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Holy Warrior/Afghani Peril (Volume Eight of Brothers to the Bone)

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flippinhogmana
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Holy Warrior/Afghani Peril (Volume Eight of Brothers to the Bone)

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This is an excerpt of Holy Warrior/Afghani Peril available in the book section of amazon.com
Chapter One

Braxton Lewis and Barton Webber walked out of Lewis' office at forward operating base Lance for the last time. “This goes with you, Barton”, is all he said initially, handing him a small suitcase. The suitcase was small but its contents were heavy as Barton hefted it. His eyes questioned Lewis for further explanation.

“This is the balance of the funds from the relocation disbursement. The money is off book, and officially it will be recorded as all expended. I want you to have it, not personally mind you, but for ‘unofficial’ but needful purposes in the future. I can’t take it myself - it would no doubt be traced eventually if I did - and I would come under question as a result.

I can’t think of any better steward of it than you. You will know when and how to use it. Use it to defend and build our country, Barton. We have many enemies - a whole lot more enemies within our own country than you are apt to realize now - with your tender years, but you will come to see more and more.”

With that they had taken a short walk to the airstrip - bid it good bye for the last time and boarded two separate aircraft - the last two company airplanes departing the company’s forward operating base Lance. They were headed to different places and the two aircraft needed to be ferried out anyway.

Barton wished that his friend David Pizzari was here with them, to leave with them. In Barton’s mind that would have been fitting. But Pizzari was already gone, ferrying planes back to other company airstrips for future needs. So it fell to Barton to fly this last mission. He took off last for a purpose, to fulfill his last duty to Lance and Southeast Asia company operations.

He gained altitude slowly to three thousand feet, retracting his landing gear as he did so and reset his flaps. The Mohawk was heavy due to the ordinance it carried on the hard points on its wings.

He banked his Mohawk slowly in a one eighty, still gaining altitude to 5,000 feet as he did so. When his sights lined up on the runway Barton dropped the four 500 pound bombs attached to the hard points on his wings down the runway one after the other as his final goodbye to Cambodia and Southeast Asia.

Below him all that remained began to explode and burn as the timed detonators ignited their charges. They had ferried out every thing they could on the company planes that had left before them. Now they had left nothing of value to the Khmer Rouge and the communists.

Barton flew from there to Bangkok, Thailand. He touched down on the company strip next to the airport. He taxied the Mohawk to the revetment nearest the public side of the airport and parked the Mohawk for what he believed would be his last time (and certainly for that particular Mohawk).

He gathered up his duffel bag from the storage compartment. Inside it near the top, besides his personal clothes and other meager possessions, was the noise suppressed 4” barrel.38 Special revolver he nearly always carried and his Arkansas toothpick knife. That was all he carried off the plane to start his journey to his new life, except his specially modified ‘98 Mauser, and the suitcase Lewis had given him.

He had seen the aircraft he was looking for as he touched down. It was also conveniently parked near the revetment he secured the Mohawk in. He saw what looked like one of the pilots doing a walk around before the flight. The other pilot, probably the pilot, was in the cockpit

What was probably the first officer (co-pilot) nodded at him when he walked up. He nodded to the aircraft and told him where to stow his gear and situate himself for the flight. He asked no questions, nor asked for any identify papers. What Barton had flown up in was identification enough for him.

Barton boarded the aircraft and found a place to sit. He kept close watch on the Mauser and the suitcase. He didn’t want them ‘accidentally’ walking off. Later - when he had time to count what was inside it - he wondered if he shouldn’t have been even more cautious. The suitcase contained over $150,000 in hundred dollar bills.

The company plane took him to San’a, Yemen. There he boarded an “Air America” flight. The Air America plane was a C-130 turbo boosted cargo charter for him - and from the scarcity of other cargo - it looked to Barton that he alone was its ‘cargo’.

The only things besides him in the cargo area were what he guessed were the pilots personal gear and four fifty-five gallon drums that were secured to the floor and rigged with hoses and pumps that Barton figured were for extending the range of the plane for its flight over the Atlantic.

General Lewis had set it up the flight through ‘friends’ of the resettlement effort. Lewis had kept the identity of those friends who had privately funded much of the resettlement effort closely guarded and it took a long time for Webber to find out even a few of their names. Even that had happened almost by accident and then only because they revealed themselves to him much later.

