"Looks like it," he grunted, and switched off the landing fights.
"But even if it is the right river, we won't be able to judge whether we are upstream or downstream of the fines until sunrise."
"So what do we do?"
"We fly a holding pattern," Sean explained, and banked the Hercules into the first of a monotonous series of figure eights.
Around and around they cruised, five hundred feet above the treetops, crossing and recrossing the dark river at the same point, marking time, waiting for the dawn.
"Sitting duck for a Hind," Job remarked once.
"Don't wish it on us." Sean frowned at him. "If you have nothing else useful to do, get the gunner's bag. It's in the map bin."
Job lugged the bag to the front of the cabin and set it beside his seat, then settled himself comfortably.
"Read to me," Sean instructed. "Find something in there to amuse me and pass the time."
Job brought out the red plastic-covered top-secret folders one at time and thumbed through them, reading out the titles and a chapter headings from each index page.
The first three files were all field manuals for the Stinger SAM Systems, covering their deployment in every conceivable situation I I from the decks of ships at sea to their use by infantry in every he 1[i missile's performance figures in all conditions from tropical jungle climatic zone on the globe, setting out in tables and graphs t to high Arctic.
"All you ever wanted to know but were afraid to ask," Job observed, and picked out the fourth manual from the bag.
STINGER GUIDED MISSILE SYSTEM TARGET SELECTION AND RULES OF
ENGAGEMENT OPERATIONAL REPORTS
Job read aloud, then turned to the index and chapter headings.
I. Falkland Islands 2. Arabian Gulf. "Sea of Hormuz" 3. Grenada landings 4. Angola Unita 5. Afghanistan Job read it out, and Sean exclaimed, "Afghanistan! See if they give us anything about the l*nd."
Job set the bulky foe on his lap and adjusted the beam of the reading lamp fromiti recess in the cabin roof above his head. He paged through the manual.
"Here we go! "Afghanistan,"" he read. ""Helicopter Types."
"Find the Hind!" Sean ordered impatiently.
"Soviet Mil Design Bureau Types, NATO Designation "H.""
"That's it," Sean encouraged him. "Look for the Hind."
aplite. Hound. Hook. Hip. Haze. Havoc "Hare," said Job. "H here it is. Hind."
"Give me the gen," Sean ordered, and Job read aloud.
This flying piece of artillery ordnance, nicknamed by the Soviets Sturmovich (or hunchback), known to NATO as Hind and to the Afghan rebels and many others who have encountered it in the field as the "flying death," has gained a formidable reputation which is perhaps not fully justified.
Sean interrupted fervently, "Brother, I hope you know what you're talking about."
Job went on.
1. Impaired maneuverability, hovering, and rate-of-climb characteristics as a consequence of the mass of its armor plating.
2. A limited range of 240 nautical miles fully loaded, again as a consequence of its armor weight.
3. A low max. speed of 157 knots and cruise speed of 147 knots.
4. Very high service and ground maintenance requirements.
"That's interesting," Sean cut in. "Even this big baby"-he patted the Hercules" control column-"is faster than a Hind. I'll remember that if we meet one."
"Do you want me to read to you?" Job asked. "If so, then shut up and listen."
"My apologies, go ahead."
It is estimated that several hundred machines of this type have been employed in Afghanistan. Generally they have met with great success against the rebels, although in excess of 150 have been destroyed by rebel troops armed with the Stinger SAM.
These figures alone prove that the Hind can be effectively engaged by the Stinger SAM System, employing the tactics set out in the following chapters.
Job read on, giving the engine type and performance, the weapons, and other statistics until at last Sean stopped him.
"Hold on, Job!" Sean pointed toward the east. "It is getting light."
The sky was pale enough to form a distinct horizon where it met the black landmass.
"Put the book away and go call Ferdinand up here. See if he can recognize where we are and show us the way home."
A strong odor of vomit surrounded Ferdinand as he stumbled onto the flight deck, and the front of his tunic was stained. He leaned on the back of the pilot's seat for support, and Sean moved to put as much distance between them as possible.
"Look out there, Ferdinand." Sean gesticulated through the bullet-punctured canopy. "Do you see anything you recognize The Shangane peered dubiously around him, muttering 9100mfly. Suddenly his expression cleared and lightened. "Those hills."