Arctic Fire Read Online Free

blankets. Tully, grab some of that hot brandy
there too.” Norton said.
    “Aye sir.”
    Propped between the two men, Norton gave the
German sailor a sip of brandy. He coughed a little and slowly
opened his eyes. They were dazed and confused but they were filled
with life.
    “There’s your miracle Mr. Sanders.” Norton
said.
    With shaking hands the sailor grabbed the brandy
flask. “ Danke. ” He drank slowly at first, but soon, the few
small sips quickly turned into swigs.
    “Easy there lad.” Norton said. “We don’t want to
have a drunkard on our hands.” The German sailor smiled weakly.
Norton reached into his pocket and took out a piece of hardtack and
gave it to the sailor. “You’re very lucky, if you hadn’t of had on
that dark colored jacket, we might never have seen you.
     
     
     
     
    Chapter
Three
     
    Present day
     
    The hot desert sun beat down mercilessly through
the Plexiglas canopy of his F-15 Eagle, turning the cockpit in to
an easy-bake oven, a stark contrast to the -30 degrees below zero
on the outside. His crew chief had warned him that the a/c unit was
not working properly but he wasn’t going to stand down because of
that. Melting now from the heat, he felt a trickle of sweat roll
down the side of his face; now he knew what the ants felt like when
he had held a magnifying glass over them when he was a kid.
    His breathing was practiced, slow, and steady
and the air had a slight rubber taste as he breathed. He could hear
each breath as he inhaled and exhaled through his oxygen mask, the
sound reminding him of Darth Vader. Today, he wouldn’t be using The Force ; instead he would be relying on his Raytheon
APG-63(V)3 radar and targeting system.
    A warning chirp and blip on his radar erased all
thoughts of The Force or the heat in his cockpit as he focused on
the screen as the one dot turned into two, then three, then
four.
    “Blackjack Two to Blackjack One. Picking up four
bogies, forty miles out.”
    “Roger Two, I’ve got’em. Maintain speed and
heading.”
    “Copy.”
    Colonel Douglas Madison glanced out of the
cockpit of his fighter. The dry desert sands and barren, craggy
rocks below painted a very bleak picture of what he would have to
parachute into if he were shot down… that is to say, if he
survived.
    Suddenly, alarms started sounding and his
wingman, Lieutenant Pat Packard, burst in over the radio.
    “We’ve been painted sir, confirmed bandits,
they’ve got a missile lock… they’ve fired at extreme range.
Tracking missiles.”
    Madison could hear the alarm in Packard’s voice,
but to his credit, he maintained control. Four missiles from
extreme range, yeah, with two-to-one odds, they could afford to
spray and pray missiles away, he couldn’t.
    “Afterburners now.” Madison commanded. “When you
get a lock, hold fire until you’re at fifteen miles then volley one
sparrow then toggle to sidewinders. Break hard on my command.”
Tongues of fire shot out of the Eagle’s twin engines and a loud
boom rolled over the desert floor as the two planes burst through
the sound barrier, rushing headlong into the face of the enemy.
    Madison’s plan was simple: close the gap between
themselves and the bandits, turn hard at the last possible moment
to defeat the incoming missiles, split the aggressors up and
through superior tactics and airmanship, neutralize the threat and
return home safely. Yeah, simple. Maybe he could use The
Force about now.
    In his mind’s eye, Madison could visualize the
approaching missiles, probably Russian AA-9 Amos, with their
blood-red tips closing on him at nearly mach 2.5. Two miles a
second.
    “Fox one, Break now!” Madison shouted. Madison
broke right and his wingman broke left as they criss-crossed.
Madison felt his straps digging into his shoulders as they held him
in place as he set the plane on its side in a knife edge turn. He
gritted his teeth from the strain as he entered the high-g turn and
began to feel a little lightheaded. His