Return of Sky Ghost (23 page)

They were sitting in the flight compartment’s top tier, looking down over the pilots’ workstation. Both agents were glum, exhausted, and hungover. Not accustomed to being airborne for more than twelve hours at a time, they were now enduring the fifth day of this trip. It was ironic that while many people were searching for them, they in turn were searching for someone else.

They’d been flying knit patterns over the mid Atlantic for four of the five days. Back and forth, up and down, looking for a ship, a boat, even a small uncharted island on which a man who had been lost in this area more than a year ago might be found. This person was considered officially to be dead by drowning, his body never found. But, as the rumors went, he’d been picked up and made to crew a ship that regularly plied the waters in this area.

But four days of looking had turned up nothing. No islands, no ships fitting the description of the rumors, no fishing boats or pleasure craft. No nothing.

This was frustrating for the agents. They’d been secretly planning this unscheduled, totally unauthorized mission for some time. They were so used to getting their way, the OSS way, that to look for something for so long with no good result was tough.

Plus the bad food, the bad sleeping conditions, the smelly toilet. It was not to do for this pair, used to a certain amount of luxury. Drinking heavily at night had been the result.

Still, inside they knew that if they ever did actually find who they were looking for, it might all turn out to be well worth it.

They knew him only as “Number 3.” Eighteen months before, three men had been found floating in the middle of the Atlantic. One was Hawk Hunter, fighter pilot and hero, the one everyone now called The Sky Ghost. The second man was a guy named Elvis Q, who had been picked up by the German navy and gone on to engineer the remarkable if brief resurgence of Iron Cross Germany before its final defeat by the United States.

The actions of these two men and their influence on the outcome of a war that had lasted fifty-eight years would be debated for eternity probably. Yet the evidence pointed to these facts: that these two men—who apparently dropped in from another world or universe or whatever—had had a huge effect on the conflict’s outcome simply because of their presence in it.

These men then might be angels—literally
angels
—sent from another place and possessing powers that while subtle were undeniable. Agents X and Z were aware that the War Department had classified Hawk Hunter as a secret weapon. Even in defeat, the Germans, what was left of them, still honored Elvis Q like a messiah.

This was why X and Z were looking for the Third Man, Number 3. They had to believe that he would have the same powers and talents as the first two men. And once found, the agents were arrogantly self-assured that they could make him do their bidding.

But they had to find him first.

And that had become a problem.

The automatic command system aboard the
Nacht-Sputnik
was called
Uebertinker
—very roughly, “the over-thinker.” It was the German version of the Main/AC.

The rogue OSS agents had been taking advantage of this time on board the airplane to run every piece of evidence they had through the
Uebertinker
’s minitubes to see if it could divine exactly where they should look for their elusive quarry. Already the computer had told them that the Third Man was probably still alive, had probably been picked up eighteen months before by a passing ship, that there were only a certain number of ships that regularly sailed these waters, and that the majority of them never went to port. Therefore, there was a high probability that the missing man was aboard one of them.

But beyond these predictions—basically a list of probabilities in disguise—the German thinking machine had not been too helpful. Thus the interminable search patterns.

Strictly out of boredom, the pair of rogue OSS men began asking the computer other questions. If the Third Man was never found, would he still have an effect on the outcome of life on the planet? (The computer’s response:
Maybe.)

If the Third Man was found by the U.S., would his presence override that of The Sky Ghost, or vice versa? (The computer’s response:
They would probably be equal.)

But there was only so long they could play this game and not get bored. So after a while, they began to run out of questions. Then X in a drunken blur, asked the
Uebertinker
what turned out to be a rather fateful question: If the Third Man
was
in the hands of either the U.S. or Japan or even themselves, and if he was affecting events, what would those events be?

The computer started churning that question nearly three days ago. It was churning still. In all that time then, the agents didn’t know if the thing was broken, or if it was actually thinking of an answer.

It would be another few days then before they found out that the reply to their question had implications that could literally change the world and the course of human events.

Until then, they kept flying square patterns over the empty, tempestuous Atlantic, getting drunk, getting sick, looking for an angel.

I
T WAS JUST A
few minutes after midnight when the control tower atop Xwo Mountain received the radio call.

It came in the highest code. It was from a pilot approaching from the northwest. He was requesting the LSD screen be opened.

The code words matched those of the day found inside the Main/AC battle management computer, so the control tower called down to the LSD techs, who opened the screen as requested.

It was a cloudy night, so it looked like the strange, unidentified aircraft came out of nowhere. No sooner had the LSD screen parted when the aircraft zipped through, at first appearing only as a blur.

But those who actually saw it would later describe the mysterious aircraft as being long and white and very, very sharp. Like a hypodermic needle, with wings.

Very few people were out on the flight line this time of night, so just a handful saw the airplane come in. Still, those who did, watched as the strange aircraft taxied up to a familiar parking area. It was the one at the far end of the flightline, the one that had formerly been used by the base’s only Super Ascender fighter aircraft. The place where the man they now called Sky Ghost used to park his airplane.

Prewarned of its arrival, the ground crew of Dopey, Sniffy, and Sneezy was on hand, waiting as the needle plane finally came to a stop in front of them. They watched the Z-3/15’s knifelike canopy rise up. They were surprised, despite clues to the obvious, when the pilot climbed out and took off his helmet. It was Hawk Hunter. Back on Xwo Mountain after an absence of nearly a month.

Hunter greeted the ground crew warmly, then asked that they get the
Stiletto
under wraps quickly. He really wanted his presence here to be a secret, at least for the moment. He would eventually have to report to the operations building and say hello to Payne. But before all that, he had something else to do.

