Текст книги "Razor's Edge"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

Pave Low, ferociously quick monster choppers with plenty of power to spare.

RAZOR’S EDGE

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On the other hand, he didn’t think he could do better than the Marines accompanying them. If it went well, the whole operation would last maybe fifteen minutes: Flighthawk hits the two Zsu-23-4s protecting the approach, followed closely by the Cobras, which would strike the two BMPs at the base and a pair of machine guns near the buildings. The troops would then fast-rope into the complex. One group of Marines and the Whiplash team would land near the helicopters; the Marines in the second chopper would hit the buildings.

Two of the eighteen men squeezing into the rear of the aircraft with Whiplash carried Shoulder-launched Multipurpose Assault Weapons—SMAW 83mm rockets—to be used against the fortified position near the Hinds and anything else that came up. The others carried standard M-16s and a variety of grenades. Two of Danny’s boys, Powder and Bison, had SAWs, or light machine guns, to lay down support fire at the start; the others carried MP-5s for close work at the finish.

Boom, boom, boom, assuming it went according to plan. Then the real fun would begin.

Egg fingered his gun nervously. The expert who was supposed to help him fly hadn’t shown up in the Dreamland command center yet, but Jennifer had downloaded several pages worth of data, and one of the Marine helo pilots had offered plenty of advice. Every so often Egg would look up from his notes toward Danny and nod confidently.

It had the opposite effect from what he intended. Egg looked about as self-assured as a kid coming off the bus for basic training.

It would work, Danny told himself. And if it didn’t—

It would work.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Aboard Raven , over Iraq 1420

THROUGH THE PREFLIGHT, TAKEOFF, AND LAUNCH OF THE

Flighthawks, Zen tried to think of something to say to Fentress, who’d come along on Raven to act as an assis-tant. Frankly, he would have preferred to have Jennifer, but she was too exhausted. And besides, there was no reason not have Fentress there, helping—the kid had proven he could handle the U/MFs, even if he’d been shot down.

He wasn’t a kid, Zen told himself again.

He wasn’t out after his job either.

Zen lifted his helmet visor as the Flighthawk settled onto the course toward the target area. He glanced over at Fentress, trying to think of what to say. The kid—the other U/MF pilot—was studying the latest photo relay from the mini-KH, orienting himself. There was a little less than five minutes left before fun time.

Zen felt he should say something, but all he could think of was generic bullshit about how he knew Fentress would do a good job. Finally he simply slid his visor back and said they were ready.

“Yup,” said Fentress.

Zen cracked his knuckles and rolled his neck on his head, loosening his muscles. Then he took the robot back from the computer. “Hawk to Whiplash leader. Danny, you got me?”

“Loud and clear,” replied Danny, who was in one of the Marine helos.

“We’re getting ready to dance,” Zen said. “Captain Fentress will feed you the visuals.”

“Ready to rock.”

Zen tipped his nose forward, and the Flighthawk screamed toward the earth, lining up on its first target.

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The Iraqi facility looked more like a strip mall than an airport; the two Hinds were located at one side of a short span of hard-packed dirt. Across the way were two buildings, guarded by a pair of Zsu-23-4 antiaircraft weapons mounted on mobile chassis. What appeared to be the entrance to a bunker sat just beyond the weapons at the north end of the field; it looked to be either a bomb shelter or a storage facility. At the other end of the field there were three small buildings that probably garrisoned the troops assigned to work with the helicopter. There were two BMPs, Russian-made armored personnel carriers, parked on a ramp halfway between the buildings and the runway. Zen would nail the antiair; as he finished with the second, the Marine Cobras should be just getting in range to knock out the BMPs and then scald the barracks.

His weapons bar began to blink red as the prepro-grammed target grew fat in the crosshairs.

Too soon to fire. He held steady, speed picking up steadily—450 knots, 460 … A black plume appeared on the left side of his screen—the other set of guns had already begun to fire.

