"HAMMER" - читать интересную книгу автора (Howard Joseph)

"It rained three days in a row; and we're still a C-17 pilot short,
you know. So I showed up early."
"Good idea. No use wasting leave, huh? You know you've got a piece of
skin hanging loose under your right wing, inboard of the engines."
"That so? How big?"
"Not big." I spoke to Mannet that I wanted range-and-measure
capability.
You can't really send or read thoughts; but a few simple thought
patterns can elicit corresponding brainwaves that ManNets can read. They
reply through code on pressure points on the back of the head and neck
that a trained pilot translates to thought without noticing. Non-flight
commands must be verbal to save the precious thought-commands for the most
needed and intuitive functions.
I got the range and measured the rip. "Eighteen centimeters," I
finished answering Ted's question.
"Probably closes right up on the ground."
"Should have been caught, dammit."
"Unless it just happened."
"Maybe. Is it getting worse?"
"Looks stable."
"Keep an eye on it, huh?"
"Sure."
"Thanks, Bill."
As our speed and altitude grew, the wing got no worse; and we reached
a point at which the C-17 could accelerate or climb only sluggishly.
"Time to let go, Bill," said Ted.
"Disengaging," I said. "Let go of the towline, Mannet."
I felt the bump. I felt myself slowing. "Free and clear, Ted."
"Free and clear," he confirmed. "Break a wing."
"You, too, Ted."
The instant I released, I began to fall. I waited the five seconds
that safety required, then fired my motor and headed off and up, angling
away from the C-17. Mannet still navigated, for he knew precisely where we
were going tonight; I did not. I had only to pinch the stick to take
control.
In my mind I stretch forth my hands. I am Superman, cape undulating
wildly in the howling air stream, wrenching at neck and shoulders too
strong to care. I am a bird, a bird more powerful than bird has ever
known, laughing at the earth-bound, soaring alone above the others.
I will myself ahead. The rocket thrusts harder, but not too strongly,
just yet. I'm still in the soupy troposphere, the air piling thickly in
front of me.
Above it, above it I surge, where the wind is thin and my shape no
hinderance. Soon my wings will swell and extend as I glide faster than a
shriek through the blackening sky.
The arctic rolls beneath me as I attain my patrol altitude off the
northern reaches of Siberia.
I am a lonely bird, searching for prey I hope never to find.
I range outward with my scanners to search for my fellows. There is
one twelve kliks off my right wing, another forty ahead to the left, as