by Dale Brown
While the PJs went to work stabilizing her body and removing her from the wreck, Danny walked to the back, trying to find the source of the gas leak. The roof of the car, now the closest part to the ground, was soaked with fuel.
He bent down, then heard a groan from inside.
He thought at first that it was the driver. But a second groan sounded more male than female. He stepped back, took out his small LED flashlight, then went back and peered inside. He saw a leg on the back floor.
His stomach turned.
Then the leg moved and Danny jumped back. It took a second before he realized the leg hadn't been amputated by the crash and that he was seeing someone trapped under the car, his leg sticking out through a rear sunroof.
"We got another back there!" shouted one of the PJs.
"Yeah, I see him!" yelled Danny. "He's trapped underneath. His leg is moving."
Trying to clear his head from the gas fumes, Danny walked a few feet from the wreck. Watching the PJs set the driver out on a stretcher, he recognized her as one of the women who worked in the all-ranks cafeteria. He knew she had at least one kid at home.
"She's pretty bad, Captain," said the sergeant in charge of the rescue team, Gabe McManus. "We need to get her over to the med center stat."
"Go," said Danny.
"What about the other guy?"
"We're going to have to lift the truck to get him. That'll take a while," said Danny. "We'll need to hook the Osprey up. Let's save her first."
McManus nodded. The others had already immobilized the driver and lifted her gently onto a stretcher.
It would take at least ten minutes for another Osprey to arrive, and a good ten if not more after that to secure a chain and lift the truck safely. Twenty minutes wasn't a lifetime— but it might be to the trapped man.
"Maybe we can jack the truck up with the gear in the Jimmy," McManus said.
"Ground's kind of loose," said Danny. "I'd worry about it slipping."
"Yeah," agreed the sergeant. "But it might do that when we hook up the Osprey, too. Car looks like it's kind of perched on some of the rocks there — slip a bit too much and he's in even worse trouble."
McManus dropped flat and peered underneath. "All we really need is about two feet," he said. "We might be able to get a couple of guys on the side, lift gently—"
"I have a better idea," said Danny.
* * *
Zen saw Danny standing next to the truck. He looked like he was trying to gauge whether he could push it over. "What are you doing?" he asked.
"We have another guy underneath. I think I can use the arm to lift it."
"You want help?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
Zen came over slowly, his power at seven percent. "We can lift it straight up," he said.
"We're going to have to pull up together," Danny told him. "Just tell me what to do."
Danny explained how to use the skeleton's fingers as clamps, then coached him on slowly revving the power. They'd have to work as a team, each clamped on one side of the vehicle.
The ease Zen had felt just a few moments before had evaporated. He jerked to the side, unable to get into the right position. His legs dangled uselessly below him. He forced his arms closer together, slipping back on the power. Sweat poured out of his body. It wasn't the heat, though it was plenty hot. His nerves were melting.
It's easy, he told himself. We're going to save this guy, save his legs. Don't let him end up like me.
His own feet were touching the ground. He edged closer to the SUV, trying to find a good place to grip.
"Got it, Zen?" asked Danny.
"Hold on. I'm still new at this."
Zen hooked his arm under the chassis and found a solid hold for the body. The finger extensions on his arm seemed too weak to hold, and left part of his hand bare — he could feel the grease and grime from the chassis.
I hope I don't crush my hand, he thought.
"Ready," he told Danny.
"Ramp up slow, real slow. On three. One, two… "
Zen twisted his wrist as gently as he could, as saw the power move up to 15, then 20. The exoskeleton was straining, but the SUV didn't budge. He twisted his hand on the throttle, fighting the urge to rev it as high as it could go.
"That's it, keep steady!" said Danny. "Steady! Just hold it there. You OK, Zen?"
"Yeah, I got it."
The PJs scrambled to brace the man and get him out. Zen could hear them talking through their radios. They were near the victim — he was conscious, answering them, complaining about his legs.
