Текст книги "Razor's Edge"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

“Sergeant Reagan—before you begin, please cinch your belts. The g forces can be considerable during maneuvers.”

God was whispering in his ears. With a Polish accent.

“Yes,” he said.

“Sergeant, my name is Robbie Pitzarski. I’m going to help you fly the Hind,” said the expert, speaking from halfway across the world in the Dreamland Command Center bunker. “Before we begin, let me emphasize that if you get in trouble, stick to the basics. It’s a helicopter, first and foremost. The Russians place things in odd places, but the blades are on top and the tail’s in the back.”

“You sound like my old flight instructor,” Egg told him.

“Very good. To the right of your seat, almost behind you, there is an emergency shut-down lever that connects RAZOR’S EDGE

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to the fuse panel. It has a red knob and looks rather con-torted. Let’s make sure that has not been thrown inadver-tently. It would make it most difficult to proceed.”

POWDER HAD TO SQUIRM TO GET HIS BODY INTO THE GUNner’s cabin, slamming half the gear on the way. The hatch stuck for a moment, and he nearly broke the shock-absorber-like strut getting it closed. There were grips and gauges and pipes and all sorts of crap all over the place; it reminded him of the bathroom in his grandmother’s basement apartment. Luckily, Jennifer the goddess had given him a very good paper map of the cockpit, pointing out the key shit—her word, not his. The optical sight ocular for the missile system was on the right, the armament panel was in an almost impossible to reach position at his right elbow, the delicious gunsight with its well-rounded wheels sat at his nose, her perfect hand-sized mammaries at full attention.

Jennifer hadn’t given him those. But he wouldn’t need a map to find them.

Rumor was, she and the colonel had a thing. Rank had its privileges.

But hell, she was here, and he wasn’t. Dogs got to run.

Truth was, she was so beautiful—so beautiful—he might not make it out of the kennel for all his slobbering.

With great difficulty the Whiplash trooper turned his attention back to the weapons.

THE ROTORS SLIPPED AROUND FOUR OR FIVE TIMES BEFORE

the Isotov turboshafts coughed, but within seconds the engines wound up to near takeoff speed, the helicopter straining to hold herself down. Egg took a breath, then went back over the dashboard, making absolutely sure—absolutely one hundred percent sure—he had the instruments psyched.

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

He knew the whole damn thing. He knew it, he knew it, he knew it.

Stop worrying, he told himself.

“Very good so far, Sergeant,” said Pitzarski. His accent garbled some of his vowels, so the words sounded more like “vrr-ee gd sfar, surg-ent.”

“You can call me Egg.”

“Egg?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And myself, Robbie.”

“Cool.”

“Hey, we takin’ off or what?” demanded Powder, breaking in.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Egg. “Shut the fuck up, Powder, or I’m hitting the eject button.”

“There ain’t no damn eject button.”

“Try me.”

“Ready?” asked Pitzarski, but Egg had already thrown the Hind forward, stuttering, bouncing on the stubby wheels, bucking, pushing forward too fast without enough juice, gently backing off, revving, going—airborne, he was airborne.

TWO MEN CAME RUSHING AT THE AIRCRAFT’S OPEN BAY AS

they started to move. Danny cursed; he’d thought everyone was aboard already. He started to reach to help them but the pain in his leg hurt too much. The helo lurched forward and up and he fell against the floor. He lay there for three or four seconds, not sure if Egg was going to fly or crash. Finally he pulled himself up, struggling into one of the fold-down seats, pushing up his leg.

“Liu, wrap my knee, okay?” he said. “I sprained it or something.”

A building passed in the cabin window, replaced by RAZOR’S EDGE

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sky, all sky. Liu took hold of his leg and began poking it, not gently.

“It ain’t broke,” Danny managed. “Just fucking wrap the knee.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ligament torn?” Danny asked.

“At least,” said Nurse.

Danny looked up. Two Marines were grinning at him through their face paint. One of the two looked vaguely familiar—the gunnery sergeant who’d come on the rescue mission the other day.

“We thought you girls could use some help,” said the Marine.

