by Tom DeLonge
Regis’ voice came in over the radio. “Black Eagle, you there?”
“Copy that, Rattlesnake,” said Alan. “What’s your status?”
“Five hundred meters southwest of the facility. Still undetected. Insertion teams are performing final weapons checks. Closing in two mikes.”
“Roger that, Rattlesnake,” said Alan. “Be right there.”
So saying, he tipped the Harrier hard to the port and squeezed the throttle, feeling the pressure on his head and chest as the plane leapt forward. As he reentered level flight, Alan flicked on his fire control station and scrolled through the available munitions. The Harrier Mark II, as well as being unique in the Marine air force in its short takeoff and vertical landing capacity, could be armed with bombs, missiles and guns suited for a variety of targets in the air, on the ground, or in water, and could rain down all manner of hurt on anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in the pilot’s sights. But you didn’t carry bombs if you were going into a dogfight, and you didn’t carry air-to-air missiles when there was no possibility of running into enemy air power. Civilians thought the Harrier, also capable of vertical takeoff, could also hover, hanging in place like a helicopter gunship over the battlefield, but it couldn’t. You got in, high and at speed, and then you got out.
Alan checked his navigation display. It was a moonless night. He was flying entirely on instruments, so that though he could sense the motion of the plane, it was weirdly directionless, something like being in an elevator. Intellectually, you know what’s going on, and your body knows something is happening, but a part of you is still very slightly surprised when the doors open and you’re on a different floor. Sometimes pilots flying in dense cloud cover or darkness emerged upside down, their senses baffled by the strange combination of solitude and sensory deprivation.
Which is why you don’t rely on your eyes when you have state-of-the-art computer systems to tell you when you’re upside down.
Old pilots romanticized the glory days of propellers and non-fly-by-wire mechanical controls and peering around to see if anything was about to blow you out of the sky, but Alan would take his APG-65 radar, his forward-looking infrared sensors and his AN/AAQ-28(V) LITENING targeting pod, thanks very much.
He doubted he would need them tonight. When the MARSOC team was done, they were to be reclaimed—with their recovered human and technological assets—by four Night Hawks, two of which were MH-60L DAP models packing the fire power of a battleship. The rebel position—base was too grand a term—was a huddle of cinderblock and mud brick buildings nestled on a mountain slope so steep it was nearly a cliff face. There was a warren of tunnels and caves beneath the buildings, a perfect place to hold prisoners and engage in secret meetings. It was too rugged and too remote to reach with serious armor, which meant the insurgents would have to rely on whatever weapons they could carry. There was a small tabletop plateau, about a hundred meters from the compound, which would serve as an LZ for the Night Hawks. The enemy would be looking to make landing difficult, and that was where Alan came in.
Dropping fast from fifteen thousand feet, the Harrier rode the night air like a dragon, all fire and peril. He was cruising at three hundred knots and keeping the angle of bank to a minimum, but the Harrier was a notoriously finicky bird to fly, those wings requiring a firm hand and constant concentration even when you weren’t trying to direct the multi-nozzled exhaust ports. All jet fighters were fast, but the Harrier was easier than most to lose track of, and if you “got behind” the aircraft, as the pilots said, you were lost.
Alan mentally checked off the plane’s available munitions—Paveway laser guided bombs, a couple of AGM-65 Maverick air-to-ground missiles, two heat-seeking Sidewinders, and a 25mm cannon in a pod below the fuselage. It was a formidable arsenal. If he stopped to consider it, Alan might find a moment to pity those he was about to target, but it would not stay his trigger finger for even a fraction of a second. He had his orders. There were men on the ground who needed his support.
He’d learned at his preflight briefing that the asset’s name was Morat, a deep cover operative who’d been captured with classified information and technology on his person. He was being held, according to signals intelligence, at this remote location by an enemy who would soon spirit him away to a new location, where they would torture him for what he knew, then execute him. The strike team had been assembled hurriedly, in hope of getting Morat out before the enemy realized what they had stumbled upon. Both SIGINT and HUMINT indicated these were not goatherds turned half-assed freedom fighters but seasoned Mujahedeen. It would be a mistake to assume they didn’t know what they were doing. Even goatherds had cell phones and computers, and access to information and communication systems unimaginable only a few years ago. The billions of dollars of tech that kept his Harrier in the air didn’t protect him from the terrible knowledge base which was the Internet.
