Finishing his patrol of the base's outer defense ring, Hunter headed due east.
It was a beautiful day for flying, mostly clear except for huge cumulus clouds that waited for him at 20,000 feet off to the northeast. But great flying weather or not, he was filled with a troubled feeling he could not shake. It had clawed at him since the last recon flight. Despite Dozer's encouragement, Hunter blamed himself for not detecting the mysterious Russian fighters sooner. How could he have been so lax as to let the Soviets build a fighter base — and somehow make it disappear — right under his nose?
He flew higher.
When he had joined PAAC, he had thought of it as the best way to continue his personal vendetta against the enemies of old America. He knew it would take not only fancy flying but hard work — in intelligence, in logistics, in procurement — to continue his crusade. He knew that to be successful, he would have to keep his hand on the pulse of what was happening across the continent and beyond. He designed the role of America's sentinel for himself. And, until now, he was always confident that it was thumbs-up and "do-able." Now, he wondered if that confidence was just cockiness. Some sentinel! He had radars and radios and long, dramatic recon flights and yet he let the Russians build a base so close to him he was surprised he hadn't smelled the borscht cooking.
He flew even higher — up to 40,000 and into the white mist of the huge, billowing cloud.
Betrayal. He felt that he had betrayed his own people — the other servicemen in Pacific American Armed Forces. The butchered frontier guardsmen and the sailors missing from the abandoned patrol boat. And how about the civilians that he pledged to protect? How had he served the murdered citizens of Way Out? No doubt the time he'd spent drinking and gambling and whoring and joy riding should have been put to better use.
And if he was such a great intelligence expert, what the hell happened down near Vegas? What the hell was going on over the Great Lakes? What the hell really happened to St. Louie's recon troops in the Badlands? And where the hell were those God-51 damned Russian jets?
Now he went even higher. 50,000 feet. 55,000, 60,000.
What the hell was he doing? Flying around, playing soldier. Harboring some stupid dream of reuniting his country. He knew he was the last of the sentimental Americans. Why couldn't he accept the reality of the New Order and just live with it? Make some money. Make a lot of money! He was once hired to retrieve some diamonds for St. Louie, a job that paid him more than $100,000.
Most of it was gone now — put toward purchases of PAAC-Oregon aircraft. And soldiering was the least profitable business to be in these days. Free-lance convoy protection duty. That's where he should be. Hire out to the highest bidder. He'd been offered incredible sums to ride shotgun for "special" cargoes. Let the rest of them fight it out. Why be a soldier? Why did he do it? He shook himself out of it temporarily. Questions. Too many questions…
He needed answers and he needed them now!
A faint ringing began in his brain. His ears perked up; his eyes cleared.
Within seconds, he could feel a very distinct buzz throughout his body, this one very recognizable. It meant only one thing. Aircraft. A lot of them. Out toward the east. Two, maybe three hundred miles away. He checked the time.
Just past 1200 hours. He checked his fuel supply. It was at 85 %. He checked his weapons. Four Sidewinders and a maximum load of cannon shells — all okay.
The sensation grew stronger. The hair on the back of his head was standing up. Trouble. This was trouble. He knew it. He had. to check it out. No time to call for the scramble jets. He had to act now. He booted in the afterburner and steered due east.
Chapter Six
It was a convoy.
Although he was still 30 miles due west of them, Hunter could see the airplanes quite clearly. He counted 11 Boeing 707s, four 727s, an H011 and two DC-9s — 18 airliners in all. They were traveling in the standard convoy formation; six groups of three-plane chevrons, each aircraft leaving a slight, wispy contrail in its wake.
But right away Hunter sensed something was very odd about the airplanes. There was no radio chatter at all coming from the airtrain — highly unusual as convoy pilots were known to be as talkative these days as truck convoy drivers were before the war. Hunter knew it had to mean the pilots were flying "booted," maintaining radio silence. Second, the airplanes were flying low, down around 10,000 feet. This was strange because it was better and cheaper to cut through the thin air at higher altitudes than the sludge down below 15,000. So most convoys cruised at 40,000 feet or higher, just to save gas.
But it was the convoy's direction that tipped him.
The airliners were traveling due north. Every big air convoy flying these days flew either northeast-to-southwest or vice versa. So where the hell were these guys going?
As he closed in on them, he ran another check on his weapons systems. He knew he would soon be showing up on their radar screens if not already. The convoy could simply be lost. But he doubted it and he wanted to be prepared for anything. Green lights started popping up on his weapons control panel. All his armaments were in good shape. He closed to within 10 miles of the airliners and flipped on his radio sending switch.
"Convoy leader, this is Major Hunter, Pacific American Air Corps," he said slowly. "I am at two-niner Tango from your position. Everything okay with your course-direction finder?"
Silence.
"Convoy leader," he repeated, closing to within five miles of the airliners and banking to fly a course higher but parallel to the leader. "Major Hunter, P-A-A-C here. Do you need course-direction assistance?"
Again, silence.
Hunter checked his own location. He was somewhere over the southern part of the old state of Montana, technically outside of PAAC's air space. But screw it, no one bothered much about such distinctions these days. He banked again to his right and in seconds was streaking over the first three-plane formation.
Instantly, he knew there was going to be trouble. The three airliners were typical in every way except one — each had twin-gun barrels protruding from its tail. Airliners with rear gunners were a rare item — they were the Rolls-Royce of airliners. And never did one see more than one or two and then only traveling with a 50-plane or bigger superconvoys. Yet here were three, flying side by side.
He banked hard to the right and executed a 180 turn which carried him over the second group of airliners. These three airplanes also carried rear guns. He swept back over the third group and confirmed they too were carrying.
But suddenly rear guns on airliners didn't bother him anymore. He had something new to think about. Looking down toward the southeast he could see four F-101 Voodoos rising to meet him…
He knew the jet fighters would show up sooner or later. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, he had felt their presence. No sane convoy master would assemble 18 big airliners without contracting some free-lance air cover. And, as this particular group of airliners was definitely shady, Hunter could only assume the F-101 s were too. He took five deep gulps of the pure oxygen for a quick jolt, switched on his own, specially-designed engagement radar and dove to meet the Voodoos head-on.