Chopper Ops by Mack Maloney Read Free Book Online Page B

fuckers!"
    But then someone blew a whistle and everything froze. The soldiers all stopped in their tracks. There was suddenly no more noise. No more shouting. No more footsteps.
    Nothing, just the wind outside.
    Then one man pushed his way through the crowd of soldiers surrounding Ricco and Gillis. This man was Asian, short but rugged and sturdy-looking. He was wearing the desert camouflage uniform of a U.S. Marine Corps captain.
    He took his helmet off and glared down at Ricco and Gillis.
    "Who the hell are you two? We're in the middle of an exercise here!"
    With shaking hands, Ricco and Gillis quickly pulled out their Presidential Action Letters and showed them to the young officer. The captain hastily read them and then nodded to his men.
    "OK, let's call this a false start," he said calmly. "Reset everything and we'll do it again in ten minutes."
    At this, the soldiers all lowered their weapons and began to empty the building. Those who had burst through the windows went out the same way. Those who had come down from the ceiling, climbed back up and disappeared through the roof. Still others drifted out the front door.
    The Asian officer then looked at Gillis and Ricco's PALs again and helped them to their feet.
    "So, you're the aerial refueling team," he said. "The Air National Guard guys . . ."
    Ricco and Gillis nodded with relief.
    The officer handed the letters back to them.
    "Well, this is the combat-simulation building," he told them. "And it's off-limits to just about everyone. I believe you're bunking in next door."
    He gave them a quick once-over and added: "I think you can grab a shower and new pants over there as well."
    With that, the young captain walked briskly out of the building, barking orders to his men as he went. And just like that, Ricco and Gillis were alone again. They both looked at each other and realized they'd been so scared, they'd wet their pants.
    "Oh, man," Ricco groaned, inspecting his damp crotch. "What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into?"

Chapter 8
    Jazz Norton was in big trouble.
    Four MiG-29 Fulcrums aligned in perfect combat formation were breaking through the low clouds right in front of him.
    Their wings seemed to sag, there were so many weapons hanging beneath them. Each MiG was bearing at least four Aphid air-to-air missiles, plus a huge cannon in its nose. All four were painted in brown-and-tan desert camouflage. To Norton's tired eyes, the color scheme looked particularly sinister against the background of dreadful lemon sky.
    The MiGs were projected just five miles off the nose of his attack helicopter. His threat-warning screen began blinking furiously when the four dots representing the dangerous MiGs showed up. A loud screech went through his headphones. The MiGs had spotted him! Their radars were now keying in on his chopper, arming their air-to-air missiles as a prelude to firing at him.
    Other panels on Norton's control board began blinking. A TV readout of his ground-threat-warning status was buzzing madly. It was displaying no less than six SA-6 SAM sites going hot on the ground below, as well as a dozen separate radar-guided antiaircraft batteries hidden in the hills all around him. Their gunners had spotted his copter, too. Like the Fulcrums, they were preparing to fire at him.
    His target-acquisition screen was also blinking. It was displaying an odd collection of buildings in a hidden valley surrounded by high desert cliffs just ahead. Many helicopters were whirring above this place, which, to Norton's eyes, looked like a rambling ranch of some sort. There were six buildings in all. Soldiers were running through the streets between them. There was a T-72 tank sitting at one end of the compound. A large red circle on his acquisition screen was completely covering it.
    The display warning was blinking: Time to Fire: 8 seconds . . . 7 seconds       . . . 6 seconds . . .
    Norton grabbed his control stick and started squeezing it very tightly.
    Damn . . . what