now?
He hastily scanned the copter's control systems. What the hell was he supposed to do again? Was it add power and dive? Or cut back and flip over? The T-72 was his main target—it seemed to constitute the greatest threat at the moment. But should he postpone firing at the tank and take out the nearest AA battery first? Or should he continue on to his main target and hope the AA gunners were not accurate with their first shots? And what about the Fulcrums? Could they shoot him before he could shoot the tank?
Norton didn't know the answers to these questions or the few million others racing through his brain. So he just jammed the stick forward and increased throttle, not waiting for the copter's computer to reply. He was going in on the tank.
But suddenly a SAM warning buzzer went off in his ear. One of the SA-6 surface-to-air missiles had been fired at him. Damn! He'd forgotten all about them! More out of self-preservation than anything else, Norton leaned even further on the controls, plunging two hundred feet in three seconds and miraculously dodging the SAM streaking up towards him.
He somehow recovered flight at 250 feet and realigned himself with the tank. But was he now too low to fire his antitank missiles? Should he pull up and go around again? Should he fire at that AA gun sitting on the eastern edge of the town first, then try for the tank?
While all this was bouncing around Norton's skull, yet another cockpit buzzer went off. It was his fuel warning light—he was past his bingo point. He now did not have enough fuel to get back to base. Another buzzer went off. A stream of AA was heading right for him. Then another buzzer began screaming.
Norton looked up just in time to see the Aphid AA missile coming right at him. The Fulcrum that had fired it at him was already pulling up and away.
The missile hit the copter a second later. Norton saw yellow flame first. Then orange. Then deep red.
Then everything just went black. . . .
*****
"OK . . . end simulation!"
The lights came back on, and Norton took a long, deep troubled breath. He was bathed in sweat and the insides of the helicopter simulator were beginning to smell rank again. He looked at his hands. They were trembling. His lips were cut and bleeding, sliced by his own teeth. His knees felt made of water. He'd been through 127 simulations in three days, and at last it was taking a toll on him. Like a recurring nightmare, he always faced the same scenario. He had to ice a tank before either AA or SAMs or Fulcrums iced him—and always, he failed to deliver and survive. Either the Fulcrums got him or the ground fire did. It seemed impossible to beat both threats at the same time.
Such was the fate of a fighter jock being made to fly a chopper.
The past dozen days had been the strangest in his life. From Fallon to here, to St. Louis, to Thule, and back here again. The cruelest joke was, he wasn't even sure where "here" was. Not exactly anyway. He knew he was on an island, and the island was somewhere off the southern tip of Florida. And he knew this island was run by the CIA as a secret training site for operations to be undertaken elsewhere. But other than his trip to St. Louis to pick up Delaney, and their quick hop to the top of the world to recruit Gillis and Ricco, he'd spent just about all of his waking hours locked inside this smelly Tin Can, drowning in his own sweat, trying to learn how to fly an attack helicopter without ever leaving the ground—and losing every time.
It was called UIT—ultra-intensive training. So far, for him, it had been a bust.
The Tin Can was the nickname for the HSM—or Helicopter Simulator Module. It was in the subbasement of Hangar 2, the huge barn located right next door to the smaller warehouse building that housed his quarters. A short tunnel connected both structures, thus negating the need for him to actually go outside and see the sun or breathe the air, unless he was going to chow, which was
He hastily scanned the copter's control systems. What the hell was he supposed to do again? Was it add power and dive? Or cut back and flip over? The T-72 was his main target—it seemed to constitute the greatest threat at the moment. But should he postpone firing at the tank and take out the nearest AA battery first? Or should he continue on to his main target and hope the AA gunners were not accurate with their first shots? And what about the Fulcrums? Could they shoot him before he could shoot the tank?
Norton didn't know the answers to these questions or the few million others racing through his brain. So he just jammed the stick forward and increased throttle, not waiting for the copter's computer to reply. He was going in on the tank.
But suddenly a SAM warning buzzer went off in his ear. One of the SA-6 surface-to-air missiles had been fired at him. Damn! He'd forgotten all about them! More out of self-preservation than anything else, Norton leaned even further on the controls, plunging two hundred feet in three seconds and miraculously dodging the SAM streaking up towards him.
He somehow recovered flight at 250 feet and realigned himself with the tank. But was he now too low to fire his antitank missiles? Should he pull up and go around again? Should he fire at that AA gun sitting on the eastern edge of the town first, then try for the tank?
While all this was bouncing around Norton's skull, yet another cockpit buzzer went off. It was his fuel warning light—he was past his bingo point. He now did not have enough fuel to get back to base. Another buzzer went off. A stream of AA was heading right for him. Then another buzzer began screaming.
Norton looked up just in time to see the Aphid AA missile coming right at him. The Fulcrum that had fired it at him was already pulling up and away.
The missile hit the copter a second later. Norton saw yellow flame first. Then orange. Then deep red.
Then everything just went black. . . .
*****
"OK . . . end simulation!"
The lights came back on, and Norton took a long, deep troubled breath. He was bathed in sweat and the insides of the helicopter simulator were beginning to smell rank again. He looked at his hands. They were trembling. His lips were cut and bleeding, sliced by his own teeth. His knees felt made of water. He'd been through 127 simulations in three days, and at last it was taking a toll on him. Like a recurring nightmare, he always faced the same scenario. He had to ice a tank before either AA or SAMs or Fulcrums iced him—and always, he failed to deliver and survive. Either the Fulcrums got him or the ground fire did. It seemed impossible to beat both threats at the same time.
Such was the fate of a fighter jock being made to fly a chopper.
The past dozen days had been the strangest in his life. From Fallon to here, to St. Louis, to Thule, and back here again. The cruelest joke was, he wasn't even sure where "here" was. Not exactly anyway. He knew he was on an island, and the island was somewhere off the southern tip of Florida. And he knew this island was run by the CIA as a secret training site for operations to be undertaken elsewhere. But other than his trip to St. Louis to pick up Delaney, and their quick hop to the top of the world to recruit Gillis and Ricco, he'd spent just about all of his waking hours locked inside this smelly Tin Can, drowning in his own sweat, trying to learn how to fly an attack helicopter without ever leaving the ground—and losing every time.
It was called UIT—ultra-intensive training. So far, for him, it had been a bust.
The Tin Can was the nickname for the HSM—or Helicopter Simulator Module. It was in the subbasement of Hangar 2, the huge barn located right next door to the smaller warehouse building that housed his quarters. A short tunnel connected both structures, thus negating the need for him to actually go outside and see the sun or breathe the air, unless he was going to chow, which was
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