Razor's Edge d-3

by Dale Brown

  “He’s flown Hinds?” Zen asked.

  “He can fly anything,” said Danny. “We can take the chopper, no sweat. As long as the Marines can get us there, we can do this. Egg flew a Pave Low just the other day. He can do this.”

  “We can’t go without Colonel Bastian’s approval,” said Alou.

  “He’ll approve it,” said Danny.

  Chapter 92

  Dreamland Command Center

  0210

  “Very risky, Danny. I don’t know if Sergeant Reagan can fly the aircraft.”

  “I know he can, Colonel. He’s been sleeping or I’d have him here to tell you himself.”

  Dog started pacing. He knew as well as Danny what the sergeant would say; the word “No” didn’t seem to be in the Whiplash vocabulary.

  But could he really do it?

  “He flies the Pave Lows,” added Danny. “They’re more complicated, I guarantee.”

  The payoff was immense. Pull it off, and they’d have a treasure trove of information.

  But this was far riskier than the earlier plan.

  He played back the conversation he’d had earlier with Clearwater. The general wasn’t opposed to hitting the laser. On the contrary, it seemed. But he clearly wouldn’t go against his orders, and clearly wouldn’t directly support a mission into Iran until the orders were changed.

  That could take days. If the laser were mobile, it’d be gone then.

  “Colonel?”

  “CentCom needs one of the Megafortresses to help suppress antiair on a mission south about the time this is supposed to go off. We’re going to have to work that in,”

  said Dog.

  “Okay,” said Danny.

  “I’ll talk to CentCom about the action inside of Iraq.”

  “Hot dog.”

  “I haven’t authorized the ground mission,” said Bastian quickly. “Let me think about it.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll get back to you,” said Dog, punching the End Transmit.

  Chapter 93

  High Top

  1225

  “Knock, knock,” said Egg, outside Danny’s personal tent. “Hey, Captain, you wanted to see me?”

  “Come,” said Danny.

  Powder and Bison came in with Egg, filling the tent with an odd odor.

  “Enjoy your nap?” Danny asked Egg.

  “Yes, sir,” said the sergeant.

  “What the hell?” said Danny. “You guys smell like baby powder.”

  “Hey, just checking on the kid, Cap,” said Powder.

  “You know. We’re like uncles.”

  Danny rolled his eyes. “Listen, Egg, we have something a bit hard to tackle and I’m wondering if you’d be up to it.”

  “Hard’s his middle name, Cap,” said Powder. “Just before ‘on.’ ”

  “Yeah, and Powder would know,” said Bison.

  Danny ignored them. “Egg, would you be up to flying a helicopter?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “Yeah, no problem.”

  “Good. It’s an Mi-24 Hind.”

  “A what?”

  “A Hind. Commie helicopter. Think you can handle it?”

  “Jeez, I don’t know. I don’t know that I’ve ever flown one of those before.”

  “A helicopter’s a helicopter, right? Jennifer Gleason says there’s a database on the controls and performance aspects in the Megafortress database,” Danny added.

  “She’s setting it up so you can review it. And I talked to Dr. Ray at Dreamland. He’s going to dig around for an expert to talk you through it. We can set up a direct line.”

  “Jennifer, the babe scientist,” said Powder. “Jeez, I’ll do it.”

  “I volunteer,” said Bison.

  “I don’t know, Cap,” said Egg. “I mean, I probably could figure it out if I have a little time.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Powder.

  “Screw yourself,” said Egg. “This isn’t a bulldozer we’re talking about.”

  “I can learn it, Cap,” insisted Powder. “Will she whisper in my ear?”

  “All right, guys, back off,” said Danny. “Outside the tent.”

  He watched Egg as they left. The normally self-assured sergeant wore a worried face.

  “We can come up with something else,” Danny suggested.

  “I can do it.” Egg flexed his shoulders back. Danny worried that he was pushing too hard — he didn’t want Egg to say he could do it just to please him.

  On the other hand, a helicopter was a helicopter, commie or not, right?

