by Dale Brown
It was a rather pleasant night so far, but Vorobev knew that the weather in southern Turkmenistan in late spring was unpredictable and sometimes harsh. “Let’s go, serzhant,” he said. He returned the salutes from his two junior officers, then shook hands. He chatted with them idly as they headed to the first security checkpoint, about twenty minutes away.
Looks like we came a long way for nothing,” Hal Briggs said. The inside of the little Condor was eerily quiet, with just the faintest whisper of airflow audible through their helmets. But it wasn’t the ride that was bothering everyone.
It was the landing area. It appeared as if several Russian patrols were moving directly toward the landing site itself.
“We’ve been working with Turabi and these Turkmen guerrillas ever since the peacekeeping force was established,” Griffin went on. “They risked their lives to pass on valuable intelligence information to us.”
“Well, it appears the Russians are about to nab them,” Briggs said, studying the latest satellite-imagery download. “One Russian patrol looks like they’ve got them right now, and two others seem to be on their way.”
“The landing site is compromised,” the intel officer back at Battle Mountain radioed. “I recommend you abort. From your altitude you can make it back to Bukhara with plenty of fuel left.”
“Colonel Griffin? Speak to me. I’m considering getting the heck out of here.”
“We can’t let those Turkmen forces get captured if we want any chance of keeping Turkmenistan out of Russian hands, Hal.”
Hal paused. Then, “Top? Comments?”
Chris Wohl had encountered Jalaluddin Turabi before on two occasions—the last time, Turabi’s former Taliban fighters helped the Battle Force commandos escape a Russian attack in Turkmenistan. “It’s hard to tell, sir,” Wohl responded, “but I don’t see much more than a squad out there near the landing zone, and maybe a platoon within ten miles. You can take those guys easily. All you have to do is make sure you’re in the air before more troops show up.”
Briggs thought about it for a few moments. “Roger that. Control, Condor is proceeding as planned.”
“Are you sure, Hal?” Dave Luger asked. “It’s looking pretty hairy.”
“Not as hairy as it is for Turabi,” Hal said. “Put us down, sir.”
There was a pause, this time from Battle Mountain—Carter was obviously inquiring as to the wisdom of this decision. But soon he said, “Here we go, Condor. Everyone, prelanding checklists. Hold on tight.”
They were just a few miles from the planned landing zone, still gliding to the southwest at seventeen thousand feet. Just as Griffin thought there was no way they could make that landing zone from this altitude, the nose came up and his body was shoved forward on his shoulder straps as the Condor decelerated. His stomach again churned up into his throat as they careened earthward. Then, through the sudden wind-blast noise and intense buffeting, he thought he heard and felt the landing gear pop out, and moments later they hit the ground.
The noise level suddenly increased a hundredfold as the mission-adaptive fuselage went into maximum-drag configuration, and Griffin’s body dug into the shoulder harnesses again for what seemed like five minutes but was only a few seconds. The moment the pressure released, Hal Briggs had his restraints off and his door unlatched, and Griffin had to hurry to keep up with him. As they briefed, Griffin kept watch using the battle armor’s sensors while Hal pushed the Condor off the highway and spread a camouflaged antiradiation net over it—it would be easily discovered in daytime, but at night it looked like a pile of sand, and the net would keep it from being spotted by infrared sensors.
Griffin had his weapon ready—a big, heavy rifle that no commando would ever carry but was the perfect weapon for the Tin Men and their powered exoskeletons. The rifle was an electromagnetic rail gun that propelled a large titanium sabot projectile several thousand feet per second with amazing accuracy. Coupled with the battle armor’s sensors and steered with the exoskeleton, the weapon was devastating to any war machine, from a tank to a bomber, out to a range of over three miles.
“You okay, sir?” Hal asked.
“Yes. All clear,” Griffin said.
“Then let’s go find your boy, Colonel,” Briggs said. He checked his electronic charts, stepped in the proper direction, then fired the thrusters in his boots—and, in a whoosh! of compressed air, he was gone.
