67
“s**t!” Jon let go of the controls as his altimeter shattered.
Only after he saw the hole in the center, and the sparks spitting at him, did he register the sharp crack of the gunshot.
Gunshot.
Aboard a plane.
That was very, very, very bad.
Another round dead-centered the autopilot, which was no great loss as he hadn’t yet had time to figure out how to use it.
The Antonov wasn’t at all like the C-5M Super Galaxy he’d last flown. It wasn’t even like the C-5B Galaxy he’d first certified on. The Russian AN-124 made a fifty-year-old, first-generation C-5A look like rocket science.
He got his hands back on the controls, then turned to see what was happening behind him.
Twice a waving gun swept the empty void of its barrel across his face.
He tried to flinch aside, but the seat harn
