Fort Apache

CHAPTER 31

They moved down from the rocks so slowly and carefully that Dixon felt as if he were walking backwards. He held his submachine gun in front of him like a stubby balancing bar. Twice they stopped because vehicles were approaching on the nearby highway; each time they retreated back to the rocks, waiting until the trucks sped by.

Turk’s explanation that the mines were placed as part of a pre-positioned defense scheme made sense. Logically, Dixon knew that if that were true, the road itself wouldn’t be booby-trapped or mined. But twice his foot slipped in the dirt and he felt an electric jolt in his muscles, sure he was about to be blown up.

The door was metal, twice as wide as the front door to a house and about half again as high. A truck probably wouldn’t quite fit through, though Dixon wasn’t necessarily sure. The locking mechanism had both a mechanical key and the combination — as well what seemed to be a trip wire that Turk pulled Dixon back from.

He pulled out a small penlight flashlight to look it over carefully. “This doesn’t look like anything I’ve worked on,” said the demolition expert. “But my guess is that you cut it or fiddle with the key and it sets off a charge. Maybe under there.” He pointed the flashlight at rocks just above them. “Drop a little avalanche on you. Or there could be a charge beneath us.”

Dixon put his hand on the steel door, feeling the surface as if his fingers could somehow tell how thick the metal was behind it. There were no straps, no bolts, just smooth metal.

“Safest thing to do is get back to the road there, shoot up the lock and see what happens,” said Turk.

“You think that’ll do anything besides telling the Iraqis we’re here?” Dixon said.

Turk thought about it. “Probably not. We might be able to get through it with our C-4. Depends on how thick the door is.”

“Riyadh will probably want to bomb the site,” Dixon told him. “I think we’re better off talking to them first. If we do anything, the Iraqis will know we’re here. Maybe they empty the site before the bombing, maybe they find us.”

“I ain’t arguing with you.”

Dixon took a step back. Turk caught him.

“Listen,” he said, pointing back in the direction of the highway.

A low cough rasped against the hills. Dixon and Turk sprinted up the road back into the rocks. They climbed a few yards up the hillside, taking cover as a truck approached. Dixon watched from his crouch, expecting it to speed past like the others.

But it didn’t. It stopped dead in the middle of the highway, not ten yards from them.

It was a Mercedes truck, a simple cab in front of a boxy back; nothing remarkable. A million similar trucks were driving in a million similar places at that very moment, delivering a multitude of things to a multitude of places.

But this one was here. Dixon had a clear line of sight, and took the NOD from Turk.

The driver and his passenger were debating something. Then the passenger got out of the truck. The two Americans hunkered against the rocks as the man shone a flashlight across the darkened landscape to find the path to the mountain entrance. Once he found it, he waved at the truck, which followed slowly as he began walking toward the rock face.

When he reached the door, he bent over the lock. He worked it very slowly. His back blocked Dixon’s view, but he could make out a second panel behind the electronic lock; that one took even longer to deal with. Finally the Iraqi bent over and pushed something with his foot; some sort of metal lever had risen from the dirt.

But not even this opened the door. The man returned to the panel and punched more keys before the door finally popped free. Gripping the edge, the man pushed it open. A dull red light turned on inside.

“You get all that?” asked Turk.

“Oh yeah, I got it memorized,” whispered Dixon.

“Fuckers spent half their defense budget on locks. Cheaper just to post guards.”

“Maybe they’re inside.”

“Yeah. Could be,” said Turk.

The man walked slowly to the back of the truck. He came out with what looked to be a large suitcase.

“Door’s damn thick,” said Turk, examining it through the NOD. “I don’t think we got enough C-4, unless I can figure out the weak spot.”

After the soldier had been inside for quite a while, Dixon realized he ought to time his disappearance; it might tell them how large the facility was.

Or maybe not. He noted the time on his watch, then took the NOD and looked at the driver, who was shifting nervously around in the cab.

Most likely the man had only a pistol, if that. They could take him out easily; Dixon could, simply by lifting the MP-5 and firing. He was ten yards away.

But were there others inside the truck or the mountain?

The Iraqi reappeared from the bunker and trotted to the back of the truck. He took an identical-looking suitcase from the back before returning to the mountain.

“Boxes of candy,” said Turk. “For Sugar Mountain.”

“Yeah, Sugar Mountain,” said Dixon. “A big candy store.”

“We can take out the guy in the truck,” said Turk. He lifted his silenced MP-5. “You think we should?”

The truck driver sat upright in the truck as if he had heard them. He turned on the truck lights and a moveable spotlight mounted on the doorway, playing it over the rocks. The two Americans ducked as the spotlight swung in their direction.

Should they rush him? They could easily ambush his companion when he came out.

If he spoke English, they could find out what or who was inside.

Maybe. More than likely, he didn’t speak English.

Hell, they could just go in and see for themselves. Assuming it wasn’t booby-trapped.

Or that there wasn’t a guard below. The suitcases could have been dinner.

Even if he did speak English and talk to them, what could they believe? They could force him to walk ahead if they went inside, force him to reveal any booby traps— but perhaps the people who had designed the structure had anticipated that. Given the elaborate mechanism to open it, surely they had.

Better to call in a bombing raid.

But what if they were bombing a gold mine?

Or a NBC, nuclear-biological-chemical storage site?

What if Saddam himself were inside? Now that would be the kicker to end all kickers.

“Let’s get him,” said Dixon, rising as the light snapped off.

“Hold on,” said Turk. “Here’s our candy man.”

The Iraqi shouted— it sounded like a curse— at the driver as the two Americans ducked back behind the rocks. By the time they realized the shout hadn’t been meant for them, the thick door had been swung back into place. The truck was already backing onto the highway.

The Iraqi who’d gone inside ran to the cab, pulling himself in as he continued to berate the driver— probably for turning on his headlights. The driver slapped them off and hit the gas as soon as all four wheels were on the hard pavement.

CHAPTER 32

They were louder than hell, at least as far as Sergeant Kevin Hawkins was concerned. But the two dark shadows growing in the southern corner of the gray-black haze before him were the prettiest damn things he’d ever seen.

Not quite, but damn Hawkins felt good about the AH-6G Scouts as they came into the base. Fort Apache was open for business with its own air force, to boot.

No slam on the Hogs. But they had to keep running south to get ammo and gas. The Little Birds were his.

The lead AH-6G blinked. One of Hawkins’s men answered with a recognition code, assuring the chopper crews that they had not been overrun. The lead bird flew forward toward the strip.

The civilian MD 530 MG the AH-6G was based on was itself a variant in a popular line of civilian and military utility choppers. The latest version of the helicopter, the MD 530N, came equipped with a NOTAR system which eliminated the rear rotor and made the small helicopter into one of the most maneuverable aircraft in the world. Those versions were in short supply in the service, however, and would never have been allowed up here.

But the AH-6Gs touching down on the Iraqi concrete weren’t slouches. Each had a pair of .50 caliber machine-guns and seven-tube 70 mm rocket launchers mounted on their stubby wings, and featured forward-looking infrared radar mounted under their chins. TOW anti-tank weapons and mini-guns— not installed but packed in the helicopters’ small holds— added additional firepower.

Hawkins trotted forward as the whirlies spun down, hesitating long enough to make sure he knew where the tails were. He had once seen a trooper get his face shaved by the back-end of a helicopter, and the experience gave him a healthy respect for rear rotors.

“Captain Hawkins?” asked the pilot, pushing open the door and pulling off his helmet. His night flying gear weighed several pounds, and he was obviously an experienced flier— he had the bull neck that typically came from years of working with the heavy sights.

“You Fernandez?”

“Yes, sir. Where do you want us?”

