Mediterranean. He's behind all the war talk right now."
"Well, he's the one who formed The Circle," Hunter said. "We know him as Viktor Robotov. He's a Russian agent, obviously high up on the ladder. He's the guy that got the Soviets to sneak in their SAMs."
"Well, he's quite dangerous," Heath said. "He's got almost a cult following.
I've seen videotapes of him. Religious, socialist, anarchic rubbish. It's all jibberish. But he's pushing the right button in the lowest common denominator, if you will."
"He did the same thing in America," Hunter said. "That's why I'm on his tail."
Heath stroked his fiery red mustache. "Well, you've taken on quite a task for yourself, major," he said. "I believe Lucifer is busy relighting World War Three right now. I'm not so sure he'll have time for you."
Hunter only smiled and said, "We'll see."
40
Chapter 5
He enjoyed talking to the Brits. They offered to give him a look at one of their Tornados, an invitation Hunter readily accepted. He loved airplanes and airplane design. He'd go anywhere, anytime, and talk airplanes with just about anyone.
After he went over every inch of the British fighter, it was time to turn his attention to his own airplane and its sabotaged firing system.
It took him less than a minute to find the problem. The saboteurs had been clever. They hadn't tripped the electric-shock alarm because they hadn't touched the airplane's body. Nothing was tampered with, no wires were cut.
Instead the saboteurs, most likely using a small laser, had cut through a thin seam on the side of the airplane's radardome located on its snout. Once through, the laser zapped the hundred or so semiconductors attached to its sophisticated logic center. The result: no weapons.
Hunter could fix the problem, but only by hot-wiring all the systems back to the power generator-a slow, time-consuming, two-day job at the least. But it was clear he couldn't go on without his defenses. He decided to take advantage of being in a
41
friendly base. The Brits told him he could stay as long as he liked.
That night he lay in the visitor's tent, wrestling with his bug netting. An hour before, he had finished eating a hardy meal with the Brits, downing several cold Algerian beers along the way. Now the desert was cooling down and Hunter was looking forward to a good night's sleep.
Having finally solved the bug net, he lay on his bunk thinking. He reached inside his flight-suit pocket and took out a small flag. He unfolded it and fingered the material. It was his most prized possession: a small American flag. He carried it with him everywhere -ever since he'd taken it from a citizen he saw shot in war-torn New York City right after returning from the European theater years before.
The flag meant so much to him. It was the last symbol he knew of that reached back to the days before the big war started. Back when his country was called The United States of America. Back when there was that special unity found in all Americans. Back when it wasn't illegal to carry this flag. It was a law he defied every day of his life. He would gladly die fighting for his right to carry the Stars and Stripes. For his right to remember what it used to be like. For his right to dream what it might someday be again . . .
Also inside his pocket he carried a picture of Dominique. What was she to him?
His girlfriend? His lover? His soul mate? She was in Canada now, in friendly hands, recovering from a terrible two-year ordeal in which Viktor had kidnapped her and used her shamelessly for his twisted, brainwashing 42
Circle War campaign.
Hunter's heart started thumping whenever he thought of her.
He was handsome. Taller than most fighter pilots, and slightly quiet. He had been a certified genius as a child, a doctor in aeronautics from MIT at seventeen, and flying Air Force fighters by nineteen. He was recognized as the best fighter pilot that had ever lived -a reputation helped in great part, he knew, by his amazing
"Well, he's the one who formed The Circle," Hunter said. "We know him as Viktor Robotov. He's a Russian agent, obviously high up on the ladder. He's the guy that got the Soviets to sneak in their SAMs."
"Well, he's quite dangerous," Heath said. "He's got almost a cult following.
I've seen videotapes of him. Religious, socialist, anarchic rubbish. It's all jibberish. But he's pushing the right button in the lowest common denominator, if you will."
"He did the same thing in America," Hunter said. "That's why I'm on his tail."
Heath stroked his fiery red mustache. "Well, you've taken on quite a task for yourself, major," he said. "I believe Lucifer is busy relighting World War Three right now. I'm not so sure he'll have time for you."
Hunter only smiled and said, "We'll see."
40
Chapter 5
He enjoyed talking to the Brits. They offered to give him a look at one of their Tornados, an invitation Hunter readily accepted. He loved airplanes and airplane design. He'd go anywhere, anytime, and talk airplanes with just about anyone.
After he went over every inch of the British fighter, it was time to turn his attention to his own airplane and its sabotaged firing system.
It took him less than a minute to find the problem. The saboteurs had been clever. They hadn't tripped the electric-shock alarm because they hadn't touched the airplane's body. Nothing was tampered with, no wires were cut.
Instead the saboteurs, most likely using a small laser, had cut through a thin seam on the side of the airplane's radardome located on its snout. Once through, the laser zapped the hundred or so semiconductors attached to its sophisticated logic center. The result: no weapons.
Hunter could fix the problem, but only by hot-wiring all the systems back to the power generator-a slow, time-consuming, two-day job at the least. But it was clear he couldn't go on without his defenses. He decided to take advantage of being in a
41
friendly base. The Brits told him he could stay as long as he liked.
That night he lay in the visitor's tent, wrestling with his bug netting. An hour before, he had finished eating a hardy meal with the Brits, downing several cold Algerian beers along the way. Now the desert was cooling down and Hunter was looking forward to a good night's sleep.
Having finally solved the bug net, he lay on his bunk thinking. He reached inside his flight-suit pocket and took out a small flag. He unfolded it and fingered the material. It was his most prized possession: a small American flag. He carried it with him everywhere -ever since he'd taken it from a citizen he saw shot in war-torn New York City right after returning from the European theater years before.
The flag meant so much to him. It was the last symbol he knew of that reached back to the days before the big war started. Back when his country was called The United States of America. Back when there was that special unity found in all Americans. Back when it wasn't illegal to carry this flag. It was a law he defied every day of his life. He would gladly die fighting for his right to carry the Stars and Stripes. For his right to remember what it used to be like. For his right to dream what it might someday be again . . .
Also inside his pocket he carried a picture of Dominique. What was she to him?
His girlfriend? His lover? His soul mate? She was in Canada now, in friendly hands, recovering from a terrible two-year ordeal in which Viktor had kidnapped her and used her shamelessly for his twisted, brainwashing 42
Circle War campaign.
Hunter's heart started thumping whenever he thought of her.
He was handsome. Taller than most fighter pilots, and slightly quiet. He had been a certified genius as a child, a doctor in aeronautics from MIT at seventeen, and flying Air Force fighters by nineteen. He was recognized as the best fighter pilot that had ever lived -a reputation helped in great part, he knew, by his amazing
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