The pilots on the Air America charter had strict instructions to never let Barton out of their sight or put him in danger. They did their best to see that he was never unguarded and they also did their best to see to his comfort (as much as possible on a C-130 outfitted for cargo).

From San’a, they had flown to Dakar, Senegal, then across the Atlantic to Paramaribo, Surinam, then to a small private strip west of Miami. The final leg to New Orleans was again mostly over water.

They had been refueled at each stop by sometimes shady looking characters - it seemed to the pilots and especially to Barton. The pilots had both flown this flight before (except the last leg to New Orleans). They had to trust that the company men - who had set up the refueling - still had reliable men at each stop. But with all the upheaval and civil wars breaking out all over Africa - it always made them uneasy - especially if they saw unfamiliar faces.

But they eliminated as much of that danger as they could by not planning any touchdowns in continental Africa - not in the middle of it anyway - when they filed their flight plan.

They also tried to minimize any danger or alarm for their passenger. But they had still told Barton to stay inside the plane at every stop – and to make sure he always had a weapon handy. Better to be safe than sorry they told themselves.

Barton took the .38 Special and his knife out of his duffel bag. He kept them in his hands or nearby each time they were on the ground. He also dug a box of his 30.06 ammunition out of the duffel bag, and then he removed his rifle from its boot. He loaded the Mauser - including one in the firing chamber - and kept it nearby. He aimed to be as prepared as possible.

Despite the pilots guarded apprehension, they had encountered no difficulties other than the wait it took for the men to refuel the plane. They saw at each stop a man there who directed the refueling and who paid the refuelers in cash. Some of the men they recognized, but at least one they didn’t (on the stop in Dakar).

They had taken as many precautions to avoid danger in crossing the Dark Continent as they could. Yemen was controlled by mostly reliable Arabs. Senegal was a former French colony, but their contacts at Dakar were mostly French speaking Arabs that they had worked with before as well.

The pilots (and Barton) still breathed easier when they boosted out of the short strip at Dakar, were airborne and then ‘feet wet’ west of it.

“Well, all we have now is a whole ocean to cross”, the pilot said to his co-pilot. He meant that except for potential mechanical difficulty, most of the possible danger that they faced was now past.

They didn’t foresee any difficulty in Surinam, or at least they never had any before. Still they could not fully relax until they had delivered their ‘cargo’ to New Orleans.

It had been inferred to them that there were very important people who wanted to insure their passenger’s safety. It had that feel to it despite the lack of what was said. They were curious when he had first walked up to their flight and asked if this was the flight to New Orleans.

There was in his eyes a steely look, a steadiness that belied his youth. He didn’t have much stowage - his duffel bag, a small suitcase and what looked like a long barrel rifle in a protective case. They took note of the bulge at the top of the case whose dimensions meant to them it was a scoped rifle.

Curiosity wasn’t a thing to be highly desired in their positions, however - and they asked him no questions - just simply followed their instructions. When they were airborne out of Senegal - the co-pilot decided he needed to ‘stretch his legs’- and he walked back to check his passenger.

When he saw him with his weapons still close beside - and saw for sure that it was a long barreled sniper rifle from the look of it - he smiled. It was part confirmation of what he and the pilot thought they had divined about the man - but he also smiled to show his own relief - and to show that relief to the passenger.

“You can put those back away if you like. I don’t think you are apt to need them for the rest of the flight.”

“Good to know”, replied Barton. “Even better that I really didn’t need them so far.”

“Yeah”, replied the co-pilot. They were both speaking loudly to be heard over the noise of engines and other noises the old plane made. “We didn’t think we would encounter any difficulty, but you never know in that part of the world.”

“Well, I am glad that part is over”, replied Barton as he and the co-pilot eyed each other - sizing each other now that any apparent danger - other than perhaps mechanical difficult (over the ocean with no place to land) was past.

Barton asked, “Look, do you mind if I come up to the cockpit? Having no windows back here - and not being able to look out for the last umpteen hours - is giving me a little bit of cabin fever. I am a pilot, too, by the way.”