“We’ll unload you here. We’re working on a little bunker and camouflage for you across the way,” said Hawkins, gesturing. “Won’t be O’Hare.”

“Hey, I’m used to LaGuardia. Anything you can do.”

“How was your flight?”

“Piece of cake, once I got it off the ground. We’re a bit heavy,” said the pilot. He turned back to his controls, which were arrayed around near state-of-the-art multi-use screens, and finished securing the helicopter. “Shit, how much runway you got here?”

“At the moment, just under a thousand feet. Iraqis left it so smooth we don’t even have to patch it.” Hawkins pointed toward the far end, where six of his men were laying out metal grids that had been parachuted in a few hours before. “We’re extending it. I should have fifteen hundred by the morning, maybe the afternoon.”

A frown flickered across the pilot’s face; he knew that wasn’t long enough for a C-130 to land.

“Hey Captain!”

Hawkins turned and saw Sergeant Gladis running toward him. Gladis was moving quicker than the helicopters had.

“We got something from Team Ruth you got to hear,” said the communications specialist. “Their radio’s breaking up big time, but you’re going to want to talk to Leteri or Captain Dixon yourself.”

“Leteri? Where’s Winston?”

Gladis shook his head. “You want to talk to them yourself. They stepped in a mountain of shit.”

“Good shit or bad shit?”

“Both. Very big shit. A mountain of shit. They’re calling it Sugar Mountain, but it’s stinking shit.”

CHAPTER 33

The position was vulnerable, certainly. He was definitely over-extended, with only a wire-thin defensive chain; if his perimeter were pierced, he would sustain heavy casualties. His opponent was crafty, fortified, and exceedingly cool.

But Wong could tell that the deep penetration of his bishop on his opponent’s right flank had left the black commander off-balance. The Caro-Kann defense was ordinarily a solid one, fighting white for control of the middle and often, though not necessarily, shifting the balance of power from the attacker to the defender. And certainly the man behind the chess pieces, Sergeant Curtis, was a worthy opponent, a veteran not only of the Special Forces but Army chess wars. But he had stumbled on the last move, nudging his knight forward unimaginatively and leaving his queen to be guillotined. He made the only available move now, pushing his queen to the far side of the board— a concession that she was toast.

“Check,” said Wong, pulling his knight forward.

“Damn,” said Curtis.

Wong nodded thoughtfully. Curtis had no option but to take the knight with his bishop; the queen would then be taken by Wong’s bishop. Besides the exchange, a strategic hole in black’s defenses would be opened, leaving the entire side ripe for onslaught.

“You out-commandoed me, huh?” said Curtis, initiating the sequence.

“I was inspired by the setting.”

“Another game?”

“Of course,” said Wong.

If King Fahd was a scorpion-infested, third-rate trailer park, Al Jouf was a burned-out VW microbus in a sand trap. Still, there was no amenity like chess, and even at the Pentagon it was difficult to find an opponent both competent and worthy. So when a runner came to summon Wong to see Colonel Klee, he got up with something that actually approached regret. Surely the only reason Colonel Klee wanted to see him at this hour was that he had agreed to entertain his request to be shipped to Washington. Wong consoled himself with a promise to look up Curtis again.

But Wong’s transfer was the furthest thing from Klee’s mind, a fact Wong realized when he approached the colonel’s command bunker and saw that fully half the commander’s officers were already inside.

“Wong, about time,” growled the colonel. Glowering at Klee’s side was the ubiquitously ignorant Major Wilson. “Look at these images.”

A bleary-eyed lieutenant passed what seemed to be a fifth-generation copy of a satellite photo to him. Wong’s first impression was that he was looking at a pimple on a walrus’s nose.

He kept that, as well as his more graphic second impression, to himself.

“Yes,” he said finally, giving it back to the lieutenant.

“Well?” asked the colonel.

“A storage facility. Unmanned. High-value-asset facility, limited access, high-grad protection. The viewing angle is particularly poor, which is quite surprising, actually, given the performance specification of the satellite’s…”

“You get that from a ventilation pipe?” asked Goodson.

“Of course, there are infinite possibilities in a theoretical sense, and I have to base my assumptions on a best-use thesis, meaning that my theory is based on the facility being fabricated in a manner best suited for its intended use, though as we all know…”

“The bottom line, Wong,” said the colonel.

“Dry and secure storage facility,” he said. “Originally for inert materials by design. Weapon-wise, I would say it is suited for chemicals, but the Iraqis have demonstrated such ill-informed planning that it could be and probably is for biological assets.”

“Give him the description of the door,” the colonel told the lieutenant, who passed a piece of yellow paper to him. The paper was an intelligence briefing describing a combination mechanical and electrical lock on an over-sized but non-vehicle entry in a natural-feature-enhanced bunker facility.

Pretty much what he’d expected. The Iraqis showed a consistent lack of creativity.

“So?” asked Goodson.

Wong rolled his eyes and proceeded to the front of the bunker, where a large pad sat on an easel. He drew a big circle, then the small roadway, and what had to be a passive ventilation pipe.

“Our key features are the lack of a substantial air-exchange mechanism and the narrow aperture of the doorway,” he started. “The locking mechanism clinches it. It was designed for chemicals or perhaps small-scale valuables such as diamonds, though it would now be a prime candidate for the Iraqi dispersal program. I would suspect some agent on the order of anthrax. My reasoning is not complex. The use of existing geographical features to enhance storage systems dates to the Neanderthal period, and thus parallels are naturally hazardous. Still, we have the benefit here of a paper written in 1978 by no less an authority than…”

“All right, I’m convinced,” said the colonel. “God damn it, five hundred people must have missed this. Is Wong the only officer in Saudi Arabia who knows his ass from a hole in the ground?”

“That would be his ass from a ventilation pipe,” quipped one of the officers.

Everyone, even the colonel, laughed.

Except Wong.

“If I may move on,” Wong continued, clearing his throat. “The configuration of this site, which I assume we are here to target, will present some very unique challenges for whoever is tasked to hit it. I assume that it was not detected during infrared surveillance, from which we may make several deductions, two in particular. First, that it is not continually manned, which of course we know since the ventilation system is so small, but confirming evidence is occasionally useful, if only for morale.

“There is no heat in the exhaust,” Wong added for the men at the side who weren’t quite keeping up. “It would have been very obvious. Second, there is probably a thick layer of natural material between the surface and the interior. I predict that the space for the pipe will be found to have been drilled, as unlikely as that sounds to the uninitiated. There will be basically two avenues of attack, the ventilation system and the front door. Going through the front door, of course, has its drawbacks, since it is both thick and protected by several man-lethal devices, more commonly known as booby traps. We don’t know what types, though we can make some guesses, including at least two families of chemical derivatives undoubtedly modeled on the KK-37B facility in the Ural Mountains…”

“Hold that thought a second, Wong,” said the colonel. “How about the vent? Can we get a smart bomb down it?”

“The shaft is not sufficient for a Paveway series weapon to fly down,” said Wong. “Nor will the vent serve as a sufficient fissure-point for an attack, if my guess as to its construction is correct. The probability of the heaviest weapons in the series being effective can be measured in the range of ten to the negative one-hundredth power. Some would argue for a repeating attack pattern, taking advantage of wave harmonics to enhance the destructive value. There are additional alternatives, but beyond what I have said, my discussion would involve possibilities outside the code-word clearance of anyone in the room.”

Wong was thinking specifically of an attack by GBU-24/B Paveway III laser-guided bombs, 4,700-pound monsters capable of taking out even the hardened-aircraft shelters Yugoslavia had built for Saddam. The captain’s opinion was classified not because of the bombs— fairly well-kept secrets themselves— but because of the way they would have to be used to have any chance of penetrating the rock.

