Текст книги "Razor's Edge"

Автор книги: Dale Brown

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

In that moment Captain Danny Freah knew what heaven would be like. For all his years of protesting that he was not religious, for all his poor churchgoing, his in-frequent prayers—in the moment that bullets flew toward his chest, he felt the warmth of unending rest. Something soft and feminine whispered in his ear, a voice not unlike his wife’s, telling him he had nothing to fear forever more.

Then hell opened up with a violent thunderclap, light-ning shrieking in a violent arc. Debris fell around him, clumps of dirt and sod as he was buried alive.

Hands pulled him up, warm hands, old hands.

“Shittin’ fuckin’ hell, that raghead almost got you point-blank,” shouted Gunny, who’d somehow materialized over him. He had his arm wrapped around Danny’s chest—Gunny had pulled him down—and began dragging him outside. “Beat shit hell outta your pizza boxes.”

“Yeah,” said Danny, still dazed.

“Well come the fuck on,” said the Marine sergeant. His machine gun still smoked in his hands.

“Yeah,” said Danny. He paused at the wall, then leaped back to grab the mangled disk arrays, pulling them with him outside.

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The sun washed everything pure and white—even the three bodies of Iranian soldiers who had tried to cut off their escape.

“Let’s go!” yelled Liu, running up to grab one of the boxes from Danny’s hands. “The whole Iranian air force is coming for us.”

“What’s that, a pair of fuckin’ crop dusters?” said Gunny.

“Try a dozen MiG-29s and six F-5s for starters,” said Liu, physically pushing Danny into the helicopter. “The Megafortress is going to blow up the building—we don’t need charges. Let’s go!”

Aboard Raven , over Iran 1903

ZEN HAD TO CHECK HIS FUEL AS HE ROSE TO CONFRONT

the jets scrambling from Tabriz. The two planes, ID’d as F-5Es, were relatively primitive, unlike the MiGs coming off the concrete at Hamadian and Kemanshah. But they were more than a match for the Hind and close enough to intercept them.

“I’m zero-two on the lead plane,” he told Alou.

“Copy that. Launching JSOW on laser site,” replied the pilot.

Raven was running behind the Flighthawk by seven miles; even if the primitive radars in the F-5E Tigers would have difficulty spotting it, by the time Hawk One closed on them the black plane would probably be visible, at least as a disconcerting speck in the distance.

There was a dull clunk from somewhere far behind Zen as the smart bomb popped off the rotary launcher in the rear bay.

“I’m going to head-on the son of a bitch,” he said, as RAZOR’S EDGE

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much a note to himself as a piece of intelligence for the Raven pilot. “Break north. Stay with me.”

“Copy that.”

“Impact at three, two …” said the copilot, counting down the bomb hit on the laser.

Zen lost track of the conversation on the flight deck as the weapon scored a direct hit on the director assembly. Gray and black smoke furled and then mushroomed from the hole in the center of the building. A concussion shook the building, shattering five of the supports and causing the north wall to implode.

Then things got nasty.

As the explosion vaporized the metal tube and stand at the heart of the director, shrapnel from the smart bomb shot through a four-inch gas pipe near the side of the building. A second or so later the escaping gas was ignited by a fire that had licked its way out from one of the control units. The flames flew back into a large, pressur-ized reservoir tank. This exploded so brightly it set off the IR warning in the Megafortress’s tail, even though by now they were a good distance away. The building’s roof vaporized into a skyrocketing fireball, which burned so quickly that it blew itself out—though not before rising nearly a thousand feet and incinerating everyone who had been in the shed when the bomb hit.

Zen turned his attention back to his own targets. The Iranian jets, flying at just over the speed of sound, were at twelve and fourteen thousand feet, respectively, separated by about a half mile. They were traveling much too fast to engage the Hind; belatedly, they began to slow. The computer plotted Zen’s attack for him, and diplomati-cally didn’t post the odds of a heads-on attack with a cannon working at such speeds. His goal, however, wasn’t to nail them but simply break their approach.