  “Where is it?” asked Egg.

  “We passed it on the way home,” Danny told him. “The Marines are going to help us steal it.”

  “Shit, I’ll do it, Cap,” said Powder outside.

  “Fuck off,” said Egg.

  “Go play with the kid,” yelled Danny.

  Powder and Bison moved a few feet away from the tent, though he could tell they were still nearby.

  “I’ll figure it out, Captain,” said Egg. “If I get some help. When are we leaving?”

  “Half an hour too soon?”

  Egg just scratched his head.

  Chapter 94

  Dreamland Command Center

  0255

  Dog watched the CNN feed, his mind drifting blank.

  The connection with High Top was pending; he intended to give Danny the go-ahead to use the Hind, long shot though it was.

  He’d double-checked the sergeant’s piloting credentials, gone over the sat pictures, reviewed the flight plans.

  He’d listened to the scientists debate the value of the intelligence. He’d spoken once more to Clearwater, who personally approved the Marine involvement in the helo snatch, but set the limits there. Dog knew he was making the right decision; the odds were against the mission, but it was exactly the sort of long shot they’d put Whiplash together to undertake.

  And yet, he was still searching for some signpost, some indication that he was right to put his people at so much risk.

  It wasn’t there. Even on an easy mission, nothing could guarantee everything would fall in place.

  There were no easy missions. On the other hand, if they completely screwed up, if things went totally wrong, the implications were enormous.

  Worse than the situation if they did nothing?

  No.

  The CNN footage showed Iraqi tanks continuing their attacks against the Kurds. Didn’t we fight this war already? Dog wondered.

  “Captain Freah is on his way,” said the lieutenant at the com panel. “He should be on in five minutes, maybe less.”

  “Okay. Where’s Jed Barclay?” Dog asked.

  “Incirlik.”

  “Get him, would you?”

  The operator punched his keys. He spoke to someone on the other end of the line in Turkey, then told Dog they wouldn’t have video.

  “Not a problem.”

  “Colonel?” Jed’s voice boomed so loudly in the room the techie had to squelch the volume.

  “Jed, can you get me to General Elliott?”

  “He’s left to go back to Europe.”

  “You can get me in touch with him, can’t you?”

  “Uh, yeah. Take a minute.”

  Two minutes later the technician said they had an in-coming transmission from Class Two — General Elliott aboard a VIP Gulfstream.

  “How are you, Colonel?” boomed Elliott.

  “Personally, not so good.” Dog laughed, facing the blank screen. “Want your old job back?”

  Elliott laughed. “I’d take it in a heartbeat.” His tone grew serious. “It’s a little different being a colonel. You don’t have the perks to go with the responsibility.”

  “I still have to do what I think is right.”

  “It’s not always easy to figure out what that is,” said Elliott.

  Dog didn’t intend on asking him what to do, and he’d known Elliott wouldn’t volunteer advice. So why had he contacted him?

  Moral support? Word of enc
ouragement?

  Not even that. Talking to him, though — it was like making a pilgrimage to a sacred shrine or a battlefield. Looking out over the hills at Gettysburg made you understand something, even though you couldn’t put it into words.

  Elliott as Gettysburg — he’d roar at that.

  “Thanks, General,” said Dog. “I have to go.”

  “That’s all you want?”

  “That’s all I need, sir.”

  Dog bent to the console and picked up the land-line phone, punching in his office. Ax answered immediately.

  “Ax, how are we doing with that expert on Russian helicopters?”

  “Should be aboard the Dolphin by now, sir,” answered the chief master sergeant.

  “Hustle him down here as soon as he clears security.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dog put down the phone and turned to the lieutenant.

  “I’d like that connection to High Top today, son.”

  “The connection’s there, sir. It’s Captain Freah we’re waiting on.”

  Dog straightened and looked at the screen. When Danny Freah’s tired face finally appeared, Colonel Bastian said only one word: “Go.”

