“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Thank you, Captain Stockard.”
“You can call me Bree,” she said.
Thanks.
“All right, crew.” Captain Stockard’s—Bree’s—voice changed slightly, becoming a little deeper, a little more authoritative. “I know everyone’s disappointed that we didn’t draw the laser assignment. But what we’re doing, protecting our guys, is still damn important. I know everybody’s going to do their best.”
As they flew over Iraq carrying out their mission, the rest of the crew seemed almost bored, punching buttons, checking the progress of the attack groups they were helping. Torbin concentrated so hard on his gear that he didn’t even have time to fantasize about the pilot.
Much.
“That Spoon Rest radar—is it up?” Bree asked as they hit the halfway point on their mission chart. It was now 1730.
“No,” he said tentatively, eyes jumping from his screens to make sure he had the right radar. The unit had come on briefly but then turned off. It was nearly a hundred miles south from the attack planes’ target; Quicksilver would splash it at the end of the mission, assuming they didn’t find anything of higher priority.
The Phantom wouldn’t even have detected it. Nor would the Weasel have given him the option of spoofing the radar with a variety of ECMs, ordinarily the job of a 322
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Spark Vark F-111 or a Compass Call electronic warfare C-130.
This was definitely the future, and he liked it very much.
A warning tone sounded in his ear. A purple blob materialized on the left screen sixty-six miles ahead of their present position; beneath the blob was a legend describing the enemy radar and its associated systems as a point-defense Zsu-23-4 unit mapped on previous missions. A color-coded box opened on the right screen with a list of options for dealing with it. The computer suggested NO
ACTION; the radar was too limited to see the Megafortress and the gun too impotent to strike the attack package, which was flying well above its range.
Torbin concurred.
“Gun dish,” Torbin told the pilots. “Twelve o’clock, fifty miles out. It’s in the index,” he added, meaning that it had been spotted and identified previously by CentCom.
“Copy,” said Ferris. “Mongoose flight is zero-two from their IP. Watch them closely.”
Torbin got another tone. This time a red cluster flared right over Mongoose’s target.
“Flat Face,” he said, “uh, unknown, shit.” He glanced at the right screen, where the option box had opened.
“Location,” prompted Ferris.
Torbin went to center the cursor on the target, nail it down with a HARM.
He wasn’t in a Weasel, though.
“Jam the radar,” said Breanna calmly.
“They’re being beamed,” reported Ferris.
Torbin moved his finger to the touch screen, then froze.
He wasn’t sure what the hell he was supposed to do.
He had about ten seconds to figure it out—otherwise he was going to lose one of the planes they were protecting. And this time, it would be his fault.
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Aboard Raven , over Iran 1602
ON ZEN’S MAP THE BORDER BETWEEN TURKEY, IRAQ, AND
Iran ran sharp and clear, curling through the mountains that swung down from the Caspian Sea and up from the Persian Gulf. On his view screen as he passed overhead, the border was indistinguishable; even in the few places where there were actual roads, the checkpoints tended to be a kilometer or more away from the border, where they could be better fortified. Unrest among the Kurdish population had struck Iran as well as Iraq, and the Iranian army had bolstered its forces near the borders and in the north in general. But the reinforcements appeared to have included almost no air units beyond a few helicopters; the radar in Hawk One located a pair of Bell Jet Rangers flying in a valley about ten miles southeast as it passed over the border ahead of Raven.
“Civilian airport radar at Tabriz is active,” said the radar operator. “We’re clean. No other radars in vicinity. Hamadian, Kemanshah, Ghale Morghi, all quiet,” he added, naming the major air bases within striking distance.
The Flighthawk and Raven were a hundred miles from the first of the three possible targets; Whiplash and its pilfered Hind were running about five minutes behind them.
At their present speed, the ground team could reach the closest target in thirty-five minutes, the farthest in forty-five. Alou would launch the Quail in thirty minutes.
Zen kicked his speed up, tucking the Flighthawk close to a mountain pass. As he shot by, his camera caught a small group of soldiers sitting around a machine gun behind a stack of rocks; he was by them so fast they didn’t have time to react, though it would have been next to impossible for them to hit the Flighthawk with their gun.
A helicopter would be a different story.
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Zen flew up the pass about a mile and a half, making sure there were no reinforcements. In the meantime, Fentress marked the spot for him, giving him a straight-line course to target when he turned back.
“Whiplash Hind, this is Hawk leader. I have a pimple to blot out.”
“Whiplash Hind copies.” The roar of the helicopter engines nearly drowned out the pilot’s voice. “Should we change course?”
“Negative,” said Zen as his targeting screen began to flash. “He’ll be in Ayatollah heaven in thirty seconds.”
Aboard Whiplash Hind, over Iran 1605
DANNY PEERED OUT AT THE NEARBY MOUNTAIN UNEASILY, watching their shadow pass on the brown flank. Bits of snow remained scattered in the hollows; water flowed in the valleys in blue and silver threads, sparkling with the sun.
Under any other circumstances, he’d look at the scenery with admiration; now it filled him with dread.
They were big, easy targets flying low in the middle of the day.
He should have insisted on a proper deployment at the very beginning, brought his Osprey here, more men. He wasn’t working with a full tool chest.
What was he going to do if he got his butt fried? Go back East and into politics like his wife wanted?
Hell, he’d be dead if this didn’t work.
Was that why he’d gone ahead with it? Or was it the opposite—was he thinking he’d be a hero if he grabbed the laser?
Danny looked around the cabin at his men, fidgeting RAZOR’S EDGE
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away the long ride to their target. Was blind ambition the reason he was risking these guys lives?
No. They had to pull this off to save others. That had nothing to do with ambition. That was his duty, his job.
“Hawk One to Whiplash. Pimple’s gone,” said Zen on the Dreamland circuit. “Clear sailing for you.”
“Whiplash Hind,” acknowledged Egg in the cockpit.
“Thanks, Zen,” added Danny.
“Bet you didn’t know Clearasil comes in twenty mil-limeter packages, huh?” joked Zen.
“Well, I must say, your code words are exceedingly clever.” Rubeo’s sarcastic drone took Danny by surprise, even though he knew the scientist would be in Dreamland Command. “I wish I could be there for the fun and games.”
“Yeah, me too,” said Danny, too tired at the moment even to be angry.
“We have some new ideas about the laser,” said Rubeo.
“Our friends at the CIA now believe it is part of a project initiated at least a year ago called Allah’s Sword. If they’re right, it’s largely based on technology nearly a de-cade old.”
“Reassuring.”
“My sentiments exactly,” said the scientist, the disdain evident. “Nonetheless, the spy masters have given us some things to consider. First of all, we’re looking for something larger than a tank chassis. Your pilots have already been briefed. As far as you’re concerned, our wish list remains essentially the same. Concentrate on the software and analyzing the chemical composition. A physical piece of the mirror in the director would be useful as well.”