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Nuclear Storm

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2019
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Thirty seconds later, Dantlinger opened the door and stepped out onto the landing skid. Holding her flat-brimmed ranger’s hat in her hand, the wash from the rotors made her blink against the powerful wind. The ground was a few feet below, and she jumped carefully, ready to tuck and roll if she had to. Fortunately she landed on solid, level ground. Ducking as she sprinted away from the blurred blades spinning overhead, Dantlinger ran to the man, who hadn’t come out to meet her, but was waiting at the base of the hill.

“Thanks for coming. Hey, where’s he going?” the man asked as Azoff powered the chopper back into the air. He was only a few inches taller than Dantlinger’s five-feet-six-inches, with the beginnings of a pot belly. He was inappropriately dressed for the season, in khaki cargo pants, a T-shirt and the plaid, short-sleeved madras shirt he’d used as a signal. Despite the short autumn day, his face was pink from exposure to the sun.


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