Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 06 Read Online Free

           “Too
bad,” the voice on the phone said, “but I got an idea. Want to do some flying?”
                 The
sun that had come out in his heart a few moments before was now setting his
soul on fire, and Brad fairly leapt to his feet. The waders suddenly felt as if
they weighed a thousand pounds. “What’s going on?” Brad asked excitedly. “What
are you up to now?”
                 “Look
to the south and find out.”
                 Brad
did—and saw nothing. He had a brief, sinking feeling that this was all a hoax,
some complicated and brutal joke . . .
                 ...
but then he felt it, that sound, that feeling. It was a change in the
atmosphere, an electricity flowing through the air stirring and ionizing the
moist sea breeze. It felt like an electric current flowing through nearby high-tension
power lines, a snap of unseen force that made little hairs stand up on your
skin. Then you feel the air pressure rising, of a thin column of air being
pushed ahead like air streaming out of a giant hypodermic needle aimed right at
you, the plunger being pushed by what could very well be God’s thumb, but was,
Brad knew, a very human construct . . .
                 .
. . and then the overcast parted and the clouds disgorged a huge black
aircraft. It was low, pointed, and very deadly-looking. Brad expected it to roar
past him, but instead it hissed by like a giant ebony viper on the move across
a jungle floor. Only when the monstrous vehicle had zoomed past him, barely a
hundred feet above the Pacific and almost directly overhead, could he hear the
thunder of its eight turbofan engines ... no, Brad realized with faint shock,
not eight, only four engines, but
four huge engines. The aircraft
banked hard to the left, showing its long, thin fuselage, its long, low,
swept-back V-tail ruddervators, its wide wings tipped with pointed tip
tanks—and yes, it carried weapon fairings on its wings, stealthy pods that
enclosed externally-carried weapons. It was not only flying, but the damned
beautiful creature was armed.
                 “What
do you think, Brad?” retired Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Patrick McLanahan
asked on the cell phone. “You like it?”
                 “Like
it?” retired Air Force Lieutenant General Bradley James Elliott gasped. “Like it? Its the ...” He had to be
careful—last he knew, the EB-52 Megafortress defense-suppression and attack bomber
was still highly classified. “. . . its flying again!”
                 “It
may be the only model flying in a few months, Brad,” McLanahan said. “The Air
Force let us play with a couple. We need crews to fly them and commanders to
organize a new unit. If you’re interested, climb aboard the Gulfstream that’ll
be waiting for you at Newport Municipal in two hours.”
                 “I’ll
be there!” Elliott shouted as the Megafortress climbed back into the overcast
and disappeared from view. “I’ll be there! Don’t you dare leave without me!”
Bradley James Elliott dropped the phone onto the deck, quickly stepped forward
to the bow, began reeling in the sea anchor, swore because it wasn’t coming in
fast enough, then simply detached it from the bow cleat and dropped it
overboard. He did the same with the fishing rod. The cold diesel engine was
cranky and wouldn’t start on the third try, but thankfully it started on the
fourth, because Elliott was ready to jump out and run all the way back to Newport . After seeing the Megafortress again, a new Megafortress, he felt light and
happy enough to give walking on water a try.
                 It
was back. It was really back . . . and so, with the grace of God, was he.
     
    OVER THE SOUTH CHINA SEA ,
TWO HUNDRED MILES
    SOUTHWEST OF PRATAS ISLAND
    SUNDAY, 18 MAY 1997 ,
2200 HOURS LOCAL ( 17
MAY, 1300 HOURS ET)
     
                “Doors coming open! Stand by!