At least he felt pain. That was a good sign.
A tone sounded in Zen's helmet. He was into his fuel reserves.
"Danny—"
"Yeah, I heard it. Let's move it, you guys. McManus — you have two minutes."
It took nearly three. Zen and Danny held the truck up together for another minute and a half; by then it was too late for Zen to fly back. Instead, he fluttered down to the ground, exhausted, landing ignobly in a heap. Before he could say anything, two of the PJs grabbed him and hustled him into the back of the security Jimmy.
"Way to go, Major," said the man on his left as they slid him into the back.
"Yeah," said Zen. "Thanks."
The truck started to move. The passenger they'd pulled out was laying on a flat board across the folded-down seat, his ride cushioned by four large balloonlike buffers. The truck moved slowly down the road, avoiding the worst of the potholes.
"Major, am I going to be all right?" the passenger asked.
Zen glanced at the parajumper behind him. He was a certified combat medic, the closest thing to a doctor you could find on the front line, and more experienced in dealing with trauma injuries than many emergency room specialists. The
PJ made a slight movement with his eyes, signaling to Zen that he didn't know.
"Yeah, kid," he said. "I think you're going to be cool. I'm pretty sure you are."
"Wow, that's a relief," said the young man.
Zen recognized him as a maintainer, one of the engine specialists responsible for the EB-52 power plants. A crew dog who'd worked on his aircraft many times, he was sure.
"I wasn't wearing my seat belt," he continued. "We went off the road — there was a jackrabbit or something weird. I bounced up and down and the top flew open. The next thing I knew, it felt like the whole world was sitting on top of me and I was being pulled apart. I am gonna make it, right?"
"You'll make it," said Zen.
"My legs are kinda numb."
Zen glanced up at the PJ, who now had a pained expression on his face. He'd been prodding the young man's foot with a pin, apparently getting no response.
"They gave you painkillers," Zen said. "I'm surprised your head's not numb."
"As long as I can walk."
"Just close your eyes and relax now," said the pararescue man, resting his hand gently on the young man's chest. "We'll be at the med center in a few minutes."
Northwestern Moldova,
near the Romanian border
23 January 1998
0134
Stoner fought the urge to return fire, knowing it would just give away their position. He lay still, gun ready, waiting as the bullets continued to fly. The cold seeped up through his jacket into his chest; his pants grew damp with the chill.
Finally, the rounds slacked off. Stoner waited, expecting more.
The ground smelled vaguely like cow dung. He funneled his breath through his mouth as slowly and silently as he could, worried that his breath might be visible in the moonlight. Finally, when he hadn't heard any gunfire for a few minutes, he began edging to his right. He raised his head ever so slightly as he moved, trying to see down the hill.
There were two shadows near the road, but by the time he spotted them they were moving toward the cottage and he didn't have a clear shot. He waited until their shapes had been consumed by the cottage then got up and ran down the hill toward the road.
&n
bsp; Meanwhile, two flashlights played across the windows of the cottage. There was more gunfire, this time muted — a nervous gunman firing inside the house, Stoner thought.
The woman he'd come to meet was somewhere near the ridge, but he wasn't sure where; he'd lost track of her when the shooting began. He felt certain she wasn't in the building, but if she was, there was nothing he was going to do about it now. Stoner edged further down the hill, aiming to find a place where he could easily ambush the gunmen when they came out of the house. As he did, however, he sighted a shadow moving along the road. He held his breath as it disappeared in a clump of trees.
His night goggles were in his ruck, but he was afraid getting them out would be too noisy: the trees were less than twenty years away.
If there was just one man by the road, he would take him out as quietly as possible, then turn his attention back to the cottage. If there were more…
If there were more he would have to fight his way through them.
No. It would be better to simply leave. He could do that, but it would mean giving up on his contact.
Wasn't she just a lure, though? Wasn't this an elaborate ambush?
