"Maloney, Mack - Wingman 07 - Skyfire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maloney Mack)

Frost pulled out a small, infrared camera and quickly snapped off a dozen shots.

"There's one thing for damn sure," he whispered loudly to the lieutenant. "This bird didn't land here . . ."

"Not unless it came straight down," the younger officer agreed.

Frost refilled the camera with a fresh roll of film and began shooting again.

"Well, someone knows how it was done," he said, clicking the camera's shutter as fast as he could. "Someone up there . . ."

He nodded toward the mountain on the far side of the clearing. Several hundred feet above the timberline, barely visible in the rapidly fleeing twilight, was a Gothiclike structure perched on the side of the mountain. It was large enough by far to qualify as a castle, but its position looked so unnatural that it appeared as if it had been carelessly tossed there by a giant hand and just happened to stick.

As such, the fortress managed to look both precarious and impenetrable at the same time.

Frost turned back to the C-141 resting in the clearing, then called up his squad leaders.

"This is it, guys," he said, pointing to the haunting, abandoned aircraft. "Not a peep from now on in."

The word was passed down the line and, then, with Frost and his lieutenant leading the way, the unit silently crossed the darkened field and climbed into the C-141's bent fuselage.

Though cramped and gloomily enveloped in ice, the in-sides of the odd aircraft were reasonably clear of any sharp debris. Frost knew this was a good sign,

Each of the eighty-five heavily armed Free Canadian Rangers found a reasonably smooth place to sit. Then, with not a word among them, they began the anxious wait for the night to pass.

* * *

15

A few miles to the east, another group of soldiers was advancing stealthily toward the same mountain.

There were one hundred and twenty of them in all, the majority of whom carried high-powered assault rifles, ammunition belts, grenades, and a full assortment of mountain-climbing gear.

This contingent-known as Blue Force-was led by a tall black man named Major Lament "Catfish" Johnson. Formerly second-in-command of the famed US Marine 7th Cavalry, Johnson now was one of the United Americans' most highly decorated officers. His most recent assignment had been as commander of the troops aboard the Freedom Express, the train that had blazed a path through the southwest Badlands. Before that, he had played a major role in the successful invasion of Nazi-controlled Panama.

About half the men with Johnson were also veterans of the old 7th Cavalry, a misnamed unit that was now part of the crack 1st United American Airborne Division. The other half of the column were members of the Football City Special Forces Rangers, the ultra-elite fighting force whose support had helped the United Americans achieve many of their key victories in the recent past.

Combined, they made up a group of professional soldiers that had no rivals on the American continent, and quite possibly in the entire world.

As darkness fell, Johnson led his men to a particularly secluded spot in the midst of a thick grove of towering pines and then checked his map.

"We're here," he said simply to his second officer.

Rapidly and silently the news passed among the men.

"Find a dry place," the second officer called back down the line. "Cover up, check your equipment, and then chow pack number two."

Within a few minutes, all of the men had settled in for the evening, thankful to be at the end of the tortuous fifty-mile trek into the barren territory, yet anxious for

16