail. Yet the enemy pilots never saw him coming. Facing the dull glow of their target, they could not see his exhaust in the glare. But more importantly, he’d taken off and climbed so quickly, he’d never even registered on their radars.

The seconds ticked away and finally the lights in the sky merged. With astonishing agility, the little plane dove right into the bomber formation, its engine screaming. Bright-yellow lights erupted from its wings, machine guns firing madly at the enemy. Red streaks flashed across the sky—tracer rounds seeking targets in the flock of bombers.

Suddenly one of the Backfires was on fire. It rolled over on its back and then went straight down, hitting the Mississippi River with a tremendous
crash!
The witnesses on the ground were stunned at how quickly it happened. No sooner had it hit the water when another Backfire exploded in midair. There was no wreckage to crash to Earth this time—just a bright puff of smoke, blown away by the wind. Then a Bear had its wing shot off, right at the root. It too plunged straight down, hitting the water with an enormous, fiery splash.

Then came another midair explosion—another Backfire was gone. The second Bear had its tail blown off, soon joining its brother in a death dive. The Vulcan bomber disappeared in another puff of smoke. Then came a trio of midair explosions—and suddenly the three Mirages were gone.

Nine enemy planes, destroyed in a matter of seconds.

It was at that moment that Football City’s antiaircraft crews, momentarily unaware of what was going on above them, opened up with as much fury as they could muster.

The three remaining attackers broke formation in an effort to get away—but the fighter jet pursued them, still firing without mercy. Not only did every shot from the Sabre seem to hit something vital on the bombers, but antiaircraft bursts were going off all around them too.

Finally, even the AA gunners became aware of what was going on­—it was impossible not to see the Sabre jet firing, twisting, firing again. It was moving so fast at times, it was little more than a blur.

In all, the incredible and deadly aerial ballet lasted only three minutes. The man flying the Sabre did not give up until all the bombers were shot down, their wreckage strewn along the empty streets near Football City’s docks or at the bottom of the Mississippi.

Then everything was quiet. The antiaircraft batteries stopped firing. The air raid sirens stopped blaring. Through it all, the Football City Air Force never got off the ground.

Still, not a single bomb had been dropped on the city.

The Sabre jet circled the air base once and then came down for a textbook landing.

As it taxied to its hardstand, the people standing outside the base’s fence gave a hearty cheer. They’d seen what the jet had done—and though they could hardly believe it, for the first time in a long time, the 10
^th
Street Crew’s bombers had not destroyed part of their beloved-if-grimy city.

The Sabre jet finally rolled to a stop. Its engine quickly shut down and its canopy popped open. An access ladder appeared and was put against the fuselage.

St. Louis bounded up the steps, realizing with some horror that the Sabre jet was perforated with hundreds of holes, received not from the attacking bombers, but from friendly fire coming from Football City’s game, but wildly inaccurate, antiaircraft batteries.

St. Louis reached the top of the ladder just as the pilot was taking off his battered crash helmet. The man looked up at St. Louis and said, “Did I really just do that?”

St. Louis didn’t reply. He couldn’t—he was too choked up. His city had been spared, at least for tonight, and he owed it all to this man.

He finally allowed the ground crew personnel to take over and help the pilot out of the heavily damaged Sabre jet. By that point, a number of Football City’s military leaders had gathered near the plane.

As they watched the mystery man being placed back on a stretcher and wheeled back to the military hospital, St. Louis turned to them and smiled through his tears.

“There’s no doubt in my mind now,” he said. “That man is Hawk Hunter.”

One week later

H
UNTER WAS VERY
uncomfortable lying on the couch.

It was too short for his six-foot frame and felt like it was stuffed with rocks. Squirming did him no good. He just couldn’t find the right position to get comfortable and settle down.

Sitting close by, pen and pad in hand, was Football City’s most preeminent—and only—psychiatrist. The questions had been coming nonstop for the past half hour.

