“It would be useful if you could remove the small computer units at the base of the platform first,” said Rubeo. “That Sun workstation especially. There is a disk array near it. Take that as well. The units will slide out.”

“If we have time,” said Danny.

One of the Marines shouted. Danny threw himself down as a flare shot to the top of the building and the interior lit.

“There’s a tunnel,” said Bison. “A dozen ragheads!

More!”

After that all Danny could hear was machine-gun fire.

POWDER BLASTED AWAY IN THE HIND, SPITTING 12.7 BULlets everywhere but at the truck he was aiming at. Part of the problem was Egg, who kept flinging the helicopter left and right.

“We’ll be an easy target. Get the pickup in front and the rest will be trapped.”

“Well, I would if you’d hold steady for a second. This isn’t the easiest gun in the world to aim.”

“It’s a fucking Ma Deuce.”

“It’s a Russian Ma Deuce. Big difference,” said Powder, once again pressing the trigger and once again missing.

“Tanks,” said Egg.

The helicopter bolted forward. Powder put his other hand on the gun handle, still pressing the trigger. The stream of bullets swam over and past the pickup, through 346

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

the animal pen where the flak dealers had been, and toward the barbed-wire fences on the south perimeter. A pair of medium tanks—possibly T-54s or even American M48s—were rumbling along the roadway parallel to the fences.

“You’re wasting ammo and you’re going to burn out the barrel,” said Egg.

“Yeah, no shit,” said Powder, though he kept firing.

“Stand back and let the Flighthawk hit them.”

“You’re the one flying the damn thing.” Powder finally let up on the trigger.

The helicopter continued moving forward. Powder could see one or two people on the ground but they were moving too quickly for him to aim. As they banked and came north, the small robot plane swooped nearly straight down on the lead tank. The U/MF’s mouth frothed and the aircraft seemed to stutter in the air, skipping along and disappearing in the billowing cloud. The tank kept going.

“Shit,” said Powder. “He hit the motherfucker too.”

The U/MF’s cannon fired shells nearly twice as large as the ones in the Hind’s mouth, but Powder unleashed his weapon anyway. He got about six or seven into the vehicle with no apparent effect before the gun clicked empty.

“We’re empty,” he told Egg.

“I told you not to waste your fuckin’ bullets.”

“Maybe we should ram it.”

“Just hang on,” said Egg, throwing open the throttle.

Aboard Raven , over Iran 1820

“YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO HIT THE TANK WITH ONE OF

the JSOWs,” Zen told Alou. “My bullets bounced off the turret.”

RAZOR’S EDGE

347

“We’re down to three missiles, Zen. We have to make sure we can take out the laser.”

“If we don’t stop the tanks, they’ll reach Whiplash.

They’re firing.”

Zen poked the nose of the Flighthawk around as the tank recoiled from its shot. The shell from the 105mm gun, which had been retrofitted to the upgraded M48, sailed well over the laser building. As the gun started to lower for another shot, Zen dropped Hawk One down for a low-level run, hoping his bullets might find a soft spot at the tank’s rear. He gave his trigger two quick squeezes and broke right as the tank fired again. Recovering, he spotted a small cement structure that looked like a tunnel entrance at the edge of the barbed wire. Ducking around to get a better view, he saw several troops running toward it.

“Targeting lead tank,” said Alou.

“Hold on, hold on,” said Zen. “We got some sort of underground entrance, bunker or something. May lead to the laser. Men inside,” he said, unleashing thirty or forty rounds before swooping away. He could see another knot of men coming from the shadow of one of the buildings.

He tucked his wing and dove back immediately, but they’d made the tunnel before he could get a shot.

“All right, stand clear,” said Alou.

Two JSOWs popped out from the Megafortress’s belly and nosed toward the tank and the tunnel entrance. Their rear steering fins made minor mid-course corrections about a third of the way home; two seconds later their warheads detonated precisely on their targets, stopping the Iranian counterattack cold.

“Whiplash, we have one lollipop left,” Alou said over the shared circuit. “Time to saddle up.”

348

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

In Iran

1830

WHEN THE MISSILE HIT THE ENTRANCE TO THE TUNNEL, THE

concussion blew into the building with enough force to knock over a good part of the laser gear, including the director assembly. But it also killed or dazed most of the Iranians near the entrance, who, unlike Whiplash, hadn’t been forewarned. The Marines took care of the rest, spraying their SAWs from a platform on the left side of the building. The metal walls reverberated with the loud rattle of light machine guns, the roar several times louder than a case of firecrackers going off in a garbage can.

The acrid smell of the flare, still burning on the ground, stung Danny’s nostrils as he made his way down from the platform toward Bison and Pretty Boy, who were wedged down behind some equipment on the right side of the building.

“Two more guys, back behind that row of cabinets,”

said Bison, pointing.

“Flash-bang,” said Danny. “You go left, I’ll go right.”

Bison ducked and began moving. Danny took one of the grenades in his hand, tucking his thumb beneath the tape he’d safed the pin with. As he got ready to toss it, Bison shouted a warning and began firing. Danny pitched the grenade over the barrier, then dove to the floor. The loud pop was almost lost in the roar of gunfire. Crawling, Danny managed to reach the end of the row, then hesitated, not sure exactly where Bison was and not wanting to get caught by his cross fire.

“Bison, where are you?”

“Pinned down,” said the sergeant.

“Stay there,” said Danny. He pitched another grenade over the top of the cabinet and threw himself around the RAZOR’S EDGE

349

corner a millisecond after it popped. There were bodies everywhere, at least a dozen of them. Two Iranians with heavy weapons were crouched at the far end of the row; Danny’s bullets caught them chest high as they began to turn toward him. He ran through his clip, then jerked back behind the row of metal as someone behind them popped up and returned fire.

“There’s a million of these fuckers,” said Bison.

“Just seems that way,” shouted Gunny, who’d come down and around to cover them. “Advance. I got your ass.”

Danny rammed home a new clip. When the Iranians’

bullets stopped hitting the wall near his head, he threw himself around the barrier again, once more emptying his weapon before ducking back. But this time as he reloaded there was no answering fire.

“Secure,” said Bison.

“Let’s grab that shit and get the hell out of here,” said Danny, scanning the pile of dead before retreating.

The smoke was so thick in the building that even with his low-light mode on he could see only a few yards ahead. When the Marine corporal rose in front of him, Danny cringed for a second, not sure who it was. Then he recognized him.

“This comes with us,” he told the Marine, pointing to the disk array. A stack of drives sat on top of each other in a plastic cabinet about five feet high. “Grab whatever you can. Just tear it out and get it into the helo. Go.”

The Marine began prying out the disk units with his knife, sliding them out past the flimsy locks that secured them. Danny climbed back onto the platform and retrieved his gas analyzer. He took out his knife and cut open a hole in one of the plastic tubes.