Dreamland d-1

by Dale Brown

  “Bus, other vehicles. I’m switching from the FLIR to the starscope. Shit – I have the F-117!” said Chris. “It’s moving. Shit, they’re loading it off a truck at the far end – no, they’re sliding down into a bunker. Shit. Shit. See it?”

  “No,” said Breanna. “Can you target it?”

  “Bay,” said Chris. “No, wait. No. They’re in the hangar. I can’t tell whether it’s concrete or not. I don’t think so. I don’t have a target point.”

  Breanna nudged the stick to bank.

  “I can’t be sure what that hangar’s made of,” said Chris. “It looks like it’s cement-reinforced.”

  “Can you fly the JSOW into the hangar?”

  “Maybe,” said her copilot. “The angle’s tough. I can hit it, but the missiles might not penetrate. I don’t know what’s inside, whether it’s all on the surface or if it’s like Dreamland’s hangars, with ramps and elevators.”

  “That’s unlikely.”

  “Yeah. But what do you figure the odds are our guys are with the plane?”

  instead of answering, Breanna checked the threat scope again. There were no radars active. The Megafortress was slipping through the night undetected.

  They might never have a chance like this again. If the wrecked plane was there, odds were their men were too.

  On the other hand, there was no telling what sort of defenses the Iranians and Somalians had waiting.

  Her instinct said go for it. She clicked the transmit button.

  “Vector leader, here’s our situation,” she said, laying it out.

  “We’re en route,” snapped the Delta commander. He patched in the pilots as Breanna had Chris sketch the base and approach.

  “We’ll take out the Zeus as you come in,” Breanna said. “The hangar with the aircraft will be three thousand meters beyond it, close to the water.”

  “We’ll hit it, take out the planes, and look for our guys.”

  “Roger that.”

  “ETA five minutes,” said the lead pilot. The two Ospreys were rushing through the mountain passes, heading for their target. “We’re going silent com.”

  “Fort Two,” acknowledged Bree. She turned toward her copilot. “Hold one missile in reserve for the hangar if they can’t reach it.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I was thinking.” Chris added. Then sighed so loud her earphones practically shattered. He sounded like a horse that had just lost its chance to run in the Derby. “Listen, I’m sorry about that emotion thing I said. I didn’t mean it.”

  “We’re both tired,” she said, worried that his crack had been all too true.

  Northern Somalia

  23 October, 0445

  The Osprey wheeled out of the hills just as the big antiaircraft gun at the edge of the base exploded. Skipping forward, the MHV-22 plopped herself down a few feet from the DC-8 at the edge of the ramp. Danny jumped from the rear of the plane behind Powder, and saw two figures running toward him; he pushed his trigger on his sub-machine gun and then men crumpled immediately.

  “Fuel truck! Fuel truck!” Liu yelled behind him. Danny saw the tanker under the airliner’s wing. Bison had thrown himself in a crouch, aiming his SAW grenade launcher at the easy target.

  “Don’t blow it! Don’t blow it!” Freah yelled. They were tasked with searching the plane before destroying it, in case the pilots and Marines were aboard already.”

  “Somebody in the cockpit!” shouted Hernandez.

  Gunfire erupted to his right, a short burst of automatic fire. Danny threw himself down as a flare ignited overhead. He heard the rumble of a heavy machine gun at the far end, saw the silhouette of an Osprey, the other Osprey, descending near the hangar.

  There was a boarding ladder near the fuselage of the DC-8 less than twenty yards away. The door was open and there didn’t appear to be any soldiers or guards between them and the aircraft.

  “On the plane! On the plane!” screamed Danny, jumping to his feet. Talcom and Hernandez were already at the ladder cart, exchanging gunfire with someone at the top. “Use the concussion grenades!” he shouted as he ran. “Knock them out! Don’t hurt our guys!”

  His men didn’t need to be reminded of such basic procedure, but Danny yelled them anyway. Talcom and Hernandez had managed to get inside the plane in a few seconds it took for him to reach the ladder. He took the rungs two at a time, a concussion grenade in his hand. He slipped his thumbnail beneath the tape, ready to toss it in.