“Black Eagle, this is Rattlesnake,” said the radio. “Sentries eliminated. Team positioned to enter facility. No indication we’ve been detected. Lighting up LZ GBAD targets now.”
“Roger that, Rattlesnake,” said Alan. “Black Eagle on course to engage. Stay clear of target.”
Alan dropped his heavy NVGs over his eyes and saw, ahead in the darkness, two infrared lasers, invisible to the naked human eye. He swung the Harrier hard to port—performing the hiccupping breathing pattern as he felt the aircraft pulling Gs—then began his bombing run.
Ten nautical miles to target.
Alan shifted fractionally, squeezing out some of the tension that was building in his back and performed a final systems check. Directly ahead, washed by the pale glow of starlight, he could just make out the cliffs of the rebel hide out. There were three points of non-infrared light on the ground.
Fires.
It had started.
“Black Eagle, this is Rattlesnake. Enemy engaged. You are good to go.”
Distantly, hollowly, Alan could hear the flat rattle and crack of gunfire over the radio.
“Roger that, Rattlesnake.”
The Falcon view from drone intel had shown a single sandbagged machine gun nest overlooking the LZ. It was quite possible that whatever troops were manning it had RPGs or shoulder-mounted rocket launchers, either SAMs or US-made Stingers captured from Afghan allied troops. As Forward Combat Controller, Sgt. Regis—Rattlesnake—was Alan’s eyes on the ground, targeting the emplacement with pinpoint accuracy. Alan came roaring in from the south, releasing his laser-guided bombs from two clicks out.
“Ordnance away, Rattlesnake. Keep your head down.”
The explosions lit the night like a massive flare, but Alan paid no attention, lining up the Harrier for another run, waiting for word over the radio and checking his FLIR for signs of movement in the combat zone.
Nothing.
The flash of the bomb had illuminated the sharp lines of the terrain, the cliffs with their warren of caves and the surface buildings showing bright green geometric shapes through the night vision goggles, but moments later it was all lost in fire and smoke and darkness. Alan waited, listening, feeling the pressure of his G suit as he pulled the plane around.
The radio crackled at last.
“Nice hit, Black Eagle,” said Regis’ voice. “Target destroyed. That’s an all clear for the recovery team.”
Alan permitted himself a sigh of relief.
“Black Eagle to Rattlesnake and Dragonfly 6,” he said. “Your LZ is secure. Repeat. LZ is secure.”
“Roger that, Black Eagle,” said the lead helicopter pilot. “Helo 1, ETA in twelve.”
Alan began to trace a lazy arc over the combat zone. Barring surprises, his work was done, though he couldn’t relax until he was back at Camp Leatherneck. For the next two minutes, all was quiet below, then the radio came back to life.
“Yeah, this is Rattlesnake,” said Regis, and Alan could hear the smile in his voice. “We have the human asset. He’s ready for a beer but is otherwise in good shape. Enemy resistance
has been reduced to nil. Still searching for technical asset.”
“Good work, Rattlesnake,” said Central Command.
“I’ll watch your six until Dragonfly 6 gets his ass over here,” Alan added.
“Thanks for that, Black Eagle,” said the helicopter pilot. “We are on schedule. MARSOC finished early. Not our fault if some people are a bit over-efficient. Nine minutes out.”
“Beers are on you, Dragonfly 6,” said Alan. “All good here.”
But as soon as he said it the radio spat again.
CentCom again.
“Black Eagle, we have bogeys incoming from the northwest. Three helos.”
From the northwest?
“Come again, CentCom,” said Alan with steely calm, thumbing his radar to air-to-air mode. “Helos from the northwest?”
