Hell Hawks!

Closer [to his target] now, airspeed 450 miles per hour out of the dive, that big 2,430-horsepower Pratt & Whitney up front was howling with emergency water-injection thrust. Wells triggered the first burst from his .50-calibers at a flak pit that was blasting what looked like glowing white coals past his canopy. More tracers came ripping up from gun positions and a flak tower ringing the site. Ignore them. What Wells couldn't ignore was what he'd seen in the recon target photos: a string of telephone poles around the target's perimeter. "We didn't know what it was, if it had antennas on it, or what." Wells was at thirty-five feet, flattening barley fields and bending small trees in his wake, when he discovered the reason for the telephone poles--and the tough steel cables strung between them. They were there to kill him.