furiously. Tearing off a portion of a message recently received, the man pointed to one, brief paragraph that started with Hunter’s name, rank, and serial number.
There were surprisingly detailed orders—in this time of crisis, some computer somewhere had tracked him down: He was immediately reassigned to the 16th Tactical Fighter Wing, as the Thunderbirds were officially listed on the Air Force’s active combat unit roster. He was to report to Langley Air Force base in Virginia at once. From there he would join a “tactical escort and resupply force” and transit to Europe.
In other words, Hunter was going to war.
Chapter 8
L ANGLEY AIR FORCE BASE was a whirlwind of controlled chaos.
It seemed to Hunter that every military transport in the Air Force inventory was out on the tarmac. All around him, the cold morning was shattered by the scream of jet engines being pushed up to speed, intakes greedily sucking in the clean, crisp morning air igniting within their crucibles, driving the big turbines that in turn thrust out flaming exhausts in long fiery arrows.
At the same time, hundreds of big propellers churned, biting into the air and sluicing it behind them in a thousand rivers of wind that flowed across the airfield, whipping the collars and sleeves and trouser legs of the army of ground crews.
Forklifts, tanker trucks, and flatbeds roared across the vast expanse of concrete on hundreds of intersecting lines, crisscrossing under wings and between fuselages to deliver their loads of fuel, supplies, weapons, and ammunition, then to scurry back for more.
The scene didn’t look a bit like Christmas morning.
Every one of the airplanes being loaded at Langley that day were crucial components in the massive “air bridge” that was being strung from America to Europe to deal with the emergency. Long gone were the days when ships alone could carry the tools of war to the fighting front. This new war—declared by the President that morning—demanded more immediate delivery; measured in hours and days instead of weeks and months.
Only by this air route would the vital cargo of men, machines, and material reach the already-struggling NATO forces in time.
Hunter had caught a cargo plane up from Florida just before midnight and, on arrival, was immediately ordered by one of the Langley base doctors to get at least four hours sleep. He took the physician’s advice—even he needed sleep every once in a while. But now, with the dawn, he was up and anxious to fulfill his own orders. And they were to get the hell over to Europe.
Oddly though, there was very little news from the front. Other than the initial terrifying report, very little could be determined about the present situation. Communications in and around the battle area were either nonexistent or at the breaking point. All that was known was that the Soviets were about to advance into the areas devastated by the chemical attack and NATO was doing everything it could to stop them.
But most important, neither side had detonated a nuclear bomb … yet.
Now, as Hunter was being transported by jeep across the vast field to take his place in the massive air convoy, he noted its main players.
At one end of the base, supported on ramps and aprons of poured concrete many feet thick, towered the giant Lockheed C-5A Galaxy super-transports of the Air Force’s Military Airlift Command. With their huge nose sections yawning open to reveal the cavernous cargo bays within, and their tail ramps descended to provide access, they looked like giant dragon being stuffed with the machines of war.
Here one was being loaded with sixteen heavy trucks, being driven into the gaping maw formed by the up-tilted nose. There another was taking on a half-dozen Apache attack helicopters. Another would carry two M-1 Abrams main battle tanks, creaking on their platforms as the grinding winches reluctantly drew their 60-ton masses into the belly of the beast.
In all, the huge transports
There were surprisingly detailed orders—in this time of crisis, some computer somewhere had tracked him down: He was immediately reassigned to the 16th Tactical Fighter Wing, as the Thunderbirds were officially listed on the Air Force’s active combat unit roster. He was to report to Langley Air Force base in Virginia at once. From there he would join a “tactical escort and resupply force” and transit to Europe.
In other words, Hunter was going to war.
Chapter 8
L ANGLEY AIR FORCE BASE was a whirlwind of controlled chaos.
It seemed to Hunter that every military transport in the Air Force inventory was out on the tarmac. All around him, the cold morning was shattered by the scream of jet engines being pushed up to speed, intakes greedily sucking in the clean, crisp morning air igniting within their crucibles, driving the big turbines that in turn thrust out flaming exhausts in long fiery arrows.
At the same time, hundreds of big propellers churned, biting into the air and sluicing it behind them in a thousand rivers of wind that flowed across the airfield, whipping the collars and sleeves and trouser legs of the army of ground crews.
Forklifts, tanker trucks, and flatbeds roared across the vast expanse of concrete on hundreds of intersecting lines, crisscrossing under wings and between fuselages to deliver their loads of fuel, supplies, weapons, and ammunition, then to scurry back for more.
The scene didn’t look a bit like Christmas morning.
Every one of the airplanes being loaded at Langley that day were crucial components in the massive “air bridge” that was being strung from America to Europe to deal with the emergency. Long gone were the days when ships alone could carry the tools of war to the fighting front. This new war—declared by the President that morning—demanded more immediate delivery; measured in hours and days instead of weeks and months.
Only by this air route would the vital cargo of men, machines, and material reach the already-struggling NATO forces in time.
Hunter had caught a cargo plane up from Florida just before midnight and, on arrival, was immediately ordered by one of the Langley base doctors to get at least four hours sleep. He took the physician’s advice—even he needed sleep every once in a while. But now, with the dawn, he was up and anxious to fulfill his own orders. And they were to get the hell over to Europe.
Oddly though, there was very little news from the front. Other than the initial terrifying report, very little could be determined about the present situation. Communications in and around the battle area were either nonexistent or at the breaking point. All that was known was that the Soviets were about to advance into the areas devastated by the chemical attack and NATO was doing everything it could to stop them.
But most important, neither side had detonated a nuclear bomb … yet.
Now, as Hunter was being transported by jeep across the vast field to take his place in the massive air convoy, he noted its main players.
At one end of the base, supported on ramps and aprons of poured concrete many feet thick, towered the giant Lockheed C-5A Galaxy super-transports of the Air Force’s Military Airlift Command. With their huge nose sections yawning open to reveal the cavernous cargo bays within, and their tail ramps descended to provide access, they looked like giant dragon being stuffed with the machines of war.
Here one was being loaded with sixteen heavy trucks, being driven into the gaping maw formed by the up-tilted nose. There another was taking on a half-dozen Apache attack helicopters. Another would carry two M-1 Abrams main battle tanks, creaking on their platforms as the grinding winches reluctantly drew their 60-ton masses into the belly of the beast.
In all, the huge transports
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