Sky Ghost (32 page)

The aircraft carrier was so immense, it was not unusual to have two entirely different weather conditions at either end. There were men who served on her who had never seen topside, never mind walk the deck. The steam used by the ship’s 24 catapults in one day could power a small city for two years.

Seeing this floating monster from 20,000 feet was an exercise in optical illusion, as Hawk Hunter soon found out.

Somewhere back in his past he must have landed on aircraft carriers before—but never anything near this big. Even from four miles up, the ship was so imposing, it seemed only five or six hundred feet away. Hunter felt like he could reach out and touch the damn thing.

And the closer he got, the bigger it became. Until it finally filled his vision to nightmarish proportions.

You could never pull this thing with tugboats,
he thought, oddly, not knowing why.
Not in a million years…

He’d had no problem finding the ship. How could he? The ship was hard to miss, plus the instructions given to him over the radio carried him here directly. And now, flying over it, his heart brightened. He could see the deck was actually crowded—not with naval attack and fighter planes—but with B-24/52s, B-17/36s, Mustang-5s, Beaters, and the giant Flying Boxcars. It was all the airplanes from the Circle.

Somehow the Navy had come to the rescue!

The decks were so crowded, in fact, that Hunter had to fly by a second time, looking for a place to land. The ship
was
like a floating airport, but every runway seemed too stacked to set down on. Finally he found an unoccupied strip of deck on the large overhang island; it stretched diagonally for about 750 feet or so. A bright green landing globe was blinking furiously at one end of this strip. With his radio out, he assumed this was the only way the people on the ship could tell him where to land.

He went around again, then lowered his gear, put down his flaps, held his breath, and began a final approach. There were no arresting hooks on the Ascender, no trap wire on the deck would be able to catch his bottom to capture it. He would have to use the entire length of landing strip and his brakes to bring it in safely.

He dropped to 100 feet above the deck. He fought off a stiff crosswind, trying at the same time to compensate for the huge ship’s roll. At 50 feet high and 200 out, he went full flaps and nudged the stick down. Twenty feet high, 75 feet out. The ship lurched up, Hunter remained steady. Fifteen high, 50 feet out—the ship went down again, but Hunter stayed glued to the stick. Ten high, 20 feet out. There were deckhands in orange uniforms with hand paddles frantically waving at him, but he had to ignore them now. Five high, 10 out. Two high, five out…zero, zero…
Wham!

The next thing he knew, he was skidding along the slick, windswept deck. He immediately killed the engine and hit the brakes; there would be no bolter here. He was either going to get down or go over the side. He pushed the brakes all the way to the floor; they locked and held firm. Then came much screeching, and lots of burnt rubber and smoke. But finally the little Super Ascender slid to a stop just 10 feet from the other side of the deck.

He’d made it.

There was a small crowd around the plane by the time he popped the canopy. Many had familiar faces. Up front, the maintenance guys from Dreamland, including his old pals Dopey, Sneezy, and Sleepy, led a round of applause for his slick landing. Members of the old 999th and even the chicken-hearted 13th were on hand and applauding too. Only later would Hunter find out the carrier’s landing officers had actually been waving him off and trying to tell him to wait until a larger space of deck could be opened up.

Waiting at the bottom of the access ladder were Payne, Zoltan, and Colonel Crabb. They yanked him off the steps and nearly squeezed him to death with bear hugs. Crabb’s dancing beauties were also on hand, looking lovely in lowly sailor blues. They squealed when the saw Hunter and pushed the three men aside to smother him with kisses.

But Hunter was at a loss as to what all the celebrating was about. He didn’t deter the German missile from obliterating the Circle. He really didn’t do anything but put his own life in grave danger, and all for nothing, as it turned out.

So why was he being treated as a hero?

It was Zoltan who read his mind, of course.

“Because everyone got out,” he told Hunter. “No one was left behind back at the Circle. No one. They owe it all to you, Hawk. They’ve already flashed word about this back to the states. In fact, you’re famous back home already.”