  “We’re clean! We’re clean!” Talcom was yelling. “Somebody’s in the cockpit!”

  Danny threw himself into the airliner, rolling on the rubber-matted floor. The plane shook with a nearby explosion. Something burned on the other side of the base, faint red flickers mixing with the predawn twilight. Danny pulled out his small penlike flashlight, playing its narrow tungsten-lit beam carefully across the interior. The airliner was configured as a bare-bones passenger transport with fifteen or sixteen rows of seats between the boarding door and the flight deck. Talcom and Hernandez were huddled near the cockpit, their heads next to the closed door, listening to see what was happening on the other side. Freah spun around, checking the rear of the plane. There were maybe another dozen rows of seats back to a curtain. He got to his feet and ran back, ducking into the last row of seats.

  He took the concussion grenade from his pocket, held it up so the others could see.

  Talcom gave him a thumbs-up. Freah pulled the pin and rolled the grenade under the curtain. In the next moment his men at the front fired off the lock on the cockpit door. Danny waited for the boom of the grenades, then dove up and over the seats, rolling into the gallery.

  No one was there. A cargo compartment lay beyond the gallery. He tried the door, found it locked. He stood back, fired at the recessed handle. It still wouldn’t budge. He threw himself against it, his flashlight slipping from his hand and clanking so loudly against the counter that for a split second he thought it was a gunfire.

  “Captain! Captain!” yelled Hernandez.

  Danny spun back to see a dazed man with vaguely Middle Eastern features being herded down the aisle by his two sergeants.

  “Guy’s the pilot. They were just ready to take off, I think,” said Hernandez. “Head’s scrambled or maybe I just can’t understand what the hell he’s saying.”

  “APC coming up from the other end of the base,” added Talcom. “Egg’s holding him off.”

  Freah grabbed the pilot. “Where are our men?”

  The man shook his head as if he didn’t understand. Freah tightened his grip and pushed him against the seat.

  “My people!” he demanded.

  The man said something unintelligible.

  “Captain, our grenade probably beat shit out of his eardrums,” said Powder. “Even if he understands English, he probably can’t hear. sucker’s lucky he wasn’t killed.”

  “Patrol boat?”

  “I have it designated. We can take it out at will. Machine-gun fire on the north side of the base. I think they’re shooting at us. No SAMs. No radar.”

  Breanna continued around, edging the Megafortress over the water. They were within the lethal envelope of a shoulder-fired missile like a Stinger or the SA-16, the Russian equivalent; she had to be ready to pull evasive maneuvers at any second. Still, she found her thoughts wandering, drifting down to the assault teams, wondering if they had found Mack.

  Why did she care? Why had Jeff accused her of having an affair with him?

  “Bree?”

  “Take it out,” she snapped, her unconscious alerting her to the fact that the patrol boat had snapped on a scanning radar. Her hands were already prodding the Megafortress away.

  “Missile away,” said Chris. “Scope is now clean.”

  The boat had turned off its radar, but nonetheless began firing its weapon, a large-bore cannon. The air below them crackled and popped with the explosions.

  Suddenly it smoothed out and the horizon glowed.

  “Got the motherfucker,” said Chr
is. “Big fucking burn. Go baby, go baby.”

  “Good one.” Breanna checked her warning screens, making sure Fort Two hadn’t been hit. They were clean, systems in the green.

  “APCs launching an attack,” said Chris, back on the FLIR.

  “Can you take them out?”

  “I can get one, if you can spin us back so I can get a better look. After that, we’re down to our last missile. You still want to save it?”

  “Yeah,” she said, beginning to bank.

  “APC near the hangar or the airliner?”

  “Hangar,” said Breanna.

  “Here’s something for you to take home to the Ayatollah,” said Chris as he pickled the missile off.

  Breanna’s laughed was interrupted by the RWR buzzer. The two MiG-29’s they’d scared off earlier were on their way back.

  Northern Somalia

  23 October, 0445

  The bus stopped near the gate, allowing the flatbed with the plane to get by. As the Imam walked up the steps, something exploded about a mile away.

  “We are under attack,” the Iranian said calmly. “You will follow me off the bus.”