“Confirmed,” said CentCom. “Ten clicks away. Look like MI-35s. Could use your attention ASAP.”
Alan could see them on his screen now. As CentCom ordered the helos to prepare to engage, his mind raced.
The MI-35 was a variant of the Russian MI-24 attack helicopter, an updated version of an older aircraft used by a host of international powers, though where they’d come from, Alan couldn’t imagine. More troubling was how they had approached unseen. AWACs should have picked them up ages ago.
“Roger that,” said Alan, pulling the Harrier around onto an attack vector. “Coming in hard. Dragonfly 6—hold your position until we’ve cleared the LZ of hostiles. Any chance of getting those MH-60L DAPs in fast?”
“Still six minutes away,” said the Night Hawk leader.
Which was at least four minutes too long.
“Understood,” said Alan. “Preparing to engage.”
The hesitation was only fractional but it spoke volumes.
“Roger that, Black Eagle,” said the Night Hawk leader over the radio. “Show ’em who’s boss.”
He had maybe seventy seconds to determine who they were and what they were doing there. He checked his FLIR, but the blips that had been there only moments before had gone.
“CentCom, this is Black Eagle. Bogeys no longer registering on air-to-air systems. Please advise.”
Another momentary pause.
“Copy that, Black Eagle,” said the voice over the radio. It was carefully neutral but Alan thought he heard a note of confusion. Even alarm. “Estimated time to intercept last known coordinates?”
“Fifty seconds at current speed.”
“Roger that, Black Eagle. Maintain course.”
“You have them on radar, right?” he pressed.
A fractional hesitation. “Negative, Black Eagle. We’ve lost them, too.”
Which meant what? Some kind of stealth tech they hadn’t anticipated?
Back at Central Command, there would be shouting, earnest phone calls, analysts huddling around monitors. Alan ran through his weapon systems checklists but he couldn’t keep his mind entirely on the how of what would happen next. He hadn’t expected this. No one had. The Taliban had no air power. ISIS had some captured Russian and Chinese and American equipment, but no training on how to use any of it, and last he’d checked, ISIS was in Afghanistan in token numbers. Alan scrolled through his munitions, thinking fast.
And now the unidentified helicopters below him were back on Alan’s FLIR, three of them, exhaust ports belching heat. The one upside was that since the Night Hawks weren’t on hand, he could use his Sidewinders, assuming there was enough heat coming off those enemy choppers for the missiles to grab onto.
The radio crackled with static, the channel opened for a second, then closed again. The Harrier hurtled through the Afghan night.
Intercept in thirty seconds.
The radio came back to life.
“Black Eagle this is CentCom. Green to engage. Repeat, engage all bogeys in LZ. Clear the area.”
“Roger that, CentCom,” said Alan.
He banked the Harrier hard to the port side, selecting a Sidewinder missile, targeting the closest helicopter, thumb over the release button.
There was a brilliant flash of light, hot at the center and cooler at the edges, but no sound of any explosion. Stranger still, the light did not dissipate. For a second, Alan was blind. He flipped his NVGs up, unsure if he’d fired without meaning to, or if he’d been fired upon. As his eyes grew accustomed to the glare, he saw that the light hung motionless, like a midday sun, perhaps one nautical mile to starboard.
All three helicopters were suddenly, terribly visible in the light of … whatever it was. As he circled, Alan could see them all clearly, hovering like great mosquitoes, suspended in the unnatural glow.
Without another thought, he pressed the trigger button to release the first Sidewinder. Nothing happened.
What the hell?
Alan pressed the trigger again, without result. He tried retargeting the system, but the missile wouldn’t lock. He engaged the 25mm cannon and pointed the Harrier at the target, but when he pressed the trigger, there was silence.
He stared in horror.
“Complete weapons systems failure,” he said. “I cannot engage the helos. There’s something out here, jamming my electronics. Repeat, I cannot engage bogeys. Rattlesnake. You have to get your men into cover. Dragonfly 6, LZ is not secure. Hold your position.”
