“Hawk,” he said, lining up on a Hip.
388
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
On the ground in Iraq
2030
DANNY MANAGED TO SLIDE TO THE GROUND BEHIND THE
rocks as Gunny shouted; the tight report of the spotting round was followed by the heavier thump and whiz of the 83mm rocket from the Marine’s SMAW. Danny pushed up in time to see the rocket plow through the windshield of the pickup truck, exploding in a hiss of steam. The dozen men packed into the rear were caught as they tried to jump; they burst out of the dust cloud in pieces.
The other truck jerked right but stayed on the wide road, avoiding the wreckage of the first pickup and gunning its engine. Three or four men began firing Kalash-nikovs over the cab.
“Well, we got their attention,” said Gunny, throwing the now empty SMAW down and pulling up his light machine gun.
As the Iraqi gunfire began pinging into the nearby rocks, Gunny poured 5.56mm slugs into the front end of the truck. The white pickup kept coming for about twenty feet, then rolled over in flames. A second explosion shot debris everywhere; Danny felt something whack against his chest and arm as he ducked. He saw or felt Gunny pushing off to his left, trying to swing his gun up; Danny threw himself around and opened fire in that direction.
Something shrieked, then cried in pain. Danny continued to fire, spraying bullets left and right. Iraqis were less than twenty yards away, maybe closer.
“All right, all right, all right,” Danny yelled, telling himself to stop firing, to get discipline.
Hunkering down, he reached for a fresh clip and slammed the new bullets home. The Marine sergeant was curled against a rock to his left, no longer firing.
RAZOR’S EDGE
389
God—did I shoot him?
Danny looked to the left up the slope, saw nothing. A bullet ricocheted off one of the stones behind him. He threw himself flat on his stomach, then crawled back toward the road. There were at least two Iraqi soldiers in a ditch paralleling the highway about twenty feet from his position. The truck smoldered behind them; there might be more men sheltered there, though it was impossible to tell.
He knew they’d have a good line on Gunny. He’d have to drag him to cover.
As he got up, one of the Iraqis in the ditch opened fire.
Danny dropped. The bullets just missed.
The Iraqis’ line of fire only extended about five or six yards up the slope; Danny knew he could probably make it past them, thanks to his body armor. But carrying Gunny would slow him down considerably. He’d have to take out the bastards first.
“Gunny!” he yelled.
No answer.
Jesus, he thought. If I killed him, what will I do?
Aboard Quicksilver , over Iraq 2035
AT 25,000 FEET, QUICKSILVER WAS WELL ABOVE THE ACtion, though thanks to the continually updated photos from the Dreamland mini-KH satellite, they had a ring-side seat. The Flighthawk was fencing with the Iraqi helicopters; two were down but the other two were now within two miles of the pickup zone. The rescue Blackhawk MH-60 raced toward the site, balls-out; he’d get there maybe sixty seconds after the Iraqi helos.
“Quicksilver to Hawk leader. Stand off. We’ll get the Hips with our AMRAAMs,” she said.
390
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Her copilot didn’t wait for the command, opening the bay door as he zeroed in on the target.
“Hawk leader?” she repeated. “Stand off. We have to nail those helos now. Zen?”
“Zen’s not flying the Flighthawk,” Ferris said. “Fentress is.”
Aboard Raven , over Iraq 2040
THE HELICOPTER GREW FAT IN HIS CUE. AS FENTRESS
pressed the trigger, he heard Breanna’s hail.
He hesitated a second, just long enough for the helicopter to cut right and drop, avoiding him. He tucked right, began shooting anyway, lost the helicopter. He had to throw the Flighthawk left to avoid a looming cliff face—if the rocks had been covered with moss, he would have scraped it off.
“Shit!” he cursed, flailing right after the helo.
“Stay within yourself,” said Zen.
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can.”
“Zen?”
“It’s me. Hold on— Quicksilver wants you to stand off.
They’re targeting with AMRAAMs.”
He pulled back. “Hawk leader to Quicksilver. Acknowledged. They’re yours.”
“Fox One!” said Chris Ferris, the copilot in Quicksilver, announcing the missile shot.
In the next second the AWACS controller broke in.
“Quicksilver, Raven, Wild Bronco—break ninety immediately! Bandits off runway at A-3. MiGs! Break!
Break!”
RAZOR’S EDGE
391
Aboard Wild Bronco , over Iraq 2045
MACK SMITH SAW THE PICKUP TRUCK BURST INTO FLAMES
as he sailed by. There were a couple of guys at the foot of the hill near the crash site, maybe four or five hundred yards down the slope; they had to be Americans. He tried to radio their position to the AWACS but got overrun by all the excitement. The Iraqi Hips were now less than two miles away, and smoke filled the lower left quadrant of the horizon as he turned back toward the site.
The Flighthawk and Quicksilver were taking potshots at the Hips, with what sounded like little success; he couldn’t help thinking he would have nailed every single one of the suckers if he’d just had guns on his damn plane.
Because it was one serious hellcat, if you had the balls to stick and rudder it. He put his wing just about straight down as he turned, getting the American position in view.
“Thunder One, this is Wild Bronco,” he said, trying to reach the MH-60G rescue helicopter on its own frequency. “I have one maybe two Americans on the slope near the road. You guys hear me?”
No answer. He could see the helicopter, an angry-looking Pave Hawk specially modified for Special Forces work. A man hung out the door over a machine gun as it came in; someone on the ground moved. The helicopter skimmed into a hover, then touched down a few yards from the wreckage of the Hind.
Gunfire ripped from the road. There were half a dozen Iraqis down there. Something flared—a shoulder-launched SAM?
Shooting at him?
That did it. Mack pushed his stick in and pirouetted in 392
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
the sky, kicking out diversionary flares. He’d run the motherfuckers over if he had to.
On the ground in Iraq
2050
THE ROTORS OF THE MH-60G PAVE HAWK SPEC OP HELO
continued to spin as the Whiplash wounded were loaded in. The rotors made an odd whirling sound, a kind of low whistle, as if the Sikorsky herself were telling them to get a move on.
Powder helped Liu shoulder the litter into the helicopter as the door gunner let loose another burst in the general direction of the Iraqi ground troops. Something whizzed behind him, and Powder threw himself to the ground. The mountain shuddered, and the helicopter, hovering less than a foot off the dirt, reared to the side.
“Mortars!” he shouted. “Fucks have mortars!”
He jumped up, saw Liu in front of him and grabbed him.
“Into the helicopter!” he shouted. He scooped up his gun from the ground. “Go! Go!”
Liu started to say something, but Powder just pushed him toward the Blackhawk. He heard another round of in-coming and dove forward down the slope.
“Get the helo off,” he yelled. “It’s a sitting duck!”
Aboard Wild Bronco , over Iraq 2055
THE BASTARDS DUCKED AS HE CLOSED IN, BUT AS MACK
approached the ground a mortar shell shot up toward the slope.