Here we go, Griffin said silently. He pointed himself in the right direction, braced himself, and gave the electronic command—what he called during training “clicking the ruby slippers together.” He felt the push of the thrusters, but for all he knew he was still standing upright—there was no sense of flying or falling at all. The battle armor’s stabilization system made the jump so smooth that he had to check his sensors to be sure that he was moving at all. But moments later he felt the thrusters fire again to slow his fall, and he knew enough to bend his knees slightly in order to help take the landing impact.
Hal was about five yards away. “Good jump, sir. Follow me.” And he was gone again.
Very cool, Griffin thought as he waited for the thrusters to recharge before he made his next jump. Very, very cool…
The security patrol had a group of three men on their knees in the sand, hands atop their heads, when the second patrol team, driving a wheeled BTR armored personnel carrier, arrived. An officer got out of the BTR and approached the group. “What do you have here tonight, Sergeant?” he asked.
“They were out here in shallow spider holes, sir,” the sergeant replied. “They seemed to be taking a lot of notes. And look at this.” The officer looked at the object in his flashlight. “It’s a pair of high-powered binoculars, sir. But there’s something else….”
“A camera—it’s a digital camera, designed to take digital pictures through the binoculars,” the officer said, examining the binoculars carefully. “And this port on the side…looks like it hooks into a transmitter, perhaps a satellite transmitter, da? Get someone out here with a metal detector—I bet we’ll locate the transmitter nearby.” He motioned to the captives. “You find out which is the leader yet?”
“They don’t appear to understand Russian, sir,” the sergeant said. “But I think that one is the leader.” He pointed to a very tall Turkmeni soldier with an empty shoulder holster. “He was the only one with a sidearm. It was Russian, in very good condition, and it looks like he knew how to wear it.”
The officer approached the man and shone his flashlight on him. Moments later, after grasping the man’s face, he broke out into a wide grin. “Well, well. Sergeant, don’t you see who we have here? This is General Jalaluddin Turabi himself, the new commander of the so-called Turkmen armed forces.” He bent down. “Am I not correct, General? And this is your aide, Abdul Dendara, no? Speak up so all your men can hear you.” The man remained silent, shaking his head that he did not understand. “Still playing dumb, General?” The officer withdrew a pistol, aimed it at the head of the younger man beside him, and fired. The headless body of the young recruit toppled over almost into Turabi’s lap. “How is your Russian now, General? Coming back to you?”
“Yob tvoyu mat’ khuyesas!” Turabi swore in Russian.
“There, you see, Sergeant? General Turabi knows Russian very well. We must take him with us back to the capital, and be very careful not to hurt him—at least for now. As for the other—execute him. We don’t have enough supplies to feed the entire damned Turkmen army.”
“Bastards! You can’t just slaughter us like this! We are prisoners of war!” Turabi shouted. As Turabi was dragged away, the patrol sergeant barked an order. One of his troops clicked the safety off his weapon….
But at that second they heard a loud banngg! The lights from the patrol vehicles that were illuminating the area snapped off, steam and diesel fuel gushing from a completely ruptured engine and fuel tank. The soldiers, Russians and Turkmen alike, dropped to the desert floor.
The security officer saw several bright flas
hes nearby that he assumed were gunshots, all coming from near his men. “Sergeant!” he shouted. “Where are the attackers?” No response. “Sergeant! Answer me!”
“I’m afraid he can’t answer you right now, sir,” came a strange, synthetic, computer-like voice. Suddenly the Russian felt himself hauled up by his jacket. He found himself dangling in the air—being held aloft by an alien-looking figure straight out of a science-fiction magazine.
“Vyyabat!” he shouted. “Who the hell are you?”
“Turn off his lights, and let’s get out of here, sir,” Hal Briggs said.
“Americans? You are Americans?” the officer shouted. “What are you doing here? I will—” But Griffin silenced him with a quick bolt of energy from his shoulder electrodes, then dropped the unconscious officer to the sand.
