Attack on Area 51 (Wingman) (Volume 17)
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night. So, whose planes were these? There was one jet fighter, followed by a half dozen large prop-driven airplanes. Suddenly the formation was over their heads. Those RAM troopers equipped with night-vision scopes could see the backs of the prop planes open up and something tumbling out. They were boxes … plain, ordinary-looking boxes. But then the boxes began exploding in midair, causing enormous booms! Suddenly the sky was filled with thousands of small, individual explosions going off.
then Ben noticed something. “What are those leftover things?” After every object vanished, a pile of what looked like glowing embers appeared. They didn’t seem to quite touch the floor, though, as if they were hovering just above it. But now, after the three demonstrations, someone hit another button and a series of fans came on and blew the “embers” into the bottomless pit. “That’s either an alien-built weapon,” Ben said, “or years ago someone found out how to zap all the hazardous material
cut away his spacesuit and remove his helmet. But the spacesuit was still smoldering and his helmet proved impossible to get off. Still, they were all thinking the same thing: Could it really be him? The medics reached the hospital’s intensive-care emergency unit and wheeled the gurney inside. A group of doctors was waiting. They were experts in treating combat wounds from working on Football City soldiers hurt in the city’s numerous low-level military actions. Once known as St. Louis,
that followed. St. Louis said, “That flag you had with you when you arrived. Do you still have it?” Hunter had carried it with him everywhere since getting it back. He took it out of his breast pocket. “Did you ever unfold it?” St. Louis asked. Hunter shook his head no. “I didn’t dare to,” he said. “I didn’t want it to fall apart.” St. Louis smiled. “Don’t worry—that flag will never fall apart.” Hunter turned it over in his hands. It almost seemed too fragile to unravel. “It’s okay,” St.
techs knew that was not the case here. Not only did this large object appear to be under intelligent control, but it was steering its way right toward them. Used to looking for low-flying enemy aircraft belonging to Football City’s host of hostile neighbors, they’d never seen anything like this. “We better call HQ,” the first tech suggested, sleepy no more. The second man had already grabbed the phone. “You don’t have to tell me twice,” he said. Ten miles to the south, an old Huey helicopter