Stoner transferred the AK-47 to his left hand, then reached with his right to his knife scabbard. Killing a man with a knife was not an easy thing, a fact Stoner knew from unfortunate experience: Some years back, he'd failed in his one attempt to do so, sneaking up on a border guard between China and Vietnam. He'd put his knife on the man's throat, but his pull hadn't been deep enough; the man had managed to shout an alarm before a second slash of the knife, this one deeper, killed him.
Stoner worked his fingers around the knife's hilt, trying to get the right grip. Only when he was sure he had it did he start working his way in the man's direction.
The cigarette tip flared again, then faded. Twenty yards was a long way to cross without being seen or heard. Stealth and speed had to be balanced against each other. Stoner bent his legs slightly as he walked, lowering his center of gravity, hoping that the way the trees threw their shadows would keep him hidden. He got to within ten yards, then five, then three — less than the distance across a kitchen.
He slid the rifle down. All or nothing now.
Two yards. The man lowered his head, cupping his hands, lighting another cigarette.
He was alone.
Stoner sprang forward. He grabbed the man's mouth with his left hand, while his right rode up and across the man's neck — too high, but with enough force that the mistake could be overcome. He pushed his knee into the man's back and rammed the knife hard across flesh that suddenly felt like jelly. Stoner pulled back with his left hand and plunged the knife across his neck a second time, the blade slicing through the windpipe and into the vertebrae. Stoner pushed his knee hard against the man's back, felt no resistance; he stabbed one more time, then let his victim fall away.
Even as the man hit the ground, Stoner reset his attention on the cottage, where the flashlights were now joined in an X near the outside wall. He scooped up his rifle, then grabbed the dead man's gun and began moving along the road.
If they saw a shadow coming from this direction, they would think it was their companion. The illusion would last only until they shouted to him. He wouldn't be able to answer, except with his gun.
Stoner stopped and undid the top of his backpack. Taking out the night glasses he put them on. The building, the night, turned silvery green. The men had gone back inside.
Stoner began trotting along the road, trotting then running, adrenaline pumping. He turned up a dirt path that led to the cottage's side door.
One of the flashlight beams appeared at the edge of the building. Stoner went down to his knee, ready to fire.
The beam grew longer, moving slowly back and forth across the yard.
Where was the other man? Or men? — He'd seen two flashlights, but there could always be another.
Stoner turned his head in the other direction quickly, making sure no one was coming across the front of the barn.
The man with the flashlight rounded the corner. He was dressed in fatigues, but Stoner couldn't see any insignia or other sign that he was a soldier instead of a guerrilla. He had an AK-47 in his right hand, the flashlight in his left.
As the flashlight swung in his direction, Stoner fired a three-shot burst that took the man square in the chest.
The man's companion began shouting from behind the cottage as his friend fell. Stoner raced up the hill, then threw himself down as bullets began flying from the corner of the building. Stoner fired back, then got up into a crouch to swing to his right and flank the gunman.
A fresh burst of bullets cut him off. Stoner hunkered against the ground.
The man took a step out from the corner of the building. Stoner began to fire as the man reared back and threw something, then disappeared behind the building again.
A grenade.
Stoner saw it arc to his right. He threw himself leftwards, tumbling against the hillside, hoping to get as much distance between himself and the explosion as he could.
Dreamland
1534
With the dogfight session over,Dog and Sleek Top put Boomer through a series of calmer tests, pushing her around the test range as special instruments recorded stresses on her frame and that of the laser housing. While the session was important — in many ways far more critical than the computer's dogfight was — it was nonetheless routine, and Dog found himself struggling to stay focused on his job. He thought of his lover, Jennifer, who'd had her knee operated on back East and would be staying with her sister in New Jersey for at least another two weeks. He thought of his daughter, Breanna, who'd been injured as well. He'd seen her the night before at the hospital. She looked so small in the bed, so fragile. For some reason, it made him think of all the time with her he'd missed when she was growing up.
