Age of Blood

21

The MH-53 Pave Low bucked like a wild mustang. The SEALs had grabbed on to the netting attached to the sides and locked their legs together, but Ramon wasn’t so lucky. He was tossed about before he was able to grip the netting. The Pave Low slewed to the right, then dived down.

Walker shut his eyes to hold off the dizziness.

The copter’s M134 miniguns ripped the sky wide open as they made life miserable for someone in the water somewhere below.

“What the hell is going on?” Yank yelled to no one in particular.

Walker wanted to know the same thing.

Holmes listened to his earpiece, then said, “Smuggler boat. They have a fifty-cal.”

A fifty-cal wouldn’t do much damage to the Pave Low, not unless it got a lucky shot. Although Walker wasn’t sure of the altitude, they were probably nose on the target now, the M134s still blazing away.

The whine of the engine changed as the Pave Low turned toward the sky. The miniguns ceased firing and they heard several pops from the belly of the Pave Low.

“Antimissile measures.” Holmes’s eyes widened. “Hold on—incoming!”

Walker was reminded once more how vulnerable he felt. Flying in a helicopter always seemed like riding in a tin can. At least on the ground or in the water he had some control over his life. But here in the sky, surrounded by metal that someone else was driving, he might as well be rolling downhill in a barrel.

An explosion rocked the Pave Low to one side, almost sending it tumbling. Everyone’s legs left the floor. What they didn’t hold on to flew into the wall, including their rifles, their pistols, ammunition, and anything else that wasn’t tied or nailed down.

Ramon spun in the air, howling.

When the helicopter righted, everything that had been slung into the air came back down. The SEALs growled in pain. Yank especially, as the butt of his rifle came down within an inch of his manhood. This time Ramon was able to grab hold of the netting. His eyes were wild. His face was sea green.

Then the Pave Low spun in a one-eighty so fast it made them dizzy. The miniguns opened fire again, shoving several thousand pieces of lead into something that very quickly exploded.

“Mistral missile just missed,” Holmes said. “Launched from a smuggler security ship.”

Walker tried to remember which missile was a Mistral. It was French. It was manpackable, and could be fired from the back of a boat. It also had high-density explosives with tungsten balls. Pretty awesome little system that could very easily bring down a Pave Low and ruin everyone’s day.

More rounds from the miniguns and more explosions. World War III was happening right outside the airship and they didn’t even have a window from which they could watch.

Finally the miniguns stopped firing and whined down to nothing as they spun to a stop.

Major Navarre sauntered out of the cockpit, grinning like the king of the world. “Pendejos thought they could take us on. Look at them now. Fish food.” He laughed and patted several of the SEALs on the shoulders. “I hope we didn’t scare you,” he added.

Walker exchanged a glance with Yank. The FNG from L.A. looked terrified. Still, as Walker watched, Yank gulped back his fear, hid it beneath a mask of macho, and laughed with the others.

Yeah, the FNG would fit in quite well. The secret was that it wasn’t about whether someone was afraid, it was more about how they dealt with their fear.

Walker joined in with the others, laughing good-naturedly. He’d rather be punching the good major, but instead he laughed. Ha ha. Funny. Hilarious. Just don’t fucking do that again.