The others didn’t quite appreciate that, however, responding to Wong with a variety of predictable curses and mutterings. It was exactly the sort of rumble from the rabble he had put up with all his life. It was the price one paid for being Wong.

“I like the front door, myself,” said the colonel. “But I know what Riyadh’s going to say. You sure the door is booby trapped?”

“Without a doubt,” said Wong.

“Anyway around it?”

“Given enough time, there is always a way.”

“We don’t have time,” said the colonel. “They want it hit by dawn, one way or the other. All right, get me Riyadh on the line. Sit down, Wong— someone get him some coffee. Wait,” added the colonel as an assistant flew to the door. “Better make it decaf. I’d hate to hear him on a caffeine buzz.”

CHAPTER 34

The way A-Bomb figured it, every hour playing poker was worth two hours of sleep. The idea of sleep, after all, was to restore your creative powers and recharge your muscles. Poker did the same thing, only quicker. It was like taking a sauna, and in fact if you played cards perpetually, you’d never grow old.

Doberman nonetheless begged off, if “fuck yourself” could be understood as begging off.

A-Bomb eventually found his way into a game with some of Klee’s support staff; within a half-hour he was twenty dollars ahead in a quarter-limit game. They were conservative for commandoes, and had apparently not even heard of Baseball. He was just explaining the intricacies of the poker variant when a youngish staff sergeant appeared and called the officers to a meeting with the Special Ops colonel.

A-Bomb immediately decided that he and Doberman belonged at the meeting.

“Screw off and drop dead,” grumbled Doberman, when A-Bomb tried to wake him.

“Yo, Colonel Klee wants to see us.”

“Why, the war over?”

“Could be.”

Doberman turned, but only enough to determine from the lack of light that it was still nighttime. “Go away,” he growled. “Tell the colonel to eat shit.”

“He’s standing right here.”

“My ass.”

This was the sort of challenge that made it worth fetching the colonel and bringing him back, just to see the look on Doberman’s face when he saw that he actually had cursed out a colonel. But that would take too long, and he really wanted to check out the meeting. So he settled for merely shaking the cot.

“Hey, let’s go,” he told Doberman. “Something big’s got to be boiling. I was playing cards with half the guy’s staff and…”

“You’re out of your friggin’ mind.”

“Nah, they’re not that good.”

“Good night, A-Bomb.”

“If there’s anything going down, I want to be there. Maybe Dixon’s in trouble.”

Doberman rolled over. “Oh fuckin’ hell goddamn all right. Shit. All I want is ten god-damn minutes of rest in this country.”

“Shoulda come and play cards. Fountain of youth. That’s what I’m talking about.”

By the time the two pilots got there, Klee was talking with someone on a scrambler phone set. The man obviously outranked him, since he was being uncharacteristically polite.

A-Bomb’s attention was suddenly snagged by a half-full Mr. Coffee at three o’clock. He set an intercept vector, jinking past a pair of semi-hostile-looking majors, arriving at the machine just as the colonel hung up the line.

“All right, I guess you probably heard that,” the colonel told his officers. “Riyadh’s tasking an F-111. Don’t bother Wong,” he added quickly. “I know what you’re fucking going to say but it’s no use. Chris, you and Cleso get with Wong here and figure out some sort of backup plan. One that’ll work and that we can do ourselves. Kelly, get Hawkins on the line at Fort Apache and tell him what the hell is going on. Get our people as far away from there as you can. Ruth will be compromised by the hit, even if they’re not poisoned. Put those helicopters to work. Charly, find them a new sector to sift.”

A-Bomb took a gulp of coffee, then immediately spit it back into the cup.

Decaf. The ultimate war crime.

He looked up and realized that everyone was staring at him.

“So what’s our assignment?”

“Assignment?” asked the colonel. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

“Waiting for an assignment,” said A-Bomb. “Certainly not drinking coffee.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.” Klee gave a furious glance behind A-Bomb toward Doberman.

Not nearly as furious as the one Doberman gave to A-Bomb.

“Ah, we’ll rest on the way,” said A-Bomb. “We bird-doggin’ for the Aardvarks? Or escorting the helos?”

“Who the hell said you had an assignment?”

“Excuse us, Colonel,” said Doberman. “We just thought, since our guy is up there —”

“Get your butts back to bed,” snapped the colonel, “or wherever it is you damn Hog pilots go when you’re not blowing up things. Shit, what are you trying to do, win the war all by yourselves?”

“Only if we have to,” said A-Bomb— whose words, fortunately for him, were muffled by Doberman’s hand as he was dragged toward the door.

CHAPTER 35

“Captain’s on the line,” Leteri told Dixon, holding out the radio handset. “Reception’s in and out, but I think it’ll hold together.”

Dixon glanced at Winston before speaking. The sergeant’s face seemed somewhat peaceful; he was snoring.

“This is Dixon.”

“Hey,” said Hawkins. The line clicked on and off, but the words that did come through were sharp. “We have orders.”

The line died for a second. “…Cornfield.”

“Repeat,” said Dixon. When there wasn’t an answer, he asked again.

“Solo at four,” said Hawkins. He said something else that was lost, then repeated, “Solo at four. Cornfield.”

It was the command for an evacuation. Four was 0400, and the Cornfield was the spot where they had first watched the highway.

It was a good location for the helicopters, but would Winston make it?

“You know our situation?” he asked the captain.

There was a long, empty silence. Finally, Hawkins’ voice snapped onto the line. “They’re flashing the pipe 0500.”

A bombing mission.

“Repeat?” asked Dixon, but again there was no answer. He tried twice more before Hawkins came back with the bug-out command.

“Acknowledged. We copy. We’ll be waiting,” Dixon told him, signing off.

The scream sounded like something out of a horror movie, only it didn’t end.

“Put him back. Okay, okay,” said Dixon. He felt his hands starting to shake. Sweat poured from around his neck as he and Turk lowered Winston as gently as possible. Leteri was already pushing the plunger on the morphine as they stood back.

The sergeant continued to scream, then gasped for breath. Dixon fell to his hands and knees. He stooped over Winston, wondering if he should give him mouth to mouth.

Or maybe just let him die.

He couldn’t.

As he leaned forward, the sergeant’s breath caught; he started screaming again, though this time the howl was softer. Dixon took that as a good sign.

Twenty minutes passed before the morphine finally took hold. Winston’s groans gradually faded into a soft scat song of pain. Finally, his mouth loosened and his breathing became more regular.

As soon as they lifted him again, he yelled again.

“Down,” said Dixon. He had the sergeant’s head, and cradled it gently as they replaced the wounded man on the ground. “We’re going to have to leave him here,” he told the others.

“Leave him?” said Leteri.

“I don’t mean alone. I’m staying.”

“That’s not a good idea,” said Turk.

“We’re screwing something up just lifting him,” said Dixon. “I don’t want him paralyzed.”

“Better that than dead,” said Bobby.

Dixon could tell from their expressions that some of the others weren’t so sure.

“You don’t think he’s paralyzed already?” asked Leteri.

“He wouldn’t scream if was, I don’t think,” said Turk. “Maybe if we had a backboard or something.”

Winston turned his head into Dixon’s knee. His eyes were closed but he seemed to be struggling to say something. Dixon bent to listen, but the words weren’t intelligible.

His mother had done that a few days before she died. The image of monitors and their color-coded lines and numbers right next to her head blurred in his eyes as he leaned over.

What he thought she said was, “Kill me.” But he couldn’t be sure.

Maybe it was “Save me.” That was what he wanted her to say. That was what he wanted to do.

“Lieutenant?”

“Here’s the deal,” Dixon said, standing. “I stay with the sergeant. You guys go up to the Cornfield, get picked up, come back for us. We have an hour before the bomb strike; that’s plenty of time.”