“Copy that, Black Eagle,” said the Night Hawk leader, “but we can be there in three minutes.”
Too late.
“Negative,” said Alan.
“Can you repeat that?” said the helicopter pilot. “Not sure I copy.”
“I don’t think your weapons will work any better than mine. There’s something …” Alan began, shielding his eyes from the orange white glare of the sphere suspended to his right. “None of my weapons systems are functioning. I have an unidentified bogey in visual range. CentCom—are you seeing this? Configuration unknown. I think … I don’t know,” he managed. His hand had developed a tremor, and he felt the unfamiliar tingle of panic. “I think it’s disrupting my weapons systems.”
And then the unidentified helicopters swung away from him, angling to face the huddle of buildings that now cast hard shadows in the strange fiery light of the sphere.
“Bogeys locking on your position!” Alan said. “Rattlesnake, get your people out!”
“Black Eagle, engage!” said the voice of Central Command. “Fire all weapons immediately!”
“Unable to comply,” said Alan, overwhelmed with dull horror. “Systems down. I’m sorry … I just can’t …”
And then the missiles began raining down from the three enemy helicopters, and in the strange terrible light that hung like an unholy star in the black Afghan sky, Alan saw it all.
2
JENNIFER
Luve, Swaziland, Present Day
JENNIFER QUINN STARED AT THE AMERICAN WOMAN IN outraged disbelief.
“You can’t do that,” Jennifer said. “You are not allowed.”
“I have spoken to the school principal, and he feels that it would be confusing to the girls,” said Mavis. She wore a prim smile that Jennifer wanted to slap off her face.
“Confusing?” she echoed, gripping the table edge until her knuckles went white. “What is confusing about condoms?”
She slammed a foil packet onto the table between them. Mavis averted her eyes but spoke in a maddeningly even tone.
“You are attempting to politicize this event,” she said.
“AIDS is political,” Jennifer shot back. “Rape is political. Pressuring girls into marriage is political.”
“It is not the place of Peace in Action to interfere with local custom and beliefs.”
Jennifer gave a hollow laugh.
“This isn’t abut local customs. This is about your own prudishness!” she shot back. She was losing it, she knew, and it would only make things worse, but she could not hold back the anger that had been building over the six weeks she had spent in Swaziland. “This is about sex, Mavis. I know you don’t want it to be, but it is, and refusi
ng to talk about it is not helping anything. Hell, even the government knows it! When you cross the border from South Africa, there are boxes of free condoms at the customs and immigration checkpoints!”
“This event is supposed to be about female empowerment,” Mavis returned, still placid, still secure.
“Exactly!” Jennifer shot back. “And that’s not something you get with a few posters or girl power sing-a-longs. And it sure as hell isn’t something you get, reciting poems about ‘Our Lord and Savior.’ Peace in Action is not a religious organization, and you need to stop using social activism as an excuse to preach your damn beliefs.”
Mavis’ composure buckled. “You may think you are better than us, Miss Quinn, but I will not tolerate that kind of language in my office.”
“That kind of language?” exclaimed Jennifer. “We’re trying to build a culture where girls don’t get beaten into prostitution or die of every known STD on the planet, and you’re offended by my language? You know what, Mavis? Fuck you and your holier-than-thou attitude. I don’t think I’m better than anyone, but I am paying for this event, and we will not only give out condoms—we will demonstrate their correct use. So I suggest you go down the market and buy a box of cucumbers. Hell, you can even eat one.”
She knew, as soon as she said it, that something wasn’t right, and not just because she’d finally called the poisonous old bitch on her sanctimony. Mavis smiled, not her usual serene and beatific smile, mimicking the smile on the plaster saint that looked down on her desk, but a smile expressing something smaller and harder: a bitter satisfaction, that was almost amusement.
“Well, there’s the thing,” she said, sitting back.
Jennifer waited, but, when Mavis said no more, prompted her. “What’s the thing?”
“You say you are paying for this event,” said Mavis, “but that’s not strictly true, is it? Your father in England is paying for the event.”
“Same difference,” she said.
