Razor's Edge

Chapter 151

Danny groaned as he pulled his arms over the Marine corpsmen helping him out of the Bronco. Pain and fatigue had settled over him like a patina on a bronze statue; it was so much a part of him that he had forgotten what it felt like not to hurt. Once out of the aircraft, he made an effort to move his legs and began insisting that he didn’t need the stretcher waiting a few feet away.

“Hey, Cap, happy Memorial Day,” said Powder, walking over.

“Uh-huh.”

“Chinook’s comin’ to evac the wounded over to Incirlik. That means you, Cap,” added Powder.

“Where?” asked Danny.

“Incirlik.”

“The helicopter, I mean. Where is it?”

“Inbound,” said Nurse. “You gotta go, Cap. That leg’s for shit and I bet you got internal bleeding in your chest there. Head’s banged too. You look woozy.”

“E-ternal bleeding,” said Powder.

“Corporal’s lost a lot of blood. I’d give him better than fifty-fifty,” added Liu. “Gunny’s cursing his butt off over there on the litter — you hear him? Took some hits in the chest and leg.”

Danny shook his head. Nurse tried to gently prod him toward the stretcher.

“Hey, don’t shove me,” Danny said.

“We’ll take care of stuff here,” said Liu. “Major Alou says we’re going home soon — Marines taking over the base.”

“What happened to the laser parts?” Danny asked.

“Waiting for FedEx,” said Powder. “That or the Marines, whoever gets here first. Bison and the boys got them all aboard the Blackhawk before it took off.”

Danny heard a helicopter approaching in the distance.

He tried turning in its direction, then gave up. Nurse was right — he ought to take it slow.

“Hey, Captain, next time can I drive the helicopter?”

asked Powder.

“Sure thing,” said Danny, letting them ease him onto the stretcher.

Chapter 152

The time had come for the shit to hit the fan. Dog stood in the middle of the room, waiting for the connection to snap through. When it did, General Magnus’s face was redder than he expected, though his tone was one of sympathy and even sadness.

“Colonel.”

“General.”

“Your men?”

“As far as I know, they’re all okay.” Dog held his head erect, shoulders stiff. “The missile that hit the Hind struck the top of the aircraft when they were about ten feet off the ground. It carried through the engine housing before exploding. They crashed, but they were very lucky.”

“Any friendly fire incident needs a full investigation,” said Magnus.

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“I heard a rumor that your people carried this out on their own initiative,” said Magnus. “That they were responding to a fluid situation, and reacted. Properly, with justification, but without a full plan in place. That would account for CentCom not getting the proper notification.”

Something jumped inside Dog’s chest. Was Magnus suggesting he lie to avert what might be a politically embarrassing investigation?

Maybe. It might avoid problems, short-circuit months of hand-wringing that wouldn’t benefit anyone — including him, Dog knew.

But it was a lie.

“I ordered that mission, sir. I felt the Whiplash directive was sufficient authorization. I stand by my decision.”

Magnus nodded. “Colonel, if I told you that you were relieved of command, would that be an order you were prepared to follow?”

“Of course.”

Magnus pushed his lips together. Dog felt his neck muscles stiffen; the room turned cold. “Is that what is happening here?”

“No,” said Magnus. “Not at all.”

“Sir?”

“It’s no secret that I and the administration don’t see eye-to-eye,” said the general, his tone changing.

“If I’ve done anything—”

Magnus’s stern expression broke for just a moment.

“You’re about the only thing we agree on,” said Magnus.

“You’re a good man, Colonel. You made the right call and you stood behind it.” The general paused, but before Dog could say anything else, he went on, his tone even softer than before. “Dreamland is going to be — excuse me, the command structure involving Dreamland is going to be changed.”

“In what way?”

“Good question,” said Magnus. “All I know at the moment is that you are no longer my concern. Dreamland is no longer part of my command.”

Flustered, Dog tried to think of what to say. “JSOC?”

he said finally. “Are we under the Special Forces Command?”