“I think I should stay,” said Turk. “Me and Bobby.”

“Why don’t we just have the helo pick us all up here?” Leteri suggested.

“Even if the radio were working right, Apache’s off the air by now,” said Dixon. “They won’t be listening for us.”

“Fuck, we can get them through Riyadh once the helicopter’s in the air. Or the AWACS. We can take a shot at it, at least.”

“We don’t know what other contingencies there are,” said Dixon. “They’re going to be coming through shit.”

“Yeah, but hell, there’s shit and then there’s shit,” said Leteri. “And splitting up is shit.”

Leteri was right, but something made Dixon shake his head. “Let’s do it this way. We get in and out without any sweat.”

“Captain, let’s be realistic, okay? You don’t have to prove anything,” said Turk. “We already know you’re brave. We saw you go into the minefield.”

“No, you know I’m nuts. Brave is something else.” Dixon shook his head. “It makes more sense for you guys to be together. You can move faster without me, and probably handle the weapons better. The sergeant and I are safe enough here, as long as you guys make it to the helicopters. That’s where the risk is.”

There was logic to his argument, but the others insisted that keeping the entire team in one place was the safest plan. Dixon finally agreed to let Leteri take a shot at getting Apache or Riyadh on the line to change the pickup site. But the satellite system refused to fire back up.

“All right,” Leteri said. “We have to get to the Cornfield. But one of us should stay with you as a lookout.”

Dixon laughed. “You think I’m that bad a shot? I got half the hill covered, and a minefield besides. I can pin a battalion down from here.”

“We’re not saying you can’t shoot straight,” said Turk. “We just don’t want you in over your head.”

Dixon started to laugh. He was so far in over his head that nothing worse would make any difference. “I’m okay. Seriously. Look, it makes more sense for you guys to stay together. You’re the ones in danger, not me.”

“Yeah, but —”

“Look, I outrank you all, and I’m giving you an order.”

“With all due respect,” said Leteri. “I mean, shit, don’t go Rambo, you know?”

Dixon didn’t feel quite as nonchalant as he acted, but he wasn’t lying about thinking it was smarter for them to go.

“Who’s going Rambo?” he told Leteri. “The helicopters will get me after they pick you up. You don’t think they’re going to leave me here, do you?”

“No.”

“You guys gonna forget the way?”

“Fuck you,” said Leteri.

“Fuck you back. Think of it this way— they’re a hell of a lot more likely to come back for me than for one of you guys, don’t you think?”

Leteri didn’t have an argument for that.

Dixon turned over the M-16A2, which had an M203 40mm grenade launcher attached to it. The rifle was still fairly light, though the bulk made it feel a bit awkward.

“You okay with that?” Leteri asked.

“Just like a shotgun, right?” he said, pointing at the pump-action on the launcher’s barrel. The grenade mechanism was installed below the rifle’s main barrel.

“You got maybe four hundred yards range. Better to put one in front of your target than behind— but not too far in front, if you know what I mean. First time you launch it, your shoulder’s gonna kick a bit.”

“I won’t even need it,” said Dixon.

“Good thing to have.”

“Oh yeah. I agree.”

The grenade launcher and M-16 combo was a standard configuration but Dixon had never seen one up close, much less used one. A breechloader that worked, as Dixon had said, much like a A-Bomb, the launcher was not particularly difficult to use. Still, he wasn’t entirely convinced that his first salvo wouldn’t land at his feet.

It did make the M-16 look kind of ugly, though. That was comforting. Hog pilots liked things that looked ugly.

“Take care,” he told them, “see you in a couple of hours.”

“Sir.” Leteri stood back and snapped off a drill sergeant salute.

Dixon gave it back. Then he tried to smile, but either he was too tired or reality was starting to sink in. He couldn’t manage more than an awkward, off-kilter grin.

CHAPTER 36

Colonel Knowlington had thought, had hoped really, that his flight north to rescue Mongoose would represent some sort of turning point, that getting back in the cockpit under fire would vanquish some of the demons that had followed him for so many years. But they were still there.

Demons? No, Colonel Thomas “Skull” Knowlington wasn’t oppressed by demons, but by something much closer to him, much more dangerous, much simpler.

He wanted a drink.

It was nothing new. He’d wanted a drink every day of his life. He’d resisted before. Twenty-one days now in a row.

Or was it twenty-two? He felt something close to panic as he couldn’t remember. Not knowing the count was like losing control.

And he couldn’t do that. He sat straight up in his cot, casting his eyes around his empty room. There was nothing here except his old trunk and the cot and the plain walls. He liked it that way, stoic. It gave him control.

He needed to drink.

He had to do something. Maybe wander over to Oz. No matter what the hour was, there would be at least a few people working in the maintenance areas: coffee too— Oz always had some going.

Knowlington didn’t like to make his men too nervous by hanging around, but on the other hand they liked to know that he took an interest. Something good always came from the few minutes he took to chat.

He was tired. He should sleep. He didn’t need to get up. He needed to sleep. He closed his eyes.

He hadn’t made a decision on Mongoose’s request to stay with the unit yet. Damn Mongoose. Was he out of his mind? Who wouldn’t want time off? See the kid, for cryin’ out loud. And make love to his wife. Hell, stay in bed for a whole year.

If it were him, he might not want to go home either. But that was different — he didn’t have a home, or a kid, or a wife to go to.

He did have a home, in the Air Force. He was a lifer, and way beyond that. His damn skin was blue.

Mongoose was, too. In a different way.

Maybe he ought to let him stay. It would help the squadron, certainly. And if it helped the squadron, it would help the Air Force, and that made sense.

Knowlington felt his eyes closing. He started to drift off…

Mongoose’s wife yelled at him.

She screamed that he had killed her husband.

The colonel bolted upright in his bed.

It had been a dream, or the start of one, and so vivid that he was trembling from it.

He needed a drink.

Knowlington got up, rubbing his arms against the cold, barely pausing to throw on boots before hiking over to Oz.

CHAPTER 37

Doberman had about as much chance of falling asleep as a butterfly hitching a ride on a Hog. He gave it a decent try— flipping over and over in the cot, pushing his arms into different positions, pulling more blankets on and throwing them off. But it didn’t work.

Klee pissed him off and Dixon worried the shit out of him. The kid was on the team that found the NBC storage site. Which figured. Volunteering to go north with the commandos was pretty stupid, no matter how you looked at it, but it was typical Dixon. The kid reminded Doberman of his brother, reckless in a good-natured, gung-ho, ‘scuse-me-ma’am way. Doberman actually felt a little proud of him— but he didn’t want to see him hurt.

Which made it difficult to sleep. After a few million rolls, he decided to do something about it. He pulled on his clothes and headed toward the Hog pit area.

Rosen and the rest of the crew had been assigned a large tent directly behind the area they were using to maintain the Hogs. Doberman hovered at the entrance a moment, trying to see if anyone was awake. He couldn’t hear anything, but decided to at least step inside and see if someone was stirring.

He got half his right foot across the threshold when something hard, cold and metallic was shoved into his stomach.

“You’re gonna identify your fuckin’ self or there’ll be a nine millimeter hole through your colon.”

“Rosen?”

“Captain Glenon? Sir?”

Doberman started to explain but Rosen reached her hand to his face to shush him.

“Outside,” she said. The pistol was still in his stomach.

Glenon backed out as quickly and as quietly as he could, with Rosen and her gun following. She was wearing a military T-shirt and boxer shorts. Maybe it was the light, maybe it was the Beretta, but Rosen looked damn good.

Better than that. Absolutely beautiful, despite the scowl on her face.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he told her.