What is your earliest memory? Did your parents love you? Why do you think you have this compulsion to fly? Why do you always carry your helmet around with you?

Hunter answered as best he could. His memory had cleared, somewhat, just as he was landing the Sabre jet after shooting down the twelve enemy bombers a week before. He knew his name, knew where he was born, knew when he’d started flying. He remembered World War III and the feeling of being stabbed in the back when the quisling vice president allowed the center of the country to be nuked. He remembered the nightmare of the aftermath.

He remembered a lot of it—but not all of it. He knew who Ben, JT, and St. Louis were right away, but other names and faces just weren’t coming to him. And while he remembered blasting off in the Zon spacecraft more than ten years ago, what happened after that was entirely fuzzy.

That’s why he was there, on the shrink’s couch, at St. Louis’s suggestion. If he could unlock the rest of his memory, he might be able to explain how he’d survived in space after the big comet explosion and where he’d been in the interim.

But it wasn’t only this blank memory or the barrage of questions that was making him squirm.

The psychiatrist was making him a little jumpy as well.

When St. Louis first suggested he visit the shrink, Hunter imagined some dour old guy with a tweed jacket and a pipe.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The shrink was an incredibly beautiful woman. As soon as he’d walked into her office, Hunter couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was brunette, shapely, well dressed. As he lay down on the couch, she closed the window shades and placed her chair very close to him, so close that out of the corner of his eye he could see her beautiful legs and one of her high heels dangling just inches above the floor.

Even when he wasn’t peeking, he could smell her perfume and could feel her electricity, her warm breath as it touched his cheek.

There were no brain lapses here—his nucleus accumbens was firing just fine. She was so gorgeous that he was just plain nervous.

Their session was supposed to last an hour, but about forty minutes in, she abruptly put down her pen and pad.

She moved her chair even closer to him, if that was possible.

“I think we’ve got a good start here,” she told him in a soft voice. “A door has been opened. More memories might flow if we can find a trigger to release them.”

“What kind of trigger?” he asked.

She thought a moment, then said, “Well, some research suggests that a extraordinary physical experience opens the amygdala in the brain and helps retrieve lost memories.”

“What kind of ‘extraordinary physical experience’? I mean, I had a hell of an experience my first night here.”

“Everyone knows that,” she told him. “And we haven’t been bombed since, and frankly, I appreciate the quiet nights. But for you, I was thinking of something more personal. More tactile.”

“Please don’t write this down,” he said. “But I think I’m a little confused …”

She laughed. “When was the last time you had a sensual physical experience?”

Hunter thought for a moment. “I think that’s one of the things I can’t remember.”

She laughed again and then purred, “Maybe we can do something about that.”

“Really? Like what?”

He looked up and saw that she was unbuttoning her blouse. Her hair came down next, then her glasses disappeared. If possible, she looked even more beautiful than before.

She held up a gold watch and began swinging it in front of his eyes.

“You’re hypnotizing me?” he asked.

“Think of it more as a relaxation exercise,” she said. “Let the thoughts come, no matter how unusual they might be.”

She was leaning right over him now, so close that her open blouse was touching his face.

But he did as he was told, watching the gold watch go back and forth. Back and forth. Back … and forth

His eyes closed and he felt like he was floating. Then his head was filled with the oddest thoughts. First, he saw a huge sequoia tree sprouting out of the ground. Then, a hot dog with legs, chasing a donut, also with legs.

Then, finally, a train going into a tunnel.

Ben and JT were waiting in the psychiatrist’s outer office.

Of all the people Hunter had fought with, they were his closest friends. Even before World III, they’d all flown together in the US Air Force’s Aerial Demonstration Team, better known as the Thunderbirds.

Then, after the Big War, they became the core of the United Americans Air Force and were at Hunter’s side through many battles, big and small. That they were the ones who had rescued him from the burning Zon was one of the strangest aspects of his bizarre return to Earth.

