Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“Mallard, Mallard,” Tony complied. “This is Hunter, Hunter. Over.”

There was an immediate reply.

“Hunter, Mallard,” an American voice said. “How do you read? Over.”

“Five by five. Over.”

“Hunter, leave your lights on.”

“Mallard, roger your lights on,” Tony said, and then repeated the order to Clete.

“Roger, I have you in sight. Is the road clear? How do you estimate the wind?”

“He wants to know if the road is clear and about the wind,” Tony relayed.

Clete stuck his index finger in his mouth and then extended his arm over his head. Then he took the walkie-talkie from Tony and pressed the PRESS-TO-TALK switch.

I think that crazy sonofabitch is about to try to put it down! Why else would he ask about the road being clear?

“Mallard, winds from the north negligible, I say again, negligible. The road is paved with gravel and clear. I say again, paved with gravel and clear.”

“OK, Hunter, here we go.”

Without realizing they had done so, both Tony and Clete had gotten to their feet, and they were now standing on the seat of the Ford, their waists about at the level of the top of the windshield. They could hear the sound of the aircraft engine, but all they could see of it was the orange glow of the engine exhaust, and there was no way to judge from that where the aircraft was. And then the exhaust glow disappeared.

Suddenly, blinding them, a landing light came on, and the sound of the engine changed as the pilot retarded the throttle. The landing light lined up with the road, and dropped lower and lower. It was impossible to see the airplane against the brilliance of its landing light, but Clete heard a chirp of wheels and then a rumble as it touched down. The landing light died into an orange glow, but it took their eyes some time to readjust.

And then there was an orange Piper Cub taxiing up to the grille of the Ford.

“I will be a sonofabitch!” Tony said as he jumped over the side of the Ford. Clete went over the other door and followed Tony to the airplane as the pilot, in a summer-weight flying suit, got out.

“God bless the Army Air Corps,” Clete said to the pilot as he put out his hand.

“Actually, I’m an Engineer officer,” the pilot said. “I’m an Army Liaison Pilot, teaching the Brazilians to direct artillery fire.”

“Corps of Engineers?” Tony said delightedly. “Me too.”

“I thought you guys were in the OSS,” the pilot said.

“Never believe what anybody over the grade of captain tells you,” Clete said, “as we say in the Marine Corps.”

“Marine Aviator? You sounded like a pilot, on the horn.”

“Fighter pilot, way out of his element,” Clete said. “I thought you were supposed to air-drop this stuff.”

“The Air Corps wanted to. They were going to make a big deal of this, come in with a C-47, drop some pathfinder in first, then drop this stuff with a great big fucking cargo parachute, you know how they are. I figured, shit, this stuff doesn’t weigh fifty pounds altogether, I can put it in the backseat. So I came over—lost, of course—here yesterday, and took a look, and here I am. What is that stuff, anyway? It looks like boards.”

“It’s supposed to,” Tony said. “It’s Composition C4. They molded it to look like wood boards.”

“Then that explains what your guy meant when he said ‘be damned careful with these.’ Detonators, right?”

Tony took the small package the pilot extended to him and opened it.

“Right,” he said. “I hope you didn’t have this near the explosives.”

“I had it on my lap.”

“Jesus!” Tony said.