“Oh really”, replied the co-pilot. He was surprised and maybe a bit dubious. But then he thought, ‘why should I be surprised’? Both he and the pilot had worked for the company before themselves and knew that many of its operatives had dual and sometimes triple training.

Nothing had been said about their passenger being CIA - but it had that feel to it for the co-pilot, in fact to the pilot too - who had said quietly to his copilot when he had returned to the cockpit, ‘company man’. The rifle case and the fact that he had debarked from an unmarked flight which meant a ‘company’ plane to them - did nothing to dispel that impression from the co-pilots’ mind.

“I’ll have to ask the captain”, he replied. He smiled and walked back to the cockpit. In a few minutes he returned. “Captain says sure, come on up. He will glad for the change of company. I guess I am not much of a conversationalist”, he said grinning.

Barton left his duffel bag and the rifle in the back, but he took his suitcase with him. He still hadn’t looked inside but he felt a charge over it from the words of Lewis. He knew it contained money, just not how much he didn’t know - but from its weight - it must be substantial and certainly nothing to be left unguarded.

He seated himself in the copilot’s vacant seat and secured himself with the belts. He put on the headphones, and then scanned the instruments and the cockpit. He started to reach for the commo switch.

The pilot beat him to it. But the pilot also took note of how Barton had secured the belts with familiarity and his reaching for the switch. “He does know his way around a cockpit”, he thought, “at least to some degree”.

“Welcome aboard and welcome to the cockpit.”

“Thanks for the ride, and thanks for letting me forward”, replied Barton with a smile equaling the pilot’s.

“We do try and make VIP’s comfortable”, replied the pilot, needling Barton a bit with his tone - but also hoping that Barton’s tongue would be loosened by the flattery of the words - and maybe he would then tell him something about himself.

Except for details about Barton’s piloting, he was wasting his time and soon realized it. He curbed any further curiosity as he eyed Barton’s poker face and non expression.

Barton’s only reply was silence and a steady gaze back at him.

The pilot turned to matters concerning flying. “My copilot tells me that you say you are a fellow pilot?”

On this Barton was more forthcoming. He hoped the pilot would allow him to fly the plane some. He couldn’t ask the pilot for that privilege without fully disclosing his experience - and answering any questions the pilot had. It would have been irresponsible for the pilot to not assure himself of Barton’s ability before allowing him even monitored control of the aircraft otherwise.

“Yes, sir. To that point, I have several hundred hours in twins, and some more in rotary and single engines.”

The pilot noted Barton’s shift from strict silence to respectfully opening up, at least about his piloting experience. “What configuration were the twins? Was any of it in cargo?”

It was a probing question, perhaps more probing than it was prudent to ask in some respects. Unless he said it was all in cargo planes - it would by its very nature identify him as having flown attack aircraft - which was the only other type twin he would have flown, coming from where he had originated.

But on the other hand since the configuration of an aircraft affected its flight characteristics - he had the right to ask before he allowed Barton to put his hands on the controls.

Barton answered without fully answering. Both of them knew that said the unsaid. “I have close to a hundred hours in cargo twins: A caribou to be specific.”

Barton volunteered that the hours were in a Caribou - knowing that he was again giving away information that would tie him to the company - but he figured the pilot already knew that anyway. Practically no one in the region of Southeast Asia except Air America -a CIA front company and the company themselves - flew Caribous there at the time.

Barton figured the pilot was astute enough to know that. He also knew that from the look of him - the pilot would divine that the rest of his flying hours in fixed wing was in attack aircraft. But then he really wanted to fly some, not just ride or be stuck in the back.

It was already a long flight and lot of it was still to go. Barton didn’t look forward to it without being somewhat occupied by actually flying the plane some of the time. Otherwise it was going to be a long flight.

The pilot stuck out his right hand, “Jim Edgar at your service, by the way.

The Caribou’s flight characteristics are a bit different from the C-130. Its having only two engines and being smaller than us, obviously makes its handling different. But then I would imagine you have also flown Mohawks too?

