by John Weisman
0956. “Kaz, keep your head down, goddammit.” Rowdy chewed the end of his mustache, noting for the record that it was a very feeble substitute for his habitual cheekful of Copenhagen. Would these spooks ever learn? Movement gave you away. It didn’t take much, either. Pilots were trained observers—like experienced hunters in the field. And when you hunted, you never tried to find a whole deer. You looked for an anomaly; something that wasn’t supposed to be there. The flash of white when the buck flicked its tail. The sudden shift of light and shadow as a boar moved through a thicket toward water. The momentary glint of sun reflecting off the lens of a telescopic sight. Or the callow, upturned face of a dumb-as-rocks spook who’d heard the chopper but still wanted to see the frigging thing so his eyes could corroborate what his ears had just told him.
He’d positioned them well clear of the burning truck and smoldering chopper. They’d moved the MADM back down into the ravine and slid the damn thing into its crate, which they positioned ostentatiously at the rear of the truck. Rowdy made sure they tilted the damn thing so the heavy wooden box transporter sat with its yellow-and-black universal symbol for NUKE pointing skyward. No way the Chinese would miss that.
The 4x4 was a quarter mile to the west, on the far side of a narrow S-curve, sixty yards off the road and camouflaged so well that even Rowdy’d had a hard time spotting it from the ridge high above. The group was split in two. Rowdy, Wei-Liu, and the spooks were concealed on the northern ridge under a jagged outcropping, shielded by a small stand of knobby, wind-sheared evergreens and irregular clusters of nasty, thorned, dark green bushes that stood waist-high, crowned by reddish new growth. The rest of the Delta people were spread along the southern ridge. Their fields of fire would mesh right in the area some eighty yards away where the truck, the chopper, and the Chinese bodies lay. Rowdy’d kept one RPG launcher and four rockets. Doc and Goose had the other pair and all the remaining rockets.
The whomp-whomp-whomping of the chopper grew closer. And then the sound altered as Rowdy picked up the high-pitched whine of big twin turbine engines. And then, as the ground began to shake beneath him, he saw the big bird crest a hundred and fifty feet above the southern ridge, veer east, then slow as the pilot spied the battleground below.
He saw the flat, armored, humpbacked dual cockpits. The stubby wings. The nose-mounted Gatling traversing side to side. The rocket pods. Christ, it was a HIND, a hunter-killer gunship.
The chopper rotated to give the pilot a better view of the scene. He descended to fifty feet above the ravine floor, edged closer to the burning HIP, rotated counterclockwise above the bodies of the Chinese soldiers, then maneuvered over the nose of the upended truck, passing not a hundred feet to the north of the MADM—although there was no outward indication that the pilot or gunner saw the nuke. What the hell did these guys need—flares? Then the pilot dropped the chopper’s nose slightly, and proceeded to follow the road westward, its rotor wash creating a 360-degree tsunami of dust, stone, and loose brush.
“Everybody stay down … stay down … he’s trying to pick up a scent.” Rowdy released the transmit button, hoping he’d been heard over the chopper’s screaming engines, watching as the HIND picked up speed, climbed a few hundred feet into the air, flew off to the east, then reversed course and backtracked, its armored-glass nose lowered to give the pilot and gunner the widest possible angle of vision.
Rowdy had a sudden urge to smile because this guy wasn’t playing by the rules. Obviously, the Chinese pilot hadn’t been made privy to this particular scenario, which was known in the Joint Forces Command war-game scenario list as “Special Situation Ambush No. 12,” or “SSA-12.” In “SSA-12,” a “Red Force” chopper-borne hostile insertion element sees the bait set out by the “Blue Force” ambushers, lands, and is decimated. And guess what? In ten out of ten SSA-12 war-game simulations, the Red Force chopper always settles right where the Blue Force commander plans the ambush site. That is because at the Joint Forces Command, the outcome of war games is always decided in advance. The red team, known as OPFOR, or Opposing Force, always loses. Which, Rowdy knew, is why JFC war games were totally useless—except as résumé builders for dumb-ass generals.
