Read The Dying of the Light (Short Stories): The Walker Chronicles (Tales From The Dying of the Light) for Free Online Page A
Authors: Jason Kristopher
Tags: Zombies
spreading it out on his desk.
On the map of the US were ten clearly-marked locations, spread across the country. Maxwell’s eye caught on one near his hometown of Tacoma, Washington marked ‘N o 1 - Mount Rainier’ and he looked back up at the colonel.
Moretti tapped the map with a finger. “I want to talk to you about Project Phoenix.”
Blood and Sand
Over the Gulf of Sidra
Mediterranean Sea
August 1981
Z-Day - 30 years
1845 Hours Local Time
The bullets ripped along the wing, through the fuselage, and into the rudder, jarring him in his seat and causing the A4 Skyhawk to yaw sharply to starboard. He didn’t need the now useless controls to tell him the jet was doomed.
“Splash one,” he heard his wingman call. “Blue Eagle 102 is hit. Skip, come in.”
John ‘Skip’ Barker looked out over the azure waters of the Gulf of Sidra, the setting sun in his eyes. In any other situation, it would be a breathtaking view. Of course I’d be hit and frozen headed straight toward land , he thought. This shouldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t be here; I should be at home, meeting my little girl for the first time .
“Handbook, 102 is hit and going down. I have no control. Repeat, Handbook, Blue Eagle 102 is at zero control and going down.”
“Roger, 102,” came the reply from his ship, the USS Forrestal . “Scrambling SAR now.”
He checked the systems yet again, hoping against hope that he was wrong, that the rounds from the Libyan Su-22 hadn’t taken out both his aileron and the rudder… but there was no arguing with the lack of control he had; his ride was shot, literally, and it was going to take him down with it. The broken and fused rudder assembly on his A-4 Skyhawk had forced him into a south-by-southwest course, and with no way to turn, he was stuck heading over Libyan territorial waters.
Better to ditch. Just have to hope the SAR boys can get to me before the bad guys .
His training had long since taken over by that point, and his conscious mind barely registered his communications with the carrier and his wingman, letting them know he was bailing out — ejecting over the Gulf.
God help me , he thought, and yanked the seat firing handle. In the span of a few heartbeats, the canopy breaker smashed the cockpit above him, the catapult launched him upward, and the rocket fired, propelling him away from the dying Skyhawk. He expected the metaphorical kick to the gut that came with such rapid acceleration, but it still took his breath away, leaving him gasping into his mask and holding tight to the straps.
A few tenths of a second later, the seat-man-separator motor fired, and he watched as the seat fell away, leaving him to jerk again as the drogue parachute opened above his head, slowing and stabilizing his descent toward the water, followed by his main chute opening. He felt the downward tug of his survival pack, and looked up as he saw his wingman circle at a safe distance, no doubt reporting his position.
Judging from his distance to the shore, he was well within Libyan waters, or would be shortly. Now that the sun was going down, his chances of being rescued by SAR operations from the carrier were slim. Assuming the Libyans didn’t get to him first. The carrier was already scrambling the rescue personnel, but it would still be some time before they arrived, and sunset was the worst possible time to try and locate someone on the water, given the reflecting sun. From what he could see up here, it didn’t help that the currents seemed to be heading inland at the moment.
Of course, those currents did explain the fishing trawler headed his way as he prepared to splash down in the cold water. About twenty feet off the water, he hit the quick-release for his chute, and dropped like a rock. His survival pack hit first, and he had about a second to brace for the impact before the water closed over his head. He heard the automatic inflation of his survival raft, and clawed his helmet off,
On the map of the US were ten clearly-marked locations, spread across the country. Maxwell’s eye caught on one near his hometown of Tacoma, Washington marked ‘N o 1 - Mount Rainier’ and he looked back up at the colonel.
Moretti tapped the map with a finger. “I want to talk to you about Project Phoenix.”
Blood and Sand
Over the Gulf of Sidra
Mediterranean Sea
August 1981
Z-Day - 30 years
1845 Hours Local Time
The bullets ripped along the wing, through the fuselage, and into the rudder, jarring him in his seat and causing the A4 Skyhawk to yaw sharply to starboard. He didn’t need the now useless controls to tell him the jet was doomed.
“Splash one,” he heard his wingman call. “Blue Eagle 102 is hit. Skip, come in.”
John ‘Skip’ Barker looked out over the azure waters of the Gulf of Sidra, the setting sun in his eyes. In any other situation, it would be a breathtaking view. Of course I’d be hit and frozen headed straight toward land , he thought. This shouldn’t be happening. I shouldn’t be here; I should be at home, meeting my little girl for the first time .
“Handbook, 102 is hit and going down. I have no control. Repeat, Handbook, Blue Eagle 102 is at zero control and going down.”
“Roger, 102,” came the reply from his ship, the USS Forrestal . “Scrambling SAR now.”
He checked the systems yet again, hoping against hope that he was wrong, that the rounds from the Libyan Su-22 hadn’t taken out both his aileron and the rudder… but there was no arguing with the lack of control he had; his ride was shot, literally, and it was going to take him down with it. The broken and fused rudder assembly on his A-4 Skyhawk had forced him into a south-by-southwest course, and with no way to turn, he was stuck heading over Libyan territorial waters.
Better to ditch. Just have to hope the SAR boys can get to me before the bad guys .
His training had long since taken over by that point, and his conscious mind barely registered his communications with the carrier and his wingman, letting them know he was bailing out — ejecting over the Gulf.
God help me , he thought, and yanked the seat firing handle. In the span of a few heartbeats, the canopy breaker smashed the cockpit above him, the catapult launched him upward, and the rocket fired, propelling him away from the dying Skyhawk. He expected the metaphorical kick to the gut that came with such rapid acceleration, but it still took his breath away, leaving him gasping into his mask and holding tight to the straps.
A few tenths of a second later, the seat-man-separator motor fired, and he watched as the seat fell away, leaving him to jerk again as the drogue parachute opened above his head, slowing and stabilizing his descent toward the water, followed by his main chute opening. He felt the downward tug of his survival pack, and looked up as he saw his wingman circle at a safe distance, no doubt reporting his position.
Judging from his distance to the shore, he was well within Libyan waters, or would be shortly. Now that the sun was going down, his chances of being rescued by SAR operations from the carrier were slim. Assuming the Libyans didn’t get to him first. The carrier was already scrambling the rescue personnel, but it would still be some time before they arrived, and sunset was the worst possible time to try and locate someone on the water, given the reflecting sun. From what he could see up here, it didn’t help that the currents seemed to be heading inland at the moment.
Of course, those currents did explain the fishing trawler headed his way as he prepared to splash down in the cold water. About twenty feet off the water, he hit the quick-release for his chute, and dropped like a rock. His survival pack hit first, and he had about a second to brace for the impact before the water closed over his head. He heard the automatic inflation of his survival raft, and clawed his helmet off,
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