If you can adjust between those two - it won't take you long to adjust to the C-130 - especially enough to get some seat time midflight. I wouldn’t put you in a position to land or takeoff, but midflight would be okay”

Barton accepted his hand and shook it. He didn’t answer his question about the Mohawks, but then neither of them expected him too. Edgar was just clearing the air between them - and letting Barton know - that he accepted what he had said about his flying experience at face value.

Edgar went over the controls and the instruments with him, making sure he understood all of them.

“To be honest with you, it will be good to have an extra hand. It’s a long flight to Paramaribo. It will just give all of us a little extra rest. I will make sure you have it for about an hour - and then I will switch seats with my copilot - and get some rack time myself. By the way, anything you have told me is safe. It’s our business - other than a need to know - to keep our mouths shut, comprendi?”

Barton simply nodded and put his hands and feet on the controls. He knew that they didn’t have a lot of fuel to waste - so even as he familiarized himself with the aircraft over the next four hours he flew - he kept his maneuvers to a minimum.

He did bank the aircraft some and then banked it back to their heading. Then he familiarized himself with the autopilot – he put it on, and took it off several times. Finally, he adjusted the engine throttles, and adjusted the altitude and then brought it back to the filed flight plan a couple of times.

He didn’t mess with the landing gear controls because he didn’t want to waste the fuel with the extra drag - nor did he want to give the impression that he was a novice on a joyride.

By the end of Barton’s flying leg both the pilot and the copilot were assured that Barton was a competent pilot, although obviously fairly green on the C-130. The whole leg over the Atlantic was 2,600 miles - but Barton was allowed to fly about a thousand of it.

Barton welcomed the distraction of having to have some concentration as they flew over hundreds of miles of ocean. He saw only clouds appearing to drift by them and an occasional ship far below them until they came into view of the South American coast.

By that time Barton had returned to the rear with his suitcase. He again took his revolver and knife from the duffel bag - just in case he might need them - during the time on the ground. But that refueling stop (and some food refueling delivered to them as well) went uneventfully.

Their next stop at a private strip west of Miami was unlit except for a beacon and some truck lights illuminating the runway (the truck lights were switched on as they approached). It was apparent that the ‘operators’ of the strip didn’t want it open to the public, nor did they want to draw overt attention to it.

Barton wondered if the attempt at covertness wasn’t counter-productive - but then he was only going to be here once as far as he knew - and after that their security precautions wouldn’t be his problem. After the refueling was complete, the copilot came back and told Barton the captain wanted him in the cockpit.

Again Barton took the suitcase with him after stowing everything else in his duffel bag - and making sure the Mauser and its boot - was as protected from bumping as he could make it. He walked to the cockpit and established himself once again in the copilot’s seat.

After he had put on his head phones, the captain asked him if he felt that he had enough time in the seat to feel comfortable with piloting the plane during the take off.

Barton recognized the gesture as two things - an acknowledgment of the competence he had shown so far - but also professional courtesy. He also knew that the takeoff was much easier than the landing would have been or would be. He wondered if the pilot was trying to act something of an instructor pilot, or if he had any inclination to test him.

It still didn’t matter to Barton if the pilot had any particular agenda other than just courtesy. If he was in the plane - he would rather fly the plane rather than just ride - any pilot he had ever know was like that. “Sure”, he said, “It would be my pleasure”. He meant it.

Barton hadn’t been in the cockpit at either takeoff or landing so far. “Just walk me through the flap settings, and gear – or do you want to handle that yourself?” He said the first part almost as a command, but was really asking what the pilot’s preference was.

The cargo plane wasn’t a fighter - nor even as responsive to the controls as the Mohawk - but it had earned Barton’s grudging respect during his first stint flying it. On the few maneuvers he had put it through it had been stable and strong. For the most part the C-130 was a forgiving aircraft and quite capable for the task it had been designed for.

Barton was not ignorant of its capabilities and that of its predecessor the C-47. For one thing - from the time that a ground crewman had been repairing flak damage in the side of an old C-47 and his sergeant had noticed something - the use of the of the cargo planes as ground support gunships had evolved. That evolution and its use had given Barton and other infantry servicemen like him more than a passing interest in the old cargo planes.

When the airman squared up the hole in the side of the C-47 -preparing for it to be patched - his sergeant came by and inspected it to make sure it was ready for the patch. Then the sergeant stood back and looked at it in a different light, the hint of an idea forming in his mind.

