SECTOR 64: Ambush Read Online Free
Author: Dean M. Cole
Captain," Sandy said. She playfully reached between his legs. Looking into his eyes with a mischievous smile, she said, "I have the ball, the hook is down."
"Ease up on the navy crap, or the hook might retract."
"Yeah right," she said, laughing. Still holding his member, she pulled him into bed.
***
WOMP, WOMP, WOMP.
The sound drilled into Jake's brain. Again, he reached for the fighter's instrument panel, pressing and then punching the cancel button in a futile effort to reset the incessant alert blaring from the flashing master-caution panel.
WOMP, WOMP, WOMP.
Frustration mounted as the fighter's computer still wouldn't accept his inputs.
My friend is dead, and now my fighter is dying too.
WOMP, WOMP, WOMP.
Even the alert sounds wrong … oh shit.
Dragging himself from the nightmare, his arm rose from the sheets and fell on the alarm clock.
The noise continued.
With a start, Jake realized it was his home phone that was ringing. He'd left the handset in the living room. "Guess it's working now."
Sandy stirred, mumbled something unintelligible, and went back to sleep.
After a quick kiss to the top of her head, he leapt from the bed. Sprinting through the living room and sliding to a stop in front of the phone, he checked the number.
No name displayed, but he recognized the area code: 202. From his many calls to the area's Air Force offices, he knew it very well. Washington D.C. This should be it.
After a hesitation, he answered. "Hello."
"Is this Captain Jake Giard?" asked a feminine voice.
"Uh … yes. Who's calling?"
"This is the Pentagon's office of Air Force Tactical Operations, Planning, and Development. Please hold for Captain Allison."
Before he could protest, inane elevator music told him she'd already placed him on hold. He was usually happy to hear from his old combat wingman. However, this morning he worried the line would be tied up when the real call came. Hurry up, Richard.
While waiting, Jake thought about the last time he'd seen his and Sandy's old flight school buddy, Richard Allison. He'd been in a hospital bed, only five hours after a near brush with death.
In spite of his impatience, he found himself wondering how Richard was handling ground duty. If only that bullet hadn't found its way into his engine.
***
— Twelve Months Earlier —
"Target is fifteen kilometers at two-seven-niner degrees. Estimate entry into Maverick missile range in thirty seconds," Jake said to his wingman.
"Roger, Gunslinger One-Three. Gunslinger Two-Six has visual on the target, now at heading: two-seven-eight, range: eleven kilometers. Target acquisition complete, missile armed," said Captain Richard Allison.
As Richard called out his target data, Jake, from his position off of the right wing of Richard's ground-attack configured fighter jet, was completing the same process for his target.
"I have lock-on, launching now," Richard said.
The Maverick missile roared as it left the FA-16, rapidly accelerating toward an ill-fated anti-aircraft missile launcher.
A shudder passed through Jake's fighter as his missile also ripped into the night sky. "Second missile is on the way."
The Mavericks bore down on the two anti-aircraft weapons. A brilliant flash illuminated the desert as the missiles struck their targets, detonating the warheads and rocket fuel on both launchers. The fireballs incinerated everything within two hundred meters.
"That should do the trick," Richard said.
"Roger, Gunslinger Two-Six. Let's do a quick BDA and head home."
"Roger, keep in tight," Richard replied as he turned inbound.
Beginning his post attack Battle Damage Assessment, Jake scanned the infrared display. After a few seconds, he smiled. "Scratch two more SA sixes."
"That's two less Surface-to-Air Missile launchers to dodge. I wish the Pakistani's would stop this crap from crossing the—" Captain Allison's radio transmission cut out mid-sentence as a stream of tracers sliced through the darkness directly in front of
"Ease up on the navy crap, or the hook might retract."
"Yeah right," she said, laughing. Still holding his member, she pulled him into bed.
***
WOMP, WOMP, WOMP.
The sound drilled into Jake's brain. Again, he reached for the fighter's instrument panel, pressing and then punching the cancel button in a futile effort to reset the incessant alert blaring from the flashing master-caution panel.
WOMP, WOMP, WOMP.
Frustration mounted as the fighter's computer still wouldn't accept his inputs.
My friend is dead, and now my fighter is dying too.
WOMP, WOMP, WOMP.
Even the alert sounds wrong … oh shit.
Dragging himself from the nightmare, his arm rose from the sheets and fell on the alarm clock.
The noise continued.
With a start, Jake realized it was his home phone that was ringing. He'd left the handset in the living room. "Guess it's working now."
Sandy stirred, mumbled something unintelligible, and went back to sleep.
After a quick kiss to the top of her head, he leapt from the bed. Sprinting through the living room and sliding to a stop in front of the phone, he checked the number.
No name displayed, but he recognized the area code: 202. From his many calls to the area's Air Force offices, he knew it very well. Washington D.C. This should be it.
After a hesitation, he answered. "Hello."
"Is this Captain Jake Giard?" asked a feminine voice.
"Uh … yes. Who's calling?"
"This is the Pentagon's office of Air Force Tactical Operations, Planning, and Development. Please hold for Captain Allison."
Before he could protest, inane elevator music told him she'd already placed him on hold. He was usually happy to hear from his old combat wingman. However, this morning he worried the line would be tied up when the real call came. Hurry up, Richard.
While waiting, Jake thought about the last time he'd seen his and Sandy's old flight school buddy, Richard Allison. He'd been in a hospital bed, only five hours after a near brush with death.
In spite of his impatience, he found himself wondering how Richard was handling ground duty. If only that bullet hadn't found its way into his engine.
***
— Twelve Months Earlier —
"Target is fifteen kilometers at two-seven-niner degrees. Estimate entry into Maverick missile range in thirty seconds," Jake said to his wingman.
"Roger, Gunslinger One-Three. Gunslinger Two-Six has visual on the target, now at heading: two-seven-eight, range: eleven kilometers. Target acquisition complete, missile armed," said Captain Richard Allison.
As Richard called out his target data, Jake, from his position off of the right wing of Richard's ground-attack configured fighter jet, was completing the same process for his target.
"I have lock-on, launching now," Richard said.
The Maverick missile roared as it left the FA-16, rapidly accelerating toward an ill-fated anti-aircraft missile launcher.
A shudder passed through Jake's fighter as his missile also ripped into the night sky. "Second missile is on the way."
The Mavericks bore down on the two anti-aircraft weapons. A brilliant flash illuminated the desert as the missiles struck their targets, detonating the warheads and rocket fuel on both launchers. The fireballs incinerated everything within two hundred meters.
"That should do the trick," Richard said.
"Roger, Gunslinger Two-Six. Let's do a quick BDA and head home."
"Roger, keep in tight," Richard replied as he turned inbound.
Beginning his post attack Battle Damage Assessment, Jake scanned the infrared display. After a few seconds, he smiled. "Scratch two more SA sixes."
"That's two less Surface-to-Air Missile launchers to dodge. I wish the Pakistani's would stop this crap from crossing the—" Captain Allison's radio transmission cut out mid-sentence as a stream of tracers sliced through the darkness directly in front of
Readers choose
Maureen A. Miller
Nile J. Limbaugh
Sarah Selecky
Elizabeth Gaskell
Alexa Riley
Carrie Ann Ryan
Isobel Kelly
Stan Arnold
Betty MacDonald