Warrior Class

by Brown, Dale

• ISBN13: 9780425184462
• ISBN10: 0425184463
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2002-05-07
• Publisher: Berkley

Summary

Patrick McLanahan, the hero pilot from Dale Brown's blockbuster debut, Flight of the Old Dog, returns in his newest bestseller, Warrior Class. A Russian oil magnate seizes power using the army to back him up. Soon, Russia will dominate Europe-unless McLanahan turns a simple rescue operation into full-scale havoc. "Plenty of suspense, familiar characters and action." (Virginian-Pilot) "A superb storyteller." (W.E.B. Griffin) "His ability to bring technical weaponry to life is amazing." (San Francisco Chronicle)

Author Biography

Former U.S. Air Force captain Dale Brown is the author of several best-selling military-action-aviation-adventure novels: Flight of the Old Dog (1987), Silver Tower (1988), Day of the Cheetah (1989), Hammerheads (1990), Sky Masters (1991), Night of the Hawk (1992), Chains of Command (1993), Storming Heaven (1994) and Shadows of Steel (1996). Dale's novels are published in 11 languages and distributed to over 70 countries.

Dale was born in Buffalo, New York on November 2, 1956. He graduated from Penn State University and received an Air Force commission in 1978. He was a navigator-bombardier in the B-52G Stratofortress heavy bomber and the FB-111A supersonic medium bomber, and is the recipient of several military decorations and awards including the Air Force Commendation Medal with oak leaf cluster, the Combat Crew Award, and the Marksmanship ribbon. He flew over 2500 hours in various military tactical and training aircraft from 1978 to 1986 and was also a graduate of the U.S. Army Airborne School.

Dale is a volunteer pilot for AirLifeLine, a non-profit national charitable medical transportation organization who fly needy persons free of charge to receive treatment. He also supports a number of organizations to support and promote law enforcement and reading. He is a member of the Airplane Owners and Pilots Association, The Writers Guild, and a Life Member of the Air Force Association and U.S. Naval Institute. He is a multi-engine and instrument-rated private pilot and can often be found in the skies all across the United States, piloting his Piper Aerostar 602P. On the ground, Dale enjoys tennis, scuba diving, and hockey. He lives in Incline Village, Nevada.

Excerpts

Chapter One Zhukovsky Flight Research Center, near Bykovo, Russian Federation The next evening Even with many high-intensity lights ringing the area, it was almost impossible to see the big transport plane through the darkness and driving snowstorm as it taxied over to its parking spot. Its port-side turboprop engines, the ones facing the terminal building, the honor guard, a small band, and a group of waiting people, had already been shut down, and as soon as the plane was stopped by ground crews with lighted wands, the other two engines were also shut down. The ramp suddenly became eerily quiet, the only sound that of a long line of hearses' wheels crunching on snow. On one side of the transport plane's tail, seventeen hearses waited; on the other side were seventeen limousines for the family members, plus several official-looking government vehicles. From the official vehicles, two men surrounded by security guards alighted and took places beside the honor guard. The transport's cargo ramp under the tall tail motored down, and the receiving detail marched over and stepped up the ramp, as the first limousine pulled out of line and maneuvered over to receive its passenger. The band began to play a solemn funeral march. A few moments later, the receiving detail slowly wheeled out the first casket, draped with the flag of the Russian Federation. As the honor guard and officials saluted and lowered flags in respect, a woman clothed all in black, wearing a black veil under her black beaver pelt hat, stepped forward from the line of limousines and reached out with both hands to gently touch the casket in silent greeting, as if wishing to not to disturb its occupant but to welcome him home. Then, suddenly, her grief turned to anger. She cried aloud in anguish, piercing the frigid, snowy evening like a gunshot. She pushed the attendants aside, then grasped the Russian Federation flag in her gloved hands, pulled it off the casket, flung it to the ground, and rested her right cheek on the smooth gray surface of the casket's lid, sobbing loudly. A young man, tall and clothed in black as well, held her shaking shoulders, eventually pulling her away from the casket as it was escorted to the waiting hearse. The young man tried to comfort and support the woman as he led her to her own waiting limousine, where other family members were waiting, but she pushed him away. The limousine drove off, leaving the young man behind. The commander of the escort detail picked the flag up off the snow-covered ramp, quickly folded it, and gave it to one of the limousine attendants, as if unsure of what to do with it now. The young man remained behind. He watched silently as the remaining sixteen caskets were escorted out of the big transport plane and placed into their hearses, and he remained, ignoring the snow falling heavier and heavier, after all the limousines, the escort detail, and the color guard had departed. None of the other family members spoke to the officials, and they did not attempt to speak with the family members. The officials returned to their limousines as soon as the last hearse drove away. The young man saw he was not alone. A tall, distinguished-looking older gentleman, also in a black fur beaver-pelt hat and rich-looking sealskin coat, stood nearby, tears running unabashedly down his cheeks. They looked at each other across the snow-obscured ramp. The older man approached the younger and nodded politely. "Spakoyniy nochyee, bratam," he said in greeting. "K sazhalyeneeyoo. Kak deela?" "I've been better," the younger man replied. He did not offer his hand in greeting. "I'm sorry for your loss," the older man said. "I am Dr. Pyotr Viktorievich Fursenko. I lost my son, Gennadi Piotrievich, in Kosovo." "I am sorry," the young man murmured. There was a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. "Thank you. He was a lieute