It was also strange that he looked exactly the same to them. He hadn’t aged. His hair hadn’t changed. No graying, no paunch. They’d joked that wherever he went, he must have found the fountain of youth.

The shrink’s office was in one of the better parts of Football City, one of the few remaining. But as it didn’t have a helipad on the roof, Hunter had been forced to use ground transport to get there.

This presented somewhat of a problem. Since his return, Hunter had become a major celebrity, with crowds gathering daily outside his quarters in the Football City Military Building, and following him just about everywhere he went. Even a brief wave from his window could send the crowds into a frenzy, especially the females.

For his own protection, he’d spent most of the last week holed up in his two- room officer’s apartment, talking with Ben and JT and writing down everything he could remember.

On those rare occasions he went out, they served as his bodyguards.

The door to the shrink’s office opened and Hunter half-stumbled out. His hair was mussed, his flight suit was askew, and he had the same befuddled look he’d had the night he’d arrived in Football City.

“What the hell were you doing in there?” Ben asked him. “Wrestling?”

Hunter shrugged. “Something like that.”

JT called down to the street to make sure Hunter’s security team was in place and that a vehicle was waiting. When the reply came back affirmative, he and Hunter started down the stairs. At that moment, the shrink came out of her office. She was also slightly disheveled.

She signaled to Ben that she wanted to talk to him.

“He’s a fascinating case, in more ways than one,” she said, fixing her hair.

“Any advice you can give us?” Ben asked.

She put her glasses back on.

“I think these lost memories will come back on their own now,” she said. “You can remind him of things or events or people, but only if he brings up the subject first. In other words, don’t force him to remember anything or anybody. Just let the memories return naturally.”

Ben shrugged. “You’re the expert.”

She shook her head. “Actually, not in this case. From what I know about him, and a bit of what he’s told me—well, let’s just say there are things there that go beyond my range of experience.”

She took a business card from her pocket.

“I heard of a secret government project years ago when I was a grad student,” she said. “It was before the Big War. A research team looking into anomalies. I mean,
real
anomalies. They were investigating strange things that had happened mostly to the military. Things that no one could explain. It went into limbo sometime after the Big War—I’m not sure when. But the first guy to head the project is a local.”

She wrote some information on the back of her card and handed it to him.

“Maybe you can have your rock-star friend talk to him,” she suggested. “He might be able to help in a way I can’t.”

Ben took the card and thanked her.

As he was leaving, she called out to him, “Just make sure he’s back in time for our session next week.”

The next day

T
HE TRIO OF HELICOPTERS
circled the mountaintop home once before landing.

They were all Hueys, the entire complement of Football City’s rotary corps. Two were modestly outfitted as gunships, and the third was the same aged eggbeater that Ben and JT had used to rescue Hunter from his burning spacecraft. All three were riding in it once again.

Their copter touched down last and Hunter started to climb off. But JT caught him by the arm.

“Hang tight,” JT told him. “We gotta make sure the area is secure. St. Louie’s orders.”

Hunter sat back down and waited while JT, Ben, and the crews from the other two copters checked out the site.

They didn’t have much to scour. The house was built atop the tallest hill in what used to be the state of Missouri. About one hundred miles west of Football City in an otherwise-unoccupied territory, the hill was barely five hundred feet high and its summit was a half acre at best.

The house itself was an A-frame design made almost entirely of glass, perfect for appreciating the impressive view. But there were no security guards, no security cameras. The person who lived in the house lived alone.

Ben and JT gave Hunter the thumbs-up. He stepped out of the copter and stretched. Though he hated being treated like a celebrity, he knew St. Louis was just looking out for him. Besides, Hunter was suddenly a very valuable commodity; his skill alone had saved Football City for at least one night—and maybe more. Neither the 10
^th
Street Crew nor Red Army Mafia had been heard from since he’d shot their bombers out of the sky. St. Louis hadn’t sent the criminals their monthly vig either, and still, not a peep. Maybe RAM was thinking over its options, but for sure, the Crew had gotten the message.