Attack on Area 51 Read Online Free
Author: Mack Maloney
what was going on—it was impossible not to see the Sabre jet firing, twisting, firing again. It was moving so fast at times, it was little more than a blur.
In all, the incredible and deadly aerial ballet lasted only three minutes. The man flying the Sabre did not give up until all the bombers were shot down, their wreckage strewn along the empty streets near Football City’s docks or at the bottom of the Mississippi.
Then everything was quiet. The antiaircraft batteries stopped firing. The air raid sirens stopped blaring. Through it all, the Football City Air Force never got off the ground.
Still, not a single bomb had been dropped on the city.
The Sabre jet circled the air base once and then came down for a textbook landing.
As it taxied to its hardstand, the people standing outside the base’s fence gave a hearty cheer. They’d seen what the jet had done—and though they could hardly believe it, for the first time in a long time, the 10 th Street Crew’s bombers had not destroyed part of their beloved-if-grimy city.
The Sabre jet finally rolled to a stop. Its engine quickly shut down and its canopy popped open. An access ladder appeared and was put against the fuselage.
St. Louis bounded up the steps, realizing with some horror that the Sabre jet was perforated with hundreds of holes, received not from the attacking bombers, but from friendly fire coming from Football City’s game, but wildly inaccurate, antiaircraft batteries.
St. Louis reached the top of the ladder just as the pilot was taking off his battered crash helmet. The man looked up at St. Louis and said, “Did I really just do that?”
St. Louis didn’t reply. He couldn’t—he was too choked up. His city had been spared, at least for tonight, and he owed it all to this man.
He finally allowed the ground crew personnel to take over and help the pilot out of the heavily damaged Sabre jet. By that point, a number of Football City’s military leaders had gathered near the plane.
As they watched the mystery man being placed back on a stretcher and wheeled back to the military hospital, St. Louis turned to them and smiled through his tears.
“There’s no doubt in my mind now,” he said. “That man is Hawk Hunter.”
Part Two: The Universe Next Door
Chapter 5
One week later
H UNTER WAS VERY uncomfortable lying on the couch.
It was too short for his six-foot frame and felt like it was stuffed with rocks. Squirming did him no good. He just couldn’t find the right position to get comfortable and settle down.
Sitting close by, pen and pad in hand, was Football City’s most preeminent—and only—psychiatrist. The questions had been coming nonstop for the past half hour.
What is your earliest memory? Did your parents love you? Why do you think you have this compulsion to fly? Why do you always carry your helmet around with you?
Hunter answered as best he could. His memory had cleared, somewhat, just as he was landing the Sabre jet after shooting down the twelve enemy bombers a week before. He knew his name, knew where he was born, knew when he’d started flying. He remembered World War III and the feeling of being stabbed in the back when the quisling vice president allowed the center of the country to be nuked. He remembered the nightmare of the aftermath.
He remembered a lot of it—but not all of it. He knew who Ben, JT, and St. Louis were right away, but other names and faces just weren’t coming to him. And while he remembered blasting off in the Zon spacecraft more than ten years ago, what happened after that was entirely fuzzy.
That’s why he was there, on the shrink’s couch, at St. Louis’s suggestion. If he could unlock the rest of his memory, he might be able to explain how he’d survived in space after the big comet explosion and where he’d been in the interim.
But it wasn’t only this blank memory or the barrage of questions that was making him squirm.
The psychiatrist was making him a little jumpy as
In all, the incredible and deadly aerial ballet lasted only three minutes. The man flying the Sabre did not give up until all the bombers were shot down, their wreckage strewn along the empty streets near Football City’s docks or at the bottom of the Mississippi.
Then everything was quiet. The antiaircraft batteries stopped firing. The air raid sirens stopped blaring. Through it all, the Football City Air Force never got off the ground.
Still, not a single bomb had been dropped on the city.
The Sabre jet circled the air base once and then came down for a textbook landing.
As it taxied to its hardstand, the people standing outside the base’s fence gave a hearty cheer. They’d seen what the jet had done—and though they could hardly believe it, for the first time in a long time, the 10 th Street Crew’s bombers had not destroyed part of their beloved-if-grimy city.
The Sabre jet finally rolled to a stop. Its engine quickly shut down and its canopy popped open. An access ladder appeared and was put against the fuselage.
St. Louis bounded up the steps, realizing with some horror that the Sabre jet was perforated with hundreds of holes, received not from the attacking bombers, but from friendly fire coming from Football City’s game, but wildly inaccurate, antiaircraft batteries.
St. Louis reached the top of the ladder just as the pilot was taking off his battered crash helmet. The man looked up at St. Louis and said, “Did I really just do that?”
St. Louis didn’t reply. He couldn’t—he was too choked up. His city had been spared, at least for tonight, and he owed it all to this man.
He finally allowed the ground crew personnel to take over and help the pilot out of the heavily damaged Sabre jet. By that point, a number of Football City’s military leaders had gathered near the plane.
As they watched the mystery man being placed back on a stretcher and wheeled back to the military hospital, St. Louis turned to them and smiled through his tears.
“There’s no doubt in my mind now,” he said. “That man is Hawk Hunter.”
Part Two: The Universe Next Door
Chapter 5
One week later
H UNTER WAS VERY uncomfortable lying on the couch.
It was too short for his six-foot frame and felt like it was stuffed with rocks. Squirming did him no good. He just couldn’t find the right position to get comfortable and settle down.
Sitting close by, pen and pad in hand, was Football City’s most preeminent—and only—psychiatrist. The questions had been coming nonstop for the past half hour.
What is your earliest memory? Did your parents love you? Why do you think you have this compulsion to fly? Why do you always carry your helmet around with you?
Hunter answered as best he could. His memory had cleared, somewhat, just as he was landing the Sabre jet after shooting down the twelve enemy bombers a week before. He knew his name, knew where he was born, knew when he’d started flying. He remembered World War III and the feeling of being stabbed in the back when the quisling vice president allowed the center of the country to be nuked. He remembered the nightmare of the aftermath.
He remembered a lot of it—but not all of it. He knew who Ben, JT, and St. Louis were right away, but other names and faces just weren’t coming to him. And while he remembered blasting off in the Zon spacecraft more than ten years ago, what happened after that was entirely fuzzy.
That’s why he was there, on the shrink’s couch, at St. Louis’s suggestion. If he could unlock the rest of his memory, he might be able to explain how he’d survived in space after the big comet explosion and where he’d been in the interim.
But it wasn’t only this blank memory or the barrage of questions that was making him squirm.
The psychiatrist was making him a little jumpy as
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