The missile rose into the air, an ungainly, finned pencil shape balancing atop a column of fire.

The missiles rose and the skies darkened.

Other missiles were rising on flaming contrails from the other vessels in the squadron.

The roof of each was split down the middle, and when opened, a four-story-high missile, the Bomarc, rose to a vertical position for launch.

At the same time my Hellbore tears into the line of trees where the missiles have been rising.

Stepping back, she watched the missiles rise; their glowing trails showed her how they were dispersing in the upper air.

The missile rose into the sky, homing crabwise on the aircraft as its flight was caught by the crosswind.

He, could be a blip on radar screens at this instant, missiles could be rising in his direction.

He then watched magic missiles rise up toward him in a bright dancing group of lights.

Slowly the missiles rose from their tranquil catacombs, hidden at first by the white clouds of exhaust which rose around them.