by Dale Brown
“Open bay doors.”
“Bay,” said Ferris. “He’s firing.”
“Launch,” Breanna told Torbin. “And hang on!”
Aboard Raven,
over Iraq
2130
THE MIG ALTERED COURSE JUST AS HE CAME WITHIN CANNON range, cutting toward him. Fentress pulled the trigger and tried to follow at the same time, pulling softly at first then cutting harder as the enemy plane rolled downward in what looked like the start of a swoop to get into a turn behind him. But it was a sucker move—the MiG flipped flat and twisted back the other way. Fentress was caught flat-footed and pointed away from his target. Struggling to stay in the game, he threw his throttle to the firewall and began turning back toward the MiG.
“Stay within yourself and remember your objective,” said Zen. “Keep him off the Bronco. You don’t have to shoot him down. You’re doing fine.”
“Right.”
“Think about what he’s doing. He’s flying away from them—where’s he going?”
Fentress felt the sweat rushing from his pores. But Zen was right—he checked his sitrep, found the helicopter ten miles north, hugging the hills.
The Bronco. Where was the Bronco?
“Eleven o’clock,” said Zen. “Get there.”
He had to be reading his mind. Fentress altered his course slightly, not even looking at the sitrep now, just going there.
The MiG was slightly below, a dot ahead, three miles, fading, four.
“Make it fast,” said Zen. “Bronco—flares! Jink, Mack, jink, you asshole!”
Aboard Wild Bronco,
over Iraq
2132
MACK CURSED HIS DUMB LUCK AND TIPPED HIS RIGHT WING down, sliding across the rough air currents like a kid on a saucer scooting across an icy road. He’d reached reflexively for the flares maybe ten times in the past three minutes, only to remember he had none.
One stinking Sidewinder and the MiG would be dead meat. He’d suck him close, turn inside, goose the SOB before he knew what had hit him.
But he didn’t have a Sidewinder. All he could do was wait for Zen and Breanna and Fentress and who-all to wax the Iraqi. And they sure as hell were taking their time about it.
He jammed his rudder and threw his weight into the stick, pushing the plane to pivot as he ran down into a rift between two large hills; a hang-glider couldn’t have turned harder or sharper.
“Yeah, no shit,” he acknowledged as Zen warned that missiles were in the air. “You going to take this sucker out or am I going to have to pull out my pistol and do it myself?”
Aboard Raven,
over Iraq
2134
ZEN WATCHED THE BRONCO TUCK AWAY FROM THE LAST heat-seeker. Much as he hated to admit it, Mack was a seriously good pilot—he deked the missile down into the hillside without even the help of a flare. Good and lucky—a tremendous combination.
“The MiG’s going to slow down now and go to his cannon. Back off your speed!” Zen told Fentress.
“I have him,” said Fentress, pressing the trigger to fire.
“Back off!”
Fentress let go of the trigger and slid his thrust down, but it was too late—the Flighthawk shot over the MiG, which threw up its nose to slow in a modified cobra maneuver. It was a fancier move than Zen had pulled with the Phantom drone in their training exercise, but with the same intent and effect: Fentress lost his shot and was now the target.
“Let him come after you instead of the Bronco,” said Zen. “Good.”
“I wish I did it on purpose,” said Fentress as the MiG began firing at him.
AS THE MIG’S BULLETS STARTED SAILING OVER HIS WINGS, Fentress slammed his nose up as if he were going to do his own cobra, then juiced his throttle instead, turning a tumblesault in the sky. The g forces would have wiped out a pilot, but the only thing Fentress felt was a small bubble of sweat diving around the back of his neck. The MiG sailed by as Fentress pushed the robot toward its tail.
“He’s still going for the Bronco,” said Zen. “He’s suicidal.”
“Yeah,” said Fentress.
Mack’s plane ducked and the MiG sailed off to the left, then turned to come back.
Fentress knew he could try a front-quarter attack.
Low probability. Get him from the side as he came in.
Even harder.
The Bronco popped up near the ridge ahead. The MiG dove down, guns blazing. Fentress pressed his trigger, even though he had absolutely no shot, hoping he might distract the MiG.
