Mercer looked at him with mock astonishment, his face the picture of cherubic innocence. “Perish the thought, a cruise on an assault ship has always been a dream of mine. I have no intention of leaving the watchful eye of the navy. Seriously, Dick, you need someone out there who knows the whole situation and also understands something about bikinium. I don’t think Abe Jacobs is up to it. Besides, I found out about this whole mess and I just want to see it finished.”
Henna did not respond.
“Are you buying any of this?”
“No, I’m not.” Henna grunted.
“Good, because that’s about the worst line of bull I’ve ever thrown.” Mercer looked at Henna, the streetlights casting his face in either blinding light or impenetrable shadow. “If you know I’m planning to get off the Inchon as soon as I can and get to the islands, why are you letting me go?”
“Simple, I know you’ve withheld information from me.” There was no anger in Henna’s voice. “And that information is the key to ending this whole affair. You’re the only person who knows what the hell is going on and suicidal enough to try and stop it.”
“I appreciate your honesty and confidence,” replied Mercer sardonically. “But dying isn’t on my agenda of things to do and see on my Hawaiian vacation.”
“Turn left.”
Mercer swung the pickup and drove parallel to one of the base’s steel-reinforced concrete runways. The blue lights which bordered the tarmac flashed by in a solid blur. In the distance, a jet roared off into the night.
They approached several massive hangars, the powerful lights around the buildings reflecting against their corrugated metal sides. Men in blue overalls walked purposely in and around the hangars, carrying tools, binders, and other paraphernalia.
“Swing into the first hangar,” Henna directed.
Mercer slowed, passing several mobile generators used to jump-start the jet fighters. He pulled the truck into the hangar and stopped in a spot indicated by a grizzled chief master sergeant. The hash marks on his uniform sleeve, denoting years in the service, ran from his wrist to his shoulder.
Henna shook the chief’s hand. “Everything all set?”
“Yes, sir.” The chief said “sir” the way most men say “impotent”—either not at all or never above a bare whisper. “There’s an extra flight suit in the office and a KC-135 stratotanker’s ready to take off in Omaha. Another is standing by near San Francisco. Why the air force is paying for the transfer of a civilian in a navy aircraft I’ll never know.”
Mercer had seen the jet when he first drove into the hangar, but now took a moment to study his ride to the Pacific. The McDonnell Douglas F/A-18 Hornet rested lightly on her landing gear as if ready to pounce. She was like a leopard seated on its haunches, immeasurable power coiled up like a spring. The hard points under her razor-edged wings were bare of weapons, though two drop tanks clung there like fat leeches. Mercer took in her clean lines, the sharp needle nose, the twin outward-canted tails, the six stubby barrels of her General Electric gatling gun tucked under the canopy. She had two seats, which meant she was a training version.
“Ever been in a fighter before?” the chief asked with a patronizing smile.
“No,” replied Mercer.
“Oh, Bubba’s going to love you.”
Mercer looked down at the chief. He was a good foot taller than the air force man, but the chief’s wide shoulders and hard, thick gut made them appear physically equal. “Bubba?”
“Howdy,” said a voice that came straight from a dirt farm in southern Georgia.
Mercer whirled around. The speaker stood near an office tucked against one wall of the cavernous hangar. The man’s high-tech flight suit bulged where pads and air bladders would squeeze his body to keep him from passing out in the High-g world of the modern dog fighter. The pilot had a baby face and thin, mangled hair, and when he smiled, Mercer could see that a front tooth was missing. The helmet in his hand had “Bubba” stenciled between stripes of red, white, and blue.
The man looked nothing like Mercer’s mental picture of the pilot.
“Billy Ray Young.” The pilot extended a bony hand. “Jist call me Bubba.” He grinned around the plug of tobacco firmly held in one cheek.
“Mercer.” They shook hands. Henna couldn’t help but chuckle at the pallor that had crept into Mercer’s face.
“Kinda glad to have me some company on the flight,” Bubba said. “I been to the stockade fer a spell and didn’t talk to many folks there.”
Mercer looked over at Henna. The FBI director said nothing, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.
“Come with me — ay’ll git ya geared up.”
Mercer followed the pilot to the office. Billy Ray kept up a solid monologue about his term in the stockade for flying his Hornet under the Golden Gate Bridge. His accent was so thick that Mercer understood maybe a third of the pilot’s speech. Billy Ray showed Mercer how to fit into the constricting flight suit and cinch up the various harnesses. Mercer felt like the Michelin Man strapping on a girdle.
Back out in the hangar, Dick Henna hefted Mercer’s nylon duffel bag. “Bit heavy for a change of underwear.”
“My toilet case is lead lined.” Mercer grabbed the bag from him.
A mechanic took the duffel from Mercer and stored it in the area meant for the 1,350 rounds of 30mm gatling gun ammunition. He closed the hatch to the ammo bay and secured it with a special screwdriver, patting the fuselage affectionately before walking away.
“Giddyup there, Mr. Mercer, we’s got a schedule to keep.” Billy Ray Young was already in the Hornet’s front seat.
“Mercer, don’t worry about him,” Henna said. “He’s one of the best pilots in the navy. His record during the Gulf War was unparalleled.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Mercer asked.
“No, not really.” Henna smiled and extended his right hand. “Once you get to the carrier, a helicopter will transfer you to the Inchon. I’ll get in touch with you there. Good luck.”
“Thanks, Dick.” Mercer walked over to the aircraft and mounted the metal steps to the cockpit.
The chief personally strapped Mercer into the ejector seat, briefly outlining the fifty things Mercer shouldn’t do or touch while in the aircraft.
“Any parting thoughts, Chief?”
“Yeah, you puke in here and I’ll have the deck officer on the Kitty Hawk make you clean it up.” The chief slapped Mercer on the top of the helmet and scrambled down the mobile ladder.
“Y’awl set?” Billy Ray asked over the intercom.
“Let’s do it, Bubba,” Mercer said tiredly. Suddenly the five hours of sleep he had gotten earlier didn’t seem like enough, but he doubted he would sleep much on this flight.
Billy Ray closed the canopy and fired up the two GE F404 turbofans. The sixteen-thousand-pound thrust engines sounded like banshees as he brought them to full power for an instant and then throttled them back again.
A tow tractor came out of the night’s gloom and a lineman attached the tow bar to the front landing gear. With a slight jerk, the tractor edged the Hornet out onto the base’s apron. Over the helmet intercom, Mercer listened to the chatter between the tower and several aircraft in the area. When Billy Ray finally spoke to ground traffic control, his accent nearly vanished. His voice was crisp and professional and Mercer began to feel a little better about the flight and the pilot.
“You barf easy on carnival rides, Mr. Mercer?” But not much better.
“Don’t worry about me, Bubba.”
The tractor stopped just short of the runway and the driver leapt from the vehicle and unhooked the tow bar. Billy Ray eased open the throttles and the twenty-five-ton aircraft began to judder under the massive power of her own engines. They taxied to the end of the runway and paused, waiting for clearance from the tower. The runway was a two-mile-long ribbon racing off into the night, edged by blue lights which seemed to converge at the distant horizon.