Read Online Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 10 by Wings of Fire (v1.1) - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wings of Fire (v1.1)
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.. and the second he reached the floor of the pit and touched the net covering
the rocket, four huge ballpark lights illuminated the entire garbage pit, and a
siren sounded. There were no sentries because the entire garbage pit was alarmed.
Time had run out.
From
his observation point, Patrick saw the lights come on. “Oh, shit,” Patrick
murmured. “Taurus, move in, check the garbage pit at Alpha Two,” he radioed.
“I’ll check Golf Six. Pollux, create a diversion around Tango Five. Base, order
the FlightHawks in to attack.”
“Roger
that, Castor,” Patrick’s younger brother, Paul, responded. One of the original
members of the Night Stalkers and the acknowledged expert in the use of the Tin
Man battle armor, he was the fourth man on this spy team, taking the east side
of the Libyan base.
“Copy,
Castor,” Wendy replied. “They’re coming in hot, two minutes out, SFWs and
Gators. Light up the targets as much as you can.”
Meanwhile,
Wohl dashed to the body of the SS-12 rocket, grabbed a cable running down the
side, and pulled. The SS-12 missile was encased in a plastic transport sheath
that protected it during transit but popped off easily during launch; it was
simple to peel it off now. It was a real SS-12 rocket—no decoys here. He dashed
forward, unzipping the sheath as he ran, then climbed up onto the cab until he
reached the warhead. It looked real enough too, although he had never seen a
live nuclear warhead before. “Castor, I just cracked open the warhead. Take a
look and tell me what it is.”
Patrick commanded his electronic
helmet visor to lock in on Chris Wohl’s visor image, transmitted from his
suit’s electronics suite via satellite. He recognized it instantly: “It’s the
real thing, folks—a Russian NMT-17 Mod One warhead, one-megaton-plus yield.”
Wohl
turned at a sudden sound behind him and saw soldiers rushing to the edge of the
garbage pit, gesturing inside. The best proof he had a live warhead here wasn’t
McLanahan’s assessment—it was the fact that none of the Libyans surrounding him
dared raise a rifle muzzle in his direction or even come any closer to him.
They were afraid of creating a nuclear yield if they hit the missile with a
bullet. Wohl knew it took a lot more than one bullet to set one of these things
off—but then again, maybe they knew something he didn’t. “How do I disable it,
Castor?”
“You
can’t, unless you brought a whole truckload of Snap-On Tools,” Patrick replied.
“Your best option is to create a heat source and let the FlightHawks finish the
job.”
“I can do that,” Wohl said. He
jumped down from the front of the TEL and searched until he found the diesel
fuel refilling port, between the third and fourth set of wheels on the right
side. The fuel tank itself was underneath the chassis and protected very well
by slabs of steel, but he didn’t need it. He opened the filler port, stepped
back a few paces, and activated his self-protection weapon, sending a bolt of
electrical energy from electrodes on his shoulders directly into the fuel port.
A few moments later, Patrick saw a flash, and a second later heard an
explosion, then another just a few moments later. So much for their little
sneak-and-peek operation.
“All
right, Nike, you dropped your drawers—we might as well have some fun too,” Hal
Briggs chimed in.
“I’m in.”
“Go for the fuel filler port on the
right side between the rear wheels,” Wohl said as he moved to the third SS-12.
“The TELs aren’t grounded, and there aren’t any flame suppressors in the filler
tube.”
“Hey, Castor,” Briggs asked, “what’s
the chance of one of those babies popping off with a yield in a
.. and the second he reached the floor of the pit and touched the net covering
the rocket, four huge ballpark lights illuminated the entire garbage pit, and a
siren sounded. There were no sentries because the entire garbage pit was alarmed.
Time had run out.
From
his observation point, Patrick saw the lights come on. “Oh, shit,” Patrick
murmured. “Taurus, move in, check the garbage pit at Alpha Two,” he radioed.
“I’ll check Golf Six. Pollux, create a diversion around Tango Five. Base, order
the FlightHawks in to attack.”
“Roger
that, Castor,” Patrick’s younger brother, Paul, responded. One of the original
members of the Night Stalkers and the acknowledged expert in the use of the Tin
Man battle armor, he was the fourth man on this spy team, taking the east side
of the Libyan base.
“Copy,
Castor,” Wendy replied. “They’re coming in hot, two minutes out, SFWs and
Gators. Light up the targets as much as you can.”
Meanwhile,
Wohl dashed to the body of the SS-12 rocket, grabbed a cable running down the
side, and pulled. The SS-12 missile was encased in a plastic transport sheath
that protected it during transit but popped off easily during launch; it was
simple to peel it off now. It was a real SS-12 rocket—no decoys here. He dashed
forward, unzipping the sheath as he ran, then climbed up onto the cab until he
reached the warhead. It looked real enough too, although he had never seen a
live nuclear warhead before. “Castor, I just cracked open the warhead. Take a
look and tell me what it is.”
Patrick commanded his electronic
helmet visor to lock in on Chris Wohl’s visor image, transmitted from his
suit’s electronics suite via satellite. He recognized it instantly: “It’s the
real thing, folks—a Russian NMT-17 Mod One warhead, one-megaton-plus yield.”
Wohl
turned at a sudden sound behind him and saw soldiers rushing to the edge of the
garbage pit, gesturing inside. The best proof he had a live warhead here wasn’t
McLanahan’s assessment—it was the fact that none of the Libyans surrounding him
dared raise a rifle muzzle in his direction or even come any closer to him.
They were afraid of creating a nuclear yield if they hit the missile with a
bullet. Wohl knew it took a lot more than one bullet to set one of these things
off—but then again, maybe they knew something he didn’t. “How do I disable it,
Castor?”
“You
can’t, unless you brought a whole truckload of Snap-On Tools,” Patrick replied.
“Your best option is to create a heat source and let the FlightHawks finish the
job.”
“I can do that,” Wohl said. He
jumped down from the front of the TEL and searched until he found the diesel
fuel refilling port, between the third and fourth set of wheels on the right
side. The fuel tank itself was underneath the chassis and protected very well
by slabs of steel, but he didn’t need it. He opened the filler port, stepped
back a few paces, and activated his self-protection weapon, sending a bolt of
electrical energy from electrodes on his shoulders directly into the fuel port.
A few moments later, Patrick saw a flash, and a second later heard an
explosion, then another just a few moments later. So much for their little
sneak-and-peek operation.
“All
right, Nike, you dropped your drawers—we might as well have some fun too,” Hal
Briggs chimed in.
“I’m in.”
“Go for the fuel filler port on the
right side between the rear wheels,” Wohl said as he moved to the third SS-12.
“The TELs aren’t grounded, and there aren’t any flame suppressors in the filler
tube.”
“Hey, Castor,” Briggs asked, “what’s
the chance of one of those babies popping off with a yield in a