At two and a half miles to target, Zen pressed the small red button that triggered the 20mm cannon in the chin and belly of the Flighthawk. Adapted from the venerable M61A that had served in every frontline American fighter from the F-15 to the F/A-18, the six-barreled gat spat slugs out at a rate of six thousand a minute. About a second and a half later the shells began grinding through the torrent of the mobile flak dealer, chewing a curlicue into the Russian-made steel. One of the Zsu barrels flew off the top of the chassis into the second emplacement, detonating the fuel tank in its carrier. Before Zen could get his nose on that target, it was enveloped in flames. He fired anyway, then quickly rolled his wings, powering the ro-

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bot plane into a high-speed turn so hard he could practically hear the carbon wings groan.

“Video feed to Whiplash headset,” he told Fentress.

“They’re on board already,” he replied.

“Cobras are zero-two away, Hawk leader,” said Alou.

“Copy that. I’m going to run over the landing area and stand out of the way for the helicopters.”

Zen pushed on, riding the Flighthawk across the compound toward the barracks area.

“Two more vehicles than we planned on,” said Fentress, watching the ground scan. “Missile launcher on the right, your right, as you come in!”

A squat, pudgy vehicle with two rectangular boxes sat beyond the machine-gun emplacements near the barracks area. Either an SA-8 or SA-9—Zen didn’t have time to examine it, much less get off a shot; his momentum carried him beyond it before he could get more than a glimpse.

“Computdr, identify antiair missile vehicle,” he said as he threw the Flighthawk into a turn.

“Which vehicle?”

Which one? There were more than he’d seen?

“All,” he said. “Highlight on the sitrep.”

The computer’s synthesized acknowledgment was drowned out by a radar warning.

“Yo, Alou—LZ is hot. I’m spiked!” he said. The SA-8

radar had latched onto the Flighthawk. A launch warning followed.

“We’re jamming!” said the pilot.

“Jam better. Hold the assault package.”

“Too late,” answered Alou.

“Hold them!” Zen tucked and rolled, zigging back to -

ward the launcher he’d seen. It was an SA-8B mounted on a six-wheeled amphibious vehicle, capable of launching missiles using either semiactive radar or IR homing RAZOR’S EDGE

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devices. Zen lit his cannon as the missile launcher swung its rectangular nose toward him. His first few shots missed high, but he stayed on the launcher; a stream of lead poured through the near box containing a missile.

The SA-8B exploded—but not before a long, thin pipe popped from the box farthest from his cannon.

Aboard Fork One , over Iraq 1440

THE FLIGHTHAWK SITREP MAP ON HIS VISOR BLINKED RED, indicating that a missile had been fired from one of the SAM trucks. Danny cursed, and shouted a warning to the helicopter crew. A second later the helo twisted downward, one of the wheels whining as it dashed against the ground. Danny clutched his MP-5 against his carbon-boron vest and hunkered down in his seat, sure that the next thing he’d see would be flames. But instead the helo bolted nearly upright, then whipped forward again.

Danny switched from the Whiplash frequency that tied into the Flighthawks to the general radio band used by the attackers; unfortunately, there wasn’t a way to use both at the same time.

“Missiles in the air,” warned one of the pilots.

“Hold off,” said Alou over the circuit somewhere.

“We’re committed,” answered the pilot blandly.

“Relax.”

The Marine AH-1W Super Cobras charged their targets at nearly 200 miles an hour. The first ship unleashed a barrage of five-inch Zuni rockets that peppered the emplacement area. Half a tick behind him came a Whiskey Cobra armed with Hellfire laser-guided missiles; despite the heavy smoke, he zeroed out both BMPs in rapid succession, then unleashed the chain gun on the barracks.

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Both helicopters wheeled off, spraying decoy flares and smoke bombs as they did.

“Fork, come on in, the water’s perfect,” said the Cobra leader.

“Assault team up!” said Danny. “Fentress—how are those Hinds?”