His airplane secured, he began walking toward the main part of the base. The trip down from Area 52 had been uneventful; even streaking very high over the occupied Panama Canal had been anticlimactic. The Japanese could neither see him nor hear him—not until he was way beyond the canal zone and his sonic booms began rattling their cages. They would have to get used to it. For little did they know that their cozy little world on the Panamanian isthmus was soon to be turned upside down. When that happened, sonic booms were going to be the least of their troubles.

Now, back at his home away from home, Hunter took a deep sniff of the high mountain air. The smells were all still there. The jungle, the rain, the jet exhaust. All of it felt good going into his lungs and out. Even the perpetual night mist was a welcome addition, muggy as it was.

In all the time he’d been away from the peak, he could honestly say Sara had never left his thoughts. Despite his rowdy week in Dallas and his intense time at Area 52, he’d always tried to think of her at dusk and at dawn, the times she would be just getting ready to go out on patrol or just coming back in.

After all was said and done, he realized he’d missed her. Missed being with her. Missed talking with her. Missed sleeping with her.

He’d wondered many times if she had missed him as well.

And that was the real reason he’d returned to Xwo.

He was here to find out.

He walked down the flight line, keeping to the shadows, passing the bombers and the support planes and the Mustangs of Sara’s squadron. Thank goodness her fighter was here, or this whole unauthorized pit stop would have been a huge failure. His heart began beating very fast.

Further down the line he noticed the airplane that had carried the network reporter to Xwo mountain was still on hand as well, a gaggle of TV insta-film cameras, transmitters, and things still set up and waiting nearby. Hunter guessed the news maven and her crew wouldn’t return to the U.S. until they got a story to bring back with them. If that was the case, he would have to avoid them at all costs.

He finally reached the barracks area where Sara and her female squadron slept. Sara’s billet was at the rear of one building, isolated from the rest. Hunter knew this area very well; he’d gone through her window many times under darkened conditions such as these. The getting-in part would be a snap.

He reached the magic portal and laid his helmet and gloves aside. There was a faint light flickering from within the room. This too was a good sign. Many times when they were together at night, Sara would light a candle and keep it going while they made love or just slept. Now, to Hunter, the flickering light told him she was awake, or possibly had just gone to sleep. This would be perfect for his surprise.

He reached the window and like a cat burglar returning to the scene of the crime, lifted it gently, one centimeter at a time. Once open, he went in smoothly, silently. The candle was indeed flickering. In the unusual light it cast, he saw Sara’s form beneath the sheet. He took a deep breath. This was a strange thing he was doing here. And a big step he was taking.

He began to walk toward her … but then suddenly, he stopped.

There was another form under the sheet too. The whole mattress was moving. Hunter’s breath caught in his throat. His heart plunged about 50,000 feet. His head felt like some cartoon character had just whacked him with a ninety-pound sledgehammer.

All this from the knowledge that he’d just made a huge mistake.

Sara’s hand reached out from the covers and fumbled with the night light. Finally it came on and there she was: hair longer now, her face a little more tanned, her body, so shapely and pert. She was more beautiful than before. And here he was, like a phantom, looking down at her, wearing a confused smile.

“Hawk …” she whispered.

He stood there mute, and once again, time stood still for him. He needed the pause. A million things were running through his head at the moment. He would have to figure out at least a few of them before everything started moving again.

Yes, he had made a huge mistake here. Bigger than huge. It was actually gigantic or even colossal. He had made an assumption of his relationship with her and obviously it had turned out to be very wrong.

The next question was: who was the other form under the sheet with her? It could be anyone, Hunter realized. There was no shortage of bomber pilots at the base, all of them working hard at maintaining their hunk status. There were a number of eligible bachelors among the staff officers too. Even the enlisted ground crew guys were known to sniff around Sara’s squadron every now and again, even though any liaison between an officer and a noncom was strictly forbidden.

So who would it be then? Hunter’s mind blazed with the question. He had to know. He had to see the face of the person who he was sure would soon be his rival.

So with the blink of his eye, everything started moving again. That’s when the form beneath the sheets moved and finally a head popped out. Hunter was shocked again.

It was the female network reporter.

She looked up at him and smiled too.

“Well, if it isn’t the famous Sky Ghost,” she cooed. “Ready to do that interview now?”

The sun was already coming up when Hunter finally made it back to the flight line.

His ground crew was still on hand. They’d spent the time topping off his fuel tanks and admiring his switchblade of an airplane.

They stared at him strangely for a moment, though, when he arrived. He looked uncharacteristically ruffled.

Hunter checked his fuel tanks and did a quick diagnostic on the
Stiletto.
Then he donned his flight suit and climbed in.

The ground crew strapped him down and oversaw the starting of the airplane’s mighty engines. They flared with characteristic bombast. Hunter was ready to leave. Dopey made sure he was snug in the cockpit, then gave him a whack on the helmet and a salute.

“Tell Major Payne I’ll see him next time I come through, OK?” Hunter asked Dopey.

“You got it, sir,” the ground man replied.

With that, Dopey descended the access ladder and stood by as Hunter closed the canopy and taxied away.

Within a minute the Z-3/15 was rocketing down the runway, through the LSD screen, and out into the early-morning air.

The mechanics watched the airplane until it finally disappeared into the high clouds overhead. Only then did they speak.

“Man, what was the matter with him?” Sneezy finally asked. “He looked a little shook.”

Dopey just shrugged his shoulders; of the three, he knew Hunter the best.

“I don’t know,” he finally replied. “Maybe it was something he ate.”

The
Stiletto
soared straight up for nearly two minutes. It rose above the clouds, above the dawn, until it finally reached 82,000 feet.

Up here the moon was still out, still full, still burning bright white. The stars were still out too. Cold fire mixed with the planets; specks of color in the vast black and white sea.