“You didn’t startle me. What’s up?”

“I wanted to know how soon we can get the Hogs in the air.”

Her voice softened just a bit. “Now?”

“There’s some sort of trouble north with Dixon’s party. I want to be there.”

Rosen lowered the gun.

“Look, I don’t want you making a big fuss,” Doberman said. He explained what he had heard about the NBC site and the need to evac Dixon’s team. Technically, the Hogs weren’t signed up for the operation— but since he was in charge of the planes, and he was just sitting around…

“Sir, we’ll have those planes ready to fly faster than you can take a leak. You round up your gear and A-Bomb; I’ll get some ordies and take care of everything. Hell, I’ll top you off myself if I have to.”

“Thanks, Sergeant, I appreciate it.”

“No sweat, sir. Uh, you can call me Becky if you want. Most of the guys do.”

God, thought Doberman — she’s hot for me.

“Thanks,” he told her.

“Kick butt,” she said, disappearing back into the tent.

Doberman admired one butt in particular, then got his own in gear.

CHAPTER 38

Some things you could bluff, some things you couldn’t.

A full house, aces over jacks, you couldn’t.

But when you were sitting pretty with five aces — three natural, one permanently wild and one declared in the special version of Hide and Seek Draw Out that A-Bomb had taught the Special Ops officers— there wasn’t much need to bluff.

And while the guys were, in general, good losers, the fact that A-Bomb had completely cleaned out the lot of them made for some less than harmonious comments.

Which didn’t necessarily seem like bluffs either.

Not that he was worried. On the contrary. He had finally arrived at the spot he had been aiming for since joining the game.

“Seeing as how this was your first time playing a Hog pilot,” A-Bomb told them, pushing the chips back into the middle of the table. “I don’t think it’s fair for me to take your money. But there is something you can do for me in return.”

Which was how, with a minimum of haggling (as those things went), A-Bomb ended up behind the wheel of a butt-kicking, desert romping rat mobile, officially known as a “FAV”— for Fast Attack Vehicle.

The FAV was essentially a very fast go-cart with two machine-guns and an AT4 antitank missile launcher. She was a two-seater; the driver, in this instance A-Bomb, sat in the bottom between a light-caliber machine gun and extra gas tanks. Directly behind and above him sat a gunner, in this case Major Wilson, who had drawn the low straw. A-Bomb suspected that in normal operations, the man on top actually had the better seat, since he got to work both the missile launcher and the .50 caliber-machine gun, as well as a lashed-on grenade launcher. But considering that it was nighttime and they weren’t technically authorized to shoot anything— in fact not be technically authorized to drive at all— A-Bomb contented himself with handling the wheel.

And damned if this little buggy didn’t move. It reminded him of an old big-block Chevy he’d had briefly, little ol’ Nova that he’d rebored and jacked up. Bottom line, it couldn’t hold the road worth shit, no matter what he tried doing with the suspension. For a little car it sure felt like a truck, but you stepped on the accelerator and she cranked, baby.

Just like this. The FAV spit sand ferociously as A-Bomb blasted off into the desert. She had a whole row of headlamps but he figured, there being a war on, it didn’t make sense to use them. He could see pretty well with the infra-red night setup he’d insisted on as part of the deal.

Damn helmet was heavy, though.

A-Bomb veered to the right, narrowly missing either a large rock or a buried tank. He thought he heard the major groan, and felt his boot kicking the chair.

“Yeah, I know I can go faster!” shouted A-Bomb. “Hang on!”

He mashed the accelerator pedal. The rat mobile pushed herself down as she picked up speed. They were doing sixty, maybe seventy.

The major’s kicks became more violent.

“It’s at the firewall now,” yelled A-Bomb. “Problem is you got that muffler holding the engine back. You take that off, then we’re talking speed.”

A fence or the edge of the earth loomed ahead. A-Bomb yanked hard right, felt the FAV starting to tip, corrected. Two wheels came off the ground before the go-cart settled down and began accelerating in a new direction.

No wonder Dixon volunteered to go north, thought A-Bomb. He was probably driving one of these right now.

Parachuting and driving a FAV. Some guys had all the luck.

For a brief second, he wished it was him and not Dixon who had gone north. Then he thought again about trying to get his Harley into the Gulf.

Not the good one, just the ’89.

That short moment of inattention caused him to miss the fact that he had headed straight up a dune.

Had he seen it, he would have accelerated.

The FAV flew off the top, launching into the air like an F/A-18 catapulted from an aircraft carrier.

Of course, an F/A-18 had wings. The FAV didn’t. It hit nose first in the sand, somewhat harder than A-Bomb would have expected.

That didn’t stop him from giving a proper war whoop, however.

The major didn’t kick. Obviously he’d decided A-Bomb was going as fast as he could.

The pilot glanced at his watch as he cranked around for another turn. He really ought to be getting back.

Time for one more try.

This time, he managed to get the FAV to accelerate sufficiently to land on the back wheels. The resulting wheelie wasn’t much— barely five seconds long— but it was a hell of a way to end the night.

Doberman was waiting as A-Bomb drove up to the Hogs’ maintenance area. He hopped out of the vehicle and turned to help the major down. But the Special Ops officer waved him off.

The light wasn’t that good, but it seemed to A-Bomb the major looked a little under the weather. Probably the homemade hooch.

“Where the hell have you been?” Doberman demanded. “We’re going to back up that helo flight that’s picking up Dixon. The Hogs are fueled and armed.”

“About time you got out of bed,” said A-Bomb, starting to trot toward the shack where his gear was stored. “Be with you in two minutes.”

“Make it one.”

“I don’t think Tinman can brew the coffee that fast,” A-Bomb yelled back. “But I’ll have him try.”

CHAPTER 39

The F-111F had barely taken off from its airfield, joining the rest of the package on a precision-strike deep into Iraq when the AWACS controller broke in with a change in plans.

Captain Jay “Heavy” Muir, sitting in his weapon officer’s slot next to the pilot, pushed back in his seat as the new target info came in: a suspected NBC site near the Euphrates. Heavy’s mind clicked, erasing everything it had stored about the aircraft shelter they were originally tasked, then rebooting for the new challenge.

Among other things, Heavy handled the Aardvark’s Pave Tack radar, which guided the big laser-guided bombs strapped beneath their wings. Heavy was rated the best operator in the squadron, which made him among the best in the Air Force, so he didn’t consider the new mission itself that difficult. Still, the change in plans put a fresh kink in his already wrenched neck. Especially when he was told that his aim point was a small exhaust pipe on the side of a hill in an old quarry. That wouldn’t be particularly easy to spot on the targeting screen. He had no photo, no briefing folder, nothing more than a vague description and a set of coordinates to help prompt him.

“Needle in a rock pile,” said his pilot, Captain Chris Klecko, as they laid out the new course.

“Yeah,” said Heavy. He studied his paper map, letting the details soak in. The pipe was in a rock quarry, above a large metal door. Just a pipe, not even a full ventilation system.

Not easy. But yesterday he had put a pair of Paveways down a chimney.

The idea here was just to break the top of the shelter. His Paveways were serious hunks of explosives. He didn’t have to hit the pipe, exactly.

But he would. As soon as he could see it in his head.

“Doable?” asked Klecko.

“Oh yeah,” said Muir. “Assuming we can find it.”

“We should have plenty of time. They want it splashed by 0500. We’ll be there by 0400, latest.”

Muir closed his eyes, clearing everything else away. “I’ll get it,” he told Klecko.

CHAPTER 40

The first thing Dixon thought when he heard the noise was that his friends in the truck were returning. A half-second later he realized it was far too loud to be just one vehicle.