He knew the dimension between the structural supports in the cargo area of the C-47 by heart. He didn’t need to measure them - but he did need to measure just how much room a machine gun, say a fifty caliber - would need to operate if it could be mounted inside those supports.

A conversation with a fellow sergeant in the weapons section grew into the two of them mounting one in the squared up hole and experimenting from there. The hole in the side of the old cargo plane never got patched. Instead more holes were made. Afterwards they enlisted a pilot and a test run was made with the old and expendable plane.

To say it had proved successful was a considerable understatement. From their simple initiative had come a near legend. At first the old cargo planes - turned gunships - were called ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ because of the smoke and fire emanating from them as they supported fire bases under siege.

The plane was especially popular with ground troops who gave it the name. It was not especially popular to pilots and airmen flying it - because it was a slow lumbering aircraft highly vulnerable to counter fire.

But because of its effectiveness, innovation after innovation had occurred and the idea had simply outgrown the old C-47s especially as more and more types of guns were added. As a result C-130 gunships (called Spooky) had come into being.

The C-130 were faster, longer, stronger, more nimble and just a better gun platform that the old converted C-47s (who began life by design as DC-3 passenger planes).

Having been a ground pounder himself, Barton was well educated in the lore and had some respect for the aircraft already from that. But feeling the responsiveness of the controls in flight gave him a new respect for it. He was glad, in fact almost eager, to have the opportunity to fly in again in an expanded role.

Edgar responded by telling him how the flaps should be set for takeoff - then told him what they should be for landing as well - almost in the same breath. Then he told him at what speed the aircraft would get ‘light’ and what the best speed to take off was.

“This first takeoff for you though - you handle the brakes, and the throttles - and of course the yoke. When you lift off, I will handle the flaps and the gear. One pilot can do all that in a pinch - but normally, the two pilots do that together anyway - so I am not doing anything special for you.”

The way he said it sounded sincere so Barton decided that this was just professional courtesy and no further agenda on the pilot’s part.

The pilot also handled the ATC (air traffic control) on the radio. Barton couldn’t have done that anyway yet - because he didn’t even know the aircraft’s tail number - or remember the call sign designation anyway.

They hadn’t used it at all during the long flight over the Atlantic - or much during the flight over the Caribbean - when Barton was at the controls because they didn’t need to talk to air traffic control then.

After the pilot had gotten clearance for take off and entering into the pattern from the Miami ATC - Barton held the brakes and advanced the throttles to full military power. As the plane shuddered and strained against the brakes Barton looked to the pilot. The pilot nodded and Barton released the brakes.

Barton didn’t look at the pilot again until after takeoff. He concentrated on the speed indicator and the runway ahead alternately. As the aircraft began to feel ‘light’ on the wheels - he glanced at the air speed indicator - and saw he was ten knots short of take off speed. But he was just at the speed the pilot had said it would feel light.

Barton had the feel of the plane. He eased back on the yoke more by feel than by looking again at the indicated speed. When they had reached fifty feet off the runway the pilot reached for the gear lever and initiated its retraction. Shortly after he began adjusting the flaps - at the same time announcing to Barton what he was doing as a good copilot should.

Barton felt the wheels thump home in their wells - as the pilot continued the interaction with ATC - and Barton brought the Hercules to the heading and altitude directed by the ATC. He had been aware of the pilot’s movements out of his peripheral vision but only when he was on course and at altitude did he turn his head and look at the pilot.

“Not bad”, replied the pilot. “You look like you have done that before anyway.”

Barton nodded. It wasn’t necessarily to read too much into the compliment. It was just professional acknowledgment that he had done a competent job. Then the pilot had returned to his instruction on how to land the plane and other pointers about the plane. Barton flew the Hercules the rest of the flight.

During the flight, the pilot let Barton also handle some of the ATC contacts. When they neared the New Orleans ATC area - it was Barton who (under the ‘tutelage’ of the pilot) made the radio contact - and brought the aircraft to its approach heading and altitude.

“Take her all the way in”, the pilot instructed him. About twenty five miles out the pilot had begun to fill him in on the C-130 landing characteristics. Then as they neared final approach he repeated some of them.