“Here’s the visual,” he replied, punching in a replay showing the helicopters.

They were being armed and fueled.

Aboard Raven , over Iraq 1452

ZEN SAW THE NOSE OF THE MISSILE AS IT FLASHED TOWARD

him, a blurred spoon of white. He’d already slammed the U/MF’s nose downward, rolling the U/MF into a twist so hard that the plane fluttered uncontrollably for a second, caught between the conflicting forces of momentum and gravity. A hole opened in his stomach; acid rushed in, searing a spot beneath his ribs. But he hadn’t lost the plane—the missile streaked away, and by the time it self-detonated, Zen had full control of the Flighthawk and begun to climb. He recovered well south of the target area, restoring his sense of the battlefield as well as speed. The Cobras had started their run despite the warnings; the missiles the Iraqis had launched had all missed, probably because they had been aimed at the U/MF and not the throaty whirlybirds.

Zen climbed in an arc eastward as they’d planned, feeding video from behind the smoke screen the Cobras laid as the two CH-46s came in. His radar warning gear was clean and there seemed to be no more antiaircraft fire, though a smart commander would keep his head and hold back until the ground troops appeared.

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“Can you get real-time images of those Hinds?” Fentress asked. “I’ve been feeding Whiplash the shots you took coming in.”

“Yeah,” said Zen, changing course. “Almost lost it there,” he added.

“Nah.”

“Yeah, really, I thought I did,” he said. “You did okay.”

“We got a long way to go,” said Fentress.

Zen laughed, realizing that was something he usually said.

Aboard Fork One , in Iraq 1500

DANNY THREW HIS BODY AROUND THE ROPE, HANDS PUMPing. He worked down six or seven feet, then jumped—a little too soon for his right knee, which gave way as soon as he hit the ground.

Cursing, he pushed himself back upright, moving out of the way of the others as they did a quick exit from the Sea Knights. An acrid scent ate at his nostrils. The two large Russian-made helicopters sat maybe forty yards ahead, just beyond a thick wall of smoke. As he reached to flick his visor viewer into IR mode he felt something ping his right shoulder. The gentle tap felt familiar, an old friend catching him in a crowded street, but it was hardly that—a half-dozen bullets had just bounced off his vest.

Danny spun to his right, bringing his gun up. But he had no target on his screen. The area was thick with smoke and dust, swirled furiously by the helicopter blades.

“Whiplash team, we have small arms fire from the direction of the buildings,” he told his men as he dropped to one knee.

The knee screamed in pain, twisted badly or sprained 310

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in the jump. Danny ignored it, pushing his MP-5 left, then right. IR mode was hampered by the smoke; he flicked back to unenhanced visual.

“They’re in the buildings,” said Liu over the team radio.

“All right. I’m going to get the Cobras on it,” said Danny. He hit the radio, piping his voice to the attack ships. “Small arms in the buildings opposite the Hinds.”

The lead Cobra pilot acknowledged. A second or two later the ground began to shake; a freight train roared overhead and flames shot from the area where the building had been.

Danny was already running toward the Hinds. He broke through the smoke and saw one of the two Iraqi helicopters sitting about twenty yards ahead. There was a weapons trolley near it, a man lying on the ground.

Danny pulled his submachine gun level at his waist and laid two bursts into the figure before it fell away.

“Vehicles!” said Bison. His SAW began stuttering to Danny’s left. Danny looked over and saw two of his men throwing themselves down; Bison had already crouched a few feet beyond them, his gun blaring at two pickups tearing out from behind the helicopters.

