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

"Sorry, F-16, but you'll have to follow us," he radioed over. "Course seven-two-niner Tango. Our base is thirty-four kilos northwest."

Hunter waved back. Something about the British.

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No matter what, they always sounded so civilized. The Tornados pulled ahead and turned northwest. Hunter followed.

The air base was actually a small, straight stretch of abandoned highway with a half-dozen large tents on either side. A long fuel truck sat off on the edge of the makeshift runway; jeeps and personnel carriers moved about. Several Rapier anti-aircraft missile batteries ringed the base. Two other Tornados were parked on metal plates that served as temporary parking stations on the highway shoulder.

The two British interceptors landed in formation and Hunter came in right after them. They taxied to their assigned metal plates, while Hunter rolled along to the center of the base. Several men waited there. A ground mechanic directed him in with a pair of red flags and gave him the thumbs-up when he was in the correct parking position. He shut down the engine, popped the canopy, and climbed out to meet the men.

They were all officers of the Royal Air Force, dressed in the correct desert fatigues. As one, they snapped to a perfect opened-palmed salute. Hunter returned it as best he could. One officer stepped forward -a man with bright red hair and an enormous mustache to match. He walked over and shook Hunter's hand.

"Captain Stewart Heath," he said in a slight Cockney accent. "Sorry about all this, Major Hunter."

"Well, it's been a hell of a long time since I've got a speeding ticket," Hunter said.

Heath pointed to the two taxiing pilots. "They're just young bucks, major," Heath said. "Just a tad, shall we say, 'enthusiastic'?"

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Hunter smiled for the first time. "They're just doing their job," he said.

"I'm glad you see it that way, major," Heath said with a grin. "Now there will be a smallish fine. But not too much. Say, a quarter bag of silver. And if you pay it up right now, I can invite you to have breakfast with us with a clear conscience."

Hunter reached into his flight-suit pocket and came up with a small bag of coins. A lieutenant appeared, and Hunter handed him the bag. He returned the gesture with a salute.

Heath clapped his hands once loudly. "Smashing," he said, beaming. "Now, major, please. Will you join us?"

Although it seemed as if he had just finished his roasted lamb feast at the cafe, Hunter found himself hungry again. Plus he genuinely liked the Brits.

"Okay," he agreed. "Could always use a little more chow."

The entire group of officers, along with the two intercepting pilots, adjourned to a large tent where a meal of scrambled eggs, rolls, and tea was already waiting for them. Everyone helped themselves and settled down at the cafeteria-style benches to eat. Heath sat next to Hunter.

"We've heard of you, of course, Major Hunter," Heath told him. "When our boys radioed in they were tracking an F-16, well, there's only one F-16 flying these days, so we're told."

"What are you guys doing way out here?" Hunter asked him.

"It's a long story," Heath said, sipping his tea. "After the war cooled down, we -our wing of the RAF, that is -came into possession of the land on

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both sides of Gibraltar. We must patrol this far, to watch our southern flank. The speed-limit rule is simply one more way we can control the airspace. It keeps the troublemakers out, plus if we see anything coming our way at full boot, well, we'll know he's an enemy, won't we?" Hunter couldn't argue with the typically British

logic.

"Are you here to join the war, major?" one of the other officers asked across the table.