“What are you doing here?” Danny said.

“I’m sorry, Cap—you looked like you wanted to pull them in,” said Bison. “So I helped them in when you fell.”

“You.” Danny pointed at the gunnery sergeant, a short man with a face like a worn catcher’s mitt. “You look damn familiar. Before yesterday.”

“Melfi,” said the sergeant. “You saved my butt in Libya couple months back. Last year, remember? You didn’t recognize me the other day.”

Now he did—he was one of the guys they’d rescued when they were looking for Mack.

“You’re gonna get in shitloads of trouble,” Danny told him. “But I ain’t dropping you off.”

“Life’s a bitch,” said the Marine.

“All right,” said Danny. “Let me tell your commander not to look for you.”

“Not necessary,” said the Marine. “Let’s just say we showed up here accidentally on purpose. Whole platoon would have come with you if they could, sir. But the major kinda figured they’d be missed. Besides, two Marines are worth a dozen Air Force fags. Hey, no offense.”

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“Jarhead shits,” said Bison.

“Bison, give Sergeant Melfi the rundown,” said Danny.

“Call me Gunny,” said the Marine. “Just about everybody does.”

“No they don’t,” said the lance corporal behind him.

“They call you fuckin’ Gunny.”

“And they duck when they say that,” said the sergeant.

Aboard Quicksilver , over Iraq 1530

THE GEAR IN FRONT OF TORBIN HAD EXACTLY ONE THING IN

common with the unit he was used to handling in the Phantom Weasel—it dealt with radars.

The computer handled everything; it probably even had a mode to make coffee. The large flat screen on the left projected a map of the area they were flying through; the map had presets to display radiuses of 200, 300, and 500 miles out, but could zoom in on anything from five to five hundred. Radar coverage and sources were projected on the coordinate grid, each type color-coded. The screen on the right contained information on each of the detected radars. The computer could not only show whether they had detected an aircraft, but how likely that would be for any given plane in its library. Highlights of the radar’s likely function could be hot-keyed onto the screen, along with the preferred method of confusing it. Targeting data could be automatically uploaded to the air to ground missiles in the Megafortress’s belly. Under normal circumstances the plane’s copilot handled the jamming and bombing details, but the operator’s station was also fully equipped to do so. There were several other capabilities, including a mode that would allow the Megafortress’s fuzz busters to pretend to be an enemy ground radar, RAZOR’S EDGE

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though he hadn’t had time to learn all of the details.

Torbin felt like he had gone from the twentieth to the twenty-third century. Any second Captain Kirk was going to appear behind him and tell him to beam up Mr. Spock.

“You all right back there, Torbin?” asked Captain Breanna Stockard.

The equipment was blow-away, and the pilot was a knockout. Somehow, some way, he was going to make this into a permanent assignment.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Thank you, Captain Stockard.”

“You can call me Bree,” she said.

Thanks.

“All right, crew.” Captain Stockard’s—Bree’s—voice changed slightly, becoming a little deeper, a little more authoritative. “I know everyone’s disappointed that we didn’t draw the laser assignment. But what we’re doing, protecting our guys, is still damn important. I know everybody’s going to do their best.”

As they flew over Iraq carrying out their mission, the rest of the crew seemed almost bored, punching buttons, checking the progress of the attack groups they were helping. Torbin concentrated so hard on his gear that he didn’t even have time to fantasize about the pilot.

Much.

“That Spoon Rest radar—is it up?” Bree asked as they hit the halfway point on their mission chart. It was now 1730.

“No,” he said tentatively, eyes jumping from his screens to make sure he had the right radar. The unit had come on briefly but then turned off. It was nearly a hundred miles south from the attack planes’ target; Quicksilver would splash it at the end of the mission, assuming they didn’t find anything of higher priority.

The Phantom wouldn’t even have detected it. Nor would the Weasel have given him the option of spoofing the radar with a variety of ECMs, ordinarily the job of a 322

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Spark Vark F-111 or a Compass Call electronic warfare C-130.

This was definitely the future, and he liked it very much.

