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Someone Of Little Consequence... (standard:mystery, 4197 words)
Author: AnonymousAdded: Feb 21 2012Views/Reads: 1919/1003Story 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 

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 

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 

For him - just another day nearer death... 

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