The Mercenary Read Free

fingertips as adrenaline shot through him. Every sense was heightened, every
feeling amplified. His reflexes were keyed and even his vision seemed
sharper.
    Suddenly the jet shot out from the weather deck.
Reacting instantly, the pilot pulled the throttles out of afterburner and the
jet once again vanished into the darkness.
    Momentarily disoriented by the bright moon glow
against the clouds, he blinked rapidly behind the goggles. Bunting the nose over
slightly, he glanced at the radar to get a bearing, then stared outside. Unlike
a western fighter, the FLANKER had no visual pointing cues in the HUD to help a
pilot see the target. But that was what the goggles were for.
    And there it was.
    A blind man couldn’t miss it . . .
especially with NVGs. About three miles away and maybe 2,000 feet above him. He
was slightly behind and below the wingline of the big airliner. Almost a perfect
intercept position. He wasn’t visible from the cockpit and the chances of a
passenger happening to see and understand the flash from the afterburners was
very small.
    But he was much, much too fast. Overshooting the
airliner vertically, he rolled upside down to keep it in sight and stabilized
about 1,000 feet above the commercial jet. Pulling back hard on the stick, he
used gravity to slow down. With his left thumb he slid the switch forward that
opened the big speed brake and the FLANKER shuddered as it lost speed. Inverted,
the mercenary snap-rolled the jet and pulled back down behind the other
aircraft.
    It was a Boeing 777 and he could see the Delta
markings on the tail. Jockeying the throttles, he carefully closed to a mile and
exactly matched the airliner’s airspeed. Quickly cross-checking his own engine
gauges and fuel, he then switched the ZHUK radar back to standby. Bumping up
slightly, he maintained a high position directly behind the airliner’s tail and
toggled on the autopilot. This position would keep him out of the jet wash and
completely invisible to those on board.
    Relaxing then, he shifted in the seat, dropped his
mask and ran a gloved finger around the inside of his helmet. Eyeing the Time
over Target Display, the pilot saw they were right on schedule. Seventy-five
miles to the BULAN intersection and the next reporting point. After that to
PABSCO. Then straight into Taipei. He allowed himself another smile. No need to
worry about Taiwan’s air defenses now.
    The airliner had just opened the door.
    â€œS ir.”
The Taiwanese sergeant put his headset down and swiveled his chair around. “That
Delta flight is over BULAN”—he stifled a yawn—“and a Lufthansa jet is reporting
APITO.”
    Captain Wang waved nonchalantly. He got off in less
than an hour and was thinking about his current girlfriend. She was an Air
Singapore flight attendant, almost twenty-three years old, and in a hurry to
experience life. That made him grin. Her more exotic requests often left him
exhausted. Not to mention bent. The thought of her young, naked body lying in
his bed was far more pleasant than the position of commercial airliners.
    The buzzing of the phone interrupted his thoughts
of nipples and tight skin. The sergeant turned again. “Sir . . . the
ICC is reporting something odd.”
    â€œSo . . . ?”
    The sergeant swallowed hard. He was clearly not
happy to irritate his officer. “The ICC reports that the Early Warning site at
Sungsan reported a possible midair collision incident with the Delta
airliner.”
    Wang frowned. “With whom?”
    â€œThe supervisor didn’t know. It was a spurious
contact . . . only visible long enough to trip their threshold.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    The sergeant shrugged. “It disappeared.”
    Wang suppressed a sigh. “And yet the Delta jet is
alive and well over BULAN.”
    Just then the other hotline buzzed and Wang picked
it up himself. It was the direct link to the Engagement Control Station.