A warning tone sounded in his ear. A purple blob materialized on the left screen sixty-six miles ahead of their present position; beneath the blob was a legend describing the enemy radar and its associated systems as a point-defense Zsu-23-4 unit mapped on previous missions. A color-coded box opened on the right screen with a list of options for dealing with it. The computer suggested NO

ACTION; the radar was too limited to see the Megafortress and the gun too impotent to strike the attack package, which was flying well above its range.

Torbin concurred.

“Gun dish,” Torbin told the pilots. “Twelve o’clock, fifty miles out. It’s in the index,” he added, meaning that it had been spotted and identified previously by CentCom.

“Copy,” said Ferris. “Mongoose flight is zero-two from their IP. Watch them closely.”

Torbin got another tone. This time a red cluster flared right over Mongoose’s target.

“Flat Face,” he said, “uh, unknown, shit.” He glanced at the right screen, where the option box had opened.

“Location,” prompted Ferris.

Torbin went to center the cursor on the target, nail it down with a HARM.

He wasn’t in a Weasel, though.

“Jam the radar,” said Breanna calmly.

“They’re being beamed,” reported Ferris.

Torbin moved his finger to the touch screen, then froze.

He wasn’t sure what the hell he was supposed to do.

He had about ten seconds to figure it out—otherwise he was going to lose one of the planes they were protecting. And this time, it would be his fault.

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Aboard Raven , over Iran 1602

ON ZEN’S MAP THE BORDER BETWEEN TURKEY, IRAQ, AND

Iran ran sharp and clear, curling through the mountains that swung down from the Caspian Sea and up from the Persian Gulf. On his view screen as he passed overhead, the border was indistinguishable; even in the few places where there were actual roads, the checkpoints tended to be a kilometer or more away from the border, where they could be better fortified. Unrest among the Kurdish population had struck Iran as well as Iraq, and the Iranian army had bolstered its forces near the borders and in the north in general. But the reinforcements appeared to have included almost no air units beyond a few helicopters; the radar in Hawk One located a pair of Bell Jet Rangers flying in a valley about ten miles southeast as it passed over the border ahead of Raven.

“Civilian airport radar at Tabriz is active,” said the radar operator. “We’re clean. No other radars in vicinity. Hamadian, Kemanshah, Ghale Morghi, all quiet,” he added, naming the major air bases within striking distance.

The Flighthawk and Raven were a hundred miles from the first of the three possible targets; Whiplash and its pilfered Hind were running about five minutes behind them.

At their present speed, the ground team could reach the closest target in thirty-five minutes, the farthest in forty-five. Alou would launch the Quail in thirty minutes.

Zen kicked his speed up, tucking the Flighthawk close to a mountain pass. As he shot by, his camera caught a small group of soldiers sitting around a machine gun behind a stack of rocks; he was by them so fast they didn’t have time to react, though it would have been next to impossible for them to hit the Flighthawk with their gun.

A helicopter would be a different story.

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Zen flew up the pass about a mile and a half, making sure there were no reinforcements. In the meantime, Fentress marked the spot for him, giving him a straight-line course to target when he turned back.

“Whiplash Hind, this is Hawk leader. I have a pimple to blot out.”

“Whiplash Hind copies.” The roar of the helicopter engines nearly drowned out the pilot’s voice. “Should we change course?”

“Negative,” said Zen as his targeting screen began to flash. “He’ll be in Ayatollah heaven in thirty seconds.”

Aboard Whiplash Hind, over Iran 1605

DANNY PEERED OUT AT THE NEARBY MOUNTAIN UNEASILY, watching their shadow pass on the brown flank. Bits of snow remained scattered in the hollows; water flowed in the valleys in blue and silver threads, sparkling with the sun.

Under any other circumstances, he’d look at the scenery with admiration; now it filled him with dread.

They were big, easy targets flying low in the middle of the day.

He should have insisted on a proper deployment at the very beginning, brought his Osprey here, more men. He wasn’t working with a full tool chest.

What was he going to do if he got his butt fried? Go back East and into politics like his wife wanted?