Hunter actually laughed at the sound of that word. “Famous? Me?” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

A tractor appeared and pulled the Super Ascender to a less crowded part of the very crowded deck. Then Payne, Zoltan, and Crabb brought Hunter down to one of the carrier’s 33 mess halls. The assembled sailors gave him a standing ovation when he walked in; there had to be 2000 of them at least. One of the mess officers brought him a huge bowl of vegetable soup, a loaf of bread, and a pot of coffee. Then he asked Hunter for an autograph.

The food looked great and smelled great. Hunter felt like he hadn’t eaten in years. But no sooner had he grabbed his spoon than the mess hall came to another standstill. The thousands of sailors jumped to attention. Through the door walked a rugged yet regal officer wearing a smart white uniform, He was the captain of the
USS Cape Cod.
His name was Jack Norton.

He walked over to Hunter’s table, and Hunter managed a salute. But clearly, it was the aircraft carrier’s CO that was impressed. He too greeted Hunter as if he were some sort of hero. Then he asked permission to sit with him. Embarrassed, Hunter immediately said yes.

“You prevented another Dunkirk,” Captain Norton told him, a cup of coffee appearing in front of him. “That’s what they’re saying back in the states.”

Hunter’s head was spinning. How could that be? The evacuation of the Circle bases had happened less than two hours ago.

“How could I become famous so quickly?” he finally asked.

The answer was simple, Norton explained. For the past week, the aggressive wartime media back in the states had been covering the firebombing missions to Germany—and featuring Hunter as the mastermind behind them. The American people, starved for a hero in dark times, now had one. His picture was on the front of every newspaper, on every TV news broadcast, and on the lips of just about every American citizen. So the answer to his question was what Zoltan had said earlier: He was famous already.

Norton motioned to an aide who produced a Boomer, the combination shortwave radio, TV, film-player, and music box that everyone in this strange world seemed to own. He switched the TV to a U.S. world-beam station. Sure enough, there was a story about the attacks on Germany, featuring file clips of the huge B-17/36s and B-24/52s taking off, burning German cities, and a shaky film of Hunter climbing into his Mustang-5 and taxiing away in the snow. Just when the footage was taken, he had no idea.

“And they haven’t even heard all the details about the evacuation of the Circle Bases yet,” Norton told him. “Wait until that story hits. There will be books. Movies. Talk shows. They’re talking Medal of Honor for you already.”

Hunter just looked across the table at Payne, Zoltan, and Crabb. All three were grinning and shrugging at the same time.

“That’s showbiz,” Crabb spoke for all.

They ate lunch, Hunter stuffing himself with two bowls of soup and two loaves of bread. Norton asked him for details about the final minutes of the Circle bases, and Hunter happily supplied everything he wanted to know.

When he’d finished eating, the CO told Hunter he’d been assigned an officer’s berth in a very good part of the ship. Then he surprised him again by telling him a visitor was already waiting for him there.

Again, Hunter was stumped. How could he have a visitor on the carrier? Who would have expected him to be here? Less than three hours ago it seemed like he’d be at Dreamland forever.

He voiced this to the captain, who just shrugged.

“Don’t bother even thinking about it,” he said. “These things just happen.”

And after taking a moment to consider this, Hunter decided it was good advice. Maybe it
was
best that he stop trying to figure out every strange twist and turn that seemed to be routine parts of daily life here in this new place. Really—why would a prototype model of the Super-Ascender be fully gassed and armed and waiting for him at the exact moment he needed it? Why would he suddenly stumble upon 50,000 tons of firebombs, again just when they were needed? There were no coincidences in this place, he had to keep reminding himself of that. But if that was the case, then didn’t that make every strange thing that
did
happen to him here even more mysterious?

Don’t think about it…

They left the mess and Payne pointed him in the general direction of his berth. They made plans to link up later; the air exec now had to confab with the ship’s officers about what they would do next. But that was another strange thing. The massive aircraft carrier had actually been heading for Iceland when the refugees from the Circle dropped on board. When the bug out occurred, it too had been in the right place at the right time.

Before they parted company, Payne slipped a small flask into Hunter’s hand.

“It’s the last of my scotch,” he told Hunter. “I figured you deserve a sip or two. Just don’t let the swabbies catch you with it.”

