Return of Sky Ghost (18 page)

“You any good at this?” Hunter asked Y.

“Never played it before in my life,” the agent whispered back. “But this is what the MVP told me to do.”

Y threw in his single chip ante and the dealer began dealing. The OSS agent was soon looking at a pair of sevens.

“Double up?” the dealer asked Y, but the agent just shook his head. Instead he told the dealer to hit him.

The dealer dealt—it was another seven. Y had just doubled his money.

The dealer dealt again. Y was now looking at the king of hearts and the nine of spades, a total of nineteen. Common sense dictated that Y should stay pat. But he pushed his second chip forward, betting a total of one hundred dollars.

“Hit,” he said.

There was a chuckle from the other players; the dealer arched his right eyebrow. He threw the next card.

It was the two of diamonds. Y had just doubled his winnings again.

It went this way for the next ten minutes. No matter what hand Y was dealt, he always called for the third hit and he hit twenty-one every time.

Finally he stopped, at $2000. He collected his chips, tipped the dealer, and cashed in. As he stood counting out the bills, Hunter wondered exactly what he’d just seen. Was Y so incredibly lucky that he could hit on nineteen and win? Or had the OSS somehow rigged the game? Both choices seemed highly improbable, if not impossible. What was the truth then? Hunter didn’t know, and part of him believed that Y did not know either.

“I guess you’re buying the drinks tonight,” Hunter finally told him, as the agent stashed the bills into his wallet.

“I guess I am,” Y mumbled in reply.

They hopped into a jeepster cab and headed for the south side of town.

According to the Happy Valley doorman, this was the best place in the hectic city to grab a meal and a drink in relative peace.

Their cab got into a traffic jam almost immediately, and their progress became agonizingly slow in short order. As with their ride in from the airport, the streets were filled with people partying, and, Hunter was realizing, many street entertainers. They passed musicians, magicians, jugglers, dancers, and people hawking everything from moonshine to machine guns. More than once, Hunter saw someone getting their palm read by curbside fortune-tellers.

Their cab eventually reached an intersection where an enormous sports stadium was located. Literally thousands of people were pouring into this place. Like everything else here in Dallas, it was huge. It reminded Hunter of one of the Navy’s megacarriers. The mile-long ships were so high, it was impossible to see their decks from dockside. This stadium obviously housed something sports-related, but Hunter had no idea what it was.

As seemed to be the case always, Y read his mind.

“It’s the new Dallas Cowboys stadium,” he told Hunter as the cab crept by. “The pro football team. They’re the biggest thing in Texas. Have been for years.”

Hunter studied the sheer size of the stadium. The enormity of the place, plus the crowds and the hoopla surrounding it, caused him to ask Y an odd question.

“Do they play in there twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?”

Y looked at him like he was nuts.

“What are you asking me?”

“Do they play a football game that just goes on forever and ever and people can bet each quarter?” Hunter was saying, the words coming out of his mouth almost involuntarily. “You know, like a nonstop game, day and night? Three hundred and sixty-five days a year?”

Y just stared back at him.

“Are you crazy?” he finally replied. “They play four quarters of fifteen minutes each. It takes three hours, tops.”

Then he lowered his voice.

“Why would you have a crazy notion like that?” he asked Hunter. “Is that how they play football back … well, back wherever you’re from?”

Hunter looked up at the huge stadium and finally just shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe …”

They wound up at a place called the Tip Top Club.

It was a relatively subdued establishment, a private club located in a slightly more upscale part of town.

Hunter and Y walked in and no sooner had they ordered a drink from the bar than two blonds attached themselves to them. Both were tall, buxom, beautiful, and dressed to kill. “SuperBlonds” in the local vernacular.

They chatted with the girls and drank some fine bourbon, but the timing was just a tad early. Hunter wanted to talk to Y about their upcoming secret mission, something that would be impossible to do in front of the two gals.

With Hunter’s urging, Y gave the bartender a small stack of bills and told him to keep the girls watered.

