In Harm's Way (12 page)

“Pleased to meet you,” Davis said as he got up to leave. “Safe flight, gentlemen.”

Duncan nodded in acknowledgment.

Daymon offered a thin smile and turned his attention to the plate of sludge. “What did you call this?” He speared the mystery meat, turned the fork over, sniffed once and dropped it, food, and all, back onto the aluminum tray.

“Shit on a Shingle,” Duncan answered. His southern drawl made it sound like a delicacy.

Daymon held up what appeared to be a piece of green toast. “What exactly is it?”

Duncan was hoping he could break it to Daymon
after
he had taken a few bites, but the picky kid wasn’t eating. “It’s whatever leftover meat the cooks throw into whatever leftover gravy they have laying around. And then they slop that
shit
on top of the shingle, which is usually any
leftover
bread lying around that’s getting ready to turn green. And by the looks of your “shingle” it was already green.”

“I ain’t eating that shit.”

“You mean to tell me that
you
... Mister Lived in the Country most of his life, Sir He Who Hunts a Lot--has never eaten Shit on a Shingle?” Duncan said incredulously.

“No, I haven’t. I was a Bureau of Land Management firefighter--
not
a Gomer Pyle like you. The only army food that I've eaten is one of those awful MREs,” Daymon stated.

“Finish up; we have a date with First Sergeant Whipper. We may be wheels up sooner than you think,” Duncan said, giving the dreadlocked man a little wink. Duncan already had his ever-present go bag with him and was raring to go. Daymon, however, still had to retrieve his personal belongings from his billet.

Daymon pushed his untouched plate of food away and stood up. “Give me a second, there’s something I need to get.”

“Make it quick. I want to get in the air before anyone has second thoughts about letting a geriatric and a hothead take one of their choppers and then tries to have us grounded.”

Daymon went back behind the chow hall and grabbed two burlap potato sacks from the same neat stack that was there the night before. They were just the right size to conceal his crossbow and haul the rest of his gear to the chopper.

***

Duncan flagged down a passing Cushman shuttle and gently persuaded the young airman that they needed to requisition it to take them to First Sergeant Whipper’s office; the signed note from General Desantos sealed the deal.

Daymon heaved his two bags of “potatoes” into the stretched golf cart and strategically chose a seat behind the driver. His early morning covert excursion had left him little time for sleep. On top of that, he had a feeling he might be coming down with a bug, and after taking a dip in the dead pool he hoped it wasn’t the Omega bug.

Duncan talked the airman’s ear off as they traversed the base, passing a number of massive hangars. All manner of fixed wing aircraft were parked inside or arranged in clusters on the edge of the tarmac, some in various stages of maintenance. Apparently Whipper’s office was somewhere between Timbuktu and Madagascar. They had been travelling so long even Duncan had grown tired of talking--a very rare occurrence.

They stoppe
d in front of an oversized
hangar filled with a mishmash of civilian aircraft.

The sensation of the cart stopping woke Daymon. “Looks like a junkyard... are we here to see someone about a chopper or is Fred Sanford gonna
drive
us to Idaho?” he quipped.

Wow, the kid has seen Sanford and Son
, Duncan thought.
Impressive
.

“The First Sergeant’s office is through that yellow door,” the airman informed Duncan. Then he asked, “Do you need me to wait around for you?”

“Thank you son... but no, it’s the end of the line for us,” Duncan drawled.

The airman nodded an affirmative, turned a one-eighty in the Cushman, and went about his way.

“After you,
Sir
,” Daymon said, deferring to the older man. In reality he wanted nothing to do with procuring their transportation--whatever that entailed.

“I don’t like your tone of voice,
young man
. Did it ever occur to you that this old fart might be able to kick your scrawny ass?” Duncan said, only half joking, as the “odd couple” walked towards Whipper’s office.

Although he had a zinger locked and loaded, Daymon wisely held his tongue.

