He’d managed to get out of his jeans and sport coat and into a borrowed flight suit. The boots were a little small and his shoulders felt cramped across the back, but at least he looked like he actually belonged here. The crewmen had given him a helmet connected to the com system via a long umbilical cord.

“We’re zero five from the crash site,” yelled the copilot.

“We’re holding back as reserve until we’re sure they’ve got the pilot. Then we’ll move in and put you down.

Smoky’ll go out with you. How long do you need?”

“I don’t know,” said Mack. “Half hour? I have to take some pictures. See what I see. Kick the tires, check the lights.”

The copilot didn’t laugh. “Ten minutes, max. The Iraqis are all over the place down there.”

46

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Over Iraq

0805

TORBIN TOOK HIS EYES OFF HIS RADAR SCREEN MOMENTARily as the Phantom tucked southward. The helicopter that had been tabbed for the pickup was now talking directly to the downed pilot, who had managed to climb about a third of the way up a crag about a mile from a dirt road.

This was serious mountain country, but it wasn’t entirely uninhabited—a hamlet big enough to host a mosque sat about a mile and a half to the south, and Torbin saw, or at least thought he saw, the blurred shadows of some other buildings closer to the east.

Torbin turned his head back toward the radar when something in the sky caught his eye. A red light sparkled in the distance.

McRae’s flare.

Hot damn.

“Lookin’ good,” said the Pave Low pilot over the circuit. “Hang tight. We’ll be on you in thirty seconds.”

“Yeah, I’m doing my nails,” said the pilot.

Torbin studied his scope. There had been a few brief, long distance flickers, nothing long enough to actually grab on to.

How could they even think he’d screw up? Saddam had nothing up here that could catch even an unescorted F-16.

All he had up here was shit. The SA-2’s Fan Song radar?

Crap. The low PRF was surprisingly good at picking up stealth aircraft, though it hadn’t been designed for that.

But it was easily jammed. The SA-3? Arguably better, or at least more variable, supported by Spoon Rest and a Side Net, or Squat Eye with a Flat Face and Thin Skin.

Garbage nonetheless. Tiny little wavy lines straight out of the sixties, competing with I Love Lucy and even Father Knows Best. The systems had been compromised RAZOR’S EDGE

47

years ago. Junk from the days when tubes ruled the world and transistors came one to a chip. SA-6s, Rolands, SA-8s—better, admittedly, but still outclassed, out-matched by the ECMs the Falcons carried.

Even if he had screwed up big-time—and he had not—

Torbin knew that the Falcon pilot should have had his jamming pod ready. He could have gone to his chaff, juked, jived—

The radar scope flared.

“I have a Three up,” Torbin told his pilot. One of the antennas on the Weasel frame had pulled the tight rap of a radar signal from the air. It held it there for him, waiting for him to catch up. He didn’t bother with the usual back and forth with the pilot, just went for it. The RIO’s fingers flew, cursoring the enemy, pushing the data to the missile, firing, nailing the son of a bitch.

“Away. Have another radar. Hold on, hold on—it’s a Two. Out of range. SA-2. I’m on it. I’ll nail it.”

“Torbin!”

“Dotted. I need you to turn, damn it! Get into him.”

“Fire at the bastard.”

“Two miles—I need two miles. Get us closer!”

The enemy missile site was at the edge of the HARM

missile’s range; they needed to draw closer to guarantee a hit.

No time. He fired.

Glory B jinked a second after the AGM-88 left her wing, taking evasive action.

Traveling at over 3.1 times the speed of sound, it took the antiradiation missiles nearly fifty seconds to reach their targets. Those were not the longest seconds of Torbin’s life, but they did take an eternity to pass. Finally, the warhead of the first missile detonated into several thousand shards of tungsten alloy, perforating the puny walls of the SA-3’s control van as well as a radar dish and 48

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

all four of the missiles standing in the paired launchers.

Five seconds later a massive fireball erupted in the northern launch area of Iraqi Army Air Defense “Victorious Glory” Battalion Two, a piece of the HARM warhead igniting the liquid fuel stage of a Guideline missile that had been poised for launch.

In Iraq

0811

MACK HUGGED THE HELICOPTER’S SIDE AS HE MADE HIS

way to the rear ramp. A Ma Deuce .50 caliber machine gun sat in the middle of the opening, its long belt draped across the right side of the bay. The helo whipped around as it neared the wreckage, exposing its stinger to the crumpled metal on the side of the hill. The gunner angled the gun around as the helicopter spiraled; Mack nearly fell against the wall as the aircraft whipped practically onto its side before heading toward a small, relatively flat depression just below the slope.

A fat hand grabbed him by the shoulder. It was one of the pararescuers, “Smoky.” He’d traded his flight helmet for a soft campaign hat and had a Special Tactics Squadron 203—an M-16 with a grenade launcher attached—in his right hand.

“You ready, Major?” he shouted.

“Kick ass,” shouted Smith.

Smoky snorted. The helicopter jerked hard and the sergeant fell against Mack, the gun landing in his ribs. As Mack pushed him off, a volcano seemed to erupt just beyond the tail opening. Mack thought the gunner must be firing, then realized it was only the cloud of dust churned up by the rotors. He grabbed hold of something on the helicopter wall and threw himself toward the opening, fol-

RAZOR’S EDGE

49

lowing Smoky onto the ramp and then down to the ground, ducking instinctively and racing through the hail of dirt and rocks. Air rushed behind him as if a hole had just been blown in the side of the earth. In the next second he threw himself onto the slope, starting up hand over hand toward the wrecked F-16.

The dust had settled somewhat by the time he reached the wreckage. The Viper had slapped into the hillside almost nose first; most of the fuselage in front of the cockpit had disintegrated. The next six or seven feet of the plane had been crunched into about three-quarters of its original size; long ribbons of metal protruded from the twisted mass, as if they were the spines of a porcupine.

The jagged left wing sat down the slope, about twenty or thirty yards away. The rear tail fin was crumpled but more or less intact. The right wing was missing, sheered near the pylon fixing in a shallow diagonal away from the body of the plane. Some of the fuel system piping was visible; it seemed clean.

Mack reached for the tail fin. As his fingers neared the surface he hesitated, as if fearing it would be hot.

“What we lookin’ for?” asked Smoky, catching up behind him. The PJ had a microphone and headset so he could talk with the helicopter. He also humped a pack.

“Shrapnel holes, black streaks from a fire, basically a big hole or tear that can’t be explained by the impact,”

said Mack. Actually, the list went on and on—nearly twenty minutes during one of Mack’s lectures, not counting time flirting with any pretty girls in the audience.

He pulled out the small 35mm camera and began taking pictures, walking along the side of the downed aircraft. The missing wing was undoubtedly the key, though the break looked remarkably clean for a missile hit.

Possibly torn off in flight after being weakened by a 50

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

fire, though the fact that the fuel piping hadn’t burned meant …