“No,” said Magnus. “I’m late for a meeting right now, I’m sorry,” he added. “Orders will be cut soon. I’m not privy to them.”

“Who do we answer to — I mean, who’s our commander?”

“The President,” said Magnus.

“Of course,” said Dog, “but I mean—”

The screen flashed white, the connection cut, without further elaboration.

Chapter 153

Jed Barclay settled his hands onto his thighs, fingers rapping to the beat of the rotor as the MH-60 Special Forces Blackhawk whipped toward the agreed exchange site near Kirkuk in northern Iraq. The Iraqi radar operator sat next to him on the shallow and uncomfortable jump seat, as much of a mystery to Jed as when they first met.

The Iraqis had agreed to exchange the remains of the two American pilots who had died for the live prisoner. Jed had objected — though he hadn’t told them anything, the man clearly knew a great deal about the state of Iraqi defenses and their tactics. Having gone to RPI, he might be an engineer or some sort of scientist, not merely a technician. But everyone else had dismissed his objections—

Americans, even dead ones, were worth more than any information the Iraqi could possibly give.

They had a point. The barrage tactics hadn’t been effective; it was clear now that the Iranian laser had shot down most if not all the aircraft lost in the last few days.

Part of their Greater Islamic Glory campaign? Jed had his doubts. They had made overtures to the U.S., acted as if they wanted to help in the war against Saddam, even made noises about getting rid of the Chinese. Perhaps they’d found the communist yoke a little too much to bear, even in the name of Allah.

Jed hadn’t even tried to sort it out yet. The NSA intercepts would make interesting reading once he got home.

So would the reports on the laser. It was unlikely that they’d killed everyone associated with the weapon.

Would it turn up again? If so, where? Iran? China? Something to ponder back home.

The helicopter began banking for a turn. Jed glanced at the Iraqi. His eyes gave nothing away. Maybe he was thinking of the hero’s welcome that awaited him on the ground.

Musah Tahir sat patiently until the Americans lifted him from the bench toward the exit of the helicopter. His hands were unbound at the top of the ramp, then his guards gave him a slight push; they seemed almost anxious to be rid of him.

The light of the Iraqi afternoon blinded him. A row of soldiers stood at attention a few feet away. A pair of pickup trucks sat behind them.

Tahir took a few steps, then turned and watched as the pickup trucks backed toward the helicopter. A metal coffin sat in each. Two Americans from the helicopter nodded grimly at the Iraqis in the back of the trucks; they shouldered the coffins and slid them into the helicopters, arranging them awkwardly in the interior. Tahir seemed to have been forgotten.

He had wanted to say good-bye to Barclay. The American struck him as a decent man. But Barclay signed some papers for an Iraqi Air Force colonel Tahir didn’t know, then got on the helicopter without looking back at him.

It lifted with a roar. Tahir looked toward the colonel but he had disappeared. Turning, he nearly fell over General Hadas, the man who had first given him his mission.

“General,” he said, snapping a salute. “I told them nothing.”

Hadas frowned and raised his hand. There was a pistol in it. By the time Tahir realized what would happen, the gun was level with his forehead. He had time only to close his eyes before it fired.

Chapter 154

The ruins continued to smolder. The strike had been quick and precise; they had examined the laser, then destroyed it. At least twenty of Sattari’s soldiers were dead, probably many more.

His duty was to go to them now, to comfort them, to rally them for the challenges ahead. Khamenei or the Chinese might choose this moment to mount their own attack. Perhaps some unknown rival or rivals might be encouraged.

A small part of him wanted to flee. Another small part wanted him to end the struggle completely — to give in to the urge of futility, to no longer fight the tide. Suicide would be so easy, a matter merely of pulling the handgun from his belt and placing it into his mouth.

Sattari felt a shiver run through his body. A prudent commander might find it necessary to retreat or even to surrender. But while he lived, there was hope, there was always hope.

Killing himself was the coward’s way.

