Wingman

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He knew the airplane was coming.

It was an early spring day. The sun was shining. The whole mountain was melting, coming to life again after the long, cold winter.

The airplane was still some distance away, but the sound was unmistakable. He closed his eyes and saw it. Small engine, no more than 200 horse. It was a Piper Cub-10, maybe 15 miles to the southeast. One of the airplane's pistons was misfiring slightly.

He waited.

For two years, one month and six days he had lived on the top of the New Hampshire Mountain. The camp-nothing more than a shack with a bed and a wood stove-had belonged to his family years before. He had visited there many times while growing up, so he knew the isolated mountain area well. But two years of trapping rabbits, opening cans and drinking nothing but stream water or melted snow was no life for a fighter pilot.

He hadn't seen or talked to a soul in all that time. And until he had heard this airplane approaching, he wasn't sure that there was anything flying anywhere. He wasn't even sure if there were any people left.

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