It didn’t work.
Aboard Quicksilver,
over Iraq
2134
BREANNA DROPPED QUICKSILVER STRAIGHT DOWN AS Chris worked the flares and ECMs, desperately trying to avoid the heat-seeking missiles launched by the MiG.
They rolled through an invert, feinted right, jagged left, powered back in the direction they’d gone.
The Iraqi had fired two heat-seekers at them; one had a defective seeker and dove directly into the earth a few seconds after launch. The other came at Quicksilver‘s nose, lost it momentarily, then sniffed one of the engines.
As it changed course for the third or fourth time to follow Breanna’s jinks, it sensed one of the flares and started after it. A half second later it realized this was a decoy and went back for its original target. But the hesitation had cost it; sensing that its target was accelerating out of range, it self-detonated. Shrapnel nicked the top of the Megafortress’s fuselage, but there was simply too much plane there for the small shards of metal to do real damage; Quicksilver shrugged the pain away like a whale ignoring a tiny fishhook.
In the meantime, Quicksilver‘s radar-homing missile shot toward the Iranian MiG at about 600 miles an hour.
The MiG pilot threw his plane into evasive maneuvers, rolling and plunging away behind a hail of flares and tinsel. The missile followed gamely; while it wasn’t nearly as maneuverable as an air-to-air missile, it had extremely long legs—the Iraqi’s RWR continued to warn that it was gunning for him, even after he went to the afterburner and galloped back toward his base. As far as he knew, the Americans had launched a superweapon at him, one that refused to be fooled by anything he did.
“We’re clear,” said Chris finally. “MiG is out of the picture. Tacit’s still following him,” he added, a chuckle in his voice. “We may nail him yet. Good shot, Torbin.”
“Thanks,” said their newest crewman. “Uh, that standard operating procedure, firing ground missiles at airplanes?”
“It is now,” said Ferris.
“We aim to be creative,” said Breanna. “Welcome to the team.”
Aboard Wild Bronco,
over Iraq
2135
A STREAM OF TRACERS SHOT OVER MACK’S CANOPY AS HE plunked his nose down again. He cut his throttle and coasted half a second, making sure the Iraqi would over-shoot. Then he gunned it and whipped back onto the other side of the mountain.
Mack laughed as he caught sight of the MiG flying parallel to him. Idiot! One stinking Sidewinder and it’d be fried Iraqi for dinner.
He could do this all day, all day.
Mack’s laughter turned to a roar as the MiG turned ahead of him, completely out of the game.
At least for the next fifteen seconds.
Aboard Raven,
over Iraq
2136
ZEN WATCHED FENTRESS AS THE MIG CUT IN FRONT OF the Bronco’s path. The kid’s hands were steady, even if his voice was jumpy and high-pitched.
But he was nearly out of bullets. And the MiG pilot now had an angle on the Bronco, realizing that his best bet was to fire from the edge of his range rather than closing in where the Bronco could easily throw him off by turning or changing speed.
Mack was doing a hell of a job, but sooner or later he was going to get nailed. His plane was too overmatched.
Fentress had enough bullets for maybe one more try.
Zen knew he could nail it. But by the time he grabbed control it wo
uld be too late.
Helpless. Like when he lost his legs.
His legs—he remembered the dream or hallucination or whatever it was, the fleeting memory of feelings that had just rummaged through his brain.
This had nothing to do with that.
He looked at his pupil.
“Get him on this pass, Curly. Nail the motherfucker and let’s go have a beer,” said Zen.
ZEN’S VOICE DROVE THE FRUSTRATION AWAY. FENTRESS drew a breath, then blew it out his mouth with a long, slow whistle. He’d ride the Flighthawk into the damn MiG if he had to.
That wasn’t a horrible idea. He had a straight intercept plotted. If his bullets didn’t nail the MiG, he would.
Not a conventional solution, but better than letting the Bronco get waxed.
The OV-10 flailed to the right and the MiG snapped back to follow. Fentress’s targeting bar flashed red.
Too soon to fire, he told himself, counting.