He shifted around behind the rocks near the sergeant, pulling the M-16 and its grenade launcher next to him but not shouldering the weapon. He was so cold he was shivering. They’d left him with one of the night scopes and it felt like an ice cube when he held it to his face.

An armored personnel carrier was leading a pair of light trucks on the highway; there was another APC, and maybe a second and third in the blur behind. A tank loomed behind them like a vast battleship on the horizon. It took a moment for his eyes to separate enough detail so he could tell that it was riding on a flatbed.

There were two other flatbeds.

More tanks. No, these were self-propelled guns. Anti-air, or maybe tracked howitzers.

Anti-air. Four barrels. ZSU-23s.

Dixon glanced down at his watch. The helicopter was a half-hour away.

He pushed back against the rocks as the lead elements of the procession rounded the bend. They’d be at the cave in a minute to start setting up their defenses.

No way the helo was getting in with those guns. Dixon had to leave or he’d be trapped.

Winston rasped gently. He had a smile on his face. The morphine, maybe.

I’m not leaving him, Dixon decided. Even if it means taking on the whole damn Iraqi army.

Which it might.

Several trucks in the convoy didn’t have mufflers. The roar against the sheer rocks was deafening. The noise surrounded him, shaking every part of his body.

The trucks were all around him.

And beyond, still on the highway. Still moving.

Dixon scrambled to his feet. Clutching his rifle, he went out to the slope where he could get a view of the highway. He was exposed momentarily, but it was dark. Unless someone was looking directly at him, he’d be hard to spot.

He saw the large shadow of an armored personnel carrier speeding away. Then the tank carrier. And the rest.

Dixon couldn’t help feeling enormous relief, even though he knew the heavily armed convoy was heading in the direction of the Cornfield.

CHAPTER 41

Captain Hawkins found himself leaning forward in the helicopter, as if his weight might add more momentum to its speed.

The Little Bird was cranking, but it wasn’t going fast enough. Hawkins needed it there now, at the Cornfield, his men climbing aboard, the helo taking off.

With the exception of his Air Force FAC, he knew all of the members of the Ruth team. Green, who had been killed, had worked with him just a few days before. Green had filled the medic slot for Ruth, but had also worked point and como in recent missions.

Was. Past tense. They’d get his body back when this was over. Maybe there’d be enough time to get it back now.

Hawkins turned to the pilot. Fernandez tapped his watch but said nothing.

He was counseling him to be patient. They were ahead of schedule.

The AH-6Gs were skimming about six feet over the terrain. Hawkins, who unlike the pilot wasn’t wearing the night-vision goggles, braced himself against the side of the helo and stared into the darkness. The ground below was patchy scrubland, becoming more fertile the further they went. For him that meant there were more people in the area, more things that could go wrong.

The AWACS told them bombing attack would now probably coincide with their pickup. Fernandez assured him they’d be far enough away. It would be a good diversion really, in case anyone was nearby or watching.

You planned, you trained, you tried to cover every contingency, but you couldn’t. That was part of the excitement of it, part of what made it almost fun.

Except it wasn’t fun, because it was way the hell too serious. It was a job, a work, something with severe consequences While he didn’t consider the new mission itself that difficult — like dead friends.

The helicopter flicked briefly to the right. Hawkins’s arm was so tense it felt like it was going to snap in two against the metal panel.

In-out. No sweat.

They had the mesh units in place, but his runway was still way too short. Tomorrow night, a Herc was supposed to try dropping some motorcycles by parachute. Hawkins wondered if he could somehow arrange to get a bulldozer instead. Move the culvert into place and then fill around it. Cover it with mesh. The runway’d be two thousand, three thousand feet in no time.

Could they parachute a bulldozer?

Sure they could. Goddamn combat engineers could do just about anything. Hell, one would probably ride it down.

“Shit,” said the pilot.

Hawkins looked up and saw the bright red tracers arcing ahead. A pepper of green flared from the opposite direction.

“Looks like a problem,” said the pilot. “Big fucking problem. LZ is hot.”

Aside from a string of curses, it was the last coherent thing Hawkins heard him say.

CHAPTER 42

Heavy pushed himself upright in his seat, working his neck around to loosen his muscles. The Vark weapons officer had first gotten the kink from a fall on a 5.12 climb in the Idaho Sawtooths two days before the deployment orders came through. Nothing he had tried While he didn’t consider the new mission itself that difficult While he didn’t consider the new mission itself that difficult— aspirin, massages, home-brew— had cured it. Short of sticking his neck in front of his F-111F’s radar for half an hour, he was willing to do anything, even see a chiropractor, to get permanent relief.

He hadn’t found one in Saudi Arabia yet. And the medical doctor he had found gave him lousy advice, fortunately unofficial: take a few weeks off.

That he wouldn’t do.

Heavy’s job entailed putting his face into a small view screen for as long as it took to designate and vaporize whatever Black Hole wanted smashed. This magnified the kink into something abominable, since inevitably it tensed every muscle in his shoulder and back. While he knew it would feel better if he relaxed, that was tough to do when the F-111 was cranking at 650 knots at two hundred feet above the ground.

They’d been doing that now for nearly ten minutes, thanks to Heavy’s detection of some over-achieving Iraqi SAM operators in their path. But such was war.

Klecko gave him a quick tap. The two men had worked side by side in the F-111’s unique cockpit for more than a year. They had long ago given up using words during the business part of a mission; communication was more like ESP. Every gesture, every word, was densely packed code. The tap just now meant half a dozen things, including “Are you okay?” and “We’re just about there.”

Heavy gave Klekco a thumb’s up and got his head back into the game.

The quartet of Paveway III laser-guided bombs beneath the F-111’s variable-geometry swept wings were controlled with the use of a revolving laser designator carried in a pod glued to the F-111’s belly. Once they found their target, Klecko would buck the Vark upwards and they’d pickle, lofting the missiles toward the NBC facility. Rolling ninety degrees, the pilot would give his weapons officer— aka “you over there” in the Vark community— a nice long look at the target. Heavy would steady the laser designator where he wanted the bombs to hit. The Paveways would fly their two-thousand pound payload of explosives right to the spot.

The tactic was called a “ramp toss,” as if the plane were running up a ramp and throwing the bomb at its target. It wasn’t necessarily the easiest way to hit something but they had practiced it extensively and used it from the first night of the war.

And despite what it did to his neck, Heavy liked it.

Of course, he also liked 5.12 climbs.

The ground erupted with tracers to their north. Heavy realized immediately that they weren’t being shot at, but it took a second for him to wrestle his eyes and full attention back in the direction of their rock quarry, just now coming into view.

He scanned carefully but quickly for his aim point, the small pipe on the side of a hill above a shallow rock face. Something inside his brain clicked, and he forgot not merely about the tracers but about his shoulder, the seat, the physical parts of the viewer, the cockpit, the world. He was in full hunter mode, sifting and searching, running his eyes deliberately against the shades of gray, searching for the one particular shadow he wanted. He was on the rock face, eyes straining for the infinitesimally small nub that would friction him up two more feet, the handhold that would get him closer to his goal.

Not there.

Patience.

Not there.

He was shocked to see the miniature outline of two men in his viewer.

A hallucination? His neck spiked stiff, pulling every muscle from his ears to his toes into spasm.

Relax.

His eyes climbed the rock, scaling it slowly, looking for the pipe, his pipe.

Patience. He would find it. It was just a matter of working the screen, feeling the rock.

Patience.

CHAPTER 43

Even as he cursed, the helo pilot began firing his 50-caliber machine guns into the Iraqi position. In the confusion and the dark, Hawkins couldn’t immediately tell what they were facing, but it was obvious there was serious firepower down there. He tried patching into the AWACS, hoping to get some support. But the chopper was too low to get the controller directly, and when the E-3 Sentry AWACS operator failed to acknowledge his second try, Hawkins tried his ground team instead.

