Helo pilot is lower than this, he thought. Radar has him here, missile coming there, maybe he sees it and freaks.
Mack pushed his nose down, sliding even closer to the jagged rocks.
Missile tracking. Maybe the guy in the helo hasn’t seen it yet. Maybe the helo deked it a bit, because, let’s face it, the helicopter is what, twenty feet off the ground? Even an AMRAAM is going to have trouble in all this clutter.
So maybe it has to cut back, pilot tries to duck around.
Mack jerked his stick up as he came unexpectedly close to a rising slope. He pulled close to five g’s, blood suddenly catching in his throat. Another rift opened to his left, a shallow collection of brown hills topped by splotches of white snow, ice, a runoff stream, roads in the distance.
And a ruined helicopter near the top of a hillside five hundred yards on his left, three miles farther west than anyone thought it would be.
“Wild Bronco to Quicksilver—check that, to Coyote AWACS, to any allied aircraft. I have the wreckage in sight. Stand by for my coordinates.”
On the ground in Iraq
2019
DANNY COULD TELL THERE WERE AIRCRAFT NEARBY, HE
just couldn’t see them. Nor could they raise them on the radios. So when Gunny and Pretty Boy reported back that they had seen two trucks coming up the highway in their 384
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
direction, he realized he had to find a way to make the team visible to the aircraft real fast.
“Liu, you and Powder go to the top of this hill, fire some pencil flares. Whatever is flying is probably ours, and even if it’s Iraqi, it’ll bring our guys. Once you can see the plane, the damn radios ought to work, even that Prick-90. Especially that. Gunny, you and Pretty Boy get the others ready to evac. Blow the laser shit if we can’t get it out.”
“Gotcha, Captain,” said Pretty Boy.
“Wait. Where’s that bazooka thing? You got any missiles left?”
“The bunker buster? The SMAW?”
“Yeah. I’m going to take the trucks out while you guys get picked up.”
“Fuck that,” said Gunny. “I’ll go.”
“They may need you here,” said Danny.
“Come on, Captain. Those pussies are wet for us down there,” said the sergeant, who scooped up the weapon as well as a Minimi and started downhill.
Aboard Wild Bronco , over Iraq 2020
MACK HEARD ALOU SAY THEY WERE GOING TO SPLASH THE
Iraqi helicopters and cursed. The one thing he could probably—make that definitely—nail, and they were a stinking fifteen miles south. Two Sidewinders—pop, pop.
That would make their day. If only he had them.
Stinking wimp Iraqi bastards.
He passed low over the wreckage, circling around the peak and keeping the area on his right wing. He still couldn’t tell if those were people near it, but they sure as RAZOR’S EDGE
385
hell looked like people, and damn, what else could they be? Moving trees?
He fought the Bronco a bit around the peak, the mountain air beating the wings like a driver whipping the back-side of a horse. The plane drifted to the left but otherwise hung with him after he kissed the throttle. As he tucked back right, white light flashed in the distance, and for a long, cold second he thought they’d been wrong about where the laser was—he thought he was about to be fried.
Distracted, he came through his bank much tighter than he’d intended, and so passed directly over the peak before he could get a good look at the ground. As he turned back he realized the flash had come from glass or a mirror that had caught the sinking sun.
This time he had a good long look at the crash site.
Two men were standing on the slope above the helicopter, waving their arms. He dipped his wings, then clicked the radio to tell the others that he definitely had people on the ground. At the same time he changed course to find out what had caught the sun.
Aboard Raven , over Iraq 2021
THE FACT THAT HE HAD TO KEEP HIS SPEED BACK TO STAY
close to Raven helped Fentress more than he would have imagined, corralling some of his nervous energy. Four helicopters were flying in an elongated and slightly stag-gered diamond pattern ten miles off his nose. He had a perfect intercept on the chopper on the east wing, the second in line. The computer had them ID’d as Russian-made Mil Mi-8 Hips, general-purpose troop-carrying birds that could also carriage missiles; his attack should 386
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
be prudent but not overly cautious. The computer’s tactics section had a course plotted that would allow him to machine-gun the two wing helos, accelerating past and then around for a rear-quarter attack on the survivors.
That would expose him to possible antiair fire from only one of the aircraft while maximizing the damage on the formation. But Fentress realized that might not accomplish his main objective, which was to protect the ground team—the first helicopter would be within four or five miles of the wreckage at intercept; by the time he recovered and caught up, it would be in a position to disgorge its troops.
So he decided on his own plan. He’d take a few quick shots at the wing helo, but then concentrate on the leader, slashing close enough to the formation to scatter it, at least temporarily. The computer acknowledged, dotting the course for him and then stepping into the background as he closed. Fentress tried to deepen his breathing, pacing himself through the long wait—all of twenty-three seconds, counted down by the computer.
“Raven, I’m about to engage.” He had the wing helo on visual.
“Raven. Kick ass, Hawk leader.”
“Nail the mothers, Curly.”
Zen’s voice caught him by surprise. Before he could turn to see if he had truly heard him, the computer gave him a prompt, claiming it was in range to fire.
OBJECTS FLEW AROUND ZEN’S HEAD WITHOUT ANY LOGICAL
sense. He saw Breanna dancing, saw himself walking, saw his wheelchair tumbling as if lost in a zero-gravity orbit around his head. He fought to get away from riddled unconsciousness, swam toward reality, the seat on the Flighthawk deck of Raven. Fentress was there somewhere. Fentress needed his help.
Fentress stood with a pair of Colt .45s, taking potshots RAZOR’S EDGE
387
on the shooting range. Clay pigeons morphed into real pigeons, which morphed into hawks, which morphed into helicopters.
Helicopters, enemy helicopters.
“Nail the mothers, Curly,” he shouted. “Lead helo first.
Knock the others off course. Go!”
AS THE FIRING BAR FLASHED RED, FENTRESS REMEMBERED
Zen’s advice about the computer being slightly optimistic. He started to count off three seconds to himself, but his adrenaline got the better of him; his finger depressed the trigger after one. Just under a hundred 20mm bullets perforated the engine and then the cabin and then the engine of the Hip; the chopper dipped and then fell below his target pipper. Fentress let off on the trigger, pushing right for the lead helicopter. The cannon’s recoil had stolen some of his momentum, but he managed to turn tightly, and found his target on his right wing. The bar flashed red and he began firing immediately, the bullets trailing downward as the Hip jinked left. Flares shot from the rear of the helicopter. Fentress managed a quick angle shot but couldn’t hope to maneuver behind the helicopter.
He hit the gas and boogied away, gaining speed and altitude for a second run. Turning his wing for a dive back, he saw one of the helicopters streak across his view to the left, and he hesitated a moment, surprised that it had managed to get by him. The hesitation cost him a shot on a second Hip, which came at him from less than half a mile away, chin gun blazing. Reflexes took over; Fentress tucked over and dove for the ground, spinning into a tight turn to put his nose back in the direction the helicopters had taken. At the same time, the AWACS controller warned that the rescue chopper, an MH-60 spec ops craft, was zero-one from pickup.