The Trojan Sea by Richard Herman Read Free Book Online Page A

muttered under his breath.
    “She’s really pretty, Gramps,” Eric said.
    “I’m glad you noticed, son.” They watched in silence as the two climbed into the Lightning, donned their helmets, and started engines.
    Eric studied the jet as it taxied out to the main runway. “Was the Lightning a good fighter, Gramps?”
    Shanker was absolutely honest. “It was a real hot rod in its day and still nothing to sneeze at. I flew against it in an exercise once and got my eyes watered. But it didn’t carry enough fuel and had a limited range. It never saw combat, which is the real test.”
    “Wing Commander Seagrave is really cool. Is he a good fighter pilot?”
    “He’s one mellow dude in the hot tub and a damn good pilot, but since he never flew combat, we’ll never know for sure about the fighter thing. Just like the Lightning.”
     
     
    Seagrave glanced at his passenger. “You okay?”
    Liz took a deep breath. “Fine, thanks. This is most exciting.”
    “Much more thrilling if we could fly.” He pointed at the handle for the brake chute in the upper right-hand corner of the instrument panel. “When I ask for the chute, just a smooth straight pull. But not until I tell you.” She nodded, her eyes bright. She tentatively touched the handle.
    Seagrave keyed the radio. “Cranthorpe Tower. Lightning One is holding at ‘C’ ready for taxi run.”
    “Cleared to enter and hold,” the tower answered. Seagrave acknowledged and taxied into position on the runway. “Lightning One, you are cleared for your high-speed taxi run, surface wind is two-fifty at twelve knots, temperature plus eighteen.”
    Seagrave answered, “Winding up and rolling in twenty seconds.”
    “Roger, Lightning One,” the tower replied. “Runway is clear.”
    Seagrave fed the power into the two Rolls-Royce Avon Mark 302C engines. When the RPMs touched 92 percent, he called “Brakes off” over the intercom and shoved the throttles full forward. “Reheat now.” He lit the afterburners and called their speed, his voice calm and matter-of-fact as their speed quickly built. “Very good. One-twenty, one-thirty—Christ!” A swarm of people surged onto the runway, directly in their path. They were holding a huge banner across the runway proclaiming SAVE OUR CHILDREN—NOT CRANTHORPE ! Their intent was obvious: They wanted the Lightning to split the banner while video cameras recorded the image for the evening news. But they’d misjudged the space the Lightning needed to clear on each side and hadn’t given Seagrave enough distance to drag the accelerating fighter to a stop. There was only one option left.
    Rather than plow into the demonstrators, Seagrave pulled back on the stick, and the Lightning lifted into the air, shaking off its earthly shackles, and returned to where it belonged. Seagrave allowed a tight smile when he saw the protesters fall away as the jet barely cleared their heads, accelerating through 190 knots. He snapped the gear handle up. Again his voice was amazingly calm as he keyed the radio. “Tower, Lightning One is lifting off. No choice in the matter. We’re overweight and need to burn off fuel before landing. Please clear the runway.”
    The tower controller was frantic. “Remain within ten miles of the field. You are cleared to maneuver at your discretion. I, ah, we have no idea what’s going on. I’m ringing security to clear the runway.”
    “Capital idea.” He turned to Liz. “Well, this is a bit more than I bargained for. I do hope we didn’t singe too many hairs.”
    “Not me,” Liz answered.
    The old habits were back, and Seagrave scanned the instruments as he leveled off at four thousand feet on the downwind side of the landing pattern. The left main landing-gear light flickered from green to red for a few seconds. Out of habit he tapped the light, not that it would have done any good. The light flickered again. “Probably a microswitch,” he told Liz. “But it could mean the gear is not up and