by Dale Brown
Boston had another idea to make sure they got the Ethiopians’ attention.
“You’re going to set my bus on fire!?!” exclaimed Abul as Boston opened one of the spare gas cans and prepared to douse the interior. They’d already off-loaded their supplies and McGowan’s body.
“We’ll pay double for it,” said Boston.
“Already you are paying ten times what I was promised,” said Abul. “Double is less.”
“Ten times, whatever.” Boston began spilling the liquid liberally down the aisle. “Look at it — it’s all battered anyway. Bashed and whatnot. This will save you the trouble of having to fix it up. You want to be the one to light the match?”
Abul would sooner have thrown himself into the flames. He sat on the steps in the open doorway, dejected, mournful, his head buried in his arms as Boston got it ready. After making sure the interior was as flammable as possible, he rigged three Molotov cocktails next to the driver’s seat — bottles half filled with gasoline that he could ignite to turn the bus into an inferno. With everything set, he leaned over Abul and shouted up to Sugar, who was still watching the border from the roof.
“Sugar, what’s the story?”
“Troops are in formation,” she yelled from above. “The drivers are getting in the trucks.”
“All right, get off!” shouted Boston. “I’ll be back!”
“You better be.”
Boston turned the key. The engine cranked but didn’t catch.
Damn!
He tried again. Nothing.
“Abul! How the hell do you start this crate?”
Abul looked up from the steps. “Pump gas pedal twice,” he told Boston. “Praise Allah, then pump while you turn the engine.”
Boston followed the directions, pumping, cranking, and praying. The engine caught.
“Get off the steps. Stay here with Sugar!” he yelled.
Abul hesitated, then did a half roll forward, staggering off the vehicle.
The fumes made Boston feel a little high as the bus rumbled out of the little crevice where they’d parked. He headed for the road, at first aiming directly for the refugee camp and the fenced border crossing beyond.
Boston took a deep breath as the crossing came into view. He could see the refugee camp to his right. Beyond it to his left were the trucks and the Ethiopian soldiers. They were starting to move.
He began beeping the horn, then turned the bus off the road. The ground was soft, and the battered vehicle wobbled but stayed upright, picking up speed as it started toward the fence.
Boston reached down and slipped a big rock he had taken with him onto the gas pedal, keeping his speed up. Then he took a smoke grenade from his vest pocket, pulled the pin, and dropped it into the makeshift sling he’d set on the mirror. A plume of smoke began trailing from the bus, whipped around by the wind so the bus almost completely disappeared.
The last thing he needed was his lighter, which he’d slipped into his upper vest pocket. But as he fished for it, the bus jerked sharply, and he nearly lost control before he could get both hands back on the wheel. He was moving faster than he’d planned — nearly eighty kilometers, according to the speedometer. The terrain, though it had looked fairly smooth from the distance, was pockmarked with holes and studded with rocks. Dirt and pebbles flew everywhere, a minitornado consuming the vehicle as it sprinted toward the fence.
He’d planned on jumping about fifty yards from the fence, as soon as he was sure he had enough momentum for the bus to get through the fence and maybe jump the ditch. But the swirling dust and the smoke from the grenade, as well as the bus’s speed, made it difficult for him to judge his distance. By the time he grabbed the lighter, he was only thirty yards from the fence. He let go of the wheel, and the bus careened to the right. He pulled back, then flicked his lighter. The jerking bus made it difficult to ignite the wadded fabric in the bottles. He cursed, pulled his hand down — then felt the crush of glass and metal spraying on his back as the bus hit the outer fence.
By now it was going over a hundred kilometers an hour. It sailed right over the tank ditch and pummeled over a second, shorter fence partly hidden in the dirt. Boston flew against the metal rail, then back against the dashboard, as the bus plunged onward. He looked at his hand and realized he’d lost the lighter.
Then he looked up and saw that the rag in one of the bottles was burning.
With a shout, he threw himself down the steps and out of the bus as it careened through the second fence. He landed in a tumble, arms crossed in front of his face, temporarily blinded by the smoke and dust.
The Molotov cocktail exploded, setting off not just the other two, but the fumes that had gathered in the rear of the vehicle. The bus turned into a flaming mass of red, an arrow shooting across the empty plain.
Boston pushed himself on all fours for five or six yards, swimming more than crawling, flailing forward through a tangle of smoke and dust. Finally he hit a clear patch and realized he was going the wrong way. He jerked himself to his feet and began running as quickly as he could back toward the others.
The Ethiopian soldiers had watched the spectacle with disbelief. As the bus finally ground to a halt and began exploding, one of the officers directed a squad to investigate. A fireball shot up; he sent a full company, then ordered the rest of the troops to take up a defensive position as he consulted headquarters.
Up on the hill, Sugar held her breath until she saw a second spray of smoke erupting near the damaged border fence. She realized that had to be Boston, letting off another smoke grenade; he was OK. Sure enough, he emerged a few moments later, sprinting in a wide arc back toward their position.
She went back over to the laptop, which was displaying the image from their last airborne UAV. The Ethiopian soldiers were responding to the bus exactly as they had hoped, moving away from the refugees.