Red flickered from the trucks. Bison hosed the first. As Danny put his own cursor on the second, it morphed into a massive fireball, axed by a Marine SMAW. Debris rained around them. Danny got up, ignoring the pops against his chest as he ran toward a brown-shirted body a few feet ahead. The Iraqi didn’t move, but Danny gave him a burst of gunfire anyway. He leaped nearly chest first into the machine-gun fisted nose of the Russian attack bird, rolling left around the fuselage as he eyed the gunner’s station and cockpit, making sure they were empty. As he turned toward the belly of the craft he saw a flicker above the wing; he tried ducking but it was too RAZOR’S EDGE

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late—three bullets from an AK-47 hit the top of his helmet and threw him to the ground. Instinctively, the captain shoved his gun in the direction of the gunfire as he fell, pressing the trigger for a brief second before his head smacked the ground.

Bullets flew overhead. The ground vibrated so hard he felt his head jumping upward. Voices screamed in his ears. It was all chaos, unfathomable chaos.

Danny had lost the ability to sort it out, lost the ability to do anything but fight to his knees—his right one screaming again—and fire another few rounds in the direction of the stubby wing strut.

White heat flashed in front of him. Danny gulped air and threw himself down a millisecond before the shock wave as the helicopter exploded. The dirt turned molten.

He gulped the hot air, tried to get away, finally saw that he had somehow crawled under the burning chassis. He kept going, enveloped by blackness. A sudden rush of heat stopped him.

“The other Hind,” he heard himself say calmly. “Secure it.”

“Two guys, crew compartment, side facing the buildings,” said Powder.

“All right. Get their attention.”

Danny had only the vaguest notion of where he was or where he was going—he wasn’t even sure whether he’d gotten out from under the burning helicopter. Nonetheless, he began to crawl. After a few feet he got up and began running in what he thought was the direction of the buildings, intending to make a long flanking maneuver and get at the Hind from the back while his guys kept the defenders busy. As he ran—it was more like a limp, thanks to his knee—he clicked back and forth between the IR and enhanced video views in his visor; the thick 312

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smoke defeated both. Finally he pushed the screen upward, preferring his own eyes.

The main building sat off on his right. He assumed the second helicopter would be about ten yards on his left.

“Hey, Cap, how we doin’?” asked Powder.

“I’m getting there. Make sure no one blows this one up.”

“They won’t,” said Powder.

Danny finally saw the helicopter on his left, farther away than he’d expected. He took a few tentative steps and saw the aircraft bob.

Shit. The rotor at the top began to spin.

“Powder—there’s someone in the cockpit!” he yelled.

A gun burst followed. Danny ran forward, the rotor still winding.

“The cockpit’s armored!” Danny shouted.

“Fucking shit,” cursed Powder, even as his bullets bounced off the side.

The helo lurched forward. Danny ran as fast as he could, spitting bullets from his gun at the same time. The tail started to whip around; he threw himself to the ground, just missing the wing stub. He jumped up and ran again, hoping for some sort of opening he could shoot through.

A blank, puzzled face appeared in the window next to him, a ghost transported to earth where she didn’t want to be.

His wife.

The Iraqi pilot.

The cockpit handle was a clear white bar. Danny fired a few bursts at it, but the bullets all missed or bounced harmlessly away. His knee flamed with pain. The rotors spun hard and the air became a hurricane. Danny dropped his MP-5 and with a scream threw himself forward, fingers grasping the small metal strip where the windscreen RAZOR’S EDGE

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met the edge of the metal on the canopy. He could feel the pilot inches away, felt something pound against the side of the helicopter—maybe the pilot, maybe Powder’s bullets, maybe just the vibration of the motor. He reached for his Beretta, lost his grip, found himself rolling on the ground, saw the face again—his wife’s face, definitely his wife—then realized he was running. He couldn’t get into the cockpit, he was too slow, he was going to fail. A black space appeared alongside him, a dark tunnel opening up—he pitched into it, fell into the helicopter.

What kind of lunatic fate was this, to die in Iraq on an impossible mission?

As he started to push back toward the door to jump out, Danny saw a head bobbing beyond the passage on his left—there were no doors on the Hind between the crew area and cockpit.

A small ax hung on the wall near the passage.

Jump.

