The Final Storm (Wingman)
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North America has been reclaimed from the Soviet warlords, but deep in the frozen Siberian wastes, last-ditch elements of the Evil Empire plan to annihilate the Free World in one final rain of nuclear death. Now, Hawk Hunter, the Wingman, will undertake his most perilous mission--an impossible 6,000 mile solo bombing run deep into the lethal heart of the enemy's homeland to save his country from extinction.
including the old Amtrak southern route. However, these tracks ran through New Mexico and Arizona—the most treacherous territories in the southwest Badlands—and no one had yet attempted to travel on them. Until now. The train had left Football City to a rousing send-off three days before. An intrepid band of adventurers—they had dubbed themselves, The Modern Pioneers—had strung together a bunch of railroad cars and a locomotive on little more than a dare and had set out across the untamed
be given, as would the judges. They would decide on whether the ex-VP was guilty or innocent of high treason. And if the verdict was guilty, they would also-decide his sentence. Off to one side of the jury box was another small gallery. This was the witness seating, and this is where Hunter, Jones, Toomey, Wa and at least one hundred other people were sitting. Beside this gallery, and right next to the judges’ bench, was the docket in which the witnesses, and eventually, the defendant himself,
spotting the massive outline of the carrier, Brezhnev. “Everyone got a visual?” “Roger,” came the near simultaneous reply from his two wingmen. “OK,” Hunter said, feeling an invigorating rush of adrenaline wash through him. “It’s showtime …” With a kick of their afterburners, the first three F-16s were in amongst the Soviet ships within seconds. For the first wave of the attack, the carrier would be the sole target—the rest of the ships would be left alone for the time being. Although the
yelled out, almost unconsciously adding: “Jesus, we actually hit the Goddamn thing …” Meanwhile, the cartridge-case stub of the spent round fell out of the breechlock and into a bag dangling below. The tank was filled with the acrid smell of the round’s burnt gases. Still the loader was ready, anticipating the next shot as he shoved the new round into the still-smoking breech and threw the safety-switch with a yell. “Round up!” He then turned back to the ammo compartment to begin the whole
to face Hunter. He tilted the heavy mask back to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Hey, Hawk, old buddy,” the man said furiously pumping Hunter’s outstretched hand. “How you doing, pal?” The man was Navy Lieutenant Stan Yastrewski, better known as “Yaz.” Hunter had first met the Navy officer during the Lucifer Crusade, as the desperate struggle in the Mediterranean against the renegade fanatic “Viktor,” had come to be called. During the Big War, Yaz and his crew had survived the wreck of their