Slingshot

Начало книги

“Got a bogey at three o’clock high. Range about six hundred miles.” Johnson spoke casually, but his voice in the intercom was thin with tension.

Captain Paul Coulter, commanding Space Fighter 308, 58th Squadron, 33rd Fighter Wing, glanced up out of his canopy in the direction indicated, and smiled to himself at the instinctive reaction. Nothing there but the familiar starry backdrop, the moon far down to the left. If the light wasn’t right, a ship might be invisible at half a mile. He squeezed the throttle mike button. “Any IFF?”

“No IFF.”

“O.K., let me know as soon as you have his course.” Coulter squashed out his cigar and began his cockpit check, grinning without humor as he noticed that his breathing had deepened and his palms were moist on the controls. He looked down to make sure his radio was snug in its pocket on his leg; checked the thigh harness of his emergency rocket, wrapped in its thick belly pad; checked the paired tanks of oxygen behind him, hanging level from his shoulders into their niche in the “cradle.” He flipped his helmet closed, locked it, and opened it again. He tossed a sardonic salute at the photograph of a young lady who graced the side of the cockpit. “Wish us luck, sugar.” He pressed the mike button again.

Читать дальше →