Hell, he’d be dead if this didn’t work.

Was that why he’d gone ahead with it? Or was it the opposite—was he thinking he’d be a hero if he grabbed the laser?

Danny looked around the cabin at his men, fidgeting RAZOR’S EDGE

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away the long ride to their target. Was blind ambition the reason he was risking these guys lives?

No. They had to pull this off to save others. That had nothing to do with ambition. That was his duty, his job.

“Hawk One to Whiplash. Pimple’s gone,” said Zen on the Dreamland circuit. “Clear sailing for you.”

“Whiplash Hind,” acknowledged Egg in the cockpit.

“Thanks, Zen,” added Danny.

“Bet you didn’t know Clearasil comes in twenty mil-limeter packages, huh?” joked Zen.

“Well, I must say, your code words are exceedingly clever.” Rubeo’s sarcastic drone took Danny by surprise, even though he knew the scientist would be in Dreamland Command. “I wish I could be there for the fun and games.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Danny, too tired at the moment even to be angry.

“We have some new ideas about the laser,” said Rubeo.

“Our friends at the CIA now believe it is part of a project initiated at least a year ago called Allah’s Sword. If they’re right, it’s largely based on technology nearly a de-cade old.”

“Reassuring.”

“My sentiments exactly,” said the scientist, the disdain evident. “Nonetheless, the spy masters have given us some things to consider. First of all, we’re looking for something larger than a tank chassis. Your pilots have already been briefed. As far as you’re concerned, our wish list remains essentially the same. Concentrate on the software and analyzing the chemical composition. A physical piece of the mirror in the director would be useful as well.”

“You know what, Doc, let’s just take it as it comes.”

“Danny—”

“That’s Captain Freah to you,” said Danny, hitting the kill switch at the bottom of his helmet.

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Aboard Raven , over Iran 1700

FENTRESS WATCHED AS ZEN FLEW THE FLIGHTHAWK JUST

above the hillside, barely six or seven feet from the dirt and rocks. The plane moved as smoothly as if it were at thirty thousand feet, and nearly as fast. Zen worked the controls with total concentration, jerking his head back and forth, rocking his body with the plane, mimicking the actions he wanted it to take.

Fentress knew he would never be able to fly as well.

Never.

The replay of the shoot-down showed he’d flown right into the antiaircraft fire. He’d been oblivious to it in his rush to help Major Smith.

Stupid. Completely stupid.

He could do better. He wasn’t going to give up.

“Two minutes to Quail launch,” said the copilot. The assault team was now ten minutes away from the nearest target.

THE SMALL, BLOCKY QUAIL 3/B FLUTTERED AS IT HIT THE

slipstream below the Megafortress’s bomb bay, its ramjet engines momentarily faltering. But then the scaled-down model of an EB-52 bobbed away, its engines accelerating to propel it above the mothership’s flight path.

Changes in doctrine as well as electronics and radars had rendered the original ADM-20/GAM-72 Quail obso-lete no later than the 1970s, though there were some circumstances under which the “kill me” drone proved useful. Mechanically, the Quail 3/B was an entirely different bird, though it remained true to the function of its predecessor—it gave the enemy something to look at, and hopefully fire at, other than the bomber itself. Where the original had been a boxy, stub-winged glider, the Quail RAZOR’S EDGE

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3/B looked exactly like a Megafortress from above and below. Powered by small ramjets and carefully propor-tioned solid rockets augmented by podded flares on the wings, it had the same heat signature as an EB-52. Rather than being coated with radar-absorbing materials to reduce its return, the intricate facets on the Quail 3/B’s shiny skin amplified its radar return to make it appear to most radars almost exactly the size of a B-52. Fanlike antennas inside the drone duplicated the signals transmitted by a B-52H’s standard ALQ-155 and ALT-28 ECM and noise jammers. The Quail couldn’t fly for very long, nor could it be controlled once launched, but the decoy was a perfect clay pigeon.

The question was, would the Iranians go for it?