Aboard Wild Bronco,
over Iraq
2137
MACK POUNDED THE PEDAL, TRYING TO THROW ALL HIS weight into his foot, and pushed the Bronco back the other way. He could feel the plane stutter, though whether it was because he’d been hit or because it was getting tired of the acrobatics he couldn’t tell. The right engine freaked and now he had trouble holding the plane in the air.
The MiG had him fat in its pipper.
“Suck on this, raghead!” he shouted, pushing the OV-10 into a desperation dive as the left engine gave out and the emergency lights indicated it was on fire.
Aboard Raven,
over Iraq
2138
THE COMPUTER TRIED TO GET HIM TO STOP, BUT HE WAS balls-out committed now. The cannon clicked empty and the MiG kept coming and Fentress could see the Iraqi pilot hunkering over his stick, so intent on nailing his quarry that he didn’t even see the Flighthawk closing in.
The screen flashed and C3 gave him a verbal warning as well as a proximity tone, but all he could hear was Zen’s calm voice.
“Nail ‘em. Now.”
The Iraqi pilot saw something and turned his head toward the side, leaning back in the direction of the Flighthawk.
Then the screen went blank.
ZEN FELL BACK IN THE SEAT, AS EXHAUSTED AS IF HE’D flown the plane himself. He let his head go all the way back, staring at the compartment ceiling.
It wasn’t exactly what he would have done—it wasn’t, quite frankly, as good as he would have done. But Fentress had saved the Bronco.
“Wild Bronco to Hawk leader.” Zen turned toward Fentress, who sat stone still in his seat.
“Yo, Hawk leader. Nice flying, Zen boy.” Mack was laughing, the SOB.
“Hawk,” said Zen. “But that was Fentress who nailed the MiG.”
“Fentress, no shit. Good shootin’, nugget boy.” Fentress said nothing, pulling off his helmet.
“What’s your status, Bronco?” Zen asked.
“Lost an engine. Probably got a little wing damage.
Nothing we can’t live with. We ought to get some of these planes at Dreamland,” Mack added. “Best stinking plane I ever flew.”
Zen turned Mack over to Alou so they could discuss the course home. In the meantime, Fentress eased his restraints and leaned back in the seat. He looked white, beat as hell.
“Hey, that was a kick-ass move,” Zen told him. “You used your head.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean it,” said Zen. “You did good. You saved the Bronco.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“Listen, we can come up with something besides Curly. How about Hammer or Sleek or something?” Fentress shrugged, then turned his head toward Zen.
He looked tired, and sweat had soaked his curly locks.
But he still smiled. “Curly’s okay. Kinda fits.”
“You did okay, kid,” said Zen. “You did okay.” Not only did he mean it, he actually felt a little proud.
VII
The Easy Way
High Top
30 May 1997 2201
DANNY GROANED AS HE PULLED HIS ARMS OVER THE MARINE corpsmen helping him out of the Bronco. Pain and fatigue had settled over him like a patina on a bronze statue; it was so much a part of him that he had forgotten what it felt like not to hurt. Once out of the aircraft, he made an effort to move his legs and began insisting that he didn’t need the stretcher waiting a few feet away.
“Hey, Cap, happy Memorial Day,” said Powder, walking over.
“Uh-huh.”
“Chinook’s comin’ to evac the wounded over to Incirlik. That means you, Cap,” added Powder.
“Where?” asked Danny.
“Incirlik.”
“The helicopter, I mean. Where is it?”
“Inbound,” said Nurse. “You gotta go, Cap. That leg’s for shit and I bet you got internal bleeding in your chest there. Head’s banged too. You look woozy.”
“Eternal bleeding,” said Powder.
“Corporal’s lost a lot of blood. I’d give him better than fifty-fifty,” added Liu. “Gunny’s cursing his butt off over there on the litter—you hear him? Took some hits in the chest and leg.”
Danny shook his head. Nurse tried to gently prod him toward the stretcher.
“Hey, don’t shove me,” Danny said.
“We’ll take care of stuff here,” said Liu. “Major Alou says we’re going home soon—Marines taking over the base.”
“What happened to the laser parts?” Danny asked.