  Chapter 95

  Aboard Fork One, over northeastern Iraq, 1400

  Danny Freah stood near the door of the Marine helicopter, watching as the CH-46 Sea Knight dubbed Fork One whipped across the landscape roughly twenty feet over the ground. The Marines liked the old helicopters, claiming they were more dependable than Pave Lows or even Chinooks, their look-alike big brothers. Danny wasn’t so sure. If he had to pick a Marine transport, he would have much preferred an Osprey or even a Super Stallion, the Corps’ three-engined version of the MH-53

  Pave Low, ferociously quick monster choppers with plenty of power to spare.

  On the other hand, he didn’t think he could do better than the Marines accompanying them. If it went well, the whole operation would last maybe fifteen minutes: Flighthawk hits the two Zsu-23-4s protecting the approach, followed closely by the Cobras, which would strike the two BMPs at the base and a pair of machine guns near the buildings. The troops would then fast-rope into the complex. One group of Marines and the Whiplash team would land near the helicopters; the Marines in the second chopper would hit the buildings.

  Two of the eighteen men squeezing into the rear of the aircraft with Whiplash carried Shoulder-launched Multipurpose Assault Weapons — SMAW 83mm rockets — to be used against the fortified position near the Hinds and anything else that came up. The others carried standard M-16s and a variety of grenades. Two of Danny’s boys, Powder and Bison, had SAWs, or light machine guns, to lay down support fire at the start; the others carried MP-5s for close work at the finish.

  Boom, boom, boom, assuming it went according to plan. Then the real fun would begin.

  Egg fingered his gun nervously. The expert who was supposed to help him fly hadn’t shown up in the Dreamland command center yet, but Jennifer had downloaded several pages worth of data, and one of the Marine helo pilots had offered plenty of advice. Every so often Egg would look up from his notes toward Danny and nod confidently.

  It had the opposite effect from what he intended. Egg looked about as self-assured as a kid coming off the bus for basic training.

  It would work, Danny told himself. And if it didn’t — It would work.

  Chapter 96

  Aboard Raven, over Iraq 1420

  Through the preflight, takeoff, and launch of the Flighthawks, Zen tried to think of something to say to Fentress, who’d come along on Raven to act as an assis-tant. Frankly, he would have preferred to have Jennifer, but she was too exhausted. And besides, there was no reason not have Fentress there, helping — the kid had proven he could handle the U/MFs, even if he’d been shot down.

  He wasn’t a kid, Zen told himself again.

  He wasn’t out after his job either.

  Zen lifted his helmet visor as the Flighthawk settled onto the course toward the target area. He glanced over at Fentress, trying to think of what to say. The kid — the other U/MF pilot — was studying the latest photo relay from the mini-KH, orienting himself. There was a little less than five minutes left before fun time.

  Zen felt he should say something, but all he could think of was generic bullshit about how he knew Fentress would do a good job. Finally he simply slid his visor back and said they were ready.

  “Yup,” said Fentress.

  Zen cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck on his head, loosening his muscles. Then he took the robot back from the computer. “Hawk to Whiplash leader. Danny, you got me?”

  “Loud and clear,” replied Danny, who was in one of the Marine helos.

  “We’re getting ready to dance,” Zen said. “Captain Fentress will feed you the visuals.”

  “Ready to rock.”

  Zen tipped his nose forward, and the Flighthawk screamed toward the earth, lining up on its first target.

  The Iraqi facility looked more like a strip mall than an airport; the two Hinds were located at one side of a short span of hard-packed dirt. Across the way were two buildings, guarded by a pair of Zsu-23-4 antiaircraft weapons mounted on mobile chassis. What appeared to be the entrance to a bunker sat just beyond the weapons at the north end of the field; it looked to be either a bomb shelter or a storage facility. At the other end of the field there were three small buildings that probably garrisoned the troops assigned to work with the helicopter. There were two BMPs, Russian-made armored personnel carriers, parked on a ramp halfway between the buildings and the runway. Zen would nail the antiair; as he finished with the second, the Marine Cobras should be just getting in range to knock out the BMPs and then scald the barracks.