She also saw something they hadn’t counted on — a motorcycle followed by four pickup trucks filled with men, coming toward them from Sudan.
The mercenaries had followed them from a distance the whole way, and hadn’t given up hope for revenge.
58
Dire Dawa, Ethiopia
Landing the MC-17 at Dire Dawa was easy enough. The airport was used primarily as a military base, but Ye Ityopya Ayer Hayl — the Ethiopian Air Force — had only a token presence, with most of its very small force of combat aircraft stationed at the capital. The local squadron consisted of four MiG-23 fighter-bombers dating from the 1960s. None of the planes had been flown in the past six months, due to a shortage of pilots and spare parts. Aside from the MiGs, there were two Hueys in good condition, along with an Antov AN-12 transport.
The controller directed Captain Frederick to park near the MiGs. This was at the far end of the complex, isolated from the main buildings; it suited them just fine.
Greasy Hands was waiting with the loadmaster as the pilot brought the aircraft to a halt. The Ospreys were loaded onto a skidlike trolley, which could be operated by a single man. It took less than three minutes for the first aircraft to be pushed out of the bay onto the tarmac.
Setting up the Ospreys took a little more time. Much of the process was automated on the newest attack version of the aircraft — including the unfolding of the wings — but Greasy Hands still had to personally oversee the computer running through the checklists. This meant sitting in the cockpit while the computer went through the processes at its own speed. While streamlined for battle, the procedure still took twenty minutes before the first aircraft was ready to fly.
While he was working on the tarmac, Breanna was talking to Reid, who’d just got off the phone with the President and the Ethiopian prime minister.
“Very interesting conversation,” said Reid. “The prime minister grants us his permission to cross the border without problems. And then he says he’s not sure the army will honor that permission.”
“What?”
“One of their periodic political breakdowns,” Reid told her. “I’
ve got two generals trying to get ahold of their generals to get the order carried out. Meanwhile, their army’s mobilizing against Sudan. They’re sick of the rebels, and the government. Not that I can blame them.”
The pilot tapped Breanna on the shoulder and pointed out the windscreen. A trio of Ethiopian officials were just stepping out of a car.
“Looks like the air force wants an explanation of what’s going on,” Breanna told Reid. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Very good.”
Breanna met the head of the delegation — a lieutenant — on the runway.
“You have an emergency?” he asked.
“Oh yes.” She launched into a cock and bull story about an onboard fire in one of the Ospreys, which required them to be off-loaded and checked. Her story was so convincing that the lieutenant had the base fire truck come over on standby. While he went to alert his superiors, the loadmaster got two fuel trucks to fill up the Ospreys before starting to top off the C-17.
“Number one is ready to fly,” Greasy Hands told Breanna. “But it’ll take another half hour to get the missiles on the launching rails and all the weapons systems checked out.”
“We can’t wait that long. We’ll launch One now,” she told him. “I’ll fly it. Put the missiles on Two. You can follow.”
“Me?”
“The computer flies it. You just have to tell it what to do.”
“I don’t know, Bree. I don’t know.”
“Are you telling me you can’t fly it, Chief?”
Greasy Hands frowned. It was true that the automated systems flew the aircraft — the ones that patrolled Dreamland did so with no crew aboard, responding to verbal instructions from the Whiplash security team’s base station. Still, there was something about sitting in the pilot’s seat that made the old crew chief hesitate.
“Frederick has to stay here with the C-17,” said Breanna. “So it’s either you or the loadmaster. You have a hell of a lot more experience with the aircraft and its systems. What do you say?”
“I can do it,” he grumbled.
“Good.” She started off the flight deck, then turned at the door. “And don’t break my aircraft.”
It was a line Greasy Hands had used countless times when turning an aircraft over to Breanna, and hundreds of other pilots. Now he didn’t think it was funny at all.
* * *
When he was commander of Dreamland, Breanna’s father had insisted that every pilot on the base familiarize him-or herself with all of their aircraft types. Breanna had flown an Osprey a few times, but only as the second officer or copilot. She would not have been able to handle the tricky tasks of taking off vertically and converting to level flight without the help of the computer.
Breanna manually entered her service ID into the control panel, then identified herself to the computer over the interphone system. It was like old times — even her verbal password was unchanged.
“Acknowledged,” said the flight computer. “Welcome, Breanna Stockard.”
“Assume autonomous pilot mode,” she told it. “Begin preflight checklist.”
The aircraft went through its checklist faster than a human pilot could have, giving itself a pat on the back as each system was reviewed and found in the green. The autopilot section in the center portion of the control panel flashed, declaring itself ready to go.
“Take off,” she told it.
A message flashed in the screen:
UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH COMMAND.
“Why not?” she asked.
The computer didn’t reply. Breanna rephrased the question, but again got no response. The computer’s verbal command section was more limited than in the late model Megafortresses, and would not attempt to interpret commands it couldn’t understand. This was by design — the environment Ospreys operated in made it possible that an unauthorized person might attempt to take command, so the system had been purposely limited to help ensure that only trained and therefore authorized personnel could control it.
Breanna stared at the control screen, knowing something was wrong but unsure what it could be.
