Holding Their Own VII: Phoenix Star Read Online Free Page A
Author: Joe Nobody
grain armor-piercing round at less than 100 yards.
The shell easily penetrated the cockpit glass, missing the pilot’s head by mere inches and continuing through the secondary hull into the machinery compartments. One of the sophisticated aircraft’s many computers was shattered by the huge bullet, that specific processor managing the bird’s fire control systems.
Warning lights illuminated the now-crippled copter’s dash, the shaken pilot no longer concerned with hunting the rifle team below. He managed to maintain control of his stricken aircraft, but only barely. Announcing his departure over the radio, he pointed his bird east and accelerated for Fort Hood.
Despite the destruction and mayhem, the second wave of Blackhawks vectored in on the LZ. Scarred by blackened sand and still-smoldering debris, one of the NCOs yelled, “Welcome to hell, men. Enjoy your stay!” as the bird touched down.
The second wave of infantry disembarked, undeterred by the carnage surrounding them. If anything, the death and destruction motivated the troops as they fanned out toward their objectives.
As per Nick’s orders, the long distance shooters faded away. The Alliance was willing to give up the Army’s trucks, their strategic importance unworthy of a pitched battle they knew was unwinnable.
Within minutes of the initial artillery barrage, the grind of cranking engines replaced the reports of battle. With the remaining Apache and Kiowa overhead, the line of military transports began pulling out of the parking lot and heading east toward Fort Hood.
Before the skyline of Midland Station had faded behind the last truck in the line, commanders were receiving reports. Both sides felt as if they had fared poorly in the skirmish, with the US Army reporting 14 dead and 3 wounded. Two aircraft were lost, one lightly damaged.
The Alliance lost five men, over 20 trucks, a warehouse, and a lot of confidence.
Chapter 2
Camp David, Maryland
July 21
The gentle crackle and warm glow of the fire didn’t help the Colonel’s mood. Nor did the expansive, comfortable sitting room of his Camp David quarters. His companions for the evening, a reasonable cigar, and half-full glass of brandy managed to keep his famous temper in check – but just.
It was bad enough being physically and mentally exhausted, the result of a four-day, non-stop excursion through eastern Iowa. Returning late the previous night, his Air Force shuttle had touched down at Andrews in the wee hours of the morning. By the time he’d been driven back to Camp David, the rest of the presidential staff had turned in, and that had suited the bone-weary traveler just fine.
No, it wasn’t the travel-induced fatigue that simmered his anger. He was a man conditioned to long periods of denying his body proper rest. It was the news of recent events in West Texas that threatened to boil over his emotions.
Rising early on just a few hours’ rest, the Colonel had headed into the presidential staff meeting expecting an agenda focused on the results of his trip. He had used the in-air time to compile a preliminary report, addressing the current conditions of several pipelines that traversed through the nation’s heartland. It was critical information, data projecting how many millions would have heat in the coming winter months. The effort was for naught.
Instead, he’d stepped into a shit-flinging tempest of infighting, primarily due to recent events in West Texas… events the Colonel found deeply troubling.
A cloud of blue fog surrounded the fireside chair as he exhaled a lungful of cigar smoke. Reaching into his back pocket, he produced a wallet and opened the worn leather to gaze at a faded photo of his grandchildren.
The smile passed from his lips as his thumb settled to flip to the second photograph. He hesitated, wondering if he should. “What the hell ,” he thought, and turned to the next image.
A vivacious Beverly Porter grinned back at him, her
The shell easily penetrated the cockpit glass, missing the pilot’s head by mere inches and continuing through the secondary hull into the machinery compartments. One of the sophisticated aircraft’s many computers was shattered by the huge bullet, that specific processor managing the bird’s fire control systems.
Warning lights illuminated the now-crippled copter’s dash, the shaken pilot no longer concerned with hunting the rifle team below. He managed to maintain control of his stricken aircraft, but only barely. Announcing his departure over the radio, he pointed his bird east and accelerated for Fort Hood.
Despite the destruction and mayhem, the second wave of Blackhawks vectored in on the LZ. Scarred by blackened sand and still-smoldering debris, one of the NCOs yelled, “Welcome to hell, men. Enjoy your stay!” as the bird touched down.
The second wave of infantry disembarked, undeterred by the carnage surrounding them. If anything, the death and destruction motivated the troops as they fanned out toward their objectives.
As per Nick’s orders, the long distance shooters faded away. The Alliance was willing to give up the Army’s trucks, their strategic importance unworthy of a pitched battle they knew was unwinnable.
Within minutes of the initial artillery barrage, the grind of cranking engines replaced the reports of battle. With the remaining Apache and Kiowa overhead, the line of military transports began pulling out of the parking lot and heading east toward Fort Hood.
Before the skyline of Midland Station had faded behind the last truck in the line, commanders were receiving reports. Both sides felt as if they had fared poorly in the skirmish, with the US Army reporting 14 dead and 3 wounded. Two aircraft were lost, one lightly damaged.
The Alliance lost five men, over 20 trucks, a warehouse, and a lot of confidence.
Chapter 2
Camp David, Maryland
July 21
The gentle crackle and warm glow of the fire didn’t help the Colonel’s mood. Nor did the expansive, comfortable sitting room of his Camp David quarters. His companions for the evening, a reasonable cigar, and half-full glass of brandy managed to keep his famous temper in check – but just.
It was bad enough being physically and mentally exhausted, the result of a four-day, non-stop excursion through eastern Iowa. Returning late the previous night, his Air Force shuttle had touched down at Andrews in the wee hours of the morning. By the time he’d been driven back to Camp David, the rest of the presidential staff had turned in, and that had suited the bone-weary traveler just fine.
No, it wasn’t the travel-induced fatigue that simmered his anger. He was a man conditioned to long periods of denying his body proper rest. It was the news of recent events in West Texas that threatened to boil over his emotions.
Rising early on just a few hours’ rest, the Colonel had headed into the presidential staff meeting expecting an agenda focused on the results of his trip. He had used the in-air time to compile a preliminary report, addressing the current conditions of several pipelines that traversed through the nation’s heartland. It was critical information, data projecting how many millions would have heat in the coming winter months. The effort was for naught.
Instead, he’d stepped into a shit-flinging tempest of infighting, primarily due to recent events in West Texas… events the Colonel found deeply troubling.
A cloud of blue fog surrounded the fireside chair as he exhaled a lungful of cigar smoke. Reaching into his back pocket, he produced a wallet and opened the worn leather to gaze at a faded photo of his grandchildren.
The smile passed from his lips as his thumb settled to flip to the second photograph. He hesitated, wondering if he should. “What the hell ,” he thought, and turned to the next image.
A vivacious Beverly Porter grinned back at him, her
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