Mack Maloney - Chopper Ops

“Give me another,” he gasped as the liquor burned its way down to his stomach.

“Now you’re talking,” Rooney said, pushing Delaney’s drink a bit more towards him.

Delaney finally relented, and downed his drink in one swallow as well.

“Very good, gentlemen,” Rooney said, refilling their glasses and expertly popping two olives into each. “Now my advice to you is to just relax. Spend a few days here fishing, on the beach. Eat good. Rest up. Get ready for your next assignment.”

Delaney started to go for his gun again.

“Next assignment!” he growled. “You must be insane.”

“Well, that is a concept I’m familiar with,” Rooney said. “But take a look around you. A good look.”

Norton did—and slowly he realized just who was crowded into the restaurant with them. Over in the corner was Chou, having a beer, surrounded by many of his noncoms. In the next corner were the four Army Aviation guys. Beside them were the SEAL medics. Sprinkled throughout the crowd, mixing with regular citizens, were the rest of Chou’s men. They were blending in perfectly.

Norton looked at Delaney, and both men drained their martinis again, this time much more slowly.

“You see,” Rooney explained, “most everyone who went with you to Oz came back to Kansas eventually. They always do.”

He poured them two more drinks. They were finally catching on. They were in this strange business to stay.

“That’s it, guys,” Rooney said. “Lighten up. I hear the fishing off south beach has been really good in the past couple of days.”

Delaney began sipping his third martini. He was slowly getting stoned.

“It better be,” he said, his speech slurring. “They better be catching fucking whales.”

Norton slumped in his seat, and he too felt the world slowly lift off his shoulders.

“Or mermaids,” he added.

Rooney smiled and winked.

“Well,” he said. “That can be arranged too.”

Somewhere in the Nevada desert

In a sky filled with billions of stars, the greenish-bluish object moved very quickly across the horizon.

Atop a mountain known only as H-13, a small observatory was tracking the oddly illuminated flying object. Inside this tiny station, two technicians were watching a huge screen that, at the push of a button, could depict any part of the earth via real-time television transmission.

Once the bluish object appeared on their screens, several sensor lights went off.

“OK, finally, there he is,” one technician said.

“Let’s get him over and down and then we can all go home,” the other replied.

Now came an orgy of button pushing and computer keyboard clacking. The object was over Utah and heading right toward them. It was 650 miles away. Then 550. Then 450. Then 350. All in just a matter of seconds.

“His inertia dampener is overloading a bit,” one tech said. “We’ll have to check it.”

“Sure we can check it— tomorrow ,” the second one replied. “I feel like I’ve been here a month.”

“Same here,” the first tech agreed.

They watched the object cross over the Nevada border.

It was now 225 miles away. Then 175. Then 125.

“That gyro buffer is getting crazy too,” the first tech said, reading the constant flow of diagnostic numbers on one of the many screens facing him.

“That’s the fucking sand,” the second man said. “If anyone ever finds out he actually set down in that thing three times near blowing sand, for Christ’s sake—they’ll shoot us all. You, me, and him!”

“That’s why no one will ever know,” the first man responded.

The object was now on their primary screen and they could see it up close for the first time in a while. It was a very plain but odd-looking thing. A kind of pancake with winglets, triangular in shape, the size of a utility sports vehicle, flattened out. Like a bad flying saucer from a bad science-fiction movie was how someone once put it.

But it could move very very fast.

The aircraft was twenty-five miles away—and then, a few seconds later, it was right above the observatory. It had made the transit over the desert in less than two minutes.

One tech hit a button, and the roof of the station slid open. Both men looked straight up, and saw the blue object hovering absolutely still about a hundred feet above them.

The second tech keyed his microphone.

“OK, bring it down before the whole world sees you.”

With that, the aircraft began to slowly descend. It took about ten seconds before it was inside the observatory itself. Then buttons were pushed and the roof closed back up again.

The aircraft made absolutely no sound; there was no outward sign of any propulsion. Up close it really looked more purple than blue, and its hull was still sparkling slightly from its high-speed trip back home.

Once it was down on its special receiving platform, a seamless door opened on its top. Next to it was the only identification that could be found on the strange aircraft. In very small gold-leaf letters it read: Aurora-6/ h-M.

The door finally opened all the way. Inside, the pilot stood up, stretched, and stepped out.

He took off his helmet, shook his hair out, and then took a baseball cap offered by one of the two technicians. The cap said, “Angels Last Longer than Eternity,” on the brim. It was his second-favorite hat.

“Change the oil, check the tires, and put some water in the radiator, OK, guys?” he said as he put on the hat.

One tech took a huge pod from the behind the vehicle’s front landing strut. It contained thousands of minutes of videotape. In reality, this strange airplane was supposed to be a recon vehicle. Nothing else.

“They want you downstairs ASAP,” one tech told the pilot. “If you broke anything, don’t blame it on us, OK?”

The pilot walked to a small elevator, pushed a button, and the doors opened. He stepped in, pushed another button, the doors closed, and he was soon hurtling straight down through the mountain.

After fifteen seconds, the elevator stopped with a hiss of air and the pilot walked out. Before him was a dark chamber with a huge gleaming table.

Seven men sat around it. They were all elderly, with either long flowing gray hair or no hair at all. Each one was dressed in a Western shirt with blue jeans and cowboy boots.

The pilot took an empty seat at the head of the table. Someone passed him a Coke, his favorite beverage.

“We watched just about the entire episode on the big TV,” one of the men told him. “Those chopper guys were never at a loss at getting their asses in a ringer.”

The pilot nodded. “Yeah, but they got good at getting out of them as well.”

“Only because you were there,” one said. “Without you, they’d all be dust by now.”

“Yes, maybe so,” the pilot said. “But you’re the ones who were really watching over them, feeding them the right orders when they needed it. And telling me what to do and when to do it. I realize it was risky, but without you guys, they wouldn’t have even made it over to Iraq alive. The only difference is, they saw me. They think I’m the one who saved them. For all they know, you guys aren’t even alive.”

The pilot slurped his Coke, shrugged, and added: “I guess that’s another reason they call me Angel.”

The seven men all laughed at once.

Then one said: “And that’s the reason they call us ghosts.”

STARHAWK

STARHAWK: PLANET AMERICA

STARHAWK: THE FOURTH EMPIRE

STARHAWK: BATTLE AT ZERO POINT

STARHAWK: STORM OVER SATURN

CHOPPER OPS

CHOPPER OPS: ZERO RED

CHOPPER OPS: SHUTTLE DOWN