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The computer cued him to fire before he could even see the first aircraft. He waited an extra second, squeezed the trigger, then corrected right to get a quick shot on the second aircraft. As he started to bank, something red flew through it; one of his bullets had managed to rip through the fuel lines of the lead aircraft, turning it into a fireball.

It was a one in a thousand shot—Zen thought to himself that he should have played the lottery that day.

The second airplane turned hard to the north, accelerating away and taking itself out of the equation. Zen didn’t care—he threw the Flighthawk south and began hunting for the MiG-29s.

“Good shooting,” said Alou.

“Thanks.”

“Bandits are accelerating,” reported the copilot. “Positive IDs—Fulcrum Cs. You have two bearing one-niner off your nose.”

“Slot Dance radar is active. Velocity-search mode,”

added the radar operator. “Should we jam?”

“Let’s hold that off as long as possible,” said Alou.

“They may not know we’re here. Zen?”

“Yeah, roger that. Working on an intercept,” he said.

“Fentress?”

“Boss?”

“Keep an eye on my fuel.”

“Yes, sir.”

Actually, the computer would do so, but Zen suddenly felt he wanted Fentress in the mix.

“Hawk One is being scanned,” warned the computer as he crossed to within ten miles of the easternmost MiG.

“MiGs are coming for us,” warned the copilot. “We’re inside Aphid range—they don’t seem to have us yet.”

“Go to ECMs,” said Alou.

“If you go to ECMs you’re going to cut down my ma-neuverability,” warned Zen. While the Flighthawk and C3

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used uninterruptible bands, its backup circuits were limited by the fuzz, and as a precaution the Flighthawk had to stay within five miles of the mothership. “Wait until they lock.”

“Full ECMs,” insisted the pilot.

Cursing, Zen pulled his stick to the right, looping back to get closer to Raven. Breanna would never have punched the panic button that quickly; Raven hadn’t even been spiked.

“Still coming. Looking for us,” said the copilot.

“Prepare AMRAAMs,” said Alou. “Open bay doors.”

“That’s going to increase the radar profile five hundred percent,” said Zen. “They’ll see us for sure.”

“Hawk leader, fly your own plane.”

Zen pushed his stick hard left, rolling his wing around and gunning for the two MiGs. The closest was now within seven miles of Hawk One—easy range if he’d had a radar homer. C3, anticipating him, gave a plot for an attack that featured a deflection shot on the close plane with a quick jink that would put him head-on-wing to the second.

“Fuel is down to ten minutes,” warned Fentress.

“Hawk,” said Zen, acknowledging.

“Being scanned. Target aircraft are locking on Hawk One,” warned the computer.

Good, thought Zen. Get me, not Raven.

“Scan broken. Thirty seconds to intercept.”

“We’re spiked!” warned the copilot. “Shit.”

“Fire missiles,” said Alou. “Brace for evasive maneuvers.”

Zen leaned forward into the attack as his cue flashed red. The Iranian MiG pitched downward as Zen began to fire; he followed through a curving arc, aiming ahead of the enemy’s nose, in effect firing his bullets so they and the MiG would arrive at the same point at the same time.

The copilot and radar operator were screaming about 360

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missiles in the air, Fentress told him the other MiG was trying to get on his tail, and Alou ordered chaff as Zen fought to keep his attention on the glowing pipper in the middle of his head, the bright red triangle that doomed the MiG to destruction. The Iranian squirmed and flailed, now left, now right, up then down. And then its nose fell away and the wings shot upward, the Flighthawk’s bullets sawing it in half.

“On your butt!” warned Fentress. “Missiles!”

Zen tucked left. A large shadow zipped past his windscreen cam—a missile. He turned right, couldn’t find his prey, kept coming, finally saw the large-nosed bird tilting its wing over in an evasive maneuver. Something seemed to pop from the right wing—one of Raven’s AMRAAMs hitting home.

“Yeah,” said the copilot.

Alou’s congratulations were cut short by a thunderclap and the shudder of a volcano releasing its steam. Zen felt himself weightless and then thrown against his restraints so hard one of the belts sheered from its bolt at the base, leaving him hanging off the side as Raven rolled into an invert, then plunged into a fifty-degree dive toward the earth.

