Final Storm Read Online Free

erupted in searing geysers of fire that grew larger with every airplane and fuel tank that was added to the angry tempest.
    The two sets of fires grew in size and ferocity until they met near the center of the main runway, devouring several Cuban-marked Hind helicopters and igniting an underground ammunition bunker.
    “Bingo!” Elvis cried out as he saw the tell-tale greenish-white flame of tons of rifle ammo going off.
    Within seconds, the secondary explosions started successive chain reactions among the nearby fuel storage tanks, bursting one after another until the entire fuel depot was one sprawling sheet of flame.
    Less than a minute after the jets had departed the area, the entire airport was engulfed in a wind-whipped firestorm, one which generated temperatures so hot, the asphalt on its runways literally melted.
    Arcing his swift Phantom around to survey the scene, Crunch realized the extent of the destruction at the airport. So intense was the inferno that the fires were beginning to spread beyond the airport’s perimeter and on to other parts of the island. Their mission was complete; the target was destroyed. There would be no need for a second pass.
    Crunch felt a brief pang of remorse. He had visited Bermuda many years ago—on his honeymoon yet—and had always remembered it as a peaceful island paradise, noted especially for its calm and cooling ocean breezes.
    Now it looked like a little piece of Hell itself.
    Picking up his partner on the back side of his turn, Crunch took one last look at the towering column of flame and black smoke over the airport. Then he kicked in his afterburner and roared away to the west, leading the Phantoms of the Ace Wrecking Crew back to Cherry Point.
    As it had many mornings before, the beat-up shuttle bus labored up the winding road to the skyscraper’s hilltop entrance and approached a small guard station.
    “Everyone stay cool,” Hunter calmly called back to the Rangers. “Here comes our first potential problem.”
    No longer crouching in the aisle, the Rangers, now wearing long white sheets and hoods, were sitting two by two in the seats on the lower deck of the bus. The strange disguise was a key to the mission. Humdingo had found out several weeks before that a number of criminal gangs from the American mainland—neo-Nazis, Mafioso, air pirates—regularly visited Bermuda at the invitation of the New Order ministers. Provided guns, drugs and prostitutes, these gangs would eventually return to America and whip up trouble.
    Now, the United Americans’ plan called for the strike team to play the part of one of the more notorious racist gangs Humdingo knew were actually elsewhere on the island.
    Humdingo slowed the bus as it reached the guardhouse. Inside the small building was a Vietnamese lieutenant. The chief gave the man a routine wave and handed him an envelope. The guard, who recognized the old bus, quickly read the note which authorized the Knights of the Burning Cross to proceed to the skyscraper. Hardly looking up from the dog-eared nudie magazine he was reading, the Vietnamese officer waved the bus through.
    “Thank you, Ho Chi Minh,” Hunter whispered as Humdingo gunned the bus past the guardhouse and into the small parking lot next to the skyscraper. They came to a stop in front of a combination blockhouse and bus stop shelter, which was right next to the entrance to the building’s little-used underground parking garage.
    Nearby a large closed-circuit video camera rotated monotonously back and forth across the approachway, its cold unblinking eye passing over the bus several times.
    To the rear of the bus was a spectacular view of the Atlantic Ocean. On cue, the Rangers turned and let out a chorus of “ooos” and “aahs.” Then several who were carrying cameras began clicking away. Meanwhile, Hunter stood and addressed the group in mostly incomprehensible pidgin English.
    To the half-dozen New Order guards—mercenaries all—sprawled around the bus