Leaving, the hospital, he'd run into her mother. Surprisingly, he didn't feel any animosity toward her, and— uncharacteristically, he thought — she didn't display any toward him. Like the specialists who'd seen her, Bree's mother was baffled by the "coma-like unconsciousness" she'd suffered after landing, but she was very optimistic about her prognosis.
Dog's thoughts circled with the plane, until finally it was time to land. He let Sleek Top take the stick, and the copilot brought the plane in for a textbook perfect landing, taxi ing right into the B-1 development hangar without help from either of the waiting tractors. Downstairs, Dog and Sleek Top prepared separate briefs on the mission, answering questions for the engineers who'd been monitoring the tests.
No matter how routine the pilots considered it, the geeks always had something to talk about, and it was going on 1900—7:00 p.m. in civilian time — before they were satisfied enough to let Sleek Top and Dog go.
"Probably wore them out with our duhs," said Sleek Top as they rode up the elevator from the offices in the bunker directly below the underground hangar area. He mimicked one of the engineers' voices: " 'What did it feel like at thirty percent power as you came through the turn?' A lot like forty percent power, only slower, son."
Dog laughed.
"They haven't been up in the plane," Sleek Top continued, his tone more serious. "You should have some jump seats rigged and take them aloft."
"That's a good idea, Sleek. But it's not my call."
"It's your base."
"Not anymore."
"It'll always be your base," said the test pilot as the door opened.
General Samson was standing across the vestibule. It wasn't clear that he'd heard Sleek Top's comment — the elevator doors were sealed pretty tight — but Dog had a feeling he had.
So did Sleek Top. He grimaced, gave the general a wave, then strode quickly away.
"Colonel Bastian, a word," said Samson.
Dog followed him to the far end of the hangar ramp. Gently sloped, the wide expanse of concrete led to a large blast-proof hangar where the B-1s were kept. It looked like the ramp of a very wide parking ga
rage.
Before he'd come to Dreamland, Dog had been in awe of generals — if not the men (and women), then at least the office. Part of his attitude had to do with his respect for the Air Force and tradition, but a larger part stemmed from his good fortune he'd had of working for some extremely good men, especially during the Gulf War.
Dreamland had changed that. While he wouldn't call himself cynical, he had a much more balanced view now. He realized that the process of rising to the upper ranks had a lot to do with politics — often a lot more than anything else.
Colonel Bastian had met some inept generals in his day. Samson wasn't one of them. He was capable, though bull-headed and cocky — characteristics critical to a combat pilot, but not particularly winsome in a commander, especially at a place like Dreamland.
"B-1 is a hell of a plane," said Samson, walking in the direction of Boomer. "I commanded a squadron of them for SAC."
"Yes, sir. I think you mentioned that."
"I don't know about some of these mods, though." Samson stopped short and put his hands on his hips. "Airborne lasers?"
"Going to be a hell of a weapon."
"Once it's perfected — that's the rub, isn't it? You know how many iron bombs one laser would buy once it's in production, Tecumseh?"
Dog actually did know, or at least could have worked it out, but the question was clearly rhetorical; Samson didn't wait for an answer.
"And having a computer fly it — that was your test today, wasn't it?" "Yes, sir."
"I don't like it." Samson practically spat on the ground as he spoke. "What we need are more planes and pilots. Not more gadgets. Widgets, I call them. They can't replace pilots."
Dog couldn't help but smile.
"Problem, Colonel?"
"You sound a little like my old boss, General Magnus," said Dog. "When he started. By the time he moved on, he was pushing for all the high tech he could get."
"I know Magnus. Good man. Had to retire. Couldn't play the Washington system."
That was probably correct, thought Dog — a point in Magnus's favor.
"But Magnus isn't here. I am," added Samson. He turned his gaze back to the aircraft. It seemed to Dog that he wished he were back in the pilot's seat again — back as a captain flying missions.
