He blinked when it dawned on him, but he recalled being paid previous- ly in stock, which meant he did get status above the others, yet he could only fume at some small thing he was trying to fix since being in com - mand of the broken remnants of this stupid misadventure just did not register with him. He was a simple man; he was no leader.
From where Corky stooped over an airframe, they had few options. He was doing all he could to get two of the so-called “Sky-hog” aircraft opera - tional using parts he scrounged from other ones destroyed or damaged in recent combat. What started off as an easy job of maintaining these rel - atively simple airframes got very difficult when the bad guys suddenly had not only air defense weap- ons, but also ample drones to back them; now they seemed like somebody with deep pockets was bankrolling them. The latest reports of new- er drones had kept him from sleeping very much; he always slept with an eye open now. He had to
keep the improvised BLU-82-like megabomb functional yet hidden, as it was his last card to play along with the only other plane they had, a small STOL transport, a near copy of the old boxy “SkyBus” that had excellent short-runway ability. Finally, he turned to the surviving trained Cordovan pilots, forced a smile and nodded, half-mumbled “buena suerte” with emotion rising and shook their hands in succession. Cecil, Sandro and Oswaldo were young, kids really, but they were all that remained. Everybody else was dead, injured or missing. The US Air Force advisors were now down to just two — there had been a dozen left over from the initial contingent, but when they attempted to depart, their plane mysteriously crashed. Only the two survived, far as Corky knew. While the Pelikaan contractors and the Air Force were not typical allies, they were stuck on the same side, support- ing President Sula’s reeling CAF, and seeing their faces told him his misery was not isolated.
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