by Dale Brown
Danny pushed his leg flat on the floor of the helicopter, looking up at Nurse as the medic worked over his knee. They had just crossed back into Iraqi airspace; another half hour and they’d be home.
Home, home, home.
“You want some morphine?” said Nurse.
Danny shook his head. His sergeant didn’t take his eyes off him.
“I’ve hurt my knee before.”
“It’s not your knee. Your shin’s busted,” said Nurse.
“Something hard slammed the body armor. Would’ve sliced right through your leg except for the boron inserts.
You didn’t feel it?”
“I don’t think I did.” Danny looked down at his pants leg. Nurse had pulled off the lightweight body armor, but Danny couldn’t quite see his leg.
“I really think you should take some painkiller, Cap.”
“Yeah, when we’re on the ground,” said Danny. He leaned back, resting against some of the stolen laser parts.
“Sure will feel good to be home.”
Chapter 125
Incirlik
1915
Jed sipped from his cola, listening while the translator the Turks had supplied repeated the stock questions about the prisoner’s unit and deployment. The prisoner glared. His attitude seemed infinitely more hostile toward the Turk than toward Jed — though the results were exactly the same.
Two CIA agents had seen the man. They thought but could not confirm that he wasn’t a native Iraqi. What significance that had, if any, wasn’t clear.
Jed watched the Turk’s frustration grow. Outside, the interrogator had assured Jed that he had conducted many interviews; Jed suspected torture was among his regular techniques, and he made it clear he would not be permitted to employ them.
After a few more minutes of questions met only by stares, the Turk slammed his hands on the table. He said something that sounded like a threat involving the prisoner’s mother and sisters — Jed’s Arabic still wasn’t fast enough to decipher it all — then made a show of leaving in a huff, probably thinking he was setting Jed up as the
“good cop” in the old interrogation routine.
Jed took another sip from his soda. The Turk would go down the hall and watch the surveillance feed from the wide-angle pinhead video cam in the top corner of the room. He was as much a spy as a translator, but Clearwater had already made that argument to the State Department, which insisted that he be allowed to meet the prisoner.
“So when you were in America,” said Jed after a few minutes of silence, “where did you go to school?”
“RPI,” said the prisoner — in English.
“That’s in upstate New York?” said Jed, trying to act as if he’d expected the man to answer his question.
“Troy. An ugly city.”
“Never been there,” said Jed. He scratched the back of his neck, slid his elbow on the table — he could be talking to a guy sitting next to him in a bar after work, except that he never went to bars after work. “That near Albany?”
“Very close.”
“What did you think of New York City?”
“A wondrous place,” said the Iraqi. “But a place of temptation.”
“I’ve been in the Empire State Building three times,”
said Jed.
The Iraqi didn’t reply.
“Why did you decide to join the army?” asked Jed, trying to keep the rapport up.
Nothing.
“But you’re not from Iraq, right? You come from—
Egypt?”
Jed waited for an answer. He was still waiting when an aide came to tell him the general wanted to talk to him.
* * *
Musah tahir watched the American leave the room. He felt a twinge at being left alone — he suspected the Turk would now return and begin to threaten him.
He told himself he must be strong. He must remember that he was doing his duty. He would persevere. He would be rewarded.
The wealth and power of America seemed overwhelming, but it was corrupt power, the reward of the devil for a man’s soul. Millions and millions of souls.
He would not surrender his.
The door to the small room opened. He pulled himself upright, braced himself for the assault. But it wasn’t the Turk; it was Barclay, the American.
“I’ve got good news for you,” he said. “You’re going home. The Red Cross has arranged an exchange.”
A trick.
“You can stay if you choose, you know. Stay with us,” said the American.
Tahir smiled. Protect me, God, he thought.
Chapter 126
Aboard Raven, over Iran 1918
He knew it was a dream, because he could feel his legs.
