John J. Nance
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UNITED PRESS INTERNATIONAL
In the wake of Desert Storm, a defecting Iraqi scientist has revealed Saddam Hussein's horrifying plans for a devastating counterstrike against his enemies...and the world. With no time to spare, American forces must remobilize to locate and neutralize the underground laboratory where a lethal super-virus is ready to be unleashed. But an eleventh-hour disaster thrusts the entire mission into the hands of Air Force comrades-in-arms Colonel Will Westerman and Reserve Colonel-turned-commercial pilot Doug Harris. Flying into the heart of Iraqi power, they must depend on their skills--and each other--as never before, to complete a mission that looks more and more like a suicide run...
From the Paperback edition.
the biological agent retrieved from Iraq—which was the only key the United States and the Coalition had to formulate an antidote or any personnel defense strategies—are still here in the lab, but all of them have been neutralized. Someone purposefully put both vials in that kiln and killed the virus.” “What? You don’t think …” McCarthy stood up and addressed an Army colonel. “Read him his rights, Colonel, and let’s put the rest of this on the record. When he’s had access to criminal defense
what appeared to be several hundred meters above the ground. Airspeed! Where the hell’s my airspeed indicator! The labels were all indecipherable, but the airspeed needle was unmistakable, and Doug included it in his frantic instrument scan as the gyrating, slipping, yawing, and pitching Hind began to increase forward speed, stabilizing slowly as it went. At last they were moving forward, at least fifty or sixty knots and accelerating—enough forward airspeed for the helicopter to take on the
still there, and perhaps he still had paper. Yes, there it was. He pulled it out and knelt down suddenly, using his knee as a writing board, his hand hastily sketching the design of a particular molecule along with its chemical description. “Please come quickly,” he wrote in English. “I have important information.” He signed it, stood, and pushed the scrap of paper at the Saudi, who had remained impassive but somehow clinically interested in the prisoner’s odd behavior. The Saudi took it,
in pain and beginning to hallucinate with the fever. They were thankful when he slipped back into a deep sleep. The three of them pulled the little airplane over to the entrance, keeping it hidden as Sandra hugged each of them, fought back tears, and strapped in. “Taxi straight out to the highway, the way we came in, take off that way, then turn back immediately and keep it at treetop level. I figure we’re no more than fifty miles north. Go due south, but avoid anything and everything human.
headed out again, this time bouncing east straight across the desert with the two Iraqis—brothers named Amal and Harun—sandwiched between them on the front seat. Doug braked again, another stretch of loose sand looming ahead. “Are you sure about this, Amal?” “Yes, yes! I am sure. This … is right … is right point for to get … for going to American base.” Amal could speak broken English, Harun could not, which made for a hilarious routine of not-so-simultaneous translation. Harun would speak in