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If he only had a stinking gun.

“Coyote AWACS—this is Bronco. Get that helo off the ground! Now! They’re going to get roasted. Go. Come on. No time to be a hero. Go! Take off. Jesus,” said Mack, still talking as he rolled back north.

“Bronco. There are two MiGs headed for you,” answered the AWACS controller. “Get out of there!”

“Hey, screw yourself,” said Mack, though he didn’t press the send button. “Think I’m a wimp or something?”

On the ground in Iraq

2057

DANNY COULD SEE WHERE THEY WERE FIRING THE MORTAR

from. He had a fragmentation grenade and thought he might be able to reach the mortar if he could get any sort of weight behind the throw. But that would expose him to the Iraqis in the ditch.

Stand up, toss the grenade as quickly as he could, duck back down, he told himself.

That would leave him with two smoke grenades. Use one to cover his retreat up the hillside. Use the other to deke them, give him a clear toss at the mortar.

A fresh burst of AK-47 bullets kicked through the nearby dirt. As the mortar whizzed again, Danny lobbed a smoke grenade in the direction of the ditch, waiting for it to land, judging—hoping—the Iraqis would see it and duck. He counted two seconds, then rose and wailed the fragmentation grenade at the men with the mortar.

His knee buckled with the throw. The grenade sailed only about twenty yards. As he fell his arms sailed out, spread-eagle, a rush of pain coming over him.

Danny swam back through the dirt, grabbing his gun and steadying his aim on the ditch. His eyes narrowed 394

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down to slits, compressed by a fresh wave of pain at the top of his head. He felt as if someone had taken a nail gun and plastered a dozen spikes through the top of his helmetless skull. He heard a sound like a vacuum, thought it must be the mortar, and fired wildly. He saw an Iraqi as the smoke wafted clear. The man turned toward him with a pistol, and Danny leveled his MP-5 and fired. The bullets spun him back, his pistol falling at his feet.

The mortar lay on the ground, beyond another body.

The Pave Hawk roared above somewhere. Other helicopters, other planes, gunfire—the noises jammed together. Danny stopped listening. Dirt tore at his eyes. He needed to rest; the sensation overwhelmed him.

Someone was behind him.

Danny spun so fast he lost his balance. An injured Iraqi had struggled to his feet two yards away. He held his hands out, weaponless.

Danny just barely caught himself from pressing the trigger. He wanted to—he felt no mercy, knew he’d be shown none if the situation was reversed. It was wildly dangerous not to fire, but he couldn’t bring himself to kill a man who had his arms up.

As Danny continued to stare at him, the Iraqi lowered his eyes. He kept his hands above his head.

A prisoner was the last thing he needed now. But he couldn’t shoot the SOB. Just couldn’t.

“Go,” Danny told him.

The man didn’t move.

“Go!” he shouted. He shot a few rounds into the air, yelling and screaming. “Go! Go! Go!”

The Iraqi, terrified, finally began to move.

“Get the hell away from here!” shouted Danny. “Go!”

The man finally seemed to understand. He began to RAZOR’S EDGE

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run, looking over his shoulder after a few steps, ducking his head a bit as if in thanks. Then he put everything he had into his stride, running into the distance.

Okay, Danny thought. Okay. Now how the hell do I getout of here?

POWDER REACHED GUNNY AS GUNFIRE ERUPTED A FEW

yards farther away, down near the road. There was too much smoke to see anything, but he figured Captain Freah had just taken out the mortar. He turned the Marine sergeant over as gently as he could, staring at him until he saw that he was definitely breathing.

“Hey,” mumbled the sergeant. “Didja get the fucker?”

“Who?” asked Powder.

“One of those bastards tried to flank us.”

Powder craned his neck up. There was a body maybe ten yards across the slope.

“Any others?” Powder asked.

“Dunno. What happened to the captain?” Gunny gasped between the words.

“Probably around here somewhere.”

“Water?”

Powder gave the injured Marine a drink and looked over his wounds. He had been hit in the side and the arm and lost a lot of blood. How serious the wounds were was hard to tell, but it’d all be academic if they didn’t get the hell out of there ASAP.

Aboard Wild Bronco , over Iraq 2059

MACK TRIED TO SORT ALL THE COMMOTION OUT OVER THE

common radio circuit as he shadowed the highway. The 396

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MiGs had their afterburners lit and were two minutes away. Two F-15s had moved up to intercept but hadn’t gotten radar locks yet, the amateurs. The MH-60 had been hit but was still flying; its pilot proceeded to argue with the AWACS controller about what he should and shouldn’t do.

“Wild Bronco, you have your orders. Break ninety!”

“Bullshit. I’m not leaving guys there.”

Mack passed the mortar area, saw that it had been neutralized. One of the Iraqis had even been captured.

Hell, he could put down, pick them up, and get the hell out of there before the Eagles even found the stinking MiGs.

So why not?

Why not indeed.

“Wild Bronco to Coyote—send the Blackhawk home,”

said Mack. “I’ll pick up the rest of their passengers for them.”

On the ground in Iraq

2104

THE STACCATO POUNDING IN HIS SKULL GAVE WAY TO THE

steadier drone of jackhammers as Danny edged back toward the road. He saw Powder in the distance, just beyond the edge of smoke, waving and yelling something.

What the hell was he saying?

“Duck, Cap! Duck!”

Danny whirled in time to see the Bronco hop once on the highway then beeline for him. He started to back up, then fell on his rump. Grit flew over his face; the next thing he knew, Powder was helping him up. Mack Smith leaned from the open canopy about twenty yards down the roadway.

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Smith yelled something but it was drowned out by the whine of the motors. Danny ran through a cloud of dust to the plane, then realized he’d lost Powder somewhere along the way. As he turned to find him, he remembered Gunny, poor dead Gunny. He put his hands to his face, funneling away the noise and grit, getting his bearings.

They had to get the Marine out, give him a decent burial at least. He started back, then heard someone yelling behind him—Mack Smith maybe, telling him to get the hell into the aircraft.

“I can’t leave a man, even if he’s dead.”

“Ain’t no one dead, Cap,” shouted Powder. Danny spun around and saw the Whiplash team member with a large green sack over his shoulder. “We got to get!”

Gunny—in Powder’s arms.

Danny’s hands fumbled with the latch to the rear compartment. Finally inside, he pulled Gunny’s limp body up toward the primitive bench seat. There was no time to put on restraints as the aircraft began to move; he wrapped one arm around a strap and the other around the Marine, huddled on the floor as the aircraft suddenly became weightless.

“You saved my sorry ass again,” said Gunny in the darkness. “You got the son of a bitch.”

“Who?”

“The Iraqi that tried to flank us. Now I owe you again, huh? I thought I evened it out.”

“It’s all even,” said Danny.

“SERGEANT, YOU TOUCH ANYTHING ELSE BACK THERE AND

I’m hitting the eject button. You got that?”

“You can eject me from up there?”

“Damn straight,” lied Mack. “You touch anything, no shit, boom, you’re outta here.”