Hawke

The plane lifted, did a quick looping turn, dove back over Blackhawke’s stern, waggled its wings in salute, and was gone.

Into the “mild” blue yonder, Congreve thought, furious with himself for not coming up with the joke a few minutes earlier.

As it happened, there would be nothing mild about it.

Hawke gained a little altitude, climbing into his turn northwest. He would be flying right over Hog Island, home of the most famous pig in the Caribbean. The big hairy sow, named Betty, was completely blind and had been the island’s sole inhabitant for years. Hawke had discovered her only a few days earlier, shortly after Blackhawke’s arrival in these waters. He, Tom, and Brian had been bonefishing the flats just off the small island’s sandy white beach.

Betty lived on the generosity of the many tourists who would take their boats in near shore. She would come ru

Betty would swim right up to the side of the boat, sniffing, and take the food from the delighted children’s hands. Since then, Hawke himself had fed her many times and developed a great fondness for the old sow. On his morning sorties in Kittyhawke, he now made a great fuss of “airlifting” supplies in to Betty. In fact, he had a big canvas sack of apples in his lap at this very moment. And he was just coming up on Hog Island.

His method was always the same. Go in low on the first pass so Betty could hear his engine and know breakfast was about to be served. Then he’d bank Kittyhawke hard over and fly back out to his original position. By the time he got turned around, he could usually see Betty ru

That’s what he did this morning.

He lined up on the island, staying low. The sunlit turquoise water racing beneath his wings was beautiful. Because of the hour, he was flying directly into the rising sun. There she was, he could make her out, still deep in the bush, trotting along. Odd, she’d usually made it to the water at this point.

He slid back his portside window and felt the sudden rush of air and the explosion of engine noise inside the cockpit. He held the sack of apples outside the cockpit, ready to release at just the right moment. Steady, hold your course, nose up, you’re coming in a bit low, and—bombs away! The apples tumbled into the sea. Hawke was laughing, looking ahead for Betty to emerge, when he saw a man all in black stand up in the midst of the scrub palms. What?

The man raised something to his shoulder and seemed to be pointing it directly at Hawke. Then the most amazing thing, Betty bursting from the palms directly behind the fellow and smashing him to the ground! He scrambled to his feet, kicking wildly at the relentless pig and aiming once more at the onrushing airplane.

Bloody hell. He could even see the man’s face now. Rasputin? Yes. Wild-eyed, gri

Hawke yanked back on his stick just as he saw a puff of white smoke at Rasputin’s shoulder. The plane’s infrared detector warning sounded instantly, telling him what he already knew.

There was a heat-seeking missile screaming toward him, locked on. The bloody Russian had fired a Stinger at him! There it was, Christ, he could see the bloody thing hurtling right toward his goddamn nose!

This little chap is really starting to piss me off, Hawke said to himself. His forearm still burned where the Russian had stabbed him with the dagger. He instantly went to full throttle, feeling the full thrust of the Merlin engine kicking in, and banked hard left, then hard right, jinking violently. He had the Kittyhawke right down on the deck and his wingtips were brushing the tops of the scrub palms every time he banked her.

His enormous burst of acceleration had confused the missile, and he saw the little silver killer scream beneath his fuselage, missing him by maybe a foot. Maybe less. He didn’t have time to congratulate himself. He knew, even now, the Stinger would be correcting, arcing around and coming at him from behind.

His missile alarm warnings confirmed his fears. Still locked on.

Even for a fighter pilot, the inside loop at low altitude is easily one of the most dangerous maneuvers you can attempt. A flawless execution is critical. It was also, he knew, the only chance he had. He leveled his wings and pulled straight back on the stick. Kittyhawke responded instantly, going into an almost vertical climb. The g-forces were enormous, and Hawke was shoved back into his seat, hearing the constant wail of the alarm telling him the missile was still locked on.

At the top of the loop, the hard part started. You had to keep the aircraft with her belly skyward as you came over the top and started your descent. He strained around in his seat, looking for the Stinger. It was sticking right with him.

As he nosed over, the g-forces increased. And so did the airspeed, because he had the plane in a vertical dive, screaming down toward the scrubby little island. This was the most dangerous part, the part where you could easily “red out,” as pilots called blacking out.

He smelled the fire before he saw it. He heard popping noises behind him, electrical, and smoke started to fill the cockpit. The missile must have clipped one of the transponders dangling from the belly of the plane. Now, in addition to the Stinger, he had an electrical fire on his hands.

Well, the fire would have to wait. He just hoped it would wait long enough.

“Bastard,” he shouted, craning his head around and seeing the missile gaining on him. The ground was rushing up so fast, he could literally see crabs scurrying across the sand. Do-or-die time. If he was to have any chance at all, he had to wait until it was too late to pull out.

Then one of two things would happen. He would be obliterated. Or he wouldn’t.

Now! He hauled back on the stick and accelerated out of the dive. He’d come within mere feet of the earth and the plane was slicing through the tops of scrub palms. As long as he didn’t hit anything solid before he got a little altitude—

WHUMPF!!!

The Stinger hit the earth and exploded.

Hawke, busily avoiding the taller palm trees by banking hard left and right, managed a quick look over his shoulder toward the rear of the small cockpit. Flames were licking at the back of his seat and the smoke was starting to burn his eyes. The fire hadn’t waited. It was seconds from spreading out of control.

He had to get to the fire extinguisher mounted very inconveniently on the portside bulkhead behind him. The fire was directly between Hawke and the extinguisher.

It’s these little design flaws that make life so interesting, Hawke thought, struggling out of his shoulder belts. He leveled Kittyhawke, flipped on the autopilot, and climbed out of his seat.

There was nothing for it but to wade into the flames, grab the Halon extinguisher, and use it before he was incinerated. The legs of his vintage flight suit caught fire instantly, and he ripped the suit off with one hand while stretching out his other to grab the Halon.

He put out his flaming jumpsuit, then emptied the canister’s contents into the heart of the blaze. Wonder of wonders, it actually worked! The fire was out as quickly as it had started. Now all he had to do was open the cockpit windows on both sides and get all the bloody smoke out of the plane. And hope the fire hadn’t damaged any of his critical controls.

Climbing back into his seat he saw that, while all the hair on his legs was singed off, he wasn’t badly burned. He flipped off the autopilot and banked hard left. He’d make a pass over the island and see if he could spot the bastard who’d almost killed him.