In real life, as Rowdy knew from bitter experience, the enemy is seldom cooperative. In real life, the situation is always fluid and unpredictable. More to the point, it is always Murphy-rich. The one time Rowdy had been allowed to play the OPFOR bad guy in an SSA-12 scenario, he’d held a pair of chopper gunships back, out of sight of the LZ. When his landing force had been attacked, he’d unleashed the Cobras and decimated the ambushers. Which is when the generals running the exercise had stopped the war game and ordered him to replay the segment so their Blue Force ambushers would win.
The same principle applied here. Once they’d fired on the HIND, the Chinese gunner would know exactly where their positions were—and he could lay down a deadly rain of machine-gun and rocket fire on them from above.
So Rowdy had to hold fire, hoping the HIND would land once the pilot saw the MADM. The HIND’s armor was virtually impervious to RPG and small-arms rounds. Only when it was on the ground—its wide twin exhausts and air intakes vulnerable to intensive RPG and rifle fire—could they immobilize the big gunship.
But Rowdy already knew the HIND wouldn’t land—no more than a tank crew would abandon the safety of its armored cocoon in hostile territory to go examine something. It just wouldn’t happen. No: once the Chinese pilot spotted the MADM, he would do what he had no doubt just done: radio for backup. Send for additional troops and EOD specialists.
Reinforcements were precisely what Rowdy didn’t need. The sergeant major sighed. Another tidy war-game scenario shattered by messy real life. He pressed his transmit button. “He’s gonna make another pass. When he does, if he hovers—or even if he slows down—shoot his exhausts out and take the sucker out so we can get the hell out of here.”
1003. The HIND flew overhead on an easterly course. But it didn’t descend, hover, or decelerate. Instead, it maintained a steady altitude of three hundred feet, flying parallel to the road—and well out of RPG range. After a quarter of a minute, it was out of sight. The engine scream diminished, and soon all Rowdy heard was the thumping of rotors. In less than a minute they, too, faded into the distance. But that didn’t mean the son of a bitch wasn’t coming back.
Rowdy eased himself out from cover and surveyed the scene below. What would Sun-Tzu do? Rowdy knelt, chewing on his mustache. And then he remembered exactly what the Master taught—and knew exactly what to do. “Force is like water: it has no consistent shape. Military genius is the ability to adapt force to your opponent during the fluidity of battle, even as water flows around the obstacles in its way.”
“I have been an idiot,” Rowdy said aloud, causing Wei-Liu and X-Man to look at him strangely and Kaz to snicker.
Rowdy looked in the tech’s direction. “The Master says, ‘Wisdom is not obvious. Those who can see subtlety will achieve victory.’”
The spook inclined his head in mock reverence: “I am an unworthy grasshopper.”
Rowdy’s hand moved in a Zen-like wave. “I forgive you your sins.” And then he eased back under cover, lifted the RPG launcher onto his shoulder, aimed it in an easterly direction, and pressed the transmit button on his radio. “Loner, Loner, do you copy?”
129 Kilometers East-Northeast of Tokhtamysh.
1003 Hours Local Time.
THEY WERE LOW on fuel—Mick estimated twenty-five minutes’ flight time left. Ritzik tried calling Rowdy to see if he’d managed to siphon the avgas out of the downed HIP. They’d need every bit to make it as far as the Tajik border, given the fact that they’d be carrying fifteen people and flying higher than the aircraft’s safe operational ceiling. But the radios weren’t working. Mick, pissed, said, “Sam?”
“Yo?”
“Pull my earpiece, will ya?”
“Sure.” The spook reached across the console, yanked the soft foam plug, and draped the wire over the
pilot’s shoulder.
“Oh, that feels better.” Mickey D swiveled his head. “Y’know, boss, these damn radios are no better than Polish suppositories.”
Mick was a strange one. Ritzik understood that. But this was bizarre, even for him. “Huh?”
“This guy in Warsaw,” Mick continued, “he’s all plugged up. Y’know, whatchamacallit—constipated. So he goes to the doctor, who prescribes suppositories. The doc says, ‘Use one of these twice a day for two days, then come back and see me.’ The guy leaves. Three days later he’s back, worse than ever. He says, ‘Doc, those suppository things don’t work worth a damn.’
“The doctor’s shocked. ‘Whaddya mean they don’t work? I prescribed the most powerful suppositories available.’ The patient says, ‘Oh, yeah? Well, first of all they’re hell to take—they’re the size of horse pills. Swallowing ‘em is just about impossible. Second, for all the good they did me, I could have shoved ‘em up my ass.’”
