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

Still, the trip was critically necessary and that's why he chose to do it. With him he carried two things on which he hoped to draw strength, luck and inspiration. In his breast pocket was the searing photo of Dominique and the tattered American flag.

The jumpmaster came back to the hold to tell Hunter they were approaching the drop-off point. The Wingman did a quick double-check of the chopper's position, then prepared for his jump. Several years before when he reconditioned the Sea Stallion to prepare for rescuing the ZAP pilots being held in Boston, he had installed a movable platform in the center of the chopper's belly. It was originally designed as a missile launcher, but for this mission, Hunter removed the missile tubes and adapted the platform to hold the mini-jet. Now, with the help of the jumpmaster, he fastened the small airplane onto the platform and started feeding fuel to the engine. With five minutes to drop, he was sitting in the jet clutching the wire which operated the umbrella device holding the folded-up wingsail. He saluted the jump-master, who gave him the thumbs-up sign and pushed a button. The chopper's hold door opened and the platform began to lower. Slowly Hunter and his airplane descended into the black night. It was cold and the wind was blowing hard. After being lowered about eight feet, the platform creaked to a halt. Then the hold door slid shut above him. He hunkered down into the cockpit and started activating the aircraft's minicomputers. He was reassured when the control panel's lights instantly blinked on in proper

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sequence. But the noise! The helicopter's rotating blades were making such a racket it was practically unbearable. Although he was wearing his standard flight helmet Ч another good luck piece Чthe noise was still deafening.

The helicopter had slowed to about 30 knots. Hunter made one last check of the controls then he pushed the engine start-up button. To his relief, it fired perfectly. He slowly raised the fuel feeder level and the little jet became hot. He checked his watch. Ten seconds to go. The Sea Stallion had now slowed to a near hover about 5000 feet above the flatlands below. Hunter gave each missile a tug just to make sure it was held on securely. He pulled the wire to release the safety switch on the wingsail's spoke ring. Then he crouched back down into the small, open cockpit and started to count . . .

"5 ... 4 ... 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... Now!" Right on cue, three small explosive charges located where the mini-jet was fastened to the platform ignited and catapulted him into the night. The chopper then shot straight up and banked away to fly clear of him. Once free, Hunter floored the engine. A long thin spit of flame appeared from the jet's exhaust tube and the craft started to pick up speed. Then he pulled the wire which raised the umbrella and locked the bat-like wingsail into place. The minijet shuddered for a few hairy seconds, but then wind caught the sail and immediately the craft started gaining altitude. "What d'ya know," Hunter thought. "It works . . ."

He quickly slowed the engine and worked the

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controls to steer the airplane. From here it was up to him which way he wanted to go. There was a lot of territory to cover over the Badlands, and he preferred to start while it was still dark. He checked the missiles' status then mounted the Uzi and connected an extra long magazine. He patted his breast pocket feeling both the sharp folded edges of Dominique's photo and the softer, frayed border of the American flag. Then he banked the tiny jet into a 120-degree turn and sped off toward the eastern horizon.

He wouldn't see anybody or anything for the next two and a half days ...

It was hot.

The people who claimed the sun didn't shine in the Badlands were crazy. The thin, permanent layer of clouds that hung close to the ground might have blocked the view from the air but they also provided a textbook example of the Greenhouse Effect. If anything, the clouds magnified the sun's rays, giving everything Ч including the airЧa hot and steamy feel. Another myth Чthat nothing grew in the Badlands Ч also proved false. While there were many patches of dead vegetation dotting the landscape, Hunter did see other places where trees and bushes were growing at a lusty rate.

Water was another story. Most of the rivers were dried up ancHhe few lakes he'd seen were all of a different colorЧnone of which was blue. The water was poison. At the very least it contained traces of deadly radiation. Anywhere he saw water, he also saw

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nearby skeletons of hapless animals who long ago somehow managed to survive the Soviet holocaust only to fall victim to its after-effects as soon as they

got thirsty.

His search carried him back and forth over vast stretches of western Kansas, Nebraska and the Dako-tas. He found nothing. He was sunburned, dirty, and carrying an itchy, three-day beard. He was now glad to have the food that Mio and Aki prepared. He ate it out of sheer boredom. More than once he looked at the picture of Dominique. And more than once he began to think that his "hidden army" theory was a bunch of hooey. Still, he pressed on.

At least his flying machine was working perfectly. He had flown long distances, but the jet was needed only sporadically. He still had more than 18 gallons of fuel left and the way things were going, that would be plenty.

That first day, he had lain low, hiding out atop a huge mesa near the edge of the Black Hills. The position gave him a commanding view_of the surrounding territory. But there was absolutely nothing to see. That night, as he was preparing to take off, he saw an air convoy passing over. It was flying way up there, at 50,000 feet at least, and had more than three dozen airplanes. Its direction was southeasterly; no doubt a legitimate skytrain making its way from Free Montreal to the trading mecca of Los Angeles. The sight had given Hunter a melancholy feeling. Life goes on, he thought at the time. No matter what you

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do, life goes on.

He flew all the next day and the next night, stopping only for short breathers and to check in with the radio on the gunship. His first two calls simply gave his position and the codewords "Delta Diana," which meant "nothing to report." Should something turn up, he would begin his transmission with the call "Alpha Diana Romeo," and quickly follow with an coded report.

But would he would ever send that message?

He found his answer the next day. It was around noontime. He had just witnessed another myth dispelled: It did rain in the Badlands. A morning shower had temporarily grounded him. He was waiting it out, sitting on the lip of a small plateau somewhere in the middle of Nebraska. The rise overlooked a vast plain which stretched for miles, broken only by a north-to-south, two-lane road which started at one horizon and ended on the other. The closest it came to him was about four miles from his position.

He was just getting ready to leave when he heard a long, low rumble, somewhere off in the distance. Thunder? He looked to the north and saw rising above the road a distinctive puff of dust being kicked up by a vehicle.