John J. Nance
UNITED PRESS INTERNATIONAL
In the wake of wilderness hurricane, a defecting Iraqi scientist has published Saddam Hussein's frightening plans for a devastating counterstrike opposed to his enemies...and the realm. without time to spare, American forces needs to remobilize to find and neutralize the underground laboratory the place a deadly super-virus is able to be unleashed. yet an eleventh-hour catastrophe thrusts the whole venture into the fingers of Air strength comrades-in-arms Colonel Will Westerman and Reserve Colonel-turned-commercial pilot Doug Harris. Flying into the guts of Iraqi strength, they need to rely on their skills--and each one other--as by no means earlier than, to accomplish a venture that appears a growing number of like a suicide run...
From the Paperback edition.
Hung again and waited for the explosion as Harris yanked open the door of the olive drab foldable, moveable ALCE field and charged inside of. “Who the hell is in command of this place?” He stepped into the enclosure because the six-foot-two body of Will Westerman moved from the a ways finish to confront him. either males stared at one another in stark silence for what looked as if it would Ronson and Taylor like a complete minute. Harris’s palms were on his hips. They now slithered to his part, an involuntary gesture.
grasp manipulator, and demagogue—but now not a madman like Hitler. whereas learning one weekend within the library at Oxford, in the course of his baccalaureate years, while he were soaking up every thing western, he had run around the newly came across plans of the 3rd Reich for the British humans. The wonderful brutality of the postwar blueprint used to be past the comprehension of a sane brain: all British males will be exterminated; all British ladies will be enslaved, many for the informal sexual use of German.
Correction. I slightly acquired it out.” “Roger. I’m sorry.” “We’d particularly now not have you ever return as a unicorn tonight,” the boomer extra. undesirable time for humor, fellow, Doug idea to himself. clone of a C-141 flying to an emergency restoration base with the ripped-off refueling growth nonetheless caught within the refueling receptacle used to be now not a laugh. Beads of perspiration have been far and wide Will’s brow now. there has been little time for such blunders, as he knew good. “How a lot did we get?” Will requested the engineer.
As Sandra took it as a cue and leaned out the window, waving frantically, even supposing she knew deep down they have been nonetheless too far-off. “He’s turning! Come on, child! flip that mom around!” Doug yelled. however the flip stopped with the MH-53 dealing with east, now not south. And as they watched with sinking hearts, it all started to maneuver in that course. “An A-10, to the right!” Sandra’s voice rang out abruptly as a Warthog flashed around the horizon to their correct and maybe ten miles away, then banking again.
organic guns manufacturing facility in Baghdad—“we gotta close them down somehow.” “Maybe Peter Arnett may perhaps find it for us,” one of many staff stated. extra laughter. “Now,” the President answered with out a smile, index finger within the air, “that brings up whatever. this can be, and should stay, most sensible mystery. There had larger be no leaks in this one, parents. each person obtained that? there'll be no point out of, or affirmation of, something to do with Iraqi organic guns, or our wasteland raid on that lab, or the.