Then he and Hunter retreated to a corner table. Soon enough, Hunter was looking at a steak that seemed the size of an entire cow. A giant goblet of red whiskey was set beside his plate. It was more food and booze than Hunter had seen in nearly a year.

Y needed no prompting, he dug right into his slab of meat. Hunter did too, and soon he was trying to talk between mouthfuls of prime steer and gulps of Kentucky mash.

“I know you can’t reveal anything to me,” he said to Y. “But can’t you give me a hint as to what’s up? You know, ‘off the record?’”

“‘Off the record’ or ‘on the record,’ they’d still shoot me if I told you,” Y replied. “That’s if I knew anything—and I swear I don’t. But I think we can deduce a few things.”

“Such as?” Hunter asked with his next mouthful.

“Well, I think whatever it is would have to be some kind of airborne mission,” Y said. “That’s your forte.”

“Let’s hope so anyway,” Hunter told him.

“And some people in the War Office—the few enlightened ones—realize that you should be used only in the most critical situations.”

“Nothing like adding to the load,” Hunter said, swigging his drink.

Y shrugged. “Would you rather sit on the sidelines?” he asked the pilot. “I mean, the War Department has many secret weapons at their disposal. God knows what kind of airplanes, ships, rifles, rockets they are working on. But you are a secret weapon, too. A
human
secret weapon. So at the very least, they understand that everything you do should be high priority. So I think we can be reasonably sure it will be a high-priority airborne sort of thing.”

Hunter considered this and filed it away. Then he brought up a topic he’d been reluctant to ask Y for many reasons.

“Have you ever seen anything or talked to anyone at that country club of yours that has any idea how I dropped into this world?”

Y stopped his vigorous chewing for a quick moment. Still he betrayed a small secret.

“Not exactly,” he replied slowly, trying to cover his tracks with a sip of whiskey.

Hunter smirked. “You mean no? Or not exactly? Or they’ll shoot you if you tell me?”

Y never stopped chewing.

“Two out of three,” he said.

Hunter downed another huge bite of beef. It was tender, flavorful, intoxicating.

“Look,” he began again. “Let
me
go off the record: While I try to keep all things in perspective, I have to say that I can’t be accused of not putting my butt on the line when needed, correct?”

Y just nodded. “Correct.”

“And I have helped the cause for a country that I’m sure is like mine, but isn’t exactly … right?”

Again the OSS man just nodded and continued chewing.

“So if there was some secret project somewhere delving into all this stuff,” Hunter said, “don’t you think I could be at least prebriefed on it?”

Finally Y looked up and stopped chewing.

“Again, let’s use our powers of deduction,” he said. “If such a project existed—and I’m not saying it does—but if it did, you could see how it would have to be the deepest, darkest secret this government could keep. I mean—where
did
you come from? Are you from outer space? Are you from another dimension? Another universe? You don’t even know yourself. It’s just as fundamental a question as anyone with a normal life could ask themselves—and still come up empty.”

“You make it sound almost Biblical in proportions,” Hunter told him.

“And do you blame me? It’s almost the question of ‘what is life’ itself.”

Hunter had to agree.

“Now such a project would have to be extremely top secret,” Y went on. “However, if it existed, and if these theoretical scientists were going to want to ask someone some questions—I think it would be you on the top of their list, don’t you?”

Hunter shrugged.

“Sure … I guess,” Hunter replied. “Are you telling me I should wait for a phone call or a bolt out of the blue? I mean theoretically, if I’m all classified as well, how would these scientists know I was even here?”

Y stopped chewing again just for a second. But now it was time to smile.

“They know,” he replied.

And that was all he would ever say on the subject again.

They finished their meals, polished off the whiskey, and linked back up with the pair of SuperBlonds.

The night men turned into one long march from one bar to another. Large quantities of alcohol were consumed. More food was inhaled around midnight, and again at three. Somewhere along the way, they lost sight of the SuperBlonds, only to meet up with a pair of SuperRedheads. When they got lost, the SuperBlonds somehow found them again. At least Hunter thought they were the same two gals. He wasn’t sure. After a while, it all became one big blur.