Duncan rapped on the pockmarked yellow door.

“
Who is it?”
a gruff voice sounded through the closed door.

“Name’s Duncan... Duncan Winters,” he said, his mouth nearly kissing the metal door. “I’m looking for First Sergeant Whipper.”

The door opened inward before Duncan could stand straight. He appeared to be bowing to the rotund man clad in grease-stained coveralls.

“And how might I be blessed to make your acquaintance Mr. Winters...and friend?” the man said as he craned his head to inspect Daymon, who was trying to remain inconspicuous despite his exotic appearance and the half a foot height advantage he had over Duncan.

“You’re Whipper?” Duncan said, slightly taken aback. He had never seen such a high ranking grease monkey before.

The mechanic displayed his stained hands. “I was still of the Whipper clan the last time I checked. So the uniform isn’t appropriate for my rank, huh?” the first sergeant asked drily.

“Just caught me by surprise, that’s all.” Duncan handed over the hand written requisition order and added, “General Desantos sent me.”

Whipper snatched the piece of paper and scrunched up his hawkish nose, which was perched crookedly on his ruddy face, bracketed by closely spaced pale blue eyes. A half-moon of wispy white hair reached for the sky.
The Fred Sanford assumption wasn’t far off
, Duncan thought, trying not to pass judgment but failing horribly.

Daymon watched silently as the funny looking fella scrutinized the piece of legal paper.

After a few seconds of reading, the first sergeant looked Duncan and Daymon up and down. After seeming to come to some sort of decision, he gestured toward the door. “Follow me,” he said.

As they walked, Whipper explained why he was in the trenches getting his hands dirty. Most of the men and women that were responsible for keeping the birds mission ready lived in Colorado Springs. There were a few airmen on base that Saturday, and only a very small percentage of the personnel living off base returned after the bug hit and the lock downs were ordered.

“Human nature, I guess,” Whipper said. “If I would have been in their shoes... can’t honestly say that I wouldn’t have done the same dang thing.”

The first sergeant led them through the open hangar. They emerged on the other side amidst the cluster of multi-colored civilian aircraft. “There she is.”

The navy blue helicopter was spattered with evidence of a prolonged Z attack. Silver smears resembling slug tracks criss-crossed the lower half of the fuselage and greasy handprints clouded the cockpit glass. The helo bore the markings of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, complete with a gold stripe painted front to back.

“What happened to the aircrew?” Duncan asked.

“I can’t be certain. There were six people aboard: four DHS agents, the pilot, and his co-pilot. At least one of the Department of Homeland Security agents was infected. A slow burn... he made it here still breathing like one of us, but I assume he turned in quarantine. The rest of the men are probably helping out here on base...
not running away from responsibility
.”

Duncan ignored the obvious jab. “Thanks Sergeant. We’ll take her.” He paused in thought for a tick. “How are the rotors? What I’m getting at, judging by the dead people juice all over the fuselage, it has obviously been through the wringer... were there any blade strikes that you are aware of? Believe it or not, I’ve had to ride one of these to the ground recently and my back is still feeling the effects.”

Daymon had somewhat successfully buried the helicopter crash in his subconscious until Duncan had to go ahead and rehash it. Daymon broke his silence and nervously asked, “Is this thing going to get us to Idaho?”

“Take it or leave it, gentlemen. As you can see,” Whipper raised his soiled hands, palms upturned, “I’ve got my hands full keeping the transports and tankers in the air. Schriever is getting low on food and the soldiers taking care of the Z’s downtown need all of the resupply drops that we can give ‘em. Those missions need aircraft that have been properly attended to. So to answer your question honestly... I don’t know. I really
do not
want to allocate the amount of fuel that you’re going to need ... but orders are orders.” The Sergeant balled up the handwritten note bearing the General’s orders and tossed it on the tarmac, watched the wind propel it bouncing and tumbling down the runway, and then turned and walked away without saying another word.

