Moral support? Word of encouragement?
Not even that. Talking to him, though—it was like making a pilgrimage to a sacred shrine or a battlefield. Looking out over the hills at Gettysburg made you understand something, even though you couldn’t put it into words.
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Elliott as Gettysburg—he’d roar at that.
“Thanks, General,” said Dog. “I have to go.”
“That’s all you want?”
“That’s all I need, sir.”
Dog bent to the console and picked up the land-line phone, punching in his office. Ax answered immediately.
“Ax, how are we doing with that expert on Russian helicopters?”
“Should be aboard the Dolphin by now, sir,” answered the chief master sergeant.
“Hustle him down here as soon as he clears security.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dog put down the phone and turned to the lieutenant.
“I’d like that connection to High Top today, son.”
“The connection’s there, sir. It’s Captain Freah we’re waiting on.”
Dog straightened and looked at the screen. When Danny Freah’s tired face finally appeared, Colonel Bastian said only one word: “Go.”
Aboard Fork One , over northeastern Iraq, 1400
DANNY FREAH STOOD NEAR THE DOOR OF THE MARINE HElicopter, watching as the CH-46 Sea Knight dubbed ForkOne whipped across the landscape roughly twenty feet over the ground. The Marines liked the old helicopters, claiming they were more dependable than Pave Lows or even Chinooks, their look-alike big brothers. Danny wasn’t so sure. If he had to pick a Marine transport, he would have much preferred an Osprey or even a Super Stallion, the Corps’ three-engined version of the MH-53
Pave Low, ferociously quick monster choppers with plenty of power to spare.
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On the other hand, he didn’t think he could do better than the Marines accompanying them. If it went well, the whole operation would last maybe fifteen minutes: Flighthawk hits the two Zsu-23-4s protecting the approach, followed closely by the Cobras, which would strike the two BMPs at the base and a pair of machine guns near the buildings. The troops would then fast-rope into the complex. One group of Marines and the Whiplash team would land near the helicopters; the Marines in the second chopper would hit the buildings.
Two of the eighteen men squeezing into the rear of the aircraft with Whiplash carried Shoulder-launched Multipurpose Assault Weapons—SMAW 83mm rockets—to be used against the fortified position near the Hinds and anything else that came up. The others carried standard M-16s and a variety of grenades. Two of Danny’s boys, Powder and Bison, had SAWs, or light machine guns, to lay down support fire at the start; the others carried MP-5s for close work at the finish.
Boom, boom, boom, assuming it went according to plan. Then the real fun would begin.
Egg fingered his gun nervously. The expert who was supposed to help him fly hadn’t shown up in the Dreamland command center yet, but Jennifer had downloaded several pages worth of data, and one of the Marine helo pilots had offered plenty of advice. Every so often Egg would look up from his notes toward Danny and nod confidently.
It had the opposite effect from what he intended. Egg looked about as self-assured as a kid coming off the bus for basic training.
It would work, Danny told himself. And if it didn’t—
It would work.
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Aboard Raven , over Iraq 1420
THROUGH THE PREFLIGHT, TAKEOFF, AND LAUNCH OF THE
Flighthawks, Zen tried to think of something to say to Fentress, who’d come along on Raven to act as an assis-tant. Frankly, he would have preferred to have Jennifer, but she was too exhausted. And besides, there was no reason not have Fentress there, helping—the kid had proven he could handle the U/MFs, even if he’d been shot down.
He wasn’t a kid, Zen told himself again.
He wasn’t out after his job either.
Zen lifted his helmet visor as the Flighthawk settled onto the course toward the target area. He glanced over at Fentress, trying to think of what to say. The kid—the other U/MF pilot—was studying the latest photo relay from the mini-KH, orienting himself. There was a little less than five minutes left before fun time.
Zen felt he should say something, but all he could think of was generic bullshit about how he knew Fentress would do a good job. Finally he simply slid his visor back and said they were ready.
“Yup,” said Fentress.
Zen cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck on his head, loosening his muscles. Then he took the robot back from the computer. “Hawk to Whiplash leader. Danny, you got me?”
“Loud and clear,” replied Danny, who was in one of the Marine helos.
“We’re getting ready to dance,” Zen said. “Captain Fentress will feed you the visuals.”
“Ready to rock.”
Zen tipped his nose forward, and the Flighthawk screamed toward the earth, lining up on its first target.
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The Iraqi facility looked more like a strip mall than an airport; the two Hinds were located at one side of a short span of hard-packed dirt. Across the way were two buildings, guarded by a pair of Zsu-23-4 antiaircraft weapons mounted on mobile chassis. What appeared to be the entrance to a bunker sat just beyond the weapons at the north end of the field; it looked to be either a bomb shelter or a storage facility. At the other end of the field there were three small buildings that probably garrisoned the troops assigned to work with the helicopter. There were two BMPs, Russian-made armored personnel carriers, parked on a ramp halfway between the buildings and the runway. Zen would nail the antiair; as he finished with the second, the Marine Cobras should be just getting in range to knock out the BMPs and then scald the barracks.
His weapons bar began to blink red as the prepro-grammed target grew fat in the crosshairs.
Too soon to fire. He held steady, speed picking up steadily—450 knots, 460 … A black plume appeared on the left side of his screen—the other set of guns had already begun to fire.
At two and a half miles to target, Zen pressed the small red button that triggered the 20mm cannon in the chin and belly of the Flighthawk. Adapted from the venerable M61A that had served in every frontline American fighter from the F-15 to the F/A-18, the six-barreled gat spat slugs out at a rate of six thousand a minute. About a second and a half later the shells began grinding through the torrent of the mobile flak dealer, chewing a curlicue into the Russian-made steel. One of the Zsu barrels flew off the top of the chassis into the second emplacement, detonating the fuel tank in its carrier. Before Zen could get his nose on that target, it was enveloped in flames. He fired anyway, then quickly rolled his wings, powering the ro-
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bot plane into a high-speed turn so hard he could practically hear the carbon wings groan.
“Video feed to Whiplash headset,” he told Fentress.
“They’re on board already,” he replied.
“Cobras are zero-two away, Hawk leader,” said Alou.
“Copy that. I’m going to run over the landing area and stand out of the way for the helicopters.”
Zen pushed on, riding the Flighthawk across the compound toward the barracks area.
“Two more vehicles than we planned on,” said Fentress, watching the ground scan. “Missile launcher on the right, your right, as you come in!”
A squat, pudgy vehicle with two rectangular boxes sat beyond the machine-gun emplacements near the barracks area. Either an SA-8 or SA-9—Zen didn’t have time to examine it, much less get off a shot; his momentum carried him beyond it before he could get more than a glimpse.