the commander of a Southern California Air Patrol. Although, they hadn't seen each other in a while, the two brothers kept in touch.
Jones read his thoughts. "Look, Hawk, I know you'd be the last to bug out, but listen: This thing is bigger than just the Mid-Aks paying off a bunch of Boston pols with gold and drugs. There's something much more sinister behind it all."
"Like what?"
"I couldn't say exactly. And I wouldn’t say unless I had proof, definite proof.
But . . ."
"But . . ." Hunter said, urging Jones on.
"But I smell commies," he said finally.
Hunter's mind flashed to the flag that he still kept neatly folded in his back pocket. "Russians?"
"And . . ." Jones continued. "If there are Russians behind it all, then you'll be more valuable-to yourself and to this country-if you're alive. Same for the rest of those guys, our guys anyway. Those freelancers. Any of the people we have wandering in and out of the base. God knows what kind of informers we have here."
Paranoia, Hunter thought. But justifiable nevertheless.
"So, if-or I’ll say when-the shit hits the fan, I'm ordering you and as many of the guys who can, to get your asses out of here and make tracks for Dave. He'll take care of you. Just let him know what the hell happened."
With that, Jones rose shakily from his seat and walked out of the bar. He had talked like the fan had already been hit.
Hunter knew that when Jones talked like this, it was just a matter of time.
He downed his drink, and ordered another. He spotted a nice-looking woman, sitting alone at the bar, blowing smoke in his direction. Might as well get a piece, he thought, getting up to join her. Might not have much time left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A week later, the real trouble began.
Hunter was called to the general's office one morning right after dawn patrol.
He found the normally electric officer sitting nearly motionless behind his desk staring out into space. He hardly acknowledged Hunter.
"It's happened, Hawk," the old man said wearily.
"What's happened?"
"I've been grounded," he said slowly, taking a measure of the words.
"Grounded?" Hunter asked, his voice going angry. "Grounded by whom?"
The general didn't answer. He just flipped a piece of paper Hunter's way. The airman picked it up and read it. It was filled with paragraph after paragraph of official gobbledegook, but the bottom line did read: "General Jones is hereby restricted to base for insubordination and disobeying direct orders. Effective immediately."
"What direct orders did you disobey," Hunter asked, surprise joining his anger.
"Remember the Cherry Busters?" he asked. "Remember the goddamned Thruway War?"
"Of course I remember it," Hunter said. "We kicked their asses. They've never been heard from again."
"Boston said I overstepped my bounds going after them. They claim I was acting beyond my jurisdiction."
"That's absolute bullshit!"
"Sure," the old man said. "I know it. You know it. But they needed something to nail me on, and this is it."
"They may want you out of the way," Hunter said, "But that doesn't mean you have to go. Let them try and keep you grounded. Who's going to enforce this?" He hastily fashioned the document into a paper airplane and let it sail across the room. It landed perfectly in the office "round file."
"It's the beginning of the end, Hawk," Jones said, still staring straight ahead.
"They're setting us up." Hunter was fuming. He knew that Jones had more guts in his little finger than the whole Leaders Council ever dreamed of having.
"Look," he said, his confidence bolstered. "If the Mid-Aks make a move, we'd be on them in a second. They've got no air support or transport. They've got no air cover.
What they've got is an army that's too big for its own good and no way to get them anywhere."
Jones reached into his desk and pulled out a photograph. It was a reconnaissance
Jones read his thoughts. "Look, Hawk, I know you'd be the last to bug out, but listen: This thing is bigger than just the Mid-Aks paying off a bunch of Boston pols with gold and drugs. There's something much more sinister behind it all."
"Like what?"
"I couldn't say exactly. And I wouldn’t say unless I had proof, definite proof.
But . . ."
"But . . ." Hunter said, urging Jones on.
"But I smell commies," he said finally.
Hunter's mind flashed to the flag that he still kept neatly folded in his back pocket. "Russians?"
"And . . ." Jones continued. "If there are Russians behind it all, then you'll be more valuable-to yourself and to this country-if you're alive. Same for the rest of those guys, our guys anyway. Those freelancers. Any of the people we have wandering in and out of the base. God knows what kind of informers we have here."
Paranoia, Hunter thought. But justifiable nevertheless.
"So, if-or I’ll say when-the shit hits the fan, I'm ordering you and as many of the guys who can, to get your asses out of here and make tracks for Dave. He'll take care of you. Just let him know what the hell happened."
With that, Jones rose shakily from his seat and walked out of the bar. He had talked like the fan had already been hit.
Hunter knew that when Jones talked like this, it was just a matter of time.
He downed his drink, and ordered another. He spotted a nice-looking woman, sitting alone at the bar, blowing smoke in his direction. Might as well get a piece, he thought, getting up to join her. Might not have much time left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A week later, the real trouble began.
Hunter was called to the general's office one morning right after dawn patrol.
He found the normally electric officer sitting nearly motionless behind his desk staring out into space. He hardly acknowledged Hunter.
"It's happened, Hawk," the old man said wearily.
"What's happened?"
"I've been grounded," he said slowly, taking a measure of the words.
"Grounded?" Hunter asked, his voice going angry. "Grounded by whom?"
The general didn't answer. He just flipped a piece of paper Hunter's way. The airman picked it up and read it. It was filled with paragraph after paragraph of official gobbledegook, but the bottom line did read: "General Jones is hereby restricted to base for insubordination and disobeying direct orders. Effective immediately."
"What direct orders did you disobey," Hunter asked, surprise joining his anger.
"Remember the Cherry Busters?" he asked. "Remember the goddamned Thruway War?"
"Of course I remember it," Hunter said. "We kicked their asses. They've never been heard from again."
"Boston said I overstepped my bounds going after them. They claim I was acting beyond my jurisdiction."
"That's absolute bullshit!"
"Sure," the old man said. "I know it. You know it. But they needed something to nail me on, and this is it."
"They may want you out of the way," Hunter said, "But that doesn't mean you have to go. Let them try and keep you grounded. Who's going to enforce this?" He hastily fashioned the document into a paper airplane and let it sail across the room. It landed perfectly in the office "round file."
"It's the beginning of the end, Hawk," Jones said, still staring straight ahead.
"They're setting us up." Hunter was fuming. He knew that Jones had more guts in his little finger than the whole Leaders Council ever dreamed of having.
"Look," he said, his confidence bolstered. "If the Mid-Aks make a move, we'd be on them in a second. They've got no air support or transport. They've got no air cover.
What they've got is an army that's too big for its own good and no way to get them anywhere."
Jones reached into his desk and pulled out a photograph. It was a reconnaissance
Similar Books