“What an a-hole,” Daymon whispered.

“I can see where he’s coming from and I can’t blame the guy,” Duncan said as he walked around the ship, visually inspecting the moving parts--especially the all-important rotor blades, being very careful not to touch the dried human detritus clinging to it.

Daymon asked, “Will this one stay in the air?”

“Good to go,” Duncan said as he hauled himself into the pilot’s seat.

Daymon shot the old aviator a worried look and entered the cockpit as well.
What are the odds of us going down again?
he asked himself as a thousand pounds of apprehension and an equal amount of worry weighed down on his shoulders.

The inside of the Black Hawk showed no signs of the violence wrought on the outside. Without the litters and medical lifesaving gear, the cabin of the DHS Border Patrol helo was more spacious than the National Guard Medevac bird Duncan had crash landed smack dab in the middle of I-25 the day before.

Daymon stowed all of their gear and weapons in the passenger area and retrieved two flight helmets before returning to the co-pilot’s seat.

Duncan inspected his new bird. The cockpit of the Border Patrol helicopter was slightly different than the military Black Hawk he
had gotten used to. He was relieved to find that the flight controls were identical and the switches and gauges were in roughly the same place. The Black Hawk definitely wasn’t a U.S. military bird but it did have external fuel tanks attached under the stubby wings, and without them Duncan knew the bird didn’t have the range to deliver them to Idaho let alone all of the way to his little brother’s compound in Eden.

After taking a few moments to get acquainted with the dials and gauges Duncan started the engine. “So far so good,” he said winking at his “co-pilot.” The helicopter strained and shimmied as the engine collected rpms.
When he spooled the turbines up to
near maximum power the rotors suddenly bit into the air. “Hold on to your cookies,” Duncan said, poking fun at the nervous ashen-faced passenger to his left.

“Here we go again. I’m stuck with Mister Stand-Up Comedian himself.” Daymon took a few deep breaths to calm his stomach from the effects of the hurried take off. “You know this just doesn’t seem the same without the other Gomer Pyle here to order me around.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll boss you around in his stead,” Duncan assured the big crybaby.

Daymon looked at the aviator from behind his purloined sunglasses. “I respect the dude... but I still resent the other “Gomer” for putting his gun in my face.”

“Cut the other “Gomer” a break. In all reality Cade is more “Mitch Rapp” than your garden variety soldier,
which I am proud to call myself
, and I know there are things he’s done, in total anonymity, that you and I have benefitted from in spades. And I
guaran-god-damn-tee
you,” Duncan butchered every syllable, “that kid will never toot his own horn about it. There ain’t no Freedom of Information Act anymore Daymon, and only a select handful of people will ever be privy to the things he has done above and beyond the call of duty.” Duncan flicked some switches and made a slight course adjustment and then continued. “I’ve got a good feel for people and assessing the content of their character. Cade’s a man of his word. And in the week plus that I’ve known him he hasn’t let me down. Honoring one’s word--that became a lost art in the final ten or fifteen years of
normal
. Shit, just plain old
honor
about disappeared--that’s one thing you can’t instill or train someone to practice once they’re already set in their ways. Cade’s one of those guys, like an old Blue Tick hound, once you’re friends... it’s for life. Don’t muck it up... allies like him don’t come around very often.”

 “I started to warm to the man--
after
he put the Glock away. To be honest with you, old man, I’ve been cursed with a long memory. I’m like a country squirrel--I never forget where I stash my nuts,” Daymon said, his usually emotionless face exhibiting a wan smile.

Unfortunately, Duncan’s twisted sense of humor kicked in. In his mind’s eye he could see the man in the co-pilot seat trying to find a safe place to hide the family jewels. He chuckled at the visual.

Daymon pondered the southern gentleman’s words of wisdom while the ground chopped by. “He came through with this bird--got to give him that. I feel dumb even asking.” He raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “Who the eff is
Mitch Rapp
?”