“Waiting for FedEx,” said Powder. “That or the Marines, whoever gets here first. Bison and the boys got them all aboard the Blackhawk before it took off.” Danny heard a helicopter approaching in the distance.
He tried turning in its direction, then gave up. Nurse was right—he ought to take it slow.
“Hey, Captain, next time can I drive the helicopter?” asked Powder.
“Sure thing,” said Danny, letting them ease him onto the stretcher.
Dreamland Command Center
1700
THE TIME HAD COME FOR THE SHIT TO HIT THE FAN. DOG stood in the middle of the room, waiting for the connection to snap through. When it did, General Magnus’s face was redder than he expected, though his tone was one of sympathy and even sadness.
“Colonel.”
“General.”
“Your men?”
“As far as I know, they’re all okay.” Dog held his head erect, shoulders stiff. “The missile that hit the Hind struck the top of the aircraft when they were about ten feet off the ground. It carried through the engine housing before exploding. They crashed, but they were very lucky.”
“Any friendly fire incident needs a full investigation,” said Magnus.
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“I heard a rumor that your people carried this out on their own initiative,” said Magnus. “That they were responding to a fluid situation, and reacted. Properly, with justification, but without a full plan in place. That would account for CentCom not getting the proper notification.” Something jumped inside Dog’s chest. Was Magnus suggesting he lie to avert what might be a politically embarrassing investigation?
Maybe. It might avoid problems, short-circuit months of hand-wringing that wouldn’t benefit anyone—including him, Dog knew.
But it was a lie.
“I ordered that mission, sir. I felt the Whiplash directive was sufficient authorization. I stand by my decision.”
Magnus nodded. “Colonel, if I told you that you were relieved of command, would that be an order you were prepared to follow?”
“Of course.”
Magnus pushed his lips together. Dog felt his neck muscles stiffen; the room turned cold. “Is that what is happening here?”
“No,” said Magnus. “Not at all.”
“Sir?”
“It’s no secret that I and the administration don’t see eye-to-eye,” said the general, his tone changing.
“If I’ve done anything—”
Magnus’
s stern expression broke for just a moment.
“You’re about the only thing we agree on,” said Magnus.
“You’re a good man, Colonel. You made the right call and you stood behind it.” The general paused, but before Dog could say anything else, he went on, his tone even softer than before. “Dreamland is going to be—excuse me, the command structure involving Dreamland is going to be changed.”
“In what way?”
“Good question,” said Magnus. “All I know at the moment is that you are no longer my concern. Dreamland is no longer part of my command.”
Flustered, Dog tried to think of what to say. “JSOC?” he said finally. “Are we under the Special Forces Command?”
“No,” said Magnus. “I’m late for a meeting right now, I’m sorry,” he added. “Orders will be cut soon. I’m not privy to them.”
“Who do we answer to—I mean, who’s our commander?”
“The President,” said Magnus.
“Of course,” said Dog, “but I mean—” The screen flashed white, the connection cut, without further elaboration.
In Iraq
31 May 1997 0607
JED BARCLAY SETTLED HIS HANDS ONTO HIS THIGHS, FINGERS rapping to the beat of the rotor as the MH-60 Special Forces Blackhawk whipped toward the agreed exchange site near Kirkuk in northern Iraq. The Iraqi radar operator sat next to him on the shallow and uncomfortable jump seat, as much of a mystery to Jed as when they first met.
The Iraqis had agreed to exchange the remains of the two American pilots who had died for the live prisoner. Jed had objected—though he hadn’t told them anything, the man clearly knew a great deal about the state of Iraqi defenses and their tactics. Having gone to RPI, he might be an engineer or some sort of scientist, not merely a technician. But everyone else had dismissed his objections—Americans, even dead ones, were worth more than any information the Iraqi could possibly give.
They had a point. The barrage tactics hadn’t been effective; it was clear now that the Iranian laser had shot down most if not all the aircraft lost in the last few days.
Part of their Greater Islamic Glory campaign? Jed had his doubts. They had made overtures to the U.S., acted as if they wanted to help in the war against Saddam, even made noises about getting rid of the Chinese. Perhaps they’d found the communist yoke a little too much to bear, even in the name of Allah.