When Hunter woke up the next morning, there was one of each in his room. Half expecting a message from Y that they would be leaving that day, Hunter shooed the girls out and quickly cleaned up.

But no such message came. Y monitored his MVP all that day as they lay recovering next to the vast swimming pool, but no orders appeared. They ate dinner that night and drank cautiously. But again, there was no word from Washington.

As it turned out, Hunter and the OSS agent were planted in Dallas for a week. Seven days of sleeping late, by the pool, eating dinner, meeting girls, and then drinking the night away.

Slowly the memories of South America began to fade. All but those of Sara….

The adventure was funded in a very curious way: through Y’s gambling. Every morning the OSS man would hit the same blackjack table and play exactly seven hands. He would bet outrageously, he would take outrageous hits—and he would win every time. Always in the area of $2500, always in less than ten minutes. It never failed.

Was it a fix? Or was Y just incredibly lucky? Did the MVP, which ordered Y to gather their spending money this way that first day, know something they didn’t?

Hunter never asked and Y never offered any further explanation.

So it was six days of booze, women, and great food. Hunter couldn’t help but enjoy himself. He found himself sleeping eight hours a day for what felt like the first time in his life.

But no matter how much partying they did, he always managed to steal a few moments to go up to the roof of the Happy Valley, away from the storm of neon waves, and look to the southeast. He imagined he could see Xwo Mountain from here, and depending on the time, he knew Sara was either sleeping, or doing combat reports, or just returning from night patrol. He hoped she was safe, and that she understood.

On the fifth night, after he’d just completed this ritual and had already turned to go, he found himself looking off toward the northeast. He stayed frozen in that position for the longest time, a strange feeling washing over him. He suddenly had the notion that someone—someone he cared about very deeply—was way off in that direct as well.

Someone warm. Someone beautiful.

Who was she?

On the sixth night, something
really
strange happened.

Hunter and Y were out on the town as usual, bar-hopping the exclusive gin joints on the south side of Dallas.

They were crossing the street, moving from one place to another, when Hunter felt a tug on his arm.

He spun around, expecting yet another admirer asking for yet another autograph. He’d given out many in the past six days.

But this was not a fan waiting for him. Not a typical one, anyway. It was a woman, she was probably in her midtwenties, attractive, but with a definite air of mystery about her.

The first thing Hunter noticed after her looks was her perfume. It was sweet, earthy, pungent. Hunter would not soon forget that smell. Her clothes were odd. Long skirt, loose blouse, big hoop earrings, a bandanna on her head.

“Read your palm?” she asked him.

That’s when Hunter’s alcohol-soaked brain put things together. She was a street performer, a psychic.

Hunter just shook his head. He didn’t really believe in that stuff. At least, he didn’t think he did.

“No thanks,” he said politely, bolting across the street in Y’s wake. “It would be a waste of time.”

“But you need it,” she called after him, but Hunter barely heard her above the noise.

He and Y drank another place dry and moved on to a strip club in the company of two more SuperBlonds. This place was actually closer to the center of town; the cab ride took about thirty minutes to go ten miles. Leaving this place an hour or so later, Hunter was surprised to run into the same female psychic. She seemed very far away from where he’d first seen her.

“I think you should reconsider,” she told him after pulling him aside again. “I think you should know what awaits you.”

Hunter gave her a good look this time—and felt a jolt go through him.

Damn—that very familiar feeling of déjà vu began washing over him. He stared at her. Pretty face. Long brown hair. Big brown eyes. Almost academic-looking.

“Do I know you … ?” he heard himself ask her in a mumble.

But then, he felt himself being dragged away—this time by two more females he and Y had met.

By the time Hunter was able to turn back toward the psychic, she was gone, lost in the perpetually crowded street.

That night continued as had the previous five. More drinks, more food, more trafficking with SuperBlonds.

But Hunter saw the psychic again. He was going into his hotel just about dawn when he spotted her standing in the crowd out front, staring at him. Her eyes seemed to burn a hole right through him.