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|Someone Of Little Consequence... (standard:mystery, 4197 words)|
|Author: Anonymous||Added: Feb 21 2012||Views/Reads: 1919/1003||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Linton Bonney flies himself to Phoenix ans assasintes a strnger..|
Someone Of Little Consequence... by Peter Hunter Ex ace fighter pilots don't panic - Bonney knew that but his brain hadn't told his churning bowels - only one more storm in just another sky - like hundreds before, none of which troubled him much. Why the fear - those warning stabs between abdomen and brain? Was his arse telling him he was too old - no more the hotshot wartime pilot? Just another has-been re-capturing his youth with one more crazy adventure? A final adrenalin surge proving him still a sharp and capable? The stabbing pains grew in intensity, there were skills to be summoned, reserves of concentration to be plundered. Fear's cold hand knotted his insides; he tasted its acid. But why? Just a storm, another patch of turbulent sky - twisted masochistic fun to a flawed eternal child unable to reject another dare. Still his choices - turn back, re-route around the storm - or fly through tempting fate? Nothing new - fear, in all its forms was his old acquaintance, friend and drug - the ultimate fix - opium to mad, incorrigible misfits seeking thrills in every trouble spot. Fear - his co-pilot from Vietnam, throughout mercenary days in Africa, gun running into Bosnia and Rwanda - fear, astride his wingtips, taunting and beguiling. Fear old friend, in his mind's abyss, tottering on its edge, peering tempted to jump - seduced for delicious seconds before pulling back, adrenalin recharged. Avoid it? That wasn't the style of Major Lynton Bonney, once flight commander, 366th Tactical Fighter Wing, Vietnam - just another ex Nam jet jockey - used, then ejected like some spent cartridge. With need for a high once again too strong - racing pulse heralding danger, pounding heartbeat a drum roll before the guillotine severed some poor bastard's head in the Place De La Revolution - marking time with the marching feet of his own funeral cortege? Vietnam, his highest high - then free-fall into disillusionment, drifting and searching... By now he should have grown out of it... The storm, once a modest low-pressure trough twelve hundred miles west over the featureless wastes of the Pacific. Calm blue ocean - hot sun, sucking moisture from the sea until thousands of tons of saturated air drifted eastwards. The stagnant high-pressure air mass lingered over The Bay - oppressive smog, trapping the pollutants of seven million cars into a yellow pall dimming the sunshine. Air humid and sweaty, poisonous to breathe - irritation, discomfort and bad tempers... Many suffered, those with runny nostrils, hay fever and asthma fared worse, but everyone breathing the pollution, sweating outside without air conditioning - all blessed the cool new air. On the coast, crab fishermen of Moss Landing welcomed the clear air rolling back the fog to reveal the sparkling shimmering deep azure lifting their spirits. The breeze, the drop in humidity eased their blistered hands as they laboured - blessing the changed weather. Bonney approached the storm, thoughts differing from those below him - lips curled, part grimace, part grin - positively welcoming the tempest... For him - just another day nearer death... Click here to read the rest of this story (495 more lines)
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