“Computdr, identify antiair missile vehicle,” he said as he threw the Flighthawk into a turn.

“Which vehicle?”

Which one? There were more than he’d seen?

“All,” he said. “Highlight on the sitrep.”

The computer’s synthesized acknowledgment was drowned out by a radar warning.

“Yo, Alou—LZ is hot. I’m spiked!” he said. The SA-8

radar had latched onto the Flighthawk. A launch warning followed.

“We’re jamming!” said the pilot.

“Jam better. Hold the assault package.”

“Too late,” answered Alou.

“Hold them!” Zen tucked and rolled, zigging back to -

ward the launcher he’d seen. It was an SA-8B mounted on a six-wheeled amphibious vehicle, capable of launching missiles using either semiactive radar or IR homing RAZOR’S EDGE

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devices. Zen lit his cannon as the missile launcher swung its rectangular nose toward him. His first few shots missed high, but he stayed on the launcher; a stream of lead poured through the near box containing a missile.

The SA-8B exploded—but not before a long, thin pipe popped from the box farthest from his cannon.

Aboard Fork One , over Iraq 1440

THE FLIGHTHAWK SITREP MAP ON HIS VISOR BLINKED RED, indicating that a missile had been fired from one of the SAM trucks. Danny cursed, and shouted a warning to the helicopter crew. A second later the helo twisted downward, one of the wheels whining as it dashed against the ground. Danny clutched his MP-5 against his carbon-boron vest and hunkered down in his seat, sure that the next thing he’d see would be flames. But instead the helo bolted nearly upright, then whipped forward again.

Danny switched from the Whiplash frequency that tied into the Flighthawks to the general radio band used by the attackers; unfortunately, there wasn’t a way to use both at the same time.

“Missiles in the air,” warned one of the pilots.

“Hold off,” said Alou over the circuit somewhere.

“We’re committed,” answered the pilot blandly.

“Relax.”

The Marine AH-1W Super Cobras charged their targets at nearly 200 miles an hour. The first ship unleashed a barrage of five-inch Zuni rockets that peppered the emplacement area. Half a tick behind him came a Whiskey Cobra armed with Hellfire laser-guided missiles; despite the heavy smoke, he zeroed out both BMPs in rapid succession, then unleashed the chain gun on the barracks.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Both helicopters wheeled off, spraying decoy flares and smoke bombs as they did.

“Fork, come on in, the water’s perfect,” said the Cobra leader.

“Assault team up!” said Danny. “Fentress—how are those Hinds?”

“Here’s the visual,” he replied, punching in a replay showing the helicopters.

They were being armed and fueled.

Aboard Raven , over Iraq 1452

ZEN SAW THE NOSE OF THE MISSILE AS IT FLASHED TOWARD

him, a blurred spoon of white. He’d already slammed the U/MF’s nose downward, rolling the U/MF into a twist so hard that the plane fluttered uncontrollably for a second, caught between the conflicting forces of momentum and gravity. A hole opened in his stomach; acid rushed in, searing a spot beneath his ribs. But he hadn’t lost the plane—the missile streaked away, and by the time it self-detonated, Zen had full control of the Flighthawk and begun to climb. He recovered well south of the target area, restoring his sense of the battlefield as well as speed. The Cobras had started their run despite the warnings; the missiles the Iraqis had launched had all missed, probably because they had been aimed at the U/MF and not the throaty whirlybirds.

Zen climbed in an arc eastward as they’d planned, feeding video from behind the smoke screen the Cobras laid as the two CH-46s came in. His radar warning gear was clean and there seemed to be no more antiaircraft fire, though a smart commander would keep his head and hold back until the ground troops appeared.

RAZOR’S EDGE

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“Can you get real-time images of those Hinds?” Fentress asked. “I’ve been feeding Whiplash the shots you took coming in.”

“Yeah,” said Zen, changing course. “Almost lost it there,” he added.

“Nah.”

“Yeah, really, I thought I did,” he said. “You did okay.”

“We got a long way to go,” said Fentress.

Zen laughed, realizing that was something he usually said.

Aboard Fork One , in Iraq 1500

DANNY THREW HIS BODY AROUND THE ROPE, HANDS PUMPing. He worked down six or seven feet, then jumped—a little too soon for his right knee, which gave way as soon as he hit the ground.

Cursing, he pushed himself back upright, moving out of the way of the others as they did a quick exit from the Sea Knights. An acrid scent ate at his nostrils. The two large Russian-made helicopters sat maybe forty yards ahead, just beyond a thick wall of smoke. As he reached to flick his visor viewer into IR mode he felt something ping his right shoulder. The gentle tap felt familiar, an old friend catching him in a crowded street, but it was hardly that—a half-dozen bullets had just bounced off his vest.

Danny spun to his right, bringing his gun up. But he had no target on his screen. The area was thick with smoke and dust, swirled furiously by the helicopter blades.

“Whiplash team, we have small arms fire from the direction of the buildings,” he told his men as he dropped to one knee.

The knee screamed in pain, twisted badly or sprained 310

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

in the jump. Danny ignored it, pushing his MP-5 left, then right. IR mode was hampered by the smoke; he flicked back to unenhanced visual.

“They’re in the buildings,” said Liu over the team radio.

“All right. I’m going to get the Cobras on it,” said Danny. He hit the radio, piping his voice to the attack ships. “Small arms in the buildings opposite the Hinds.”

The lead Cobra pilot acknowledged. A second or two later the ground began to shake; a freight train roared overhead and flames shot from the area where the building had been.

Danny was already running toward the Hinds. He broke through the smoke and saw one of the two Iraqi helicopters sitting about twenty yards ahead. There was a weapons trolley near it, a man lying on the ground.

Danny pulled his submachine gun level at his waist and laid two bursts into the figure before it fell away.

“Vehicles!” said Bison. His SAW began stuttering to Danny’s left. Danny looked over and saw two of his men throwing themselves down; Bison had already crouched a few feet beyond them, his gun blaring at two pickups tearing out from behind the helicopters.

Red flickered from the trucks. Bison hosed the first. As Danny put his own cursor on the second, it morphed into a massive fireball, axed by a Marine SMAW. Debris rained around them. Danny got up, ignoring the pops against his chest as he ran toward a brown-shirted body a few feet ahead. The Iraqi didn’t move, but Danny gave him a burst of gunfire anyway. He leaped nearly chest first into the machine-gun fisted nose of the Russian attack bird, rolling left around the fuselage as he eyed the gunner’s station and cockpit, making sure they were empty. As he turned toward the belly of the craft he saw a flicker above the wing; he tried ducking but it was too RAZOR’S EDGE

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late—three bullets from an AK-47 hit the top of his helmet and threw him to the ground. Instinctively, the captain shoved his gun in the direction of the gunfire as he fell, pressing the trigger for a brief second before his head smacked the ground.

Bullets flew overhead. The ground vibrated so hard he felt his head jumping upward. Voices screamed in his ears. It was all chaos, unfathomable chaos.