On the one hand - it nearly irritated Barton because he was concentrating - but on the other, he appreciated it. The pilot was leaving nothing to chance and making sure that Barton got it all.

This time Barton handled the gear. This time he set the flaps himself as well. He had to get the feel of the plane on landing. The way a plane slips air on landing is much different than the way it gathers it on takeoff, and not every plane ‘feels’ the same.

Barton figured that the squat plane would descend more rapidly - once he chopped power, than what he was used to with the lighter twins he had flown. He had the most time in a Mohawk and he knew its flight characteristics (especially landing characteristics) were much different than the Hercules. He compensated for that in his mind and calculations.

He tried to not pay too much attention to the altimeter - but to feel the plane - and to ‘feel’ the ground ‘coming up to him’. At what he felt was the appropriate moment he pulled power, but kept his hand on the throttles. As they neared the ground he advanced the throttles to compensate for the drop and put his feet on the brakes.

They touched once and bounced slightly. Barton waited just a moment for the plane to touch back down - and as soon as they did - he pulled power again. He had seen that it was a long, wide strip - as well as the pilot had told him that in his prep for landing - and there was no need to be aggressive in braking.

He didn’t want to really get on the brakes anyway. He knew that not only did it wear out the brakes more than you wanted and needed - but it left them hot and steering was more difficult if you did that. Not to mention the fact that it risked locking up one of the brakes and thus causing a drift, or in the worse case, a skid.

Only after he that brought the aircraft to taxi speed did he look at the pilot as he had during takeoff. The look asked for the pilot’s appraisal as before.

His look was reward by a broad smile on the pilots face. “Not bad, not bad at all”, he said as he had before on the take off. He added, “Just a little crow hop, I’ve seen a lot worse the first time.”

When they had taxied to the terminal area, a dark green 1969 Cougar XR-7 was parked nearby. Barton recognized the car. It was his own that he had brought down from home - and left for safe keeping (as well as her use) with Arienne. He, of course, also recognized the good looking blonde leaning against it watching the C-130 taxi up. Arienne had never looked more beautiful to him than at that moment.

Barton had only left the aircraft once during the flight - and that was when he had gone to find a payphone. He had called Arienne about when they would be leaving Miami, and he told her the appx. ETA in New Orleans. To help her identify the flight, he also described the plane he was flying in and that it was an Air America charter flight.

When she had come to the airport, she asked where the Air America terminal was. She had the good fortune to ask a counter attendant who actually knew. He told her that she could drive into ‘A’ gate and park inside there to wait for them. He gave her directions to the gate – he had also asked what she was driving - and had then called ahead to the personnel at the gate to admit her.

She had been waiting for less than a half hour when the plane Barton described touched down and came taxiing up. It looked a lot like Barton at the controls as it taxied near to her.

Seeing the Cougar, and the young attractive woman leaning on it - who quit leaning on the car and stood erect, waiting when the plane stopped - the pilot asked Barton, “That wouldn’t happen to be your ride, would it?”

“It is indeed, Captain. That is my wife, Arienne.”

“Well, she is a lovely woman, Barton”, he said admiringly and then switched topics.

“Thank you for flying Air America. Now get your stuff and get to her. She looks like she wants to see you. I will take care of everything here. Get your stuff and get off my aircraft.”

Despite the near gruffness of his speech at the end, Barton heard the comradeship of his tone. “Thanks for putting up with me Captain. Thanks for letting me fly the bird and for all your courtesy”, he said smiling back at Edgar and stuck out his hand to Edgar who shook it.

“Yeah, yeah. You are welcome, of course; now get a move on”, replied the pilot.

Barton climbed out of the cockpit taking his suitcase with him - when he exited the cockpit, he gathered up his duffel bag and the Mauser from the back. Then he climbed out of the aircraft and walked to his car and Arienne.

Barton had pulled back the power on the engines to idle before he had ever unbuckled his belts and left the cockpit. Jim Edgar left his feet on the brakes and looked over the gauges after Barton had vacated the cockpit and his copilot came forward.

Watching all the gauges after a flight and then spooling down the engines after the ground crew had secured the aircraft was a ritual with him. Edgar was a rarity in aviation. He was both a FAA certified mechanic - on fixed wings up to and including the four engine C-130 Hercules - and a proven, competent pilot.