He threw himself toward the ax as the aircraft stuttered and turned again, still on the ground. His hand grabbed the handle but the ax stayed on the wall, held by a thick leather strap. Danny pulled, and as he screamed he felt himself rushing through the bulkhead, shoulders brushing hard against the side.

The Iraqi’s blood didn’t spurt or gush or stream. It seeped from each of the three places Danny struck, like a stream lapping the shore, an eddy probing the sand.

The helo slammed down, the engine stuttering dead.

A moment later strong hands grabbed Danny from behind.

“Hey, way to go, Cap,” shouted Powder. “Guy must not’ve been a pilot, huh, cause he couldn’t get off the ground. Uh, can I have the ax if you’re done with it?”

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Aboard Quicksilver , at High Top 1500

“ALL SYSTEMS ARE IN THE GREEN,” CHRIS TOLD BREANNA as they finished their preflight checklist.

“You ready?” she asked him.

“This’ll be a piece of cake after what we’ve been through,” said Ferris.

Breanna nodded. He was right. Quicksilver’s mission was easy, detecting radars and fuzzing them for a group of attack planes flying over the central part of Iraq, well out of range of the Iranian laser. Between the repairs and her uncoated nose, Quicksilver’s radar signal was nearly as large as a standard B-52’s, but the jamming gear was working fine and they’d be escorted by a pair of F-15Cs.

At 35,000 feet they’d be as safe as if they were flying over France. Maybe even safer.

But Zen wasn’t with her, watching her back. Nor was she watching his.

“You with us, Captain Dolk?”

“Uh, call me Torbin.”

“Torbin. What is that? French?”

“Swedish,” said Torbin. “I was born near Uppsala. We came over when I was three.”

“Sounds like a nursery rhyme,” said Ferris.

“Generations of Swedish kings were crowned there,”

said Torbin.

“And will be again,” said Breanna. “Gentlemen, let’s roll.”

RAZOR’S EDGE

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In Iraq

1512

DANNY LEANED AGAINST THE TAIL BOOM OF THE MAMMOTH

helicopter as his men finished topping off the fuel tanks.

He could hear Egg talking to himself in the cockpit, obviously going over each of the controls, checking and rechecking them. The helicopter expert had still not arrived in Dreamland Command. Danny’s knee had swollen so stiff he almost couldn’t move it, despite the fact that he kept trying to.

“Ready, Cap,” said Bison, who’d been overseeing the refuel. “Got rockets, machine gun. Wingtip pods are empty.”

“Yeah. Good.” Danny tried bracing his injured leg against the other. It didn’t help, but he was going to have to fake it. “Powder?”

Powder had insisted on taking the weapons operator slot, claiming that he had attended some sort of training session in Apaches. Danny was too beat-up to argue; the controls for the nose gun and rockets were fairly straightforward—select and fire.

God, his knee hurt.

“Okay, saddle up,” Danny told his team over the com system. He pushed off the helicopter, right hand tightened around the MP-5 against the pain. “Egg, our expert with you yet?”

“Uh, no, sir.”

“Well, whenever you’re ready, we’re good to go.”

THE WEIRD THING—OR THE FIRST WEIRD THING—WAS THE

blue panel. The Hind’s dash was painted a weird blue turquoise that physically hurt Egg’s eyes.

The Pave Low the other day had seemed complicated as hell, even though he’d flown a slightly earlier version before. This just seemed like hell.

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He knew where everything was, knew what everything did—the important stuff, anyway. On some basic level, all helicopters were alike.

They were, weren’t they?

Egg felt his brain starting to break into pieces.

He grabbed the control yoke, steadied his feet on the rudder pedals.

Come on, Egg, he told himself. Come on come on come on.

No way in the world he could do this. No way.

The collective felt almost comfortable in his hand. His fingers wrapped easily around it, and damn it, this was just another helicopter whirlybird rig, as his instructor would say.

Engine panel on right.

Checklist.

Where the hell was the checklist Jennifer had given him?