Zen watched the Quail climb from the Flighthawk cockpit, tagging along as the rockets quickly took it through ten thousand feet. By now it would be clearly visible on the Iranian airport control radars; even if the radars were being operated by civilians—something he doubted—they ought to be on the hot line by now.

“Quail is at twelve thousand feet, climbing steady, on course,” reported the copilot.

“Nothing,” said the electronic warfare officer. “All clear.”

“Laser detection gear is blank too,” said the copilot, who had the plot on his screen. Jennifer, Garcia, and some of the other techies had installed the tweaked device in Raven’s tail, replacing the Stinger antiair mines.

Zen tucked back down toward the mountains, joining the Megafortress in a valley that rode almost directly into the target area. They were no more than fifteen minutes from the farthest site.

“Quail is topping out at eighteen thousand,” said the copilot.

“Nothing,” said the radar operator.

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“We’re clean too,” said Fentress. “Are they missing it, or do they know it’s a decoy?” he asked Zen.

“Not sure,” he replied. “Should be pretty fat on their radar.”

“I told you we should have put a kick-me sign on the tail,” joked the copilot. No one laughed.

“We have to go to Plan B,” said Alou.

Zen pulled up the course he’d worked out earlier and pushed the throttle to the firewall, streaking toward the farthest site. The Flighthawk climbed away from the mountainside toward a patchwork of fields. A small village rose on his right, the center of town marked by the round spire of a mosque.

“Radar tracking Quail,” said the operator. “MIM-23

Hawk!”

“Confirmed,” said the copilot.

“Hey—this fits with the earlier profiles,” said the radar operator. “It shouldn’t have been in range—tracking the Quail!”

“That doesn’t fit the pattern,” said Alou.

“Radar is off the air. I have it marked,” said the operator. “Hind probably detected,” he added.

“Whiplash Hind, take evasive maneuvers!” said Fentress.

“Breaking the radar,” said the operator, beginning to explain that he had prodded the ECMs to keep the Hawk radar from locking on the helicopter.

“Laser!” yelled the copilot.

Aboard Whiplash Hind

1708

THE HELICOPTER LURCHED OUT FROM UNDER DANNY, twisting and falling at the same time. The helo’s 18,000

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pounds hurtled sideways in the air, directly toward a sheer cliff. Unable to grip the slippery wind, and propelled by the violent centrifugal forces kicked up by the main rotor, the tail twisted, throwing the helicopter into a rolling dive so severe that about two inches at the tip of one of the blades sheered off. One of the two Isotov TV3-117 turboshafts choked, the severe rush of air overwhelming the poorly maintained power plant. The aircraft curled to the right but began to settle, its tail now drifting back the other way, a bare foot or two from the rocks. Danny clawed himself up the side of the cabin, steeling himself for the inevitable crash. He saw the door a few feet away; he’d go out there after they hit, assuming he could move.

But he didn’t have to. Somehow, miraculously, Egg had managed to regain control of the helicopter.

“Sorry,” he was saying over and over again. “Shit, sorry. Sorry, sorry.”

Danny looked across at the rest of his team, groaning and sorting themselves out.

“It’s okay, Egg. Settle down.”

“Sorry, Cap. I went to get down and I overdid it. Radar had us spiked.”

“It’s okay. Were we fired on?”

“I don’t know. I, uh, if we were, it doesn’t show up on the instruments, at least not what I can read.”

“Can we keep going?”

“I think so, sir. But, uh, I don’t have anything on my radio, I think.”

“Hang on.” Danny adjusted his own com set. They had lost communications with Dreamland Command, as well as Raven.

Had Raven been hit?

Helicopters often lost radio contact when they were flying very low to the ground. Even the Dreamland satellite connection was finicky.

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“Probably, we’re too low to get a good radio connection,” said Danny.

“Should I go up?”

“Let’s stay low for a while,” said Danny. “When we’re closer to the target areas, then we’ll pop up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Whiplash team, sound off. Give me your status,” said Danny.

One by one the team members gave a curse-laden roll call. Liu had a major welt on his arm and Jack “Pretty Boy” Floyd had a bloody nose, but none of the injuries were severe. “Powder” Talcom brought up the rear of the muster.