They didn’t answer either. He could tell from their red tracers where they were, however; he told Fernandez and the pilot behind them to roll up the flank of the Iraqis, drawing their attention at least temporarily away.

The pilots were a step ahead of him, sweeping in with a coordinated rocket attack. Hawkin’s chopper stuttered with the force of the 70 mm rockets gushing from the tubes on both stubby wings; he felt himself buck forward and then wrench violently to the side. The Little Bird’s machine guns opened up again, a quick burst that perforated a black shadow 250 yards away. The shadow turned into the outline of an APC, which morphed into red flame.

Someone was hailing him on the radio but in the confusion Hawkins couldn’t hear precisely what they were saying. He pointed to the spot he wanted the chopper to fly to, and felt the aircraft comply immediately, as if it and not the pilot were responding to his command.

A new line of tracers erupted on his right, arcing away; these were thicker than the others, colored green— the enemy. Hawkins felt the AH-6G twist to get a better aim on this new threat, saw the line of bullets beginning to turn as they did.

“Get that son of a bitch!” he shouted, and in the next second something happened to the front of the helicopter; it seemed as if it were the outside of a giant tea kettle suddenly bursting with steam. Hawkins looked at the pilot, saw that he was bent over his control stick, and then felt the ground ram against the skis beneath his legs.

CHAPTER 44

The first flickers of the firefight looked like a fireworks display, errant sparkles shooting off at odd angles.

Then it turned into green and orange roman candles, rockets flashing, white streaks igniting everywhere.

Then a piece of hell opened up, volcanoes spitting fireballs into the air.

Dixon watched it all as if IT were a movie. This seemed different than real combat. Combat was flying a Hog and shacking a target, g’s hitting you in the face as you pulled up and whacked yourself the hell out of there. That was real. You felt that. Your head swam with blood and sweat. You struggled to keep your eyes cold and hard and focused. You tried to hit your buttons on time. It screamed in your face and it was real.

This was far away and surreal. He could feel the ground shake with the explosions, but it didn’t feel like war.

His friends, Leteri, Turk, the others, were in the middle of it. They were shooting, maybe dying. But it was so unreal it didn’t make sense.

Except for this: The gunfight probably meant the helicopters wouldn’t be coming for him.

He looked at his watch. The bomber would have taken off by now. He wasn’t sure what they would send. Most likely it would be an F-111 or a Nighthawk, something with fat, laser-guided weapons. Most likely, they’d aim for the pipe he’d spotted.

Winston coughed. The sergeant wasn’t smiling any more. His expression was bland and pasty. Dixon leaned over and checked for a pulse. He didn’t find it at first; frantically, he pushed his thumb around the bone at the inside of the sergeant’s wrist. Finally, he got a beat.

Not strong, but there.

Odds were, Winston was bleeding internally. Back was all shot up; probably he was already paralyzed. He was coughing. Dixon knew from his mother that wasn’t a good sign. Probably meant his lungs were filling up with fluid.

He’d die soon; certainly, if they couldn’t evac him.

Dixon cursed himself for not demanding an immediate evac the second they got out of the minefield. They should have been out of here hours ago.

Maybe not.

Shit, what did he want? They were closer to Baghdad than Saudi Arabia.

Winston knew that when he volunteered for the mission.

So did he.

Not really. He hadn’t thought it out. He hadn’t figured that shooting his mouth off about skydiving would lead him to find a hidden Iraqi bunker in a rock quarry, divide him from his team, and get them ambushed.

He hadn’t thought that staying with Winston would mean he’d be stranded. He might have known it was a possibility, but he hadn’t really played it out, actually picturing it happening.

He had to now. Because without the helicopters, he and Winston were a hell of a long way from anyplace good. Whatever happened next was going to depend a hell of a lot on what he thought out. And more importantly, on what he did.

CHAPTER 45

Hawkins coughed ferociously, trying to dislodge something from his throat. It was big and felt like a Brillo pad, scratching tender flesh. He coughed and coughed, arms drained of feeling, head spinning.

It flew out. Moisture flooded onto his face and chin. He looked down, saw he had spat up blood.

But he could breathe again. He pushed himself up, then remembered he was strapped in the helicopter.

But he wasn’t. He was free. The helicopter was a few feet away. He’d stumbled out somehow, just after it crash landed. He was sitting on the ground. Hawkins stood up, reaching to his belt for his pistol, then felt himself yanked back to the ground.

A quick burst of rifle fire ragged the air above him.

“Hang tight, Captain.”

The voice was familiar. Leteri or Ziza, one of the New Yorkers. He twisted to see who it was. Instead, he was distracted by the white light of a shell hitting in the distance.

“Assholes don’t know quite where we are.”

It was Mo Ziza. He quickly laid out the situation. The team had been surrounded by the Iraqis, who acted like they knew the commandos were there but couldn’t locate them in the dark. The Iraqis had mounted the hilltop overlooking the road, posting about a dozen soldiers there while the rest of the heavy stuff stayed between the plateau and the road. Rather than letting the helicopters walk into an ambush, the troopers had opened fire as soon as they heard the helos approaching; they’d managed to wipe out the bastards on the high ground even before the rest of the Iraqis began to return fire.

“We disabled one of the APCs before you got here but then they got lucky,” said Ziza. “Joe Leteri and Bobby Jackson are dead. Turk’s still holding them off up there.”

“Where’s Winston?”

“Sergeant Winston couldn’t travel. Lieutenant Dixon stayed back with him at Sugar Mountain.”

“What?” Hawkins struggled to clear his head. “Shit. Why the fuck didn’t you radio that in?”

“We tried. Radio got hit when we walked into those mines.”

“Dixon?”

“He didn’t want to leave the sergeant.”

“No shit. Why the fuck did you let him stay?”

“He told us it was an order.”

“Oh fuck that, he’s a goddamn pilot. Shit fucking hell.”

“He’s got balls for a pilot.”

“The helicopter. Fernandez.” Hawkins jumped up and ran back to the chopper. Ziza followed, reaching him just as Hawkins got to the door.

Fernandez was slumped forward in his harness, chest, neck and head laced with bullets.

A line of holes arced up across the top of the AH-6G’s front glass. Otherwise the chopper seemed in good shape, though he was far from a mechanic. Or a pilot. He didn’t even know how to turn the panel on.

A fresh round of gunfire sounded from the Iraqis position beyond the hilltop plateau. His second helo passed overhead, unleashing machine-gun fire in that direction.

“How the hell did they get Fernandez and miss me?” Hawkins said as he ducked.

“They didn’t. The side of your head’s bleeding.”

Hawkins touched his temple. It was wet. He pushed his finger gently along the skin, felt something small and sharp; a piece of metal or glass. But it must not be serious or he’d be dead; unconscious at least.

“All right, let’s go get Turk and get the fuck out of here while we still can,” he told Ziza. “Show me the way.”

Ziza stooped slightly as he trotted. Hawkins huffed to keep up. He had a good feel for the situation now, had it laid out in his head.

His other helo was behind them somewhere. They would retreat and get picked up. Swing around and get Dixon and Winston. Go back to Fort Apache. Get their one spare pilot, maybe a mechanic. Bring back the downed helo.

Mechanic had broken his leg; wasn’t going anywhere.

Fuck that. He’d cart him there in a stretcher if they had to.

Ziza slid in behind the hulked ruins of an Iraqi truck as the enemy began firing mortar rounds. They were way off the mark and their first corrections were in the wrong direction. Hawkins ducked nonetheless, trotting toward Ziza and Staffa Turk. Turk was hunkered over guns on one end of a wrecked Iraqi vehicle. Four or five dead Iraqi soldiers lay on the ground, most still clutching their weapons.