He was playing football, wide receiver, like high school. Zen ran down the field, looking back toward the quarterback — Kevin Fentress. The kid had faded back under the heavy rush of Zen’s cousin Jed Barclay and a few of his other old friends.
Zen was wide open. “Throw me the ball!” he yelled.
“Throw me the ball!”
The brown pigskin darted upward just as Fentress was swamped. The ball sailed high, but it wasn’t far enough to reach him. Zen began running back toward the line of scrimmage.
Running. It felt so damn good. He knew it was a dream.
What he didn’t know was where he was having it. He thought he was in bed, pushed to feel Breanna snuggled beneath the covers next to him.
A cold hiss of air shot into his face. Something wet dropped down the side of his temple. He shook his head, felt pain shooting up the side of his neck.
“Zen! Zen!”
“Fentress?” Zen pushed to the right, felt his arm fly in front of him.
Raven. They were in Raven. His helmet was off.
The Flighthawk! She was nearly out of fuel.
“We have to refuel!” said Zen. He went to grab the control stick. His hand seemed to move in slow motion for a second, then caught up so quickly he couldn’t keep it from smashing into the bottom of the console. He cursed with the pain then stared at his limp hand.
His hand wasn’t what hurt him. It was his legs.
His legs? He hadn’t felt them for more than a year and a half.
But they hurt like hell. He must still be dreaming.
Chapter 127
Aboard Quicksilver, approaching Iran 1925
Even the sophisticated gear in Quicksilver had trouble sorting everything out. Iraq had launched helicopters and MiGs against Kurdish positions north of Kirkuk; two F-16s had moved to engage them. Farther east two Iraqi helicopters were flying either a supply or an attack mission on a vector almost exactly due north. Beyond that, the Iranians had at least a dozen aircraft in the sky over or at the border with Iraq. Raven, struck but not disabled by an Iranian missile, was just coming over the border now.
Whiplash Hind was flying so low not even Quicksilver could see her, but she was somewhere ahead of Raven.
“Border in ten minutes,” Chris Ferris told Breanna.
“What are we doing?”
“We’ll escort anyone who needs escorting,” she said.
“Hang on,” said Ferris. “F-15s are engaging the Iraqi helicopter.”
“Which one? Tell them to stop,” she said without waiting for an answer. “That’s ours. That’s ours!”
Chapter 128
Aboard Raven, over Iran 1930
Fentress gave up trying to revive Zen and jumped back into his seat, taking the Flighthawk from C3 just as it finished refueling. He dropped down and began scouting ahead. The Iranian MiGs began to retreat as a flight of F-15s approached.
They’d lost contact with Whiplash Hind, though by now it would be between twenty and thirty miles ahead, undoubtedly skimming the snowcapped mountains. Fentress popped the Flighthawk’s nose skyward, accelerating to find the helicopter.
Those guys had kicked ass on this, big-time, he thought. Gonna be a full round of beers and attaboys to last a lifetime, or at least a week
and a half.
Some for him too. He’d done okay. He was doing okay.
He hoped Zen was okay. Blood had curled from his ear. One of his straps seemed to have broken; his head had probably slammed against the panel, and Fentress guessed he had a concussion. But he was breathing, at least.
The U/MF picked up the powerful radars of a pair of F-15s, screaming over from Turkey.
“Eagle Flight, this is Dreamland Hawk One,” he said.
“Hawk, we need radio silence. We are engaging an enemy aircraft,” replied one of the planes.
Where?
“No!” he shouted. “No! No! No!”
“Fox One!” said the lead pilot.
Chapter 129
Aboard Whiplash Hind, over Iraq 1942
Danny pulled his MP-5 next to him on the bench. He could see white through the helicopter window across from him — snow from the mountains.
Home, almost home. It’d be warm there now, almost spring.
Egg was flying low enough to stop for traffic signals.
Hopefully he didn’t kick into a goat or something — the CentCom lawyers would be peeved.