“And your point is?”
Mick’s eyebrows wriggled. “Problem with you blanket-heads is you have no sense of humor. You—”
“Mick—chopper. Ten o’clock.” Sam pointed southeast.
Ritzik followed the spook’s arm. It was the second HIND. It was closing. He didn’t need this. “Mick—can you give us some altitude here?” He turned, on the verge of going aft to free up the machine gun, when he heard Rowdy’s voice in his earpiece.
Pray long enough, Ritzik thought, and every once in a while your prayers will actually be answered. “Rowdy—Loner.” Ritzik clapped his hands over his ears so he could make out what the sergeant major was saying. “Repeat-repeat.” He listened intently for about twenty seconds. Then said, “Roger. I copy. Wilco. Loner out.”
1005. Ritzik leaned forward so he could shout in Mickey D’s ear. “He wants us to come in hot—strafe the ravine, then the southern ridge. Then he wants you to hover on the south ridge. I’ll drop the ladder and we’ll go out—look like an assault team. Sam will retrieve and stow the ladder once we’re down. Then you drop behind the ridge—settle on the deck.” He squeezed the pilot’s shoulder. “Can do?”
“Coming in hot’s no prob,” Mick shouted back. He looked at the HIND. “The hovering may be a little rough, though.” He wiggled his head back and forth. “Hey—somebody stick that Polish suppository back in my ear so I can hear the crap that son of a bitch is transmitting, okay?”
29
125 Kilometers East-Northeast of Tokhtamysh.
1008 Hours Local Time.
ROWDY YATES heard the HIP before he saw it. He’d scrambled the five Delta shooters off the southern ridge, ordering them to leave enough detritus behind so their positions still appeared to be manned. Then they’d all taken up counterambush positions on the north ridge. Doc Masland held down the left flank with one of the RPGs. Goose had the second launcher on the right. Rowdy, who kept Wei-Liu and the spooks close to him, commanded the center field of fire.
The HIP came in fast and low. It skimmed the north ridge, wheeled sharply, then laid suppressive fire fifty feet below the Americans. Rowdy could see Gene Shepard in the doorway, Chinese helmet on his head, working the machine gun, shell casings flying past his feet as he sprayed the ground. As the HIP had careened a hundred yards east of the truck, he detonated the shaped charge, which he’d run down into the ravine.
Even two hundred yards off, Rowdy still felt the heat and concussion. He peered through the thick black smoke. The explosion brought down two good-sized trees. Rowdy shot a quick, approving look at X-Man—the kid obviously knew his stuff.
Mick took the HIP through a series of evasive moves, swinging the chopper up and around and running southeast to northwest. Then he swung back for another strafing run. This time Gene worked the road, just south of the explosion. The rocky base of the southern ridge was shattered by withering machine-gun fire.
Rowdy scanned the horizon. “Loner—Rowdy. Where’s the HIND?” He waited, but received no answer. Ritzik probably hadn’t heard him—there was too much noise.
1010.The HIND’s crew wanted to know what the hell was going on. That much was clear from the urgent tone of the transmissions. But Sam Phillips couldn’t make out what was being asked. Nor could he answer. He’d done everything he’d been instructed to do: the IFF was transmitting, and he’d tried mouthing a few garbled words of Mandarin. But military jargon was military jargon, and he just didn’t have any of it in his head. Jeezus H. Kee-rist. He was going to get them all killed.
1011.Mick rotated the HIP, then hovered fifty feet below the crest of the southern ridge. When the chopper had been stable for ten seconds, TV Weaver tossed the assault ladder out of the port-side doorway. Gene Shepard was first man out. The tall, lanky Soldier lowered himself onto the rope ladder and started down rung by rung, fighting the stuttering hover of the chopper, the blast of rotor wash, and the swaying, unstable rungs. Ty followed. He’d left the heavy sniper’s rifle behind. Instead, he carried the RPG launcher strapped across his back, the haversack of four rockets bumping up against it.
Ritzik held the top of the ladder to try to steady it. He glanced up to see Sam Phillips clamber from the cockpit, then turned his attention back to the ladder. Ritzik grappled with the ropes, trying to steady them as Ty fought to keep his balance. The sniper was struggling under forty pounds of launcher and rockets that pulled him backward off the pendulous ladder.