He had one thing to live for now — revenge. He would get the men who did this. He would destroy the black-robed traitors. He might, if his rage continued unabated, destroy the whole world.

Sattari felt his heart stutter in his chest, overcome by the anger he felt.

But then it calmed. It was a soldier’s heart, trained to survive. Anger was meaningless to it.

He had known the risks and calculated them; if things seemed bleak now, they were not as bleak as they could be. He would survive, and he would have his vengeance.

The general began to walk down the road, past the parked vehicles, ignoring his driver’s call, ignoring the questions from the bodyguards. He would walk into his post by foot; he would comfort his men; he would rebuild.

Chapter 155

Faced with the long plane ride home and nothing to do, Zen had decided to do something he hadn’t done on an airplane in a long, long time — read a book.

But High Top didn’t have much of a library. In fact, it didn’t have any library at all. When they landed at Incirlik, Bree told him he didn’t have time to explore — they were only here to refuel. And since when was he reading books, anyway?

Fortunately, his cousin Jed Barclay came by to say hello.

“You have any books handy?” Zen asked his cousin after they exchanged the usual back and forth.

“Computers and Foreign Policy Decisions During the Twenty-first Century,” Jed suggested. “Hot topic.”

“How about something else?” said Zen.

Jed, who was lugging his bags en route to a transport, knelt down and pored through them on the Megafortress’s Flighthawk deck. “Coonts thriller?”

“Read ’em all. Most of ’em twice.”

“Well, I have volume one of Burns’s biography of FDR,” said Jed, retrieving the book. “Good book.”

“FDR?” Zen looked at the large paperback, which seemed to have been used as a football, door stop, and hammer.

Roosevelt. He’d been paralyzed too, right.

Good book for a gimp.

Zen had started to reach for the book but now stopped.

He remembered the hallucination of pain he’d had, the feeling that his legs were still part of him.

They were part of him. They were there. They just weren’t there anymore.

Was he doomed to think about them forever, at his worst times?

“I’ve been reading it for a year,” Jed was saying, holding it out. “When I was in college, this professor—”

“Okay,” said Zen, taking the book to forestall a long dissertation.

Knowing Jed, he didn’t even make the connection about Roosevelt being paralyzed. Zen’s cousin was the perfect absent-minded professor — an expert on the world, oblivious about what was in front of him.

“Wish I could fly back with you,” said Jed.

“You can, cuz,” said Breanna, coming up the access ladder at the rear of the Flighthawk control bay. “We have a jump seat upstairs. Let me stow your gear.”

“Can’t.” Jed gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’m supposed to be in D.C. tonight.”

“Then you better hustle. Your plane’s about to take off.” She winked at Zen.

Jed turned white. “Oh, man, I’m in for it now,” he said, grabbing his things and rushing down the ladder.

“It’s not, is it?”

“I was just talking to them on the radio,” said Breanna.

“He’s got an hour and a half.”

“You’re cruel,” Zen told Breanna.

“He’s cute when he’s dizzy. Kind of reminds me of a puppy I used to have.”

“Hmmmph.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“How’s the head?” She put her fingers softly on the lump at his forehead where he’d smashed it against the panel when the restraint loosened during their evasive maneuvers. Somebody estimated that the force must have been over seven g’s. Still, the restraint should have held.

Zen shrugged. He had a mild concussion, along with assorted bruises and whatnot. After losing his legs, other injuries seemed almost besides the point, not even annoying.

Legs again.

“You did okay with Fentress, huh?” said Bree.

“He did okay.”

“It’s hard, teaching.”

“I wouldn’t want to do it for a living.”

“You said that. But you did okay with him somehow.”

She leaned into him and gave him a long, soft kiss.

“No smooching on the job,” he said when she finished.

“Try and stop me.” She kissed him again. “He said he thinks of you as a father figure,” she said as they separated.

“Go to hell.”

Laughing, she retreated to the ladder. “Start reading, Major,” she said, starting up to the flight deck. “It’s a long ride home.”