“Prepare for takeoff,” she told the computer.
The message changed.
PREPARED FOR TAKEOFF. ALL SYSTEMS GREEN.
“Take off.”
UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH COMMAND.
She saw a vehicle approaching from the terminal area. Was the computer worried about running into it?
“Prepare for vertical takeoff.”
PREPARED FOR VERTICAL TAKEOFF. ALL SYSTEMS GREEN.
“Take off.”
UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH COMMAND.
“Damn it.”
UNABLE TO COMPLY WITH COMMAND.
“I’ll bet,” she said. She slammed her hand on the side of the console.
Relax, she told herself. Think back to Dreamland. What did we do?
It was too many years.
She remembered one flight vaguely. She’d been working with one of the civilian test pilots. Johnny Rocket was his nickname; his real name was buried somewhere in her unconscious.
Johnny Rocket — frizzy red hair, goofy smile. He was a stickler for very precise preflights. “Plan the flight, fly the plan,” he used to say.
Over and over again. It was annoying.
The flight plan! The computer needed to know where it was going before it would take off.
Breanna opened up the window for the course plan and fed in the proper coordinates, directing the aircraft to fly at top speed in a straight line.
This time it accepted the command to take off. In seconds they were airborne and hustling toward the border with Sudan.
* * *
After consulting with his commanding general, the Ethiopian air force lieutenant was ordered to ground the American cargo aircraft until further notice. The Americans had not asked for permission to land, and therefore would have to wait until the proper protocol was worked out.
“And what proper protocol would you like us to follow?” asked Captain Fredrick when the lieutenant explained, with much apology, what his orders were.
“I just need permission,” he said. “These things are decided far over my head.”
Frederick didn’t like the order, but at the moment he had no intention of taking off without Breanna and the Whiplash people. Rather than arguing, he told the lieutenant that he would consult with his superiors.
“Yes, yes, an excellent idea.” The lieutenant turned and waved at the fuel crew, telling them to stop fueling the plane.
“Why are you stopping them?” said Frederick.
“Just until I have permission.”
The C-17 already had plenty of fuel, but Frederick protested for a while longer, somewhat in the manner of a basketball coach working the refs from courtside, figuring to gain an advantage in the future.
And in the meantime, the trucks continued to pour fuel into the jet. By the time Frederick gave in, the tanks were about three pounds from capacity.
“Where did the first aircraft go?” the Ethiopian lieutenant asked.
“The Osprey?”
“Yes.”
“Just testing the systems. It’ll be back in a little while.”
“I don’t know if I can allow that.”
“Maybe you should check with your commander,” said Frederick.
“Yes, yes, good idea.”
As soon as he was gone, Frederick trotted to Osprey Two.
“Better get in the air ASAP,” he told Greasy Hands. “Before Mickey Mouse comes back and tells you that you can’t take off.”
* * *
59
Eastern Sudan
Sugar tracked the pickup trucks as they crossed off the road and headed toward the bus. She could see Boston running well off to her right, camouflaged by the smoke. With luck, she thought, he would escape to the hills without her having to fire.
No such luck. Someone in the rear of the lead truck noticed him just as he reached the road. They banged on the roof of the cab, an
d within seconds the truck and then the motorcycle veered in Boston’s direction.
Sugar started firing as soon as it turned. Her first shots missed low, the slugs burying themselves in the sand about thirty yards in front of the truck. She pushed down on the handle of the gun, bringing the machine-gun barrel up slowly until the stream of bullets sliced into the Toyota’s radiator. The men in the back of the vehicle threw themselves off as the.50 caliber slugs smashed the engine compartment and windshield to pieces, chewing through the vehicle like a pack of crocodiles going after an antelope at the edge of the river.
Sugar swung the gun left, taking out the motorcycle. Then she turned to aim at a second truck that had started to follow the first. But the driver had seen what was happening and jammed on the brakes. As he nose-dived to a stop, he jumped from the cab and got behind the truck for cover. The men in the back did as well — except for the machine-gun operator and his assistant, who began firing in earnest at Sugar.
The ground shook with the thick stutter of their Russian-made heavy machine gun. It was ancient but dependable; its ancestors had backed swarms of troops in suicide attacks against the Germans north of Moscow in the dead of winter. Sugar put a dozen rounds into the truck’s side and the sandbags protecting the gunners, then had to duck as the enemy weapon found its range, splintering the rocks she was hiding behind. Before she could get back up, one of the mercenaries manned the machine gun in the back of the first truck and began firing as well. All Sugar could do was hunker down and wait for the firestorm to let up.
Boston managed to reach an outcropping of rocks at the base of the hill before anyone remembered him. He ducked behind them to catch his breath and plot his next move. Daily PT may have kept him in decent shape, but it was no substitute for the decade or so that had passed since he’d last done something like this.
His rifle was with Sugar and Abul up in the rocks; the only gun he had with him was his Beretta sidearm. He’d never been a particularly good shot with a pistol, and at this range the weapon was practically useless. His only option was to circle back to Sugar and Abul around the sheltered side of the hill. The only way to get there, however, was to leave the outcropping and run across an exposed rise for about thirty yards.