1011:27. Mick caught a glimpse of the HIND. It had circled behind them and was approaching from the south. How the hell long had it been there? Had they taken the bait, or were they lining up for a missile shot?
In that instant he lost control of the big chopper for a second and a half. The HIP pivoted abruptly, rose six feet, then dropped a yard.
1011:28. The sudden movement bounced the sniper off the ladder. Ty fell backward. He landed atop Gene Shepard and knocked the lanky first sergeant loose. The two men dropped three yards, then landed in a heap. Ritzik watched as Shepard rolled off the sniper’s inert body. Shepard looked up at Ritzik, who was frozen in the doorway.
1011:31. Ritzik screamed, “Sam—you pull the ladder up.” Then he swung out of the door, grabbed the two heavy rails of the assault ladder, brought them together so he could get both his hands around them, then dropped like a stone, fast-roping the twenty feet to the ground without using his feet. By the time he’d landed there was smoke coming off the thick leather palms of his gloves.
1011:33. Ritzik looked down. Ty was breathing—so the fall hadn’t killed him. But he’d landed hard on the weapons. Maybe knocked the breath clean out of him. Maybe worse. But no time to deal with it now. Quickly, Ritzik cut the launcher’s sling in two and sliced through the right-hand shoulder harness of the rocket sack. Shepard gingerly rolled the sniper onto his side and eased the canvas strap off the inert man’s shoulder.
1011:41. Ritzik looked up as he unslung the AK. The dark belly of the HIP pivoted, then swung away, revealing a shockingly blue sky. Shepard put his arm through the rocket sack, flipped it onto his back, and snatched up the launcher. Ritzik took Ty by the shoulder straps of his body armor and dragged him to cover.
The sniper’s eyes opened and he tried to speak. But nothing came out but a gasp. Ritzik said, “We’ll be back for you.”
1011:52. Ritzik and Gino ran a jagged pattern just below the ridgeline until they reached the cover of trees. The two men threw themselves down and crawled until they had a clear view of the road below. Shepard reached back, plucked a rocket from the bag, jammed the rocket into the muzzle of the launcher, and hefted the assembly onto his shoulder. Then, careful to make sure that Ritzik was hunkered clear of the RPG’s backblast area, he aimed the rocket halfway down the southern ridge and pulled the trigger.
1011:52. “X-Man—keep your glasses on the pilot. Give me a running commentary. I want to know every time he takes a breath.” Rowdy’s focus was on his RPG, but his peripheral vision picked up the HIND as the gunship reacted to Mick’s maneuvering.
“Gotcha.”
The CIA man squinted into compact field glasses. “Pilot’s looking down at his instruments, concentrating on something,” X-Man said. “Can’t see behind his visor, but his mouth is moving like hell.”
The HIND slowly crested the southern ridge, not three hundred yards from where Ritzik and Shepard lay. X-Man panned away from the gunship, catching Shepard as he fired the RPG. The spook followed the rocket’s path with the binoculars.
1011:59. “Didja see that?” X-Man’s voice was excited. “It was almost like he stuttered the goddamn chopper when the RPG blasted into the hillside.” And then the spook ducked instinctively as the HIND’s Gatling began to chew up the south ridge where the RPG had exploded.
“C’mon, c’mon, X. Sit-rep.” Rowdy watched as the rounds walked down the ravine, debris flying. Suddenly the HIND yawed, then recovered. “X, goddammit, what’s happening in the frigging cockpit?”
“Pilot just flipped up his visor. He’s looking down into the ravine.”
Rowdy found the gunship and settled the RPG’s iron sights on the HIND as it rocked, then steadied itself. The big ship, he noted with some satisfaction, was cumbersome at slow speed. “C’mon, X—where’s the John Madden?”
“He’s scanning the ravine,” X-Man said. “Coming down slightly. Oh, wait—he just shouted something into his mike. His lips are moving a mile a minute.”
Rowdy settled the sights on the HIND’s baffled air intakes, the muzzle of the RPG dropping evenly with the chopper.
“He’s dropping some more. Talking. Oh, oh, oh—his eyes went wide. He sees the bomb now. He’s—”
Rowdy shouted, “Execute! Execute! Execute!” into his mike.