  “No, we won’t,” said Mack. This was a gift – now it made sense to stall.

  “You will follow me off the bus,” A trio of fresh explosions rocked the vehicle even as he spoke, though they did not affect his manner.

  “Maybe we better,” said Howland. “We’re going to get blown up here.”

  As if to underline his words, the top of the bus was perforated by machine-gun fire. Outside, men were yelling and screaming. Smith heard the sound of tank and truck motors roaring nearby. The whomp of descending helos – or maybe Ospreys – filled the air.

  “You will follow me now, said the Iranian, disappearing out the front. The two Somalians trained their weapons on the Americans.

  “What do you think?” Gunny asked.

  Bullets sprayed nearby, sending dirt and rocks against the side of the bus.

  “I say let’s move,” said Howland. “And at least get ourselves out in the open where we can make a run for it.”

  “Yeah,” said Mack finally.

  They didn’t move fast enough for the Somalians – one of them raised his rifle and sent a quick burst through the roof of the bus. The four Americans flinched, but kept moving, walking deliberately to the front and then down the steps. Somalian soldiers crouched nearby; one or two men ran and others yelled, though they seemed confised, perhaps panicked. It was unclear where the attack was coming from or even what was attacking them. a large jet zoomed ahead, its hull dark against the moon. One of the soldiers stood and emptied his AK-47 at it.

  Idiots might as well shoot at the star, Mack thought.

  The Imam had begun walking toward the back of the terminal building a few feet away. One of the guards went to Mack and prodded him to follow, pushing with the barrel end of his rifle. As Mack began to walk, there was a fresh burst of gunfire behind him. A machine gun began firing nearby, shaking the ground and air with a jackhammer thud.

  Mack felt something sharp flick him in the face. He thought it was a bug at first; reaching up, he found his face wet with blood. A bullet had chipped a piece of cement up and nicked him below the cheekbone.

  The guards pushed the Americans toward a knot of soldiers at the side of the terminal building, urging them to run and occasionally firing into the air. It wasn’t clear whether they were shooting at the plane or planes attacking, or just trying to scare them; neither made much sense.

  Mack was only vaguely aware of the other following behind him. Despite his chains and his resolve to go slow and look for a chance to escape, he was trotting, moving quicker than he wanted.

  The Imam was waiting at the back corner of the building.

  “Into the plane,” the Iranian commander. A few yards away, three soldiers pulled a black tarp off a small, high-winger aircraft in the field behind the building. The twin-engined, boom-tailed craft was an ancient Antonov An-14 ‘Clod’ – a Soviet-era transport used mostly as a civilian plane thirty years ago. As the cover was removed, a man ran to the rear of the fuselage, yanking open a set of clamshell doors and ducking inside. The small plane rocked with his footsteps as he leapt into the cockpit; the engines started almost instantly, revving with a high-pitched grumble.

  “Quickly,” said Iman.

  “No,” said Mack.

  “You will come now,” said the Iranian. He raised his hand, revealing a pistol. Before any of the Americans could react, he fired point-blank into Jackson’s forehead. The Marine’s head snapped back and them seemed to disintegrate; his body fell almost straight down beneath it.

  “The sergeant will be next,” the Iman added, quickly pushing his gun into Gunny’s face. One of the guards had already grabbed the Marine from behind.

  “Into the plane, Major, or your sergeant will die,” said the Imam. “You and the captain will be dragged aboard anyway. I will not kill you, even thought that is plainly what you desire.”

  Meekly, Mack bowed his head and started for the plane.

  Northern Somalia

  23 October, 0455

  Danny fell headfirst over the seat, barely hanging on to his submachine gun. A hurricane seemed to descend around him; his nostrils burned with the smell of plastic and metal burning.

  “Captain! Captain! Captain!”

  He couldn’t locate the voice. He tried to stand, felt his throat revolting. He threw himself down to the floor. Instead of landing against the carpet, he kept going, his head and shoulders falling into the open air.

