"Maloney, Mack - Wingman 06 - The Final Storm UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maloney Mack)

The United Americans quickly assembled the Osprey and Hunter had flight-tested it himself shortly after returning from the campaign against the Canal Nazis down in Panama. For most pilots, it would have taken hundreds of flight hours to learn the secrets of tricky vertical takeoffs and landings, rotating engines, and combined complexities of helicopter and fixed-wing flight.

Hunter had it mastered in an afternoon.

Once their transportation had been secured, the meticulous planning for the raid on Bermuda began in earnest. Primary and secondary means of ingress and egress were evaluated. Maps were drawn up. Intangibles like weather and tides were checked. Most important, several teams of United American undercover agents were dropped on the island, spies specially trained to mix in with the Bermudan population.

Training for the strike team itself had been done quickly and secretly. The Special Forces Rangers-being the protective force for the continent's gambling mecca, Football City, formerly known as St. Louis-were everyone's first choice to carry out the strike. And there was never any question that Hunter would be the mission commander.

There were many long days and sleepless nights leading up to the mission. As D-Day approached, Hunter and the other members of the United American top echelon found themselves immersed in a myriad of last-minute details. Air cover. Refueling. SAM suppression. Landing sites. MedEvac. The inevitable unexpected contingencies.

Despite the avalanche of concerns, they were ready to go in less than three weeks. . . .

At 3AM on the morning of D-Day, the team had taken off from the short field at Cherry Point. Hidden in the darkness, at first they flew southeast, away from the primary target of Bermuda.

The odd flight plan was necessary because, first and foremost, the Osprey needed a disguise. This is where the American intelligence operatives came in. The spies had discovered that

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the Cuban Air Force routinely flew a supply mission to deliver food, fuel, and ammunition from Havana to the New Order ministers. Using a battered Soviet AN-12 Cub turboprop cargo plane, the weekly flight had been "requested" of the Cubans years" before by the very mysterious military clique that had run the Kremlin since the war.

Far from an inconvenience, the weekly milk run to Bermuda was considered a plum assignment by the Cuban pilots who flew it-neither the United Americans nor the renegade Yankee air pirates had ever bothered these flights before.

On this day, however, the Cubans discovered that there was a first time for everything.

They had been 250 miles from their destination when the Cuban pilots first spotted the Osprey.

It was as if it had appeared out of nowhere, popping up from the hazy sea with its twin rotors tilted up, positioning itself just a quarter mile off the cargo plane's port side. Before the Cubans could react, a Stinger anti-aircraft missile-fired by one of the commandos stationed on the Osprey's side gunner's station- flashed in on them.

At that range, the sophisticated weapon couldn't miss. The Cuban pilot was too stunned to even key his radio before the American missile's guidance system drove its warhead home, smashing deep into the hot exhaust of the cargo plane's portside outer engine. Within seconds, a mushroom of orange flame engulfed the plane. Then there was a powerful explosion . . .

There was no need to confirm the kill-aside from a scattering of wreckage and an oil slick bobbing on the ocean surface, nothing remained of the Cuban aircraft.

The lightning-quick action had been needed to provide their disguise-the Osprey's radar signature resembled that of the Cuban cargo plane, and if all went well, it would be interpreted as such by enemy radar operators.

That had been an hour ago. Now as they closed in on the island, JT leaned over and yelled to Hunter.

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"We're in their SAM envelope," he reported. "About five minutes to landfall."

Taking the Toomey's cue, Hunter quickly scanned two screens in front of him, hoping he would not see the tell-tale blips indicating that hostile radars were locking in on them. At the moment, there was nothing.

So far, the disguise was working.

Hunter was glad to see the weather was cooperating-at that moment, the weather around the usually pleasant island was miserable. Low-hanging clouds, fairly high winds, and a moderate rain had been the forecast and the United American meteorologists had been correct again.

Using a thick cloud layer to hide themselves, they were skirting the island's southernmost tip a few minutes later.

There was still no sign of alarm on the ground, at least none observable from the air. Using the NightScope goggles, Hunter could see that there was a large cluster of military vehicles at a tiny airport about six miles to their west. He could also make out an assortment of cargo and combat aircraft bearing Cuban, Soviet, and commercial insignia. Although heat images indicating ground personnel were evident around the base, none of the airport's intercept airplanes appeared to be on alert.