Page 64 of Gryphon

“Sittin’ my ass right here in this seat. Doesn’t mean I have a damn clue about what’s goin’ on, Mike. You guys have got me as confused as shit.”

Mike tried to think back, but the decision to come to Georgia had happened out on the snowy highway when only he and Holly were there. And Tad hadn’t been in the meeting with Miranda and General Kurbanov. “Uh, sorry, Tad. Didn’t realize we were dragging you along without any details.”

“It’s cool, man. Figured I’m the new square on the block. Hazing like I’m a Ricky Recruit again. Kinda weird after fifteen years in the Corps to be on the outside. Seriously weird as I’m thinking about it.”

“Not intentional,” Mike followed where Tad was pointing toward a hangar on the northeast corner of the airport. “Just a lot happening really fast. Next time just ask.”

“If you say so, boss.” Tad clearly thought it was another level of hazing and, after the long flight, Mike didn’t have the energy to argue.

A baton-wielding aircraft marshaler waved them into place. Clouds of his breath showed in the plane’s lights. At least there was no snow on the runway but Mike felt a shiver though the plane’s interior remained warm. The cold had never bothered him in Denver. Had his years with Miranda in the temperate clime of Puget Sound, Washington, thinned his blood that much?

The marshaler signaled the overhead X with crossed batons and Mike stopped, set the brake, and killed the engines. He tossed aside his seat harness, taking a deep breath for the first time in six hours. He loved to fly, but this passage had really taken it out of him. Yet he felt rather jazzed at having made such a flight on his own.

He twisted and flexed his muscles as he looked around.

They were parked way out in the back forty by the looks of it. The main terminal lay over a mile away at the far end of the runway. In between, a line of three 737s and two smaller jets were parked together—all painted white with red tails, winglets, and Air Georgia painted down the sides in a flowing script. They all had the reflective foil inside the cockpit windows and covers over the engines like they hadn’t moved in a while.

Dead ahead sat a small cluster of Hind and Huey helicopters and a pair of Antonov An-28 twin-turboprop cargo planes, more appropriate for a museum than being painted Air Force gray.

Out here, they might have a long walk to find a rental car.

He turned to Tad, partly to delay starting the long cold walk. “Our theory is—”

“Holy shit!” Tad jammed himself back in his seat and stared out the front windscreen. His hand clenched hard enough that Mike wondered if he’d leave permanent marks on the leather of Miranda’s seat.

Mike looked up, then figured he’d do a good job of finding out the answer for himself.

A pair of evil-looking trucks were racing toward them from the military end of the field. They had gray-orange camouflage and weren’t slowing.

If they rammed the jet’s nose, he and Tad were going to be dead. The trucks were big enough that from the small jet he was looking dead-level at the driver. But that wasn’t the focus of his attention.

Atop the big-wheeled truck, there was one of those turrets to protect a machine gunner. And poking out through the curved armor shield was the muzzle of a six-barreled M134 Dillon Minigun. He’d seen one cut a Honda Accord in two during a demo. But that wasn’t the main memory. It made an unholy buzzsaw sound when fired—like God’s table saw slicing the tablets for the Ten Commandments out of solid rock.

No time to run.

No time to—

Both trucks slammed on their brakes and slid sideways along the runway, coming to a stop mere meters from the jet in a clearly practiced move. The machine gun on the nearer truck aimed directly at his face.

It hurt to blink because his eyes had been so wide.

Then he noticed that the gun wasn’t quite aimed at his face—it centered on Tad’s.

The gunner waved. Not like a command, but more like spotting a buddy across a bar who he’d been saving a seat for.

Tad’s laugh snapped Mike out of his frozen posture as hard and painfully as the sight of the attack had jammed him into it.

“That’s my boys!” Tad launched himself from the seat and was out the door in seconds. The cold air swirled into the cockpit. More soldiers in camo gear jumped out of the trucks.

Mike watched in awe through the windscreen as they mobbed Tad, trading hugs, laughter, and back slaps that might kill a mortal man, and even an immortal one. He heard their shouts of, “Heard you on the air, brother.” “Rousted the guys outta their racks.” “Had to meet you proper.”

“That’s not something you see every day,” Holly stood in the aisle and was leaning forward between the cockpit seats.

“What are they?” Mike managed to speak, though the dismounting soldier had slightly shifted the Minigun as he’d dismounted.

“Didgori. Homegrown and built on a heavy-duty Ford truck chassis. Hella tough machines.”

“Uh, no, you don’t see those every day.” The unmanned gun now pointed directly at him. Ducking toward the side window didn’t get him clear. Ducking the other way, he banged his head hard against Holly’s.

---