"Maloney, Mack - Wingman 03 - The Lucifer Campaign UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maloney Mack)

Chapter 1

The F-4 Phantom jet fighter touched down on the deserted runway and taxied towards a nearby row of hangars.

Just off the landing strip, next to the aircraft parking area, the remains of a MiG-21 were still burning. Another MiG had crashed through the roof of one of the hangars, and the resulting fire had burned down half the building. Still another Soviet fighter had crashed into the base's only radar antenna, scattering pieces of the huge, once-revolving dish all over the tarmac.

Smoke from the three smoldering fighters had spread out over the small airbase like a dark and dirty fog.

The F-4 came to a halt in front of the burning hangar and its pilot popped the airplane's canopy. Standing up in the open cockpit, Captain "Crunch" O'Malley removed his flight helmet and looked around.

"Welcome to the Azores," he muttered.

Crunch's rear-seat weapons officer, a lieutenant named Elvis, also stood up and surveyed the damage. "Do you think he's been here?" he asked

Crunch.

"Well, we got three MiGs shot down here and two more burning on the beach," Crunch said. "All apparently iced by one person. Only one pilot I know that could do that."

Then Elvis noticed an odd thing: through the smoke and next to the burning hangar, he could see a man tied to a chair. "Captain," he said pointing toward the bound and gagged man. "Who the hell is that?"

The two pilots climbed out of the F-4 and cautiously walked toward the man. Crunch was armed with an M-16, Elvis with a 9mm pistol.

The man sat silently as they approached. The only noise was the jet's engine winding down and the crackling of the three MiG fires. Directly above, the noon sun was beating down unmercifully.

Crunch took out a knife and immediately cut off the man's gag.

"Gracias, senor," the man gasped, taking a quick succession of deep breaths. He was about sixty years old, with a slight build and wearing the sweaty remains of a mechanic's overall. The two pilots, themselves clad in sleek dark-blue flight suits, towered over him.

"How long you been here, Pops?" Crunch asked, hesitating to undo the ropes holding the man's hands and feet to the chair.

"Two days," the old man answered, with a slight accent. "They come. Wreck my home. Wreck the base. Look at that hangar. It's ruined. Burnt. I'm an old man. I cannot repair it myself."

"Who wrecked this place?" Crunch asked, deciding the man was harmless enough to untie. He quickly undid the ropes.

"Air pirates. Russians. I don't know," the man

answered, rubbing his wrists made raw by the twine.

"Russians?" Elvis asked, catching Crunch's eye. "Si," the man said, stretching his arms and legs. "Russian air pirates. Bounty hunters. They land here, three days ago. Five MiGs. They don't call ahead. They don't contact me in control tower. They just land, with no permission. Steal my fuel. Steal my food."

"This sounds interesting," Crunch said, wryly. "Go on, Pops, tell us the whole story."

"Start by telling us who you are and what the hell you're doing here alone," Elvis added.

"My name is Diego de la Crisco," the craggy-faced man began. "I run this base. Used to be four hundred men. Now just me. Airplanes, flying from America, used to stop here all the time. For fuel, food, ammo. Now not as much. But those who stop, I sell to them food. Fuel. Maybe fix an engine blade sometimes.

"Three days ago, the MiGs came. The pilots, they bust in, slap me around. Keep, me locked up. They don't talk my language, but I can tell they are waiting for someone."

"Who's that someone?" Crunch asked.