Aboard Quicksilver , over Iraq 1910

BREANNA HEARD THE AWACS ALERT AND KNEW IMMEDIately what had happened.

“Chris, get us a course to the Iranian border.” She didn’t bother to wait, turning the plane immediately to the east.

“We’re almost twenty-five minutes away,” said the copilot.

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“Understood.” The throttles were already at max, but she tapped them nonetheless.

“Whiplash Hind is about zero-two from the border,”

said Chris, plotting their position. “Raven is engaging MiGs and F-5Es.”

“Okay.”

“They’ll make it, Bree.”

“I know that. What’s our ETA now?”

Aboard Raven , over Iran 1910

FENTRESS FELT THE AIR PUNCH OUT OF HIS LUNGS AS THE

big plane flipped through an invert. A fist welled in his diaphragm, pounding up into his throat.

They’d been hit by one of the missiles. The pilot and copilot were yelling at each other, trying to pull the big plane level.

His job was to help Zen with the Flighthawk. He put his right arm down on the control panel, pulling himself upright, getting back in the game. The main video panel display had a warning across the top portion of the screen declaring a fuel emergency. The aircraft had under five minutes of gas in the tanks.

“Zen?”

Fentress turned. Zen sagged off the side of his seat against his restraint straps. Fentress reached to undo his own seat belt, then stopped. He had to take care of the Flighthawk first or it would go down. He reached to the manual override; the computer listened as he recited his name and the command codes to take over. The fuel emergency shortened the protocol—he only had to give two different commands to take the helm.

By the time the transfer was complete, the Mega-

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fortress had stuttered into level flight. Fentress, flying behind it, could see damage to the right tail surface and some rips and dents in the fuselage; one of the engines seemed to be out.

“Hawk leader to Raven. I need to refuel,” he said.

“We’re still assessing damage,” said Alou.

“Raven, I need to refuel now,” said Fentress.

“You’ll have to wait.”

“Fuck you,” said Fentress. “I’m coming in now.”

The computer calculation showed he had exactly three minutes and thirty-two seconds before going dry. He’d never completed the tricky refuel in less than seven, and even the automated routine took five.

“All right. Don’t panic,” said Alou.

“I’m not panicking,” he said, his voice level.

He’d never spoken to a commanding officer—hell, to practically anyone—this way. But the shit was on the line. He needed fuel now. And he’d have to gas manually.

Zen could. He could.

“I’ll climb,” said Alou.

“Just get the boom out,” he said.

“Raven.”

Fentress pushed in as the straw emerged from the rear of the plane. The director lights flashed red; he was too fast and too far right. He knocked his speed down, felt his diaphragm cramping big-time.

“Zen, come on, come on,” he muttered to himself.

“Tell me I can do it.”

Zen said nothing. The Flighthawk chuttered in the harsh vortices of the Megafortress. The computer struggled to help Fentress hold it steady.

Zen would tell me to relax it all the way home, Fentress told himself. He resisted the urge to push the small plane onto the nozzle.

As the last gallon of fuel slid from the Flighthawk’s RAZOR’S EDGE

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tanks through its lines to the engine, the nozzle clicked into the wide mouth of the receptacle at the top of the plane. He was in.

Fuel began flowing.

“Computer, fly. Complete refuel,” he said. As C3

grabbed the plane, he tossed off his belt and went to help Zen.

Aboard Whiplash Hind , over Iran 1912

DANNY PUSHED HIS LEG FLAT ON THE FLOOR OF THE HELIcopter, looking up at Nurse as the medic worked over his knee. They had just crossed back into Iraqi airspace; another half hour and they’d be home.

Home, home, home.

“You want some morphine?” said Nurse.

Danny shook his head. His sergeant didn’t take his eyes off him.

“I’ve hurt my knee before.”

“It’s not your knee. Your shin’s busted,” said Nurse.

“Something hard slammed the body armor. Would’ve sliced right through your leg except for the boron inserts.

You didn’t feel it?”

