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

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phone. "What is your 'landing authorization' fee?"

There was only the slightest of hesitation, then the answer came back. "Small aircraft. Jet fighter. One bag of gold, or five silver."

Steep, but expected. But he didn't intend to pay anywhere near that just to land.

"Casablanca control," Hunter called just as he reached the coastline. "I have one bag of silver. It's yours if you give me landing okay."

"Two bags," came the reply.

"Bag and a half," Hunter said.

"Land clear on seven," the controller said, his shrill voice rising yet another octave. "Right behind the Air-India Jumbo."

Welcome to Casablanca.

Hunter inserted the F-16 into the melee of landing and departing airliners' A fog bank in the night sky over the airport made the approach even more hazardous. He dodged at least a. half-dozen airliners, nearly clipped the tail section of a stray 727, and actually landed ahead of the red Air-India 747. As his wheels touched the ground, a DC-10 was lifting off no more than 500 feet ahead of him.

He followed the line of yellow runway lights to a taxiing path lined with blue. The number of aircraft above the airport was nothing compared to what was on the ground. The place was a traffic jam of airliners.

"What the hell is going on here?" he asked himself as he rolled up to a very thin empty station point near the bustling terminal. There were people everywhere-some carrying luggage, others just bags on their backs. Men, women, kids. They were in the terminal, on its roof and walkways, even on parts of

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the runway. There were flashing lights everywhere and he could hear sirens even over the noise of his jet engine.

He noticed there was a slight twinge of panic in the way the crowds were behaving. The loading of a nearby DC-9 was not going at an orderly pace. People were pushing and shoving each other- squeezing themselves up the loading ramp and into the airplane. Fistfights were breaking out near other airplanes.

This isn't just another busy night at the airport, he reasoned. It looked more like an evacuation . . .

He shut down the 16 and punched up his exotic anti-theft computer program. Once it kicked in, the airplane was not only theft-proof but, thanks to a zapping electrical charge that ran throughout its body, it was also tamper-proof. Convinced the airplane was secure, Hunter popped the canopy, grabbed his M-16, and climbed out.

The noise was deafening. He walked across the crowded tarmac, avoiding the crowds as best he could. He could see desperation in their faces, but they weren't a refugee rabble. They looked well-fed and mostly well-clothed. Yet people were battering each other to get on the airliners. But why? He noticed another curious thing: the incoming aircraft were not discharging anyone. They were flying in empty, loading up, and taking off without so much as a wipe of the windshield.

There were a lot of bad vibes in the air. He felt like a full-scale panic could break out at any moment.

Instinctively, he looked around for some kind of police force or military presence. There was none.

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Nor were any of the aircraft of non-civilian design. His F-16 was the only military aircraft in the airport.

He made his way through the confusion to the control tower and found it too was a madhouse. There were more than forty air controllers, all barking orders into the microphones and frantically looking into their radar screens. The place was strewn with plates, half-eaten meals, pots of bubbling tea and coffee, and more than a few empty wine bottles. Hunter felt lucky he had made it down in one piece.

He was here to pay his landing fee, and perhaps get a little information. He sought out the head of the place, figuring this would be the man who should receive his "authorization fee." A man sitting at a desk slightly away from the pandemonium seemed to fit the bill.

Hunter threw a bag and a half of silver onto his desk. The man looked up immediately from the Arabic-language newspaper.