I want to Like on Facebook. I want to follow on Twitter. Login Register. Legendary Journalist Cokie Roberts Dies at Small Business Profile: Olympia Provisions. Humans have been exploring outer space for decades. Life has been found on a handful of planets - but no other technologically advanced race has been seen.
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UFO sightings of the s have been replaced by the idea of moonriders - aliens or ships that are out there but the government is not admitting it. More moonriders have been spotted over the last few months than any other time - to the point where the Academy has scheduled a flight to leave monitors where they were seen.
A team of four will be sent on a one month flight to place monitors in a few locations to hopefully capture proof of technology from another race.
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Its cockpit had been blown out, avionics rusting in the thin haze and sun. A whacking great hole had been torn out of the top of the fuselage, likely from a midair collision or a missile rather than a crash landing. The final goal wasn't the snub-nosed Tornado but the huge, mothballed Airbus A, just beyond. The narrow-body airliner was about feet long, providing plenty of running room. It sat flat on the rocky ground, sans landing gear. If she could get inside that beast, she could buy herself some advantages.
An Israeli Army drill sergeant had once ragged her: "In an open- field flight, your advantages are eyesight, space, and liberty! Rob the enemy of them, and it's advantage you!
A flash of skin to her left and above her. Mehmet Kavlek, the sturdier of the brothers, diving off the fuselage of the Phantom. He'd been above her all along. Daria guessed that the husky Turk couldn't leap from atop the Phantom to the wing of the Tornado. He'd either land on the ground between She threw herself forward in midair, ending with a tumble, shoulders first, then her back, her ass, her sneakers.
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Once her shoes hit the packed soil, she used her momentum and her bunched legs to leap. Still running, Daria caught hold of the wing of the grounded fighter craft and swung her body up and to the left, one knee clearing the airlift surface of the wing. She grunted and used her momentum to roll along the surface, completing the roll on one knee and one foot. Ismael Kavlek made his appearance.
Lighter than his brother, he sprang like a gazelle onto the horizontal elevator of the Tornado's tail section. A normal human would have smacked into the vertical stabilizer and rudder, but the whip-thin man raised one foot, kicked at the stabilizer, rerouted his momentum 90 degrees, and deftly surfaced atop the fuselage with Daria. The roof was holed — too great a distance for even Ismael to reach her directly — but the bigger Turk had hauled himself up onto the port wing behind her, so there was nowhere for Daria to go but forward, toward the starboard wing.
She landed, knees bent, and hauled ass down the length of the wing, which sprang under her weight like a pirate ship's plank. Behind her, Ismael Kavlek leaped — not over the hole in the fuselage but through it, head first, into the aircraft, landing in a somersault, springing to his feet, shoulder slamming open the flight-deck door.
He was running perpendicular to Daria now. The windshield was long gone. Ismael hit the pilot's seat with one boot, threw himself forward, out through the missing windshield, his right hand snapping onto a still-firm support post. His grip, plus his momentum, spun him clockwise. He let go in midair and landed deftly outside the aircraft, on the starboard wing.
She dove off the end of the wing, using it like a springboard, and hit the ground. Ahead of her lay an aged, gray barrel of an obstacle: the remains of a Rolls-Royce Deutschland turbofan engine. She could sprint around it, but that would take time. Daria sprang forward in a headfirst dive, hitting the top of the hot metal with both gloved hands, tucking her bent legs tight against her abdomen, and leapfrogged over it.
Daria caught blurs of movement from the dumping ground's flag, from the squat African palm trees, from the sagebrush hillsides. Her mind shut out the irrelevant and reached for the stunted forward landing gear of the A and climbed like a monkey through sharp, rusty holes up into the underbelly storage section of the airliner. Daria duck walked as fast as she could, forward to a service hatch. She used her legs for strength, shoulder to the hatch, and heaved it open.
Daria hauled herself up into the single-aisle fuselage of the airliner, near the nose one. The passenger section gave her almost meters of straight running space, and she dashed aft, leaping over debris where she could.
She had spotted a blown-out starboard window, back near the bathrooms. She heard Ismael's boots behind her and, simultaneously, Mehmet's boots thumped against the roof of the fuselage, over her head.
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Beneath her lay long weeds and rusty, razor-sharp bits of iron. She twisted in midair, landed on one shoulder, the banged-up rib punishing her. She rolled and was up again, as the bigger Turk jumped from atop the plane onto the tail, and from there to the ground. Daria caught sight of a Bell helicopter, a bubble-domed dragonfly, Korean War era. She angled for it. She heard Ismael mimic her mad dive through the starboard window and land right where she had.
Mehmet was on his feet, but huffing, and now it was a straightaway foot chase. The longer she could draw this out, the better.