It was the mechanic in him that liked the post flight ‘inspection’. If there was any anomaly in the systems - the gauges would hint at it - and alert him to the need for further maintenance. He would also do a walk around visual inspection. He was a very thorough pilot and mechanic. He had his rituals because things were a lot easier to fix on the ground than in the air.

As the ground crew secured the aircraft, his copilot took the seat next to him. “See anything”, he asked?

The co-pilot asked his question because, for the moment Edgar’s eyes were outside the aircraft where Barton Webber was setting down his duffel bag and leaning the rifle case up against it. The suitcase he held onto as a very pretty young woman about six inches shorter than him came to him and embraced him.

“I see a very fortunate young man, John. A very lucky man indeed I think.”

Co-pilot John Cottingham surveyed the two as well without comment at first. He also was a rarity in aviation. He was not only a good pilot - not as good as Edgar though he would concede - but he was also a very competent flight engineer. Air America and the CIA had a difficult time keeping especially flight engineers. The civilian airlines were always luring them away with more money and safer working conditions.

The two of them formed a good team and knew it. Between the two of them - they could pretty much keep their aircraft in top operating condition - if they had the parts and the time. John was good with their communications equipment and flight systems. Edgar was good with engines and pretty much everything else of the airframe that John wasn’t. They had been flying together for two years.

When Cottingham finally commented he said, “Now that is an embrace and that is a kiss.”

Arienne and Barton had pretty much molded into each other and kissed each other deeply and long. They had then looked each other in the eyes and Arienne had taken Barton’s face in her hands. Then they had kissed again just as deeply and almost as long.

Then Barton looked back at the cockpit and waved before gathering up his rifle and duffel bag - all the while never taking his arm from around Arienne as they walked to the rear of the car. Barton opened the trunk and placed the bag, the rifle and the suitcase inside. Then he and Arienne embraced again and kissed.

“They are for sure going to need a room”, said Edgar admiringly.

“And I bet the young lady has already seen to that”, replied Cottingham.

“I wouldn’t doubt”, replied Edgar.

Barton walked Arienne to the passenger door and opened it for her. She kissed him again (this time more lightly) before she stepped inside and took her seat.

As Barton and Arienne climbed into the XR7, Edgar and Cottingham shut down the engines and climbed from the cockpit to begin their post flight walk around. The show was over and now they had to get down to business.

The Cougar Barton and his wife had climbed into had a center console and shifter. That made it so that Arienne couldn’t sit as close to Barton as she ached to do - so she leaned into him none the less and kissed him once more - and stayed close to him. He had his arm around her as well.

“Happy to be home”, she finally asked?

“Yeah, and it will be for a good while this time”, he replied. “Where are the kids”, he asked?

Their time together - since Arienne and the Le Fontaine family had resettled from Saigon to New Orleans - had been very limited. Not so limited that Barton and Arienne had not managed to conceive a second child together, however. That second child - a son they called Joey - was nearing two years old when Barton came back on the Air America flight.

“Mom is taking care of the kids for tonight - and for the next couple of days if you want”, replied Arienne. Arienne was a very responsible, if young, mother. She was not given to selfishness - but this is one time she wanted Barton all to herself and had arraigned it just that way. She hoped Barton would agree.

Barton (despite his absences) was also very responsible in his thoughts for his wife and children. But this was one time that he wanted to be just with Arienne - Just her and no one else. Barton needed time with her, and she needed time with him.

Barton reached underneath the steering column and started the car with his left hand-unwilling to take his right arm from around Arienne’s shoulder. The high performance 390 started immediately and growled as Barton remembered it.

He had always liked the sound of it. Despite being fully muffled with standard mufflers on each side of its twin banks - it still had a deeply powerful growl every time it revved up, reached a shifting point, or when you stood on the accelerator.

Barton shifted the car into drive - again with his left hand - and headed out of the parking area, through the gate and onto the road outside. From there he was only vaguely aware of the occasional throaty growl of the Cougar - the sound of its savage heart - as he drove through the night to their families’ hotel. His thoughts were only on Arienne.
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