“I think I puked my fuckin’ brains out,” he said.

Everyone laughed, even Egg.

“Ought to fill a thimble,” said Bison. “If that.”

Aboard Raven , over Iran 1710

“LASER IS CONFIRMED AT SITE TWO,” SAID THE COPILOT.

“The rectangular building at the far end of the eastern block. Subgrid two. Near the animal pen. Marked now on GPS displays.”

“That’s where the Hawk radar is. I have the site marked,” said the radar operator. “They’re off the air.”

“The laser got the Quail,” said the copilot. “But I can’t find the Hind.”

“Scanning,” said the radar operator.

“Go to active radar,” said Major Alou. “Just a burst, then kill it.”

“Nothing,” said the copilot.

“I’m dropping back to look for them,” said Zen, turning the Flighthawk south.

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“Hold on, Zen,” said Alou. “The laser is our priority.

We have to take it out. Then we’ll go back for Whiplash.”

“They may be dead by then.”

“They may be dead already.”

Dreamland Command Center

0815

THE HELICOPTER HAD BEEN OUT OF CONTACT FOR MORE

than five minutes now. Dog did nothing, continuing to stare at the sitrep screen showing Raven over Iran.

They had a good location on the laser. Alou was almost in position to strike it. Should he tell them to turn back and find his men?

No way. The laser was a potent weapon that had to be erased. His men aboard the Hind were expendable.

So were the ones on Raven, for that matter. And his daughter in Quicksilver. And his lover on the ground at High Top.

“Contact with Captain Freah is still lost,” said the lieutenant at the console. “Major Alou wants to know whether to proceed with the attack or hold off for Whiplash.”

“Hold off,” said Rubeo. “The information is invaluable.”

“You’re assuming the helicopter hasn’t been destroyed,” said Major Cheshire, sitting at the console next to the scientist.

“It hasn’t,” said Rubeo. “It’s out of communication range because of the ground clutter. The laser struck the Quail, that was all. It’ll take them a half hour to recycle and fire again. I see the pattern now.” The scientist jumped up and went over to the com console. “The Hind 332

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is just very low and the signal is distorted by the rotor. Let me see those controls.”

“We’ll give it five more minutes,” Dog said. “Then we’re going ahead with the attack.”

Aboard Whiplash Hind, over Iraq 1718

DANNY TRIED CONNECTING AGAIN. “DREAMLAND COMmand? This is Whiplash Hind. Can you hear me?”

“Captain Freah—where are you? Are you okay?”

It was Fentress.

“We’re on course,” Danny said. “We went into evasive maneuvers. We’re very low.”

“We thought you were shot down.”

“We thought the same thing happened to you.”

“No, the laser got the decoy. Listen—there’s a battery of Hawk missiles right near the laser. Hold off until we nail it.”

“Okay. Where’s the laser?”

“Site two. The rectangular building in subgrid two.

We’re about ninety seconds away—we’ll feed you video once we’ve got it. The air force may scramble jets,” Fentress added. “We haven’t seen them yet.”

“Site two. Got it.” Danny punched up the map visual on his combat helmet screen. Two was the northernmost site, a set of agricultural buildings. There were farm animals, a big warehouse or barn. “We’re five miles away.”

“Okay, good. We’re targeting the Hawks now. Stand by.”

“You hear all that, Egg?” Danny asked his pilot.

“Pretty much.”

“All right,” Danny told the others. “Five minutes.”

“About time,” said Powder. “It’s getting dark.”

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Danny downloaded the diagram of the site into his helmet. “We land at the north end of the building. The barracks are just beyond that, across the double barbed-wire fence. Powder, when Egg gives you the word, hit the barracks with the rockets. Don’t hold anything back.”

“That’s my middle name,” said Powder.

“You see anything when we come in, give it everything you got.”

“What I’m talkin’ about, Captain.”