“I don’t think I did.” Danny looked down at his pants leg. Nurse had pulled off the lightweight body armor, but Danny couldn’t quite see his leg.

“I really think you should take some painkiller, Cap.”

“Yeah, when we’re on the ground,” said Danny. He leaned back, resting against some of the stolen laser parts.

“Sure will feel good to be home.”

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Incirlik

1915

JED SIPPED FROM HIS COLA, LISTENING WHILE THE TRANSlator the Turks had supplied repeated the stock questions about the prisoner’s unit and deployment. The prisoner glared. His attitude seemed infinitely more hostile toward the Turk than toward Jed—though the results were exactly the same.

Two CIA agents had seen the man. They thought but could not confirm that he wasn’t a native Iraqi. What significance that had, if any, wasn’t clear.

Jed watched the Turk’s frustration grow. Outside, the interrogator had assured Jed that he had conducted many interviews; Jed suspected torture was among his regular techniques, and he made it clear he would not be permit-ted to employ them.

After a few more minutes of questions met only by stares, the Turk slammed his hands on the table. He said something that sounded like a threat involving the prisoner’s mother and sisters—Jed’s Arabic still wasn’t fast enough to decipher it all—then made a show of leaving in a huff, probably thinking he was setting Jed up as the

“good cop” in the old interrogation routine.

Jed took another sip from his soda. The Turk would go down the hall and watch the surveillance feed from the wide-angle pinhead video cam in the top corner of the room. He was as much a spy as a translator, but Clearwater had already made that argument to the State Department, which insisted that he be allowed to meet the prisoner.

“So when you were in America,” said Jed after a few minutes of silence, “where did you go to school?”

“RPI,” said the prisoner—in English.

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“That’s in upstate New York?” said Jed, trying to act as if he’d expected the man to answer his question.

“Troy. An ugly city.”

“Never been there,” said Jed. He scratched the back of his neck, slid his elbow on the table—he could be talking to a guy sitting next to him in a bar after work, except that he never went to bars after work. “That near Albany?”

“Very close.”

“What did you think of New York City?”

“A wondrous place,” said the Iraqi. “But a place of temptation.”

“I’ve been in the Empire State Building three times,”

said Jed.

The Iraqi didn’t reply.

“Why did you decide to join the army?” asked Jed, trying to keep the rapport up.

Nothing.

“But you’re not from Iraq, right? You come from—

Egypt?”

Jed waited for an answer. He was still waiting when an aide came to tell him the general wanted to talk to him.

MUSAH TAHIR WATCHED THE AMERICAN LEAVE THE ROOM.

He felt a twinge at being left alone—he suspected the Turk would now return and begin to threaten him.

He told himself he must be strong. He must remember that he was doing his duty. He would persevere. He would be rewarded.

The wealth and power of America seemed overwhelming, but it was corrupt power, the reward of the devil for a man’s soul. Millions and millions of souls.

He would not surrender his.

The door to the small room opened. He pulled himself 366

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upright, braced himself for the assault. But it wasn’t the Turk; it was Barclay, the American.

“I’ve got good news for you,” he said. “You’re going home. The Red Cross has arranged an exchange.”

A trick.

“You can stay if you choose, you know. Stay with us,”

said the American.

Tahir smiled. Protect me, God, he thought.

Aboard Raven , over Iran 1918

HE KNEW IT WAS A DREAM, BECAUSE HE COULD FEEL HIS

legs.

He was playing football, wide receiver, like high school. Zen ran down the field, looking back toward the quarterback—Kevin Fentress. The kid had faded back under the heavy rush of Zen’s cousin Jed Barclay and a few of his other old friends.

Zen was wide open. “Throw me the ball!” he yelled.

“Throw me the ball!”

The brown pigskin darted upward just as Fentress was swamped. The ball sailed high, but it wasn’t far enough to reach him. Zen began running back toward the line of scrimmage.

Running. It felt so damn good. He knew it was a dream.

What he didn’t know was where he was having it. He thought he was in bed, pushed to feel Breanna snuggled beneath the covers next to him.