Trevor Griffin went over to Jalaluddin Turabi and helped him to his feet. “Are you all right?” he asked in Russian via the battle armor’s electronic interpreter.
“You…you are the American robot warriors,” Turabi gasped. “Why have you come here?”
“I’m from the Air Intelligence Agency, General Turabi,” Griffin said. Turabi still looked puzzled. “From Texas, General, remember? You’ve been sending us pictures of the Russians for weeks now. We’re here to get you and your man to safety. Let’s go. We’ve got to get out of here.”
They returned to where the Condor aircraft was hidden, took the camouflage netting off, and pulled it out onto the highway. Turabi and his sergeant, Abdul Dendara, climbed in the back and strapped in, followed by Griffin and then Briggs. He had the power on immediately. “Bobcat Control, Condor, we’re up.”
“Good to hear it, guys,” Dave Luger said.
“We’re running a systems check now, Condor. Stand by for engine start.” A few moments later: “Systems check okay. Hydraulic fluid is a little low—we may have a leak somewhere. Engine-start sequence in progress.” On the back of the Condor, a small retractable air inlet deployed, and moments later they heard the high-pitched whine of a turbojet engine. “Engine start complete, running another systems check…Hydraulic pressure is low, almost to the red line. Let’s see if we can get airborne before we lose the whole system. Hal, use the tiller and keep her straight on the highway. Ready?”
“Let’s do it.”
But it wasn’t going to happen. As soon as the Condor started moving forward, the nose slipped sideways, and they could feel a severe shuddering under their feet. “Control, I can’t steer it,” Hal said, “and I feel a really bad vibration in the nose.”
“Hydraulic pressure is down to zero,” Kelvin Carter reported. “The nosewheel will just free-caster without hydraulic power. Hal, you’ll have to lock the nosewheel in place with the locking switch on the tiller. You won’t have any steering, so you’ll have to manually line the Condor up on the highway. Use differential braking until you get enough airspeed to steer it aerodynamically. Careful on the brakes—you’ll flip yourself over if you have takeoff power in and you hit the brakes too hard.”
“I’ll get out and line it up,” Griffin said, and before Hal could protest, he had undogged his hatch and was scrambling out. It was no problem for him to lift up the nose of the aircraft and reposition it on the highway centerline.
But just as he did, a warning beeped in his helmet. “I’m picking up an aircraft coming our way.” He raised his rail gun and followed the prompts in his helmet until he could see the threat symbol in his electronic visor. “Got him! Got him!” he said excitedly. “Low, six miles, speed one-ten. Probably a damned helicopter gunship or attack plane.”
“Easy, sir. Wait for him to come into range,” Hal said. With the powered exoskeleton, Griffin tracked the incoming aircraft easily. “Should be any second now. Don’t lead him—the projectile will move a hell of a lot faster than—”
Suddenly Griffin heard in his helmet, “Warning, laser detected. Warning, laser detected.”
“Laser!” he shouted. “He’s laying a laser designator on us!” He didn’t wait any longer—he fired the rail gun at the incoming aircraft, even without a lock-on, hoping that the shot would make the pilot veer away or the gunner to break his lock-on or concentration.
It did neither. As Griffin watched, his electronic visor showed another target—this one moving much faster than the helicopter.
He didn’t hesitate. He jumped atop the Condor aircraft and watched as the laser-guided missile streaked in. Like a hockey goalie, he crouched down, keeping the missile centered in his sights while balancing. He raised the rail gun and tried to line up on the incoming missile.
But before he could get a shot off, it hit. The missile deflected off the barrel of the rail gun, off Griffin’s right arm, veered away from Condor, hit the ground, and exploded. The rail gun shattered in his hands, and he was blown backward off of the Condor and several yards through the air onto the hard-baked desert floor.
He was still alive. He heard warning buzzers, his electronic visor was cracked, and his body felt as if he were being turned on a rotisserie over a blazing bonfire—but he was still alive.