Hunter thanked him and headed for his assigned berth. It was on 16th deck, just about midships. A nice part of the city. He checked a series of maps along the way and he didn’t get lost at all. Still, it took him nearly a half hour of trudging down the crowded passageways to reach the place.

By that time he’d come to realize that he hadn’t slept more than three hours in one time in nearly two weeks. What was the likelihood that now, as he really didn’t have anything to do in the near future, he’d be able to sleep for about 24 uninterrupted hours and recharge?

Less than zero, as it turned out.

He finally made it to his berth. And yes, someone was waiting there for him.

Someone very unexpected…

It was Captain Pegg. The elderly officer who had sprung him from jail.

“Hey, Pops,” Hunter said. “What the hell are
you
doing here?”

“Following orders,” the man answered wearily.

Hunter did a quick recce of the cabin. It was very tiny, ironic for such a big boat. He had a bunk, a chair, a desk, a Boomer, and a small sink. His jail cell had been bigger.

He collapsed onto the bunk, his weary bones sinking deep into the one-inch mattress.

“Orders, eh?” he asked Pegg, who was slouched in the chair across from him. “And they are?”

“I have a package to deliver to you,” Pegg said.

“From your bosses, I assume?”

The old man just nodded. He looked a little ill.

“Rough trip out?” Hunter asked him, surmising the man’s distress came from a bumpy carrier landing.

“The roughest,” the old timer confessed. “I’m fifty-six years in the Air Corps. I never wanted to get anywhere near one of these damn things. They’re too big! But when I’m called on, I serve. I have since 1942.”

Hunter had to admit some grudging respect for the man. Anyone who would give more than a half century of service to his country—and not get above the rank of captain—he had to feel for.

Hunter looked around the cabin again. “This place reminds me of my suite back in Sing Sing,” he commented.

Pegg shifted in his seat.

“I’ll bet there’ve been times lately that you wished you were back there,” he told Hunter.

“More than I can count,” Hunter replied.

Next to the sink was a coffee machine. Hunter reached over, filled it with water, dumped in a pack of grounds, and set it brewing.

Then he located two cracked coffee cups.

“You take it black, Pops?” he asked the old man.

“If I have to,” he replied.

The machine poured out two black coffees just five seconds later. Hunter gave one to the elderly officer. Then he retrieved Payne’s flask from his pocket and gave them both a splash. Pegg was surprised, but thankful.

Finally Hunter sat back down.

“OK, pal,” he said to the man. “Let’s have it.”

Pegg took a sealed envelope from his coat and passed it to Hunter.

“This is an animated mission film containing details for a very secret mission,” he said sipping his coffee noisily. “It’s so secret, you can’t open it until I leave.”

Hunter shook the envelope as if this would reveal some of the secrets inside.

“What do you know about it?” he asked Pegg.

The old guy just smiled and sipped his coffee again.

“Nothing,” he replied.

“Absolutely nothing?” Hunter pressed him. “Or just officially nothing?”

Pegg smiled again, and this time the grin stayed on his face.

“Every soldier hears rumors,” he said with a shrug. “Especially where I work.”

Hunter settled back, put the envelope to his forehead, and said: “Tell me the best one you know.”

Pegg pulled out a pack of Golden Luckies, and offered one to Hunter, who declined. He lit one up for himself.

“Well, it’s no secret the war is still going very badly for us,” he said soberly. “Losing the Circle is a big blow, but not exactly an unanticipated one. Still, there are some very ominous things being whispered about…”

“Like what?” Hunter asked.

“Like the Germans being ready to invade the U.S.,” Pegg said starkly. “Like we won’t be able to stop them if they ever make it off the beaches.”

Hunter just stared back at him and let this information sink in. It really wasn’t that much of a surprise. They’d bombed Germany almost every day for three weeks and set half of the Reich on fire. But even with the success of those missions, it was still not enough to win the war or even turn the tide back in their favor. And now with the Circle bases gone, hitting Germany would be that much tougher.

Or so Hunter thought.

“So where do I fit in?” Hunter asked him.