A cold hiss of air shot into his face. Something wet dropped down the side of his temple. He shook his head, felt pain shooting up the side of his neck.

“Zen! Zen!”

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“Fentress?” Zen pushed to the right, felt his arm fly in front of him.

Raven. They were in Raven. His helmet was off.

The Flighthawk! She was nearly out of fuel.

“We have to refuel!” said Zen. He went to grab the control stick. His hand seemed to move in slow motion for a second, then caught up so quickly he couldn’t keep it from smashing into the bottom of the console. He cursed with the pain then stared at his limp hand.

His hand wasn’t what hurt him. It was his legs.

His legs? He hadn’t felt them for more than a year and a half.

But they hurt like hell. He must still be dreaming.

Aboard Quicksilver , approaching Iran 1925

EVEN THE SOPHISTICATED GEAR IN QUICKSILVER HAD TROUble sorting everything out. Iraq had launched helicopters and MiGs against Kurdish positions north of Kirkuk; two F-16s had moved to engage them. Farther east two Iraqi helicopters were flying either a supply or an attack mission on a vector almost exactly due north. Beyond that, the Iranians had at least a dozen aircraft in the sky over or at the border with Iraq. Raven, struck but not disabled by an Iranian missile, was just coming over the border now.

Whiplash Hind was flying so low not even Quicksilver could see her, but she was somewhere ahead of Raven.

“Border in ten minutes,” Chris Ferris told Breanna.

“What are we doing?”

“We’ll escort anyone who needs escorting,” she said.

“Hang on,” said Ferris. “F-15s are engaging the Iraqi helicopter.”

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“Which one? Tell them to stop,” she said without waiting for an answer. “That’s ours. That’s ours!”

Aboard Raven , over Iran 1930

FENTRESS GAVE UP TRYING TO REVIVE ZEN AND JUMPED

back into his seat, taking the Flighthawk from C3 just as it finished refueling. He dropped down and began scouting ahead. The Iranian MiGs began to retreat as a flight of F-15s approached.

They’d lost contact with Whiplash Hind, though by now it would be between twenty and thirty miles ahead, undoubtedly skimming the snowcapped mountains. Fentress popped the Flighthawk’s nose skyward, accelerating to find the helicopter.

Those guys had kicked ass on this, big-time, he thought. Gonna be a full round of beers and attaboys to last a lifetime, or at least a week and a half.

Some for him too. He’d done okay. He was doing okay.

He hoped Zen was okay. Blood had curled from his ear. One of his straps seemed to have broken; his head had probably slammed against the panel, and Fentress guessed he had a concussion. But he was breathing, at least.

The U/MF picked up the powerful radars of a pair of F-15s, screaming over from Turkey.

“Eagle Flight, this is Dreamland Hawk One,” he said.

“Hawk, we need radio silence. We are engaging an enemy aircraft,” replied one of the planes.

Where?

“No!” he shouted. “No! No! No!”

“Fox One!” said the lead pilot.

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Aboard Whiplash Hind , over Iraq 1942

DANNY PULLED HIS MP-5 NEXT TO HIM ON THE BENCH. HE

could see white through the helicopter window across from him—snow from the mountains.

Home, almost home. It’d be warm there now, almost spring.

Egg was flying low enough to stop for traffic signals.

Hopefully he didn’t kick into a goat or something—the CentCom lawyers would be peeved.

Lawyers. Holy shit. What would Major Pee-liar say about stealing a laser from the Iranians? Give it back.

The Iranians had probably stolen it from the U.S.

somehow. He had merely returned the favor, Danny thought.

His guys were sharing some MREs with the Marines.

They must be really, really hungry.

He started to laugh. His leg twinged.

Then it pounded.

“Hey, Nurse, maybe I will have that morphine,” he said, pushing upright again. He twisted toward Liu, but his view was blocked by a flash of bright red and yellow flames. He felt himself falling backward and realized home was even farther away than he’d thought.