  The side of the plane next to him had been blown away. Hanging on by his feet, he flailed back toward the aircraft. The he saw that the skin of the plane had been twisted into something like a ramp; it would be easier to climb down. As he turned around and began to try to do so, an arm came out of the thick smoke in the plane. He yanked it over him, pulling a man out of the hole, pushing him to climb down. He only realized it was the Iranian pilot as the body slipped and then rolled to the ground.

  Another explosion erupted to his left. Danny felt a surge of air against his face, found another body rolling against his. He grabbed it and pushed it toward the tarmac. He rolled down after it, saw it was Talcom.

  “Where’s Hernandez? Where the fuck is Hernandez?” he screamed.

  Powder, dazed, maybe unconscious, didn’t answer. Danny clambered back up the jagged side of the plane, prodding through the acrid brown stench. He reached the floor of the passenger compartment, got to his feet, and near nearly fell backward as flames erupted in his face. The heat was so intense he could only retreat, tumbling over backward and falling out of the plane headfirst. He managed to grab a piece of metal, slowing himself but ripping his uniform and cutting his arm as he pirouetted around. He fell next to Talcom, who as trying to stand; both men slammed down and flattened the still-dazed Iranian pilot.

  It would have been comical had the fuel truck nearby not erupted.

  Somehow, Danny managed to pull Talcom and the pilot away. All three collapsed about twenty yards from the jetliner, gasping for breath and feeling the hot flame of the tanker truck.

  “Hernandez, we lost Hernandez,” said Freah when Liu grabbed him.

  “No, he’s in the Osprey,” said the medic. “Come on. We have to go. Fighter are coming. Let’s go. They blew the hangar.”

  Danny shook his head clear, bolting to his feet. He’d lost his MP-5, but he seemed okay; he didn’t think he’d been hurt.

  Sunburned maybe. Damn fire was hot.

  “My team,” he shouted, twisting back.

  “We’re all here!” yelled Liu. “Come on, Captain.”

  A massive black cloud hung over the hangar at the other end of the field. The Delta Osprey was taxiing away from it, toward them. An APC was rumbling thirty yards away.

  Danny stood motionless as the armored personnel carrier’s turret began to revolve in the direction of the Delta Osprey. Then he started to run toward the APC with all his strength.


  “Captain! Captain!” shouted Liu.

  As Danny ran. He reached into his pocket for the grenade.

  Nothing but MP-5 clips.

  Cursing, he kept running. He remembered he’d used the grenade in the airplane and reached for the other pocket, retrieving a stun-grenade. The grenade wasn’t powerful enough to do anything to the exterior of the vehicle; it would have to be thrown inside.

  He fumbled with the taped pin as he bolted atop the APC. It was an ancient vehicle, a BTR-60P with an eight-wheeled chassis and a 12.7mm gun mounted in a turret at the front. The gun barrel lurched back, firing toward the Osprey. Danny grappled with the hatch, but there was no way to open it once locked from the inside. He threw himself on top of the gun turret, thinking he might stuff the grenade through the gun opening, but he saw there’d be no chance of that as the gun fired again; desperate, he pulled his Beretta out and stuff the barrel against the small viewing slot at the side of the front of the truck; Danny fell to the ground. The Osprey was revving its rotor furiously, pulling away. Danny rolled the grenade beneath the APC and ran back for his own craft, expecting at any moment to be shot. The ground rippled near him and he felt himself flying into the air.

  Liu and Hernandez caught him just before he hit the ground, stumbling but managing to keep their balance as their Osprey lurched backward toward them. The others grabbed them and Danny felt himself suddenly pulled upward, the rotorcraft taking off with its bay open.

  “We’re in! We’re in!” yelped Talcom.

  Bison stood near the open doorway, firing his SAW. The APC continued to fire at them.

  “Shit,” said Freah.

  Chapter 5

  TV time

  Ethiopia

  23 October, 1540

  You could smell a combat base. Part of it was the sweat in the air. Part of it was spent fuel, and the ammo being packed.

  Another part was fear.

  Zen smelled it as he worked his way down the Megafortress;s stair ramp, levering himself sideways down each step, aware that he was being stared at – or actually, that people were pretending not to stare at him. He used his arms and shifted his weight carefully as he lowered his butt; he wanted to come down on his own power, but he also didn’t want to fall on his face.