minijet started moving. He opened it up and it moved faster.
All the while, his eyes and brain were
110
working the calculations of how close he would have to come to the onrushing cavalry before he could get airborne. The numbers were not with him this time.
He knew by the time he could get off the ground, the aircraft would be twenty deep into the onrushing horde.
With a flick of a switch, he armed the minijet's missiles. They went green just as only 300 feet separated him from the lead element of the charging horsemen. He pushed a button and his outside starboard missile was gone, spiraling toward the riders. It impacted on the fourth man in, the HE
splattering over two dozen or so of his comrades. Hunter launched his outside port missile a split-second later. It became imbedded in a lead horse's body, toppling it and delaying its detonation for a moment. But when it did blow —it was big, fiery, and bloody. Twenty more horsemen were mowed down. The lead horses immediately went into a panic. Those in the rest of the rest of the column that could, quickly swerved either right or left.
Now he had the gap he needed to take off. He yanked back on the controls and the minijet lifted off the ground. He could see the startled looks on the otherwise fierce faces of the cavalrymen as he rose up and over them. Some of the riders managed to fire at him as he raced to get altitude, the tracer bullets lighting up the sky but missing him by a wide margin.
But he still had problems. The power takeoff and the emergency ascent had sucked up a lot of his precious fuel. He still had quite a distance to fly. As 111
he turned the craft westward, he programmed the computer to give him his maximum distance at his current fuel use rate. Once again, the numbers came back bad. He couldn't climb; he would use too much fuel getting up to the higher altitudes to catch the Stronger winds. Yet, if he stayed low to ground, he'd run out of gas more than 150 miles short of the nearest Sea Stallion rendezvous spot. And with all those SAMS in place, he wouldn't even think of asking that a PAAC craft come any closer than the western fringe of the Badlands.
His only solution was to get more fuel.
There was only one place he could think of that might have jet engine fuel out here in the 'Bads. With a turn slightly to the northwest, he plotted a course for the small auxiliary Yak base he'd spotted near the Kansas-Nebraska border.
It was still two hours before dawn when he reached the small airbase. It had been a cinch to relocate it; its buildings were the only things that broke the monotony of the vast midwest plain. Approaching from the south, he could see the five Yaks bathed in spotlights, sitting in the middle of a square metal takeoff and landing platform. Several Hind helicopters waited in the shadows nearby. A radar dish turned lazily atop one of the four buildings surrounding the small installation. Nearby sat two SA-2 mobile SAMs —the same kind that American pilots dodged over North Viet Nam years before.
Hunter figured the Soviet fuel supply would be heav-112
ily guarded; he guessed it was like gold to the Soviet infiltrators. He knew this because despite all the airpo-wer the Russians had sneaked in, he had yet to see any of it flying around. The reason had to be an order by the high command to conserve all the available Soviet jet fuel until it was really needed.
Two gallons would get Hunter where he had to go. The question now was: how to get it. He cut the jet engine and drifted over the base. His guess was right, there were at least a dozen soldiers on guard duty near the base's fuel dump.
Another dozen or so were guarding the Yaks. No one was watching the SAMs though; apparently the Soviets weren't expecting any air attacks. He counted 26 soldiers in all, awake and armed. He had no idea how many other soldiers were sleeping somewhere on the base.
The situation called for a diversion. He landed the minijet about a half mile
All the while, his eyes and brain were
110
working the calculations of how close he would have to come to the onrushing cavalry before he could get airborne. The numbers were not with him this time.
He knew by the time he could get off the ground, the aircraft would be twenty deep into the onrushing horde.
With a flick of a switch, he armed the minijet's missiles. They went green just as only 300 feet separated him from the lead element of the charging horsemen. He pushed a button and his outside starboard missile was gone, spiraling toward the riders. It impacted on the fourth man in, the HE
splattering over two dozen or so of his comrades. Hunter launched his outside port missile a split-second later. It became imbedded in a lead horse's body, toppling it and delaying its detonation for a moment. But when it did blow —it was big, fiery, and bloody. Twenty more horsemen were mowed down. The lead horses immediately went into a panic. Those in the rest of the rest of the column that could, quickly swerved either right or left.
Now he had the gap he needed to take off. He yanked back on the controls and the minijet lifted off the ground. He could see the startled looks on the otherwise fierce faces of the cavalrymen as he rose up and over them. Some of the riders managed to fire at him as he raced to get altitude, the tracer bullets lighting up the sky but missing him by a wide margin.
But he still had problems. The power takeoff and the emergency ascent had sucked up a lot of his precious fuel. He still had quite a distance to fly. As 111
he turned the craft westward, he programmed the computer to give him his maximum distance at his current fuel use rate. Once again, the numbers came back bad. He couldn't climb; he would use too much fuel getting up to the higher altitudes to catch the Stronger winds. Yet, if he stayed low to ground, he'd run out of gas more than 150 miles short of the nearest Sea Stallion rendezvous spot. And with all those SAMS in place, he wouldn't even think of asking that a PAAC craft come any closer than the western fringe of the Badlands.
His only solution was to get more fuel.
There was only one place he could think of that might have jet engine fuel out here in the 'Bads. With a turn slightly to the northwest, he plotted a course for the small auxiliary Yak base he'd spotted near the Kansas-Nebraska border.
It was still two hours before dawn when he reached the small airbase. It had been a cinch to relocate it; its buildings were the only things that broke the monotony of the vast midwest plain. Approaching from the south, he could see the five Yaks bathed in spotlights, sitting in the middle of a square metal takeoff and landing platform. Several Hind helicopters waited in the shadows nearby. A radar dish turned lazily atop one of the four buildings surrounding the small installation. Nearby sat two SA-2 mobile SAMs —the same kind that American pilots dodged over North Viet Nam years before.
Hunter figured the Soviet fuel supply would be heav-112
ily guarded; he guessed it was like gold to the Soviet infiltrators. He knew this because despite all the airpo-wer the Russians had sneaked in, he had yet to see any of it flying around. The reason had to be an order by the high command to conserve all the available Soviet jet fuel until it was really needed.
Two gallons would get Hunter where he had to go. The question now was: how to get it. He cut the jet engine and drifted over the base. His guess was right, there were at least a dozen soldiers on guard duty near the base's fuel dump.
Another dozen or so were guarding the Yaks. No one was watching the SAMs though; apparently the Soviets weren't expecting any air attacks. He counted 26 soldiers in all, awake and armed. He had no idea how many other soldiers were sleeping somewhere on the base.
The situation called for a diversion. He landed the minijet about a half mile
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