"Maloney, Mack - Wingman 02 - The Circle War UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maloney Mack)

The Voodoos opted for the cannons, streaking close to him and simultaneously squeezing off timid bursts before diving away.

"C'mon boys," he said into his microphone. "You'll have to do better than that . . ."

The Voodoos pulled up in tandem and tried to approach him from the rear. He simply flipped the F-16 over on its back again and headed straight for them upside down. He put the jet into a slow turn to right itself, pressing the Vulcan firing trigger at the same time. The '16 shuddered as all six of the cannons opened up in a twisting murderous barrage. The lead Voodoo pilot never knew what hit him. His nose, then his canopy, shattered instantly. Smoke began pouring out of the open cockpit as the airplane started its long plunge to earth.

Now Hunter turned his attention to the last F-101. The fighter had taken a few hits and had broken away to the south. He was now intent on fleeing in earnest.

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Hunter booted in the afterburner again and soon caught up with the Voodoo. The pilot knew he had no chance to shake the powerful F-16, so he took the safe route out and ejected, letting his airplane fly on unattended. The ever-conscientious Hunter deposited a Sidewinder into its exhaust tube anyway preventing the one-in-a-million chance that the jet's eventual crash would kill someone innocent on the ground. The missile obliterated the Voodoo as advertised. Off to the east, Hunter could see the pilot's parachute drifting slowly toward the mountains below.

The engagement was over. Now Hunter turned his attention back to the convoy . . .

The eighteen big airliners had disappeared in the time it took him to battle the Voodoos, but he quickly located them on his radar and floored it. Gradually, off in the distance, the distinctive contrails once again came into view. The airliners had climbed to 45,000 feet in an effort to make a fast getaway. But the deception was lost on Hunter. He was soon riding off the wing of the last Boeing 707 in the convoy.

Just then his radio crackled. Someone, somewhere in the convoy had yelled "Break!" and the airliners instantly obeyed. The eighteen airplanes started to scatter in all directions. Some climbed, others dove. Some banked left, some banked right. Soon the sky around him was a patchwork of contrail streaks. Yet he stayed right on the rear 707, intent on identifying it or following it to its eventual landing place.

Neither would happen. The rear gunner in the airliner foolishly opened up on Hunter as the plane

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banked to the left to cross in front of him. It was a stupid, risky maneuver. He could see the big airplane's wing flap with the strain. The way the airliner was moving, Hunter doubted many people were on board. He tried to contact the airplane's pilot.

"707, 707," he said calmly into his microphone. "Cease firing and ID yourself."

His message was returned by another burst from the airliner's rear gunner. Hunter routinely dodged the cannons shells and moved up to a position beside the big jet's cockpit. He could see the pilot inside, his attention fully devoted to flying the airplane.

"707, ID yourself," Hunter called again. Suddenly the big airplane did another quick bank to the left in an effort to ram him. Even Hunter was surprised by the desperate move, deftly pulling back on the control stick just in time to avoid getting hit by the airliner.

"This guy's crazy," Hunter thought. He was also in trouble. Hunter could see smoke trailing from the 707's port-side outer engine. The violent maneuver must have snapped a fuel line or oil feeder pump. He knew what would happen next. The engine caught fire and ignited the fuel tanks in the 707's wings. Within seconds the airliner's port wing was enveloped in flames. The big airplane started to go down. Flaming pieces of the wing were breaking off. Then the starboard engines, themselves buckling under the sudden strain, began to smoke.

Hunter could only watch as the doomed 707 continued to lose altitude. He followed it down. 10,000 feet. 8,000 feet. 5000, He knew the pilot could not

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pull it out in time. 4000 feet ... 3000. Except for one stretch of highway, the terrain below was all mountainous. It appeared to Hunter that the pilot was trying to steer toward the roadway. But at 2000 feet, an entire half of the jet's portside wing broke off, trailing a long plume of black, oily smoke with it. Hunter could see the airplane shake as it involuntarily banked to the left. It never had a chance to attempt a landing on the road. Instead it hit a row of trees at the end of a small valley, bounced once, hit again and plowed up the side of a small mountain. He watched as it kicked up a great sheet of flame and earth and smoke before finally coming to a stop.

Hunter dove and flew low over the crash. He knew there'd be no survivors. Wreckage was strewn everywhere, but the main fuselage and the starboard wing were still intact, though smoking heavily. He briefly considered taking off and finding another airliner from the mysterious convoy. But on second thought, he became determined to return to this crash site and search the wreckage. He had to see who the hell these guys were.

He reconnoitered the long stretch of the abandoned highway nearby to see if it could handle the F-16. After two passes he decided to try for it.

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Chapter Seven

There were only about two hours of daylight left when Hunter finally reached the crash area. The highway Чa battered sign revealed it as Montana's Route 264 Чproved long and straight enough for him to set down. He hid the '16 underneath an overpass bridge, and armed with his trusty M-16 and other equipment, had trudged for an hour through the forest to where the airliner came down.

He was soon at the base of the mountain, close enough to see where the huge letters "TWA" had been hastily painted over on the airliner's tail section. The big airplane carried no other identification numbers, not unusual these days. The ground was still hot and steamy as a result of the crash; the heat was melting the shallow ground snow that covered the mountain. The big fire had died down, but he knew it was only temporary. There was still fuel in the crumpled starboard wing and it was only a matter of time before it got hot enough to blow. For now though, everything around him was very quiet Чthe only noise coming from the dozen or so small fires that crackled in the bushes around the wreckage, plus