Lawyers. Holy shit. What would Major Pee-liar say about stealing a laser from the Iranians? Give it back.
The Iranians had probably stolen it from the U.S. somehow. He had merely returned the favor, Danny thought.
His guys were sharing some MREs with the Marines.
They must be really, really hungry.
He started to laugh. His leg twinged.
Then it pounded.
“Hey, Nurse, maybe I will have that morphine,” he said, pushing upright again. He twisted toward Liu, but his view was blocked by a flash of bright red and yellow flames. He felt himself falling backward and realized home was even farther away than he’d thought.
Part VI: Friendly Fire
Chapter 130
High Top
30 May 1997
1942
As Mack proceeded through his inspection of the Bronco, Garcia followed along behind him, waxing elo-quent about what the addition of five-bladed, infinite-pitch propellers and supercharged turbo engines would do to the aircraft’s performance. Mack had mustered gen-uine admiration for the OV-10, but it paled beside Garcia’s lust. The pilot would have liked nothing better than to help the techie try some of his improvements, but he was in something of a hurry to get going. He’d been ordered to return to Brussels posthaste and prepare a brief on the recent air campaign. This meant considerable work, though not necessarily the kind he enjoyed — he’d have to listen to CentCom commanders brag until his ears fell off. On the other hand, it also meant serious career chits. No doubt it would help push his campaign to win assignment as squadron commander back onto the fast track.
“A few tweaks here and there, Major, this becomes the best COIN aircraft in the world,” Garcia said as they walked toward the rear. “There’s an opportunity here. We stick some of the Flighthawk sensors on it, do a mondo upgrade to the engines, telemetry tie-in with the Whiplash team. Add microrobots to extend real-time viewing. Gonna serve somebody—”
“Another song lyric, huh?” Mack ducked beneath the tail. The worn paint was becoming familiar. “Am I going to make Incirlik?”
Garcia looked at him as if he’d just asked if the world were flat. “Well, yes, sir.”
“How about Brussels?”
“Assuming you refuel, not a problem.”
Mack gave the crewman a thumbs-up. If no one at Incirlik actually asked for the aircraft, well, it wouldn’t be right to just leave it in a hangar there. He was personally responsible for its safety. That meant he’d have to take it with him, all the way to Brussels if necessary.
Maybe that French aerospace consultant would like a ride. He’d personally tuck her in.
Hell, at this point he’d settle for Patti Good Teeth.
Mack pulled himself into the cockpit. Helmet on and straps cinched, he gave Garcia the thumb and cranked the engines. The plane tugged at its brakes as he completed the preflight. He still had no weapons, but Garcia had wrung a few more RPMs out of the engines and, even more important, adjusted their whine so they sounded very much like a pack of vintage Harleys tearing down the highway. There was loud, and then there was loud; Mack never minded a few decibels as long as his eardrums got pounded in style.
Cleared by the tower, Mack began trundling toward the far end of the runway. Just as he made his turn and went to gun the throttle, a familiar voice broke over the long-range radio.
“We have a helicopter down by friendly fire,” said Breanna Stockard. “Repeat, Whiplash Hind is down.”
“Shit,” said Mack. He whipped the turbos and raced down the mesh strip. Climbing out swiftly, he banked south, veering off his flight plan.
“Quicksilver, this is Wild Bronco, ” he said. “What’s going on, Bree?”
“The Hind was hit about twenty miles south southeast of the border. Whiplash team is aboard.”
“You have a visual?” he asked.
“Negative. We don’t have an exact location. Just com-mencing a search.”
“Copy that. Give me what you’ve got, beautiful. I’m on my way.”
Chapter 131
Aboard Raven, over Iran 1955
Fentress’s heart pounded in his ears, but otherwise he felt almost relaxed, his hand moving the joystick smoothly left as he began the new search pattern. He had the infrared view selected; the sensors should have no trouble locating the warm body of the helicopter in the cold air. The computer had already been instructed to highlight possible wreckage “clusters,” as they were referred to by the programming.
