Read Double Eagle for Free Online Page A

That is an eventuality I don’t want to see.”
    “And you won’t, admiral,” said Suhr, “because we will deny them.” There was a general murmur of approval.
    “Now, if Commander Parrwood would be so kind we—”
    Ornoff’s words were cut off as a hooter began to drone outside. In a moment, it was chorused by others. A deep, ominous moaning wailed out across the field.
    The aviators exchanged glances. Ornoff looked at his aides and hurried off the stage, heading for the hangar doors. Everyone followed.
    Outside, in the bright sunlight, they clustered on the rockcrete apron, scanning the glassy sky. Path lights had been lit along the main runway track, and recovery vehicles were growling out of sheds along the north perimeter.
    “Someone’s in trouble,” Blansher muttered.
    “There!” one of the Navy pilots called, pointing.
    Low in the southern sky, tiny dots. Jagdea heard the distant, burping putter of pulsejets.
    “That’s low,” said Asche. Several of the dots were hanging back, but two were moving in. They could see sunlight flare off canopies. The lead plane, a little dark-green monojet, was dragging a string of vapour behind it.
    “Not good,” said Jagdea, staring.
    Beside her, Marquall said, “What?”
    “If he’s going to land, let’s hope he gets his cart down.”
     
    Over Theda MAB South, 07.51
    The smoke coming out of Hunt Sixteen was getting thicker, and had started to plume out fat and heavy as their airspeed dropped. Darrow had to adjust height to stop himself flying in blind through the vapour. Hunt Sixteen was pitching low, and it forced Darrow to sit up high, higher than he would have preferred for an approach.
    There was a slight crosswind. He felt his tail skidding, and he trimmed to compensate. According to the airspeed indicator, he was getting dangerously near critical stall.
    “Come on, Hunt Sixteen!” he cursed. “Come on, Phryse! Get that bird down!”
    “Hold your water…” the vox chattered. “I think… think my bloody cart’s hung.”
    “Clear it, Phryse!” Darrow heard Hunt Leader urge over the channel.
    “Trying… damn thing’s stuck… lever’s jammed. Bent. I think…”
    A bleeper sounded in Darrow’s cockpit. Fuel out… even though the damn gauge still read full. “I’ve got to sit now!” he called.
    “Okay, okay! S’all right, Enric. I’ve got it now. Lever’s pulled. Cart down.”
     
    Theda MAB South, 07.51
    Even as the Cyclone’s engines whistled down to a dying chop, Scalter wrenched open the window slider of the canopy and stuck his head out, searching the sky.
    “Operations!” he yelled, but then realised that pushing his head out of the window had pulled his mic-cord to full extent and yanked the plug out of the vox panel.
    “Damn it!” he yelled, struggling back inside and banging his head. “Damn it!” He fumbled for the end of the cord.
    “Got it!” cried Artone, ramming the plug back into its socket.
    “Operations! Get a flag up! Signal! That Cub’s coming in with its undercart up!”
    “Clear the channel, Seeker.”
    Scalter clunked off his harness, threw open the side hatch and fell out onto the ground. Artone was fast on his heels. The crews of the Cyclones in the revetment bunkers next to them had dismounted too.
    Scalter ran up the embankment towards the main strip, waving his arms. Red flares had gone up over the field. Bleeding smoke, one wing hanging heavy, the Wolfcub was really low. The noise of its pulsejet was a drawn-out, plosive blurt.
    Its undercart was locked up in its belly.
    “Up! Up!” Scalter yelled. He fell on his face as Artone tackled him and brought him down short of the rockcrete track.
    The Wolfcub came in, over and past them both. Just shy of stall speed, it began to drop its tail, about to settle onto gear that wasn’t there.
    The underside of the tail hit first. There was an abrasive shriek. Metal shards and grit flew up in a hot grind of friction. Immediately, the tail came back up,