VI

Friendly Fire

High Top

30 May 1997

1942

AS MACK PROCEEDED THROUGH HIS INSPECTION OF THE

Bronco, Garcia followed along behind him, waxing elo-quent about what the addition of five-bladed, infinite-pitch propellers and supercharged turbo engines would do to the aircraft’s performance. Mack had mustered gen-uine admiration for the OV-10, but it paled beside Garcia’s lust. The pilot would have liked nothing better than to help the techie try some of his improvements, but he was in something of a hurry to get going. He’d been ordered to return to Brussels posthaste and prepare a brief on the recent air campaign. This meant considerable work, though not necessarily the kind he enjoyed—he’d have to listen to CentCom commanders brag until his ears fell off. On the other hand, it also meant serious career chits. No doubt it would help push his campaign to win assignment as squadron commander back onto the fast track.

“A few tweaks here and there, Major, this becomes the best COIN aircraft in the world,” Garcia said as they walked toward the rear. “There’s an opportunity here. We stick some of the Flighthawk sensors on it, do a mondo 374

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upgrade to the engines, telemetry tie-in with the Whiplash team. Add microrobots to extend real-time viewing. Gonna serve somebody—”

“Another song lyric, huh?” Mack ducked beneath the tail. The worn paint was becoming familiar. “Am I going to make Incirlik?”

Garcia looked at him as if he’d just asked if the world were flat. “Well, yes, sir.”

“How about Brussels?”

“Assuming you refuel, not a problem.”

Mack gave the crewman a thumbs-up. If no one at Incirlik actually asked for the aircraft, well, it wouldn’t be right to just leave it in a hangar there. He was personally responsible for its safety. That meant he’d have to take it with him, all the way to Brussels if necessary.

Maybe that French aerospace consultant would like a ride. He’d personally tuck her in.

Hell, at this point he’d settle for Patti Good Teeth.

Mack pulled himself into the cockpit. Helmet on and straps cinched, he gave Garcia the thumb and cranked the engines. The plane tugged at its brakes as he completed the preflight. He still had no weapons, but Garcia had wrung a few more RPMs out of the engines and, even more important, adjusted their whine so they sounded very much like a pack of vintage Harleys tearing down the highway. There was loud, and then there was loud; Mack never minded a few decibels as long as his eardrums got pounded in style.

Cleared by the tower, Mack began trundling toward the far end of the runway. Just as he made his turn and went to gun the throttle, a familiar voice broke over the long-range radio.

“We have a helicopter down by friendly fire,” said Breanna Stockard. “Repeat, Whiplash Hind is down.”

“Shit,” said Mack. He whipped the turbos and raced RAZOR’S EDGE

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down the mesh strip. Climbing out swiftly, he banked south, veering off his flight plan.

“Quicksilver, this is Wild Bronco, ” he said. “What’s going on, Bree?”

“The Hind was hit about twenty miles south southeast of the border. Whiplash team is aboard.”

“You have a visual?” he asked.

“Negative. We don’t have an exact location. Just com-mencing a search.”

“Copy that. Give me what you’ve got, beautiful. I’m on my way.”

Aboard Raven , over Iran 1955

FENTRESS’S HEART POUNDED IN HIS EARS, BUT OTHERWISE

he felt almost relaxed, his hand moving the joystick smoothly left as he began the new search pattern. He had the infrared view selected; the sensors should have no trouble locating the warm body of the helicopter in the cold air. The computer had already been instructed to highlight possible wreckage “clusters,” as they were referred to by the programming.

Pushing the Flighthawk through the long, jagged valley, Fentress imagined he heard Zen telling him to slow down. The slower he went, the better the odds of seeing something or being seen.

As he neared the end of the search grid, Fentress pushed a bit farther west and made a wide, looping bank onto a new search track. He backed the throttle down, forward airspeed nudging toward 200 miles an hour. Flying the Flighthawks fast wasn’t very hard; they were bullets with stubby wings. Flying them slow, however, took patience and grace. You had to concentrate on what you 376

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were doing, and yet you couldn’t get so caught up in the details that you started to fight the computer as you bucked through the eddies.

Fentress narrowed his eyes on the screen, trying to keep his concentration. He had to find his guys.