Pushing the Flighthawk through the long, jagged valley, Fentress imagined he heard Zen telling him to slow down. The slower he went, the better the odds of seeing something or being seen.
As he neared the end of the search grid, Fentress pushed a bit farther west and made a wide, looping bank onto a new search track. He backed the throttle down, forward airspeed nudging toward 200 miles an hour. Flying the Flighthawks fast wasn’t very hard; they were bullets with stubby wings. Flying them slow, however, took patience and grace. You had to concentrate on what you were doing, and yet you couldn’t get so caught up in the details that you started to fight the computer as you bucked through the eddies.
Fentress narrowed his eyes on the screen, trying to keep his concentration. He had to find his guys.
* * *
Bree pulled Zen to the floor and they started to dance. His legs hurt but they kept dancing. He pushed his arms tighter around her, holding himself up, resting, but the music got faster and faster. She broke free and danced wildly. He did the same, though his legs were hurting.
It was good that his legs hurt. They hadn’t hurt for so long. He’d known in the hospital that they didn’t hurt, knew what that meant, though he’d tried not to face it.
Zen fought to walk. Giving that up — and yet not giving up everything else — that was the impossible thing. Accepting his paralysis without accepting that it doomed him — had he ever really done that?
It was only when he decided he wouldn’t walk, that he had to concentrate on getting back any way he could, that he made real progress.
He’d give up everything to walk again. Everything.
Bree? Not Bree. Bree he wouldn’t give up.
She danced in front of him. The dream began to fade.
His legs continued to hurt.
Chapter 132
Dreamland Command Center
1055
Dog put his hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder, steadying the young man as he worked the com gear and flicked back and forth between the different feeds, trying to locate the helicopter wreckage. There wasn’t much more they could do from here.
“Feed pending from General Magnus,” the lieutenant told Dog.
“Yes, I see. Keep it there. Don’t open it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door to the secure room opened and Major Cheshire entered, carryi
ng a tray of coffee and dough-nuts. “Hey, Colonel,” she said lightly.
“Major.” Dog stared at the screen.
“Lost the connection with the general,” said the lieutenant.
“What’s up?” asked Cheshire.
Dog took the coffee and filled her in. “We’re hoping they survived,” he said, his voice soft. “Only one missile at long range. It wasn’t even certain that it hit.”
“Friendly fire,” she said, a comment, not a question.
“Definitely.” Dog glanced back at the screen at the front of the room, which showed a satellite image of the mountainous terrain. At maximum resolution, the houses on the hillsides looked like small cubes of sugar.
“You okay, Colonel?” asked Cheshire.
“I’m fine,” he told her. “General Magnus needs to be filled in. Probably, he’s not going to like it.”
Cheshire nodded.
“Lieutenant, see if you can get that line open to General Magnus.”
“Trying, sir.”
Dog looked back at the screen. From the perspective of the mini-KH, it looked almost like a little piece of heaven.
Chapter 133
Aboard Quicksilver, over Iran 2001
No longer worried about the Iranian laser or Iraqi missiles, Breanna brought Quicksilver into an orbit at fifteen thousand feet, just high enough to avoid the mountain peaks. Chris worked the video cam in the nose, scanning for wreckage, while Habib snooped for Iraqi radio transmissions.
The Megafortress’s radar was not designed to sweep the ground, and even if it had been, the jagged peaks and cliffs would have made it difficult to sort through the clutter of irregular returns. Nonetheless, Torbin was giving it the old college try, routing the radar through his station and fiddling with the filters designed to find very low-flying planes in look-down mode. He was still somewhat tentative, unsure of himself in a non-Dreamland way, but Breanna saw that he seemed to be willing to try to figure things out; he flipped back and forth between override, manually tweaking the radar sweeps.