Aboard Quicksilver , over Iraq 1735

ANTICIPATING THAT THEIR NEW RADAR OPERATOR WOULD

have trouble with the equipment if things got hot, Breanna had preset her configurable display to bring up the duplicate radar interception screen on her voice command. Now that the attack planes they were shepherding were being probed by the Iraqis, she moved quickly, bringing up the screen and preparing to attack.

“Chris, open bay doors. Target radars.”

“Bay open.”

“Our shot, Torbin,” she said, overriding his panel.

“Take a breath. Fire at will, Chris. I have the ECMs.”

“Tacit has target. Launching,” he said.

There was an ever so soft clunk deep within the plane as the AGM-136X pushed off the rotary launcher, tracking toward the Iraqi radar. Unlike the original—and canceled—Tacit Rainbow missiles designed to take the place of HARMs, the Dreamland Tacit Plus had a GPS

guidance system augmenting the radar homing head. This allowed it to operate in two distinct modes: it could fly straight to the radar site, switching to GPS mode if the radar went off. Or, like Tacit Rainbow, it could orbit an 334

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area, waiting for the radar to come back on. The ramjet made it reasonably quick, and gave it a range somewhere over seventy miles, depending on the mission profile.

“They’re jammed,” said Breanna.

“Yeah, I’m on it,” said Chris. “Tacit has gone to GPS

mode. Sixty seconds from target.”

“Torbin, go ahead and track for more radars,” said Breanna.

“Missiles in the air!” warned Chris. “SA-2, SA-9s, a Six—barrage tactics again. They’re firing blind.”

“Everybody hang tight,” said Breanna. “Torbin, maintain the ECMs. Torbin?”

“I’m on it.”

“Shit—we’re being tracked. More radars,” said Chris.

“Tacit is thirty seconds from impact—they’re just firing everything they got, in case they get lucky.”

“Not today,” said Breanna. “Brace yourselves.”

She put the Megafortress on its wing, rocking back in the other direction as electronic tinsel and flares spewed from the large plane. One of the missiles the Iraqis had launched sailed about five hundred feet from the nose, its seeker thoroughly confused. It had been launched totally blind and had no idea how close it was to its target.

Neither did the SA-9 that strode in on the Megafortress’s tail. But that didn’t make much difference—sucking on one of the flares, it veered right, then exploded about twenty yards from the right rear stabilizer.

Aboard Raven , over Iran 1745

ZEN RODE THE FLIGHTHAWK SOUTH, AIMING TO MAKE HIS

cut north as the first JSOW hit the SAM batteries guard-

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ing the base. Raven, meanwhile, stayed in the mountain valley, where the clutter would keep the Hawk radars from picking her up if they were turned on again.

The computer kept giving him connection warnings as he maneuvered. He still couldn’t see the site on his viewer.

“I need you to come south, Raven,” he told Alou.

“Can’t do it,” said Alou.

Zen began climbing back. As he did, the Hawk radars came back on. He tucked left but too late; the RWR

screen blinked red as the computerized voice told him he was being tracked.

“Come on! Nail those mothers,” he told Alou.

“Ten seconds to launch,” said the copilot. “Area at the far end, near the livestock pen. Must be camo’d well.”

With ECMs blaring and his disposables disposed, Zen plunged the Flighthawk toward the radars, zigged hard and pulled down, trying to both beam the Doppler radar and line up for his attack run. But this was physically impossible—the Hawk targeting radar spiked him. A half second later, the battery launched a pair of SAMs.

Fuck it, he thought, thumbing the cannon screen up. If he was going out, he was going out in style. The barracks building at the south end was just coming into view at the top of his screen.

It disappeared behind a cloud of white steam.

It took him a second to realize it was antiaircraft artillery, firing from inside a pen of milling animals near the building. A thick hail of lead rose from Zsu-23s or possibly M-163 Vulcans in netted pits below the animals, perhaps tied into the Hawk radar. Zen had to break his attack, and he twisted south. Clear, he turned back in time to see the Hawk battery explode.

“Bull’s-eye on the SAMs!” said the copilot. “Kick ass.”

“Triple A in the pig pen,” Zen told Alou. “Kind of figures. I got it.”