  His weapons bar began to blink red as the preprogrammed target grew fat in the crosshairs.

  Too soon to fire. He held steady, speed picking up steadily—450 knots, 460 … A black plume appeared on the left side of his screen — the other set of guns had already begun to fire.

  At two and a half miles to target, Zen pressed the small red button that triggered the 20mm cannon in the chin and belly of the Flighthawk. Adapted from the venerable M61A that had served in every frontline American fighter from the F-15 to the F/A-18, the six-barreled gat spat slugs out at a rate of six thousand a minute. About a second and a half later the shells began grinding through the torrent of the mobile flak dealer, chewing a curlicue into the Russian-made steel. One of the Zsu barrels flew off the top of the chassis into the second emplacement, detonating the fuel tank in its carrier. Before Zen could get his nose on that target, it was enveloped in flames. He fired anyway, then quickly rolled his wings, powering the robot plane into a high-speed turn so hard he could practically hear the carbon wings groan.

  “Video feed to Whiplash headset,” he told Fentress.

  “They’re on board already,” he replied.

  “Cobras are zero-two away, Hawk leader,” said Alou.

  “Copy that. I’m going to run over the landing area and stand out of the way for the helicopters.”

  Zen pushed on, riding the Flighthawk across the compound toward the barracks area.

  “Two more vehicles than we planned on,” said Fentress, watching the ground scan. “Missile launcher on the right, your right, as you come in!”

  A squat, pudgy vehicle with two rectangular boxes sat beyond the machine-gun emplacements near the barracks area. Either an SA-8 or SA-9—Zen didn’t have time to examine it, much less get off a shot; his momentum carried him beyond it before he could get more than a glimpse.

  “Computdr, identify antiair missile vehicle,” he said as he threw the Flighthawk into a turn.

  “Which vehicle?”

  Which one? There were more than he’d seen?

  “All,” he said. “Highlight on the sitrep.”

  The computer’s synthesized acknowledgment was drowned out by a radar warning.

  “Yo, Alou — LZ is hot. I’m spiked!” he said. The SA-8

  radar had latched ont
o the Flighthawk. A launch warning followed.

  “We’re jamming!” said the pilot.

  “Jam better. Hold the assault package.”

  “Too late,” answered Alou.

  “Hold them!” Zen tucked and rolled, zigging back to -

  ward the launcher he’d seen. It was an SA-8B mounted on a six-wheeled amphibious vehicle, capable of launching missiles using either semiactive radar or IR homing devices. Zen lit his cannon as the missile launcher swung its rectangular nose toward him. His first few shots missed high, but he stayed on the launcher; a stream of lead poured through the near box containing a missile.

  The SA-8B exploded — but not before a long, thin pipe popped from the box farthest from his cannon.

  Chapter 97

  Aboard Fork One, over Iraq 1440

  The Flighthawk Sitrep map on his visor blinked red, indicating that a missile had been fired from one of the SAM trucks. Danny cursed, and shouted a warning to the helicopter crew. A second later the helo twisted downward, one of the wheels whining as it dashed against the ground. Danny clutched his MP-5 against his carbon-boron vest and hunkered down in his seat, sure that the next thing he’d see would be flames. But instead the helo bolted nearly upright, then whipped forward again.

  Danny switched from the Whiplash frequency that tied into the Flighthawks to the general radio band used by the attackers; unfortunately, there wasn’t a way to use both at the same time.

  “Missiles in the air,” warned one of the pilots.

  “Hold off,” said Alou over the circuit somewhere.

  “We’re committed,” answered the pilot blandly.

  “Relax.”

  The Marine AH-1W Super Cobras charged their targets at nearly 200 miles an hour. The first ship unleashed a barrage of five-inch Zuni rockets that peppered the emplacement area. Half a tick behind him came a Whiskey Cobra armed with Hellfire laser-guided missiles; despite the heavy smoke, he zeroed out both BMPs in rapid succession, then unleashed the chain gun on the barracks.