sixth sense and the way it integrated into every action he performed while flying. Hunter didn't just//y an airplane -he became one with it.
Some women found him dashing. He enjoyed them all. But no one -no one
-affected him like Dominique. Ever since that day they'd met in war-torn France, she'd been with him. They had lived together briefly, but he had sent her away because it was too dangerous to remain where they were. Then she had been spirited off by Viktor's agents, and would still be with the madman today if Hunter hadn't rescued her.
But now, here he was, separated from the woman he loved, chasing some brainwashing lunatic across the top of Africa. His life had never been simple, and he didn't expect it to change anytime soon.
Hunter had been in a deep sleep for three hours when he suddenly sat bolt upright . . .
Missiles. Fired from way off. Coming this way . . .
He was up and running in a matter of seconds. Across the sand, across the highway-runway, toward the only tent at the small base that still had a light burning in it. It was the Scramble Tent, where two pilots waited on call around the clock.
43
Hunter burst in, startling the two British officers, who had been sitting calmly playing a game of cribbage.
"Missiles!" Hunter said. "There's three of them coming this way!"
The two pilots looked at him as if he were mad. "I say, major," one drawled.
"Are you sure?"
He didn't.hang around long enough to reply. He was running again, this time to his F-16.
The 16 was the fastest-warming airplane in the world. Unlike other fighters, it could be started unassisted by the pilot and rolling for takeoff in under forty-five seconds. Hunter routinely cut that time to less than a half minute.
He fired up the F-16's engine and moved out onto the runway. He could feel the missiles coming in from the northeast, probably launched by an aircraft somewhere out of the Med. He switched on his radar and immediately got three clear readings. They were sophisticated "fire-and-forget" missiles-deadly flying bombs that locked into a target from far off and homed in unerringly over distances of up to 100 miles or even more. Hunter knew these missiles were just 50 miles from the British base and closing fast.
He roared off the runway, noting out of the corner of his eye that the two British pilots were running to their Tornados.
Hunter was still unarmed, his firing system still disconnected. But he knew he had to stop the missiles somehow. He turned the 16 in the direction of the oncoming rockets and booted in the afterburner. He had a visual sighting on them in twenty seconds.
They were flying in a straight line separated by a mile apiece-mindless instruments of destruction all too reminiscent of the Nazi buzz bombs of World 44
War II.
Hunter would have to work fast, and still he doubted if he could stop all three of them.
The night was pitch-black and the inside of his cockpit was ashimmer in the green light of his TV screens. He put the 16 into a wicked 180-degree turn, the G-forces stretching the muscles on his face into a grim smile. He got on the tail of the third trailing missile and quickly calculated its exact speed and altitude. He pumped the numbers into his flight computer and pushed a button. More lights flashed as the computer went to work. Instantly, the F-16
moved right up beside the missile. He took over' manual control of the jet again and maneuvered the 16's wing towards the short control and steering stub of the missile. Deftly, he moved the airplane up a little. Then more to the right. Now down a touch. It was a dangerous, delicate maneuver -both he and the missile were traveling at 400 mph plus. One wrong move and they'd be picking him up in little pieces all over the desert. .
He took a deep gulp from his oxygen mask and slid the 16 in closer to the missile. With an irritating scraping noise, the F-16's right wing moved up and underneath the missile's. He knew he could only hold the precarious
Some women found him dashing. He enjoyed them all. But no one -no one
-affected him like Dominique. Ever since that day they'd met in war-torn France, she'd been with him. They had lived together briefly, but he had sent her away because it was too dangerous to remain where they were. Then she had been spirited off by Viktor's agents, and would still be with the madman today if Hunter hadn't rescued her.
But now, here he was, separated from the woman he loved, chasing some brainwashing lunatic across the top of Africa. His life had never been simple, and he didn't expect it to change anytime soon.
Hunter had been in a deep sleep for three hours when he suddenly sat bolt upright . . .
Missiles. Fired from way off. Coming this way . . .
He was up and running in a matter of seconds. Across the sand, across the highway-runway, toward the only tent at the small base that still had a light burning in it. It was the Scramble Tent, where two pilots waited on call around the clock.
43
Hunter burst in, startling the two British officers, who had been sitting calmly playing a game of cribbage.
"Missiles!" Hunter said. "There's three of them coming this way!"
The two pilots looked at him as if he were mad. "I say, major," one drawled.
"Are you sure?"
He didn't.hang around long enough to reply. He was running again, this time to his F-16.
The 16 was the fastest-warming airplane in the world. Unlike other fighters, it could be started unassisted by the pilot and rolling for takeoff in under forty-five seconds. Hunter routinely cut that time to less than a half minute.
He fired up the F-16's engine and moved out onto the runway. He could feel the missiles coming in from the northeast, probably launched by an aircraft somewhere out of the Med. He switched on his radar and immediately got three clear readings. They were sophisticated "fire-and-forget" missiles-deadly flying bombs that locked into a target from far off and homed in unerringly over distances of up to 100 miles or even more. Hunter knew these missiles were just 50 miles from the British base and closing fast.
He roared off the runway, noting out of the corner of his eye that the two British pilots were running to their Tornados.
Hunter was still unarmed, his firing system still disconnected. But he knew he had to stop the missiles somehow. He turned the 16 in the direction of the oncoming rockets and booted in the afterburner. He had a visual sighting on them in twenty seconds.
They were flying in a straight line separated by a mile apiece-mindless instruments of destruction all too reminiscent of the Nazi buzz bombs of World 44
War II.
Hunter would have to work fast, and still he doubted if he could stop all three of them.
The night was pitch-black and the inside of his cockpit was ashimmer in the green light of his TV screens. He put the 16 into a wicked 180-degree turn, the G-forces stretching the muscles on his face into a grim smile. He got on the tail of the third trailing missile and quickly calculated its exact speed and altitude. He pumped the numbers into his flight computer and pushed a button. More lights flashed as the computer went to work. Instantly, the F-16
moved right up beside the missile. He took over' manual control of the jet again and maneuvered the 16's wing towards the short control and steering stub of the missile. Deftly, he moved the airplane up a little. Then more to the right. Now down a touch. It was a dangerous, delicate maneuver -both he and the missile were traveling at 400 mph plus. One wrong move and they'd be picking him up in little pieces all over the desert. .
He took a deep gulp from his oxygen mask and slid the 16 in closer to the missile. With an irritating scraping noise, the F-16's right wing moved up and underneath the missile's. He knew he could only hold the precarious
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