Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Bob Norris is a commander in the U.S. Navy and a veteran combat pilot. The son of a test pilot, Norris has logged nearly 500 carrier landings and thousands of flight hours in the hottest Navy and Air Force fighters. After serving nineteen years and being selected to command his own F/A-18 Hornet squadron, Norris was diagnosed with a rare neurological disorder that required experimental brain surgery. Though he'll never fly again, his imagination soars in his writing.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

It's an event like no other: an exclusive winner-takes-all fly-off competition pitting six state-of-the-art jets from the world's leading aircraft makers flown by the boldest fighter pilots. In five nerve-wracking events--including a search and destroy mission and vicious dogfights over the scorching sands of the Great Arabian Desert--each of these veteran topguns will use their expertise and guts to win billions of dollars in exclusive government contracts. Award-winning reporter Jack Warner is there covering the events, but now he's on the inside, directing the media coverage.

From the moment the pilots and VIP guests arrive at the Saudi royal family's fabulously luxurious, remote desert compound, the competition takes a sinister twist. First an American fighter pilot--the renowned Randi Coles, who shattered stereotypes with her legendary MiG kill over Lybia--is suddenly grounded. Then this friendly "war" turns lethal--two pilots are killed in action. Searching for answers, Jack and Randi soon discover the competition is as dangerous on the ground as it is in the air. Caught in a labyrinth of conspiracy and intrigue, they must fight for their lives and uncover a serpentine plot with as many twists as an airshow maneuver--all under the watchful eyes of the most powerful people in the world.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Fly-Off

HarperTorch

Chapter One

The arrogance of his employers brought a smile to Achmed's weathered lips, as it did every time he paused to consider the folly of building this idiotic highway into the heart of Saudi Arabia's great desert, the Rub Al-Khali. Surely Allah -- His Name Be Praised -- was amused by the absurdity of the city dwellers' attempts to pave a path through the dunes, some as high as one hundred meters, which dominated the vast expanse known as the Empty Quarter to generations of disappointed and humbled explorers. It could only be a divine sense of humor that kept the 250-kilometer roadbed cowed in windswept sand and virtually unusable.

Achmed, an uncomplicated man, wasn't complidning. As long as his employers persisted in this folly, he was guaranteed a high-paying job: drivingthe air-conditioned street sweeper. Well suited to the ink he actually enjoyed patrolling the road in an endless loop, nudging the sand off the concrete onlyto watch it reappear in his rearviewor. For this he was paid one hundred thousand riyals a year more money than his father and Ins father's father had made in their lifetimes as craftsmen and traders. A generous provider, Achmed used his salary to support twenty family members, a of whom were camped near the sweeper's garage.

He'd just finished his midday cigarette when he spied the headlights in the sweeper's side mirror. Since tins task represented Ins only driving experience, the sight of cars and trucks was still novel. in fact, in nearly five months of sweeping, Achmed had encountered only a handful of vehicles. A couple had been from ARAMCO, the Saudi oil and gas conglomerate, while the others had been military He'd never seen more than one at a time, and in each caw, the vehicle would stop -- right on the roadway so as not to risk getting stuck in the sand-and he would share figs and goat's milk with his visitors, as was the, Bedouin custom.

Achmed looked forward, to these interruptions; he'd come to feel a sense of stewardship for the desert and sensed that his guests respected his wisdom since they asked many questions about his life. And of course there was the chance they, might exchange gifts. He'd developed a particular fondness for American tobacco.

The flashing light puzzled him as he stepped out of his machine. Shielding his eyes against the afternoon sun, he could, tell only that the vehicle was enormous, and judging from the amount of sand being kicked up, that it was moving much faster than anything held yet encountered. He quickly stepped back onto the running board, waing vigorously to encourage the behemoth to slow down.

The driver of the lead truck couldn't understand why this idiot refused to clear the highway despite his signals. Told the road to the airfield would, be empty and having been offered a bonus for good time, he'd steadily pushed up the speed since leaving the outskirts of Riyadh. With his onboard navigation system projecting the center line of the roadbed onto the windshield-mounted Head's Up Display, the obscuring sand was no problem, at least for him. The rest of the drivers in the hundred-truck convoy were faithfully glued to the taillights of the truck they were following. At this speed, all he could do was shift the gaggle into the far lane. Using the radio, he passed the warning to the other drivers. That done, he said a quick prayer for this desert madman.

The windblast from the lead trucks nearly swept Achmed off the running board and under their wheels. Blinded from the stinging sand, he scrambled to the for side of his sweeper and huddled on the floorboard as the onslaught continued. Terrified, he prayed fervently to the Prophet -- Peace Be Upon Him -- to deliver him from this nightmare. But the hellish experience seemed to last forever... the little cocoon rocked precariously and slid sideways with each passing truck.

When, at last, the final truck passed by -- offering a blast on its air horn in mocking salute -- Achmed crawled from the sweeper, fell in supplication, and offered tearful prayers of thanks.

Leaving the sweeper where it sat -- all the riyals in the kingdom would not be enough togethim behind the wheel again -- he began the trek toward his family'scamp. Without a backward glance he left behind the devil's highway for the solace and refuge of the ancient dunes.

Excerpted from Fly-Offby Norris, Bob Copyright © 2004 by Bob Norris. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.