Hulk by Peter David (e reader manga TXT) 📕

desert calling to him. Thoughts of the house were already long gone. Here, exulting in his power, the vistas of the Southwest landscape calling to him, he felt truly at home.

The desert flew past Ross as he snapped into the radio, the transmission having cleared up as he converged with the Comanches, “DBC, be advised subject is moving very fast out there. Terrain doesn’t appear to be an obstacle. Launch fixed wing.”

“Roger that, T-bolt.”

“T-bolt, this is Banshee 0-1, flight of four, coming up on your five o’clock. We are rolling with rockets. Say your target and intentions.”

Ross took in a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “Banshee 0-1, T-bolt. Tracking on key 4-4-3. Mission is to stop this guy. Period.”

“T-bolt, Banshee 0-1 understands you want us to attack the, uh, target,” said Banshee 0-1. He sounded dubious, even amused. This was a trained combat pilot who was accustomed to assaulting convoys or military targets that were prepared to fire back at him. All he was being told was that he was taking on one exceedingly strong individual. Obviously he couldn’t quite comprehend the challenge that awaited him. He might not even be taking it seriously. Ross could only hope the guy got with the program before it was too late.

“Roger, Banshee,” Ross said, literally keeping his fingers crossed. “You are cleared hot. Good hunting.”

. . . peace . . . peace . . . heart . . . slowing . . . calm . . .

The landscape was that of steep cliffs and rock formations. Hulk leaped to the top of a formation and looked out over the rocky expanse. There was a moment of eerie silence. His breathing grew regular, his heartbeat slowed. Had he been left to his own devices, there was every possibility that Bruce Banner would have reemerged in short order. There was, after all, no threat.

Conditions didn’t remain that way.

. . . not leave alone . . . smash . . . SMASH . . .

The Hulk was daunted by the vehicles’ arrival for perhaps all of a second, and then he swiftly reached out and grabbed one of the rotors of the closest chopper. The metal slammed into his hand, bent and twisted, and the chopper swung in toward him, its tail whipping around right at him. It collided with him and the Hulk and the chopper tumbled down the side of the cliff. The pilot inside the chopper had no choice but to hang on for the tumble down, shouting a desperate status report all the way.

They continued to roll down the cliff, the metal shrieking and bending in the Hulk’s savage grip. They hit bottom together, and it was nothing short of miraculous that the chopper didn’t explode. The pilot was still breathing but otherwise unmoving, blood covering his face as he simply hung there in the cockpit, suspended by his seat straps.

The Hulk, meantime, forgot about the chopper as soon as it was stilled, since it no longer presented a threat. The other choppers dashed about, regrouped, as the Hulk picked himself up and began climbing.

He didn’t make himself an easy target. The Hulk dashed around various embankments, cliffs, and ravines, moving like a gamma-irradiated Tarzan, practically daring the choppers to keep up.

“Banshee 0-1, rog. Break, break. Banshees, this is 01. Combat stack. Follow me. Watch my run. Upping the ante. Next pass will be Zuni’s ripple fire combat spread,” said Banshee 0-1.

Ross was desperate to get to the scene. He felt as if his chopper were moving with the speed of molten lead, despite its miles-devouring pace. It was also obvious to Ross that, having actually seen the target involved, the chopper pilots were suddenly aware of the challenge awaiting them. They even seemed anxious to take it on. That attitude concerned him; they had enough problems to worry about without someone deciding to hotdog it.

“Cleared for rockets,” Ross told him. “I do not want him any further west.” His concern was understandable. Right now they were playing touch and go with a rampaging monster in the middle of nowhere. A battle in a populated area such as Los Angeles or San Francisco could cost hundreds, even thousands of lives. And that would be from direct combat scenarios alone and did not count the deaths caused by panicked citizens fleeing for their lives.

“—ding him with the Hellfires!” came Banshee 0-1’s voice.

“DBC, T-bolt,” said Ross. “Give me an ETA on that fixed wing.”

“T-bolt, Cheyenne control has comms with Fast Eagle and High Bird, wait one, over,” said DBC.

“DBC, request you patch us to T-bolt, over,” said Cheyenne control.

But Ross had heard them. All the channels from immediate airbases were already crosslinked. “Cheyenne control, this is T-bolt. What do you got?” asked Ross.

“T-Bolt, Cheyenne control, roger. Our C-130 has visuals now, and three fast movers are turning on the ramp. Estimate your position in two minutes, over,” said Cheyenne control.

. . . leave alone . . . smash if not . . . leave ME ALONE . . .

The Hulk clambered up a canyon wall as the Comanches blasted away on his tail. The Hulk got to the top of the ledge, stood atop a large outcropping, and turned to face the nearest Comanche just as it fired off a missile. It struck beside the Hulk, blowing off the entire outcropping, and sending the Hulk and the ledge tumbling down the canyon wall, a drop that ought to have been enough to dispose of any living thing.

The Hulk hit bottom, brushed himself off, and started back up the cliffside, looking extremely put out.

“T-bolt, sorry,” said Banshee 0-1, and the pilot sounded absolutely stunned. It came as a sharp contrast to the jovial confidence he’d displayed when first entering the fray. “No joy here. We are bingo fuel at this point.”

Ross sagged in his seat, but kept his voice steady. “Banshee 0-1, understood. Clear for home and I’d make it on the double. We’re going