BREE PULLED ZEN TO THE FLOOR AND THEY STARTED TO

dance. His legs hurt but they kept dancing. He pushed his arms tighter around her, holding himself up, resting, but the music got faster and faster. She broke free and danced wildly. He did the same, though his legs were hurting.

It was good that his legs hurt. They hadn’t hurt for so long. He’d known in the hospital that they didn’t hurt, knew what that meant, though he’d tried not to face it.

Zen fought to walk. Giving that up—and yet not giving up everything else—that was the impossible thing. Accepting his paralysis without accepting that it doomed him—had he ever really done that?

It was only when he decided he wouldn’t walk, that he had to concentrate on getting back any way he could, that he made real progress.

He’d give up everything to walk again. Everything.

Bree? Not Bree. Bree he wouldn’t give up.

She danced in front of him. The dream began to fade.

His legs continued to hurt.

Dreamland Command Center

1055

DOG PUT HIS HAND ON THE LIEUTENANT’S SHOULDER, steadying the young man as he worked the com gear and flicked back and forth between the different feeds, trying to locate the helicopter wreckage. There wasn’t much more they could do from here.

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“Feed pending from General Magnus,” the lieutenant told Dog.

“Yes, I see. Keep it there. Don’t open it.”

“Yes, sir.”

The door to the secure room opened and Major Cheshire entered, carrying a tray of coffee and dough-nuts. “Hey, Colonel,” she said lightly.

“Major.” Dog stared at the screen.

“Lost the connection with the general,” said the lieutenant.

“What’s up?” asked Cheshire.

Dog took the coffee and filled her in. “We’re hoping they survived,” he said, his voice soft. “Only one missile at long range. It wasn’t even certain that it hit.”

“Friendly fire,” she said, a comment, not a question.

“Definitely.” Dog glanced back at the screen at the front of the room, which showed a satellite image of the mountainous terrain. At maximum resolution, the houses on the hillsides looked like small cubes of sugar.

“You okay, Colonel?” asked Cheshire.

“I’m fine,” he told her. “General Magnus needs to be filled in. Probably, he’s not going to like it.”

Cheshire nodded.

“Lieutenant, see if you can get that line open to General Magnus.”

“Trying, sir.”

Dog looked back at the screen. From the perspective of the mini-KH, it looked almost like a little piece of heaven.

Aboard Quicksilver , over Iran 2001

NO LONGER WORRIED ABOUT THE IRANIAN LASER OR IRAQI missiles, Breanna brought Quicksilver into an orbit at fif-

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teen thousand feet, just high enough to avoid the mountain peaks. Chris worked the video cam in the nose, scanning for wreckage, while Habib snooped for Iraqi radio transmissions.

The Megafortress’s radar was not designed to sweep the ground, and even if it had been, the jagged peaks and cliffs would have made it difficult to sort through the clutter of irregular returns. Nonetheless, Torbin was giving it the old college try, routing the radar through his station and fiddling with the filters designed to find very low-flying planes in look-down mode. He was still somewhat tentative, unsure of himself in a non-Dreamland way, but Breanna saw that he seemed to be willing to try to figure things out; he flipped back and forth between override, manually tweaking the radar sweeps.

“How we looking, troops?” she asked.

“Village two miles off that main road,” said Chris.

“Otherwise uninhabited for miles. You sure this is the place?”

“These are the coordinates the F-15s gave us.”

“Maybe try farther north. Raven’s coming up from the south.”

“Mack’s going to take that.”

“East, then,” suggested Chris.

“We’ll give the track one more run, then we’ll try that.”

“Iraqi command radio,” said Habib.

He paused a second, then punched up a location two miles to the south of them. The coordinates flashed on a grid map in Breanna’s left multiuse display area.

“What are they saying?” she asked.

“Coordinating some sort of attack.”

“Mention our helicopter?”

“Negative. I’m having a little trouble picking it up and translating on the fly.”

“You have anything, Torbin?”

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379

“No, ma’am.”

“All right, let’s go see if we can put some pictures with Habib’s words,” said Breanna, changing course.