“There’s probably two or three guys circling around to ambush us once they pin us down.”
Powder glanced toward the rear. Danny wasn’t worried—Egg could hold his own. “What are we doin’, Cap?”
“We play along. You make like you’re going to the Pave Low, I’ll jog that way and nail them. Try not to get killed before I waste them.”
“Shit,” cursed Powder. He continued grumbling as Danny dropped down to flank the spot.
“Whiplash, hold your positions,” whispered Danny as he ran. “Helo crew has been neutralized. Egg—we think there’re probably two or three guys trying to flank us.”
Egg acknowledged for the others.
As Danny ducked down near the end of the ravine, he lost contact with the rest of the team; unless hooked to the satellites, the com system was line-of-sight.
Even if he hadn’t used all of his grenades earlier, he wouldn’t have now, because he didn’t want to risk damaging the helicopter. But that meant getting close and personal to flush them out.
He knew they’d have a guard at the crevice, watching the flank. Drop him, and the rest would be easy pickings.
Danny took out his short, four-inch survival knife, in his opinion better suited for this kind of work than the longer models. He turned it over in his hand as he scouted the situation.
12
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
He could crawl to within ten yards of the spot from behind the rocks. But then he’d have to run over open terrain. He positioned his gun against his left hip, then began working his way forward. As he jumped to his feet he realized that even if he got to the crevice without being seen, he’d never be able to pirouette his arm up quickly enough to take the guard without firing. He ran anyway, all his momentum committed to the plan.
There was no guard.
He flopped back against the rocks, winded, temporarily confused. Had he miscalculated? Or was his enemy overconfident?
Overconfident.
Hopefully.
They were maybe twenty yards from him, fifteen, up along the crevice, waiting for the Whiplash team to come running down the hill toward the helo. Danny stowed his knife, shifted his gun, then tried to contact Powder. The sergeant didn’t answer. He raised his head, trying again.
“Powder—now,” he hissed.
Nothing.
Danny sidled along the jagged crevice. The sharp cuts made it impossible to see—maybe their guard was posted farther up.
Once they started firing at Powder, he could run up and nail them.
“Powder!”
Nothing.
Maybe they were in the helo.
“Chee-ya!” shouted Powder from the other end of the slope. He fired a burst from his gun.
Two men rose from behind the rocks five feet from Danny. Completely intent on Powder, they trained their guns and waited for an easy shot. Danny held his fire as well, sidestepping to see if anyone else was there.
RAZOR’S EDGE
13
“Chee-ya!” Powder shouted again, throwing himself down.
One of the enemy soldiers began firing. Danny pressed the trigger, greasing the two men, then a third who bounced out from the rocks to their right as the first fell.
Danny emptied the clip on a fourth, caught stunned behind the others.
“Bang! Bang! Bang!” said Freah, pushing up his helmet. “You’re all dead.”
“They cheated!” shouted the Pave Low pilot, from his dead-man squat down by the helicopter. “They’re wearing Whiplash gear, the fucks.”
“Hey, you cheats!” yelled Powder, running over. “No fair!”
“Hey, you’re dead,” said one of the “enemy” gunners.
“I got you.”
“Bullshit—check the computer. Read it and weep, my friend.”
“Egg, Pretty Boy, up. Four dead Delta troopers in those rocks beyond the helo,” said Danny. “Watch out for stragglers.”
“There’s no stragglers,” said the helo pilot. “They’re fucking cheaters.”
“Hey, you can’t talk to him,” said one of the men Danny had mock-killed. It was the leader of the Delta team, Major Harmon Peiler, who was indeed wearing Whiplash black camos. “Come on, Freah. You know the rules.”
Danny laughed at the Delta commander, then climbed up out of the crevice. He walked behind the position, checking to make sure there weren’t any more D boys in the rocks.
Counterfeit clothes. Not bad.
“We may be dead, but you lost this one, Danny boy,”
said Peiler. “You can’t get out. Advantage Delta. You’re buyin’ tonight.”
14
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Saddle up in the chopper,” Danny told his team.
“You can’t get out,” said Peiler.
“Why not? My aircraft is still here.”
“Your pilot’s dead.”
“That pilot’s dead,” said Danny, pointing.
“Yeah—you’re going to freakin’ fly it yourself?”
“Egg, you’re up,” shouted Danny. The sergeant waved, then climbed into the helicopter.
“What the freakin’ hell are you doin’?” Peiler demanded.
“Egg’s gonna fly us out,” said Danny as his sergeant settled into the cockpit.
“Like hell! Shit.”
Danny shrugged.
“Bullshit he can fly,” said Peiler.
“Well, you better hope so, because you’re going to be sitting in the back.”
“Hey, uh, Captain, I don’t know,” said the pilot.
“Relax. Egg used to fly Apaches. Ain’t that right, Egg?”
Egg, listening on his smart helmet com set, corrected him. “Uh, Captain, that was Cobras. Kind of a different thing.”
“Yeah, just give them the thumbs-up.”
Egg leaned out the cockpit window and did so. Peiler cursed.
Staff Sergeant Frederick K. “Egg” Reagan had, in fact, flown on the Army gunship, though as a gunner, not a pilot.
Nonetheless, the experience had encouraged him to obtain a helicopter pilot’s license, and he was indeed checked out on the MH-53J. Everyone on the Whiplash action team had a specialty; his was handling heavy equipment. Had there been an M1A1, he would have been equally at home.
The rotor started skipping around as the engine coughed and died.
RAZOR’S EDGE
15
“I don’t know about this,” said Peiler.
“Well, you can come or you can walk,” said Danny.
“It’s ten miles to the safe zone.”
Danny shrugged.
“Dead men, up and into the helicopter,” said Peiler as the twin turbos caught.
“Uh, Captain,” said the Pave Low pilot, pulling Danny aside. “If we crash, they’re going to take this out of my pay for the next hundred years.”
“You should’ve thought about that before you got suckered by these bozos,” Danny told him. “They don’t even have carbon-boron vests, for chrissakes.”
Over Iraq
1930
ARMS CRAMPING, NECK STIFF, LEGS NUMB, ELECTRONIC
warfare officer Torbin Dolk pushed back against the ejection seat, a piece of furniture that would never be confused for an easy chair.
“How you holding out?” his pilot asked.
“Yeah,” said Torbin.
“Excuse me?” Fitzmorris asked.
“Fine. I’m fine.” He adjusted the volume on the radio, which was tuned to the emergency Guard band the downed flier should have been using. Standard procedure called for the pilot to broadcast at certain times, but the searchers monitored the radio constantly, hoping to hear something.
Fifty-five antennas protruded from various parts of the Phantom. Not one was of any particular use at the moment. The Iraqi radar operators hadn’t juiced up their sets since the shoot-down.
16
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Bastards were probably all out at a monster party, cele-brating, Torbin thought.
That or looking for the pilot.
“We’re going to have to go back,” said Fitzmorris.
“Yeah,” said Torbin. There were now four other planes scouring the peaks, waiting for any signal from the downed airman; they wouldn’t be leaving their comrade alone.
Still, Torbin didn’t want to go.
“Glory B, we’re wondering what your fuel situation is,” said the AWACS controller.