“Colonel Griffin!” he heard Hal Briggs shout. Briggs was kneeling beside him, putting out an electrical fire from his backpack and belt and removing his helmet. “Holy shit…”
“Where…where’s that gunship, Hal…?” Griffin breathed. “Get him, damn it!”
Hal turned and raised his rail gun—but before he could line up on the aircraft, another explosion erupted a short distance away. The Russian gunship had shot a second laser-guided missile into the Condor, blowing it to pieces. “Oh, my God!” Griffin shouted. “Turabi and his sergeant…”
“They’re clear,” Hal said. “They’re trying to find a place to hide.” Just as he was about to fire on the aircraft, he received warning in his helmet. “Oh, shit, another aircraft inbound.”
He turned to take a shot at the second aircraft, then slung his rail gun over his shoulder, picked up Griffin, and leaped away—just as another laser-guided missile exploded in the exact spot where they’d been a fraction of a second earlier. Hal landed from his jump and had barely enough time to cover Griffin with his body when the second aircraft, a Russian Mi-24 Hind-D attack helicopter, peppered him with thirty-millimeter cannon fire. The shock of the heavy-caliber shells hitting Briggs was so fierce that, even protected by Briggs’s armored body, Griffin felt his breath being knocked out of his lungs by the impact. As soon as the cannon fire stopped, Briggs scooped up Griffin and made another thruster jump in a different direction, away from Turabi and Dendara.
But the explosion, the gunship attack, and that last leap substantially depleted his power—warning tones were popping up the moment he landed from his jump. Griffin obviously saw them, too, because he held out his spare power pack. “Turn around—I’ll swap power packs.”
“Not this one, you won’t,” Hal said, examining the pack—it had shattered along with the rest of Trevor’s backpack. He quickly ejected his nearly spent power pack and replaced it with his emergency one, then made another leap when he noticed the first gunship lining up for a cannon or missile attack.
But it was soon obvious that the Russian helicopter pilots had set up their attack-orbit plan well. Hal couldn’t jump in any direction without a gunship able to bear down on him quickly with only minor corrections. As soon as he landed from his last jump, cannon shells were raining down on him, while the other gunship was circling to begin his attack.
Hal found that he was a few yards away from a shallow wash, and while he waited for his thrusters to recharge, he carried Griffin to it. “You gotta stay here, sir,” Hal said. “If we’re going to stop these bastards, I need to get some room to fight. Burrow down as deep as you can and hide under the sand—your suit will help screen your heat signature from their IR sensors.”
“Hal…” But he was gone seconds later.
As soon as Briggs landed, he hefted his rail gun, took aim on the closest gunship, and fired. Nothing happened—he saw the bluish yellow streak of
vapor hit the helicopter, but it kept on barreling toward him. Hal leveled the gun again and prepared to fire another round.
But he realized moments later that the big helicopter was no longer flying toward him but crashing toward him. The main rotor had sheared off milliseconds after the large titanium projectile shattered one engine and the transmission, and seconds after being hit the gunship was nothing more than a man-made meteorite. The crew compartment and cockpit were filled with burning fuel and transmission fluid, and almost instantly ordnance started to cook off out on the pylons and stub wings from the intense fuselage fire. Hal jet-jumped away from the impact point seconds before the copter crashed into the desert right in front of him.
“Got the bastard, sir,” Hal radioed, before realizing that Griffin’s equipment was destroyed and he couldn’t hear. He activated his sensors to locate Griffin.
And realized with horror that the second Russian gunship had zeroed in on Trevor Griffin and was about to attack! He raised his rail gun just as the gunner started walking thirty-millimeter rounds onto Griffin’s hiding spot.
But at that very moment, two missiles streaked out of the night sky and rammed into the Hind’s engine exhausts. The gunship immediately exploded, and the flaming fireball buried itself in the desert a few hundred yards away from the Air Force colonel.
Just as he was wondering who’d shot those missiles, Hal heard, “Sorry we’re so late, Tin Man.” It was Kelvin Carter. “Got here as quick as I could.” Soon the unmistakable roar of their QB-52 Megafortress could be heard, less than five hundred feet overhead.