The Iraqi mortar stopped firing. Turk nodded at the captain, then handed his starlight viewer to Hawkins, pointing out the Iraqi forces.

“They seem to think we’re still up on the hill,” he said, pointing to the rise on his left. “That APC has sat there since one of the choppers opened up. It’s got a gun and it works, but maybe its wheels are gone on the other side. I can’t tell. There’s about a squad of men clustered around that truck, and maybe three more over there with that one. Something fired once from there; I heard it, but that was it. Sounded like it might have been a grenade launcher, but then I thought mortar. Shell landed closer to Baghdad than to me.”

Hawkins scanned the positions. There were two wrecked APCs between them and the main body of the Iraqi force. Further right was a tracked vehicle with a four-barrel turret; obviously an anti-aircraft gun, though it would be deadly against ground forces. The enemy troops were arrayed as if the threat lay on the plateau, which rose about twenty-five yards to his left.

“What’s behind these guys?” he asked Green.

“Out to the road? There’s at least one tank. I heard it moving around before. You figure they stopped shooting because they think we’re all dead?”

Hawkins laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I think.”

Both men knew the Iraqis were merely regrouping.

“I’ll give them one thing,” said Ziza. “They’re smart enough not to fire a flare.”

“That’s only because they don’t know how outgunned we are,” said Hawkins. “We have to drop back and hook up with the helicopter before they figure it out.”

“Assuming he’s still here,” said Ziza. “I haven’t heard him for a few minutes.”

“He’s there.” Hawkins knew the pilot would take the AH-6G back and watch for them.

Have to move now, though. Any second the Iraqis might get their shit together and realize where the Americans were. Tanks could roll them up here.

“Okay, let’s pull back in the direction of that chopper,” said Hawkins. He pointed to the downed helicopter. “We’ll go to the helicopter, then move back into that open area. There’s a shallow ridge maybe a mile beyond us. That’s probably where the other helo is.”

He got up.

“Ziza, you lead the way.” He pushed him forward, waited a second, then tugged Turk. There was a flash behind them. Truck engines revved. He ran like his life depended on it.

Which it did. The Iraqis realized they were no longer on the hill and were coming across the plain.

“Tank!” yelled Ziza as something whizzed through the air ahead. “Tank’s firing!”

Hawkins fell toward the ground, spinning away from a white-red flash that momentarily silhouetted the middle of a large, hulking shadow.

In the next second, a fierce shriek split the earth ahead. Hawkins realized he and his men were doomed.

Then, an enormous white metallic light turned black Hell into bright Heaven. The air was rent by the concussion of a three-hundred-pound shaped Maverick G warhead smashing open the top of an Iraqi tank and incinerating its crew.

The commandos’ guardian angels had arrived.

CHAPTER 46

Doberman heard A-Bomb shout over the radio as the Maverick flashed dead on the turret of the T-72 tank, bursting through the relatively thin coat of armor and exploding inside. Forty tons of Iraqi metal went from an average 37 degrees Fahrenheit to over 300 in a half second. The turret popped up like the top on a boiling pot of water and the only thing that escaped was steam and ashes.

Doberman saw part of the tank begin to burn in the bottom corner of the Maverick’s cathode-ray tube as he edged the aiming cursor into the shadow of the APC. But he couldn’t set it— the damn pipper wouldn’t stay pipped. He cursed and relaxed his fingers, trying to feel himself into the target, then lost it completely. He felt the plane buck as the anti-aircraft gun on the edge of the Iraqi position finally figured out where the hell he was. He yanked to throw the gunner off, saw the cursor slap into place, steadied the plane, but lost the target again.

Doberman took a hard breath and got it back, did his thumb thing quick— bing, bang, bam— and nailed it down tight. He pickled the Maverick and kicked the god-damn missile into gear. By now the air around him was percolating with exploding flak shells. Doberman jinked hard, blood and gravity rushing to his head as he reached to key his mike and ask A-Bomb where the hell he was. The ground rippled brilliant red as it filled the top and side of his cockpit’s bubble glass. Doberman let the Hog fall into a swoop as he realized the triple-A had stopped; A-Bomb had just taken out the gun.

Okay, he thought to himself, points for timing.

Without the Maverick Gs, Doberman could make out only shadows and fires on the ground. Swinging behind the Iraqi position, away from the Americans, he called A-Bomb off, then fired one of the illumination flares his ground crew had thoughtfully packed under his wings. As the flare ignited beneath its slow-falling chute, Doberman spun back to the attack. The battlefield splayed out in his windscreen, Iraqi metal fat and juicy beneath him.

He nosed down to get a good bombing angle, slanting onto the thickest part of the Iraqi position between the road and the side of a shallow plateau. A fat truck with a machine-gun or something similarly impotent spat at him in the middle of his windscreen, while the shadows of rats scurried away. He stayed cool, in control, got his mark. He pushed the bomb trigger.

After he let off, he realized he’d skipped his bing-bang-bam ritual. He also realized he’d drifted off target as he pickled. His iron landed well behind the truck.

Recovering, he temporarily lost sight of the battlefield and its white and red glow. A-Bomb’s plane pulled out about half a mile ahead; shadows danced against the stars as his wingmate’s bombs exploded. Doberman banked, getting the battlefield full in the right half of his cockpit glass. There were a lot of small fires but as near as he could tell, no more tracers.

“What do you think?” asked A-Bomb.

“I missed,” said Doberman.

“No way. Everything’s dead.”

“I want to take another turn to make sure,” said Doberman.

“If that helo’s going in, he’s going soon. Fuel’s low.”

“Yeah, okay. Hang back.”

Doberman put the Hog on her wing, tightening his circle to shoot over the battlefield. Something about the fading glow of the ground bothered him.

The helicopter was an easy shot for anyone on that plateau. The pilot wasn’t in radio contact with the ground forces and would have to take his time looking for them.

Iraqi soldier could make himself a hero real quick by playing dead, then pop up with a little ol’ SA-16 and whack the helicopter to Kingdom Come.

Even nail him with a machine-gun from that hill. Even a lucky shot would take him down.

Screw luck.

He came over quick but saw nothing.

Still didn’t feel right.

“I’m dropping a flare at the far end,” he told A-Bomb. “Then let’s take a pass and see if anybody shoots at us.”

“I got your butt,” said his wingman.

CHAPTER 47

Talk about crappy timing:

A-Bomb was pitching the Hog onto her wing, Jethro Tull was wailing about Aqualung, and the damn batteries in his custom CD player ran out:

“Hey there, Ack — wuhhhhhhhhhh-lunnnnnnnnggg”

Click. Dead stop.

There was nothing worse than losing the juice on a golden oldie. A-Bomb hit the player several times as he swooped behind and to the east of Doberman, both Hogs waltzing slow and easy over the entire Iraqi position. They were easy targets at five hundred feet, the flare above them.

Son of a bitch. He’d changed the batteries before the last flight. And they were alkalines. No reason for them to give out, especially now. You needed a sound track this low.

And damn, he loved the classics.

A-Bomb felt a little naked, hand on the throttle, ready to flood the gates if his RWR or instincts told him something was coming. His eyes darted in every direction, scanning the ground like sophisticated radar.

Worst thing was, he didn’t have spare batteries aboard.

Inexcusable, really. Kind of thing they drummed into you in basic, for christsakes, like always check your fuel before taking off and never go anywhere without an extra set of underwear.

The Iraqis, obviously unaware that he was so vulnerable, made no move to attack. A-Bomb pushed the Hog around into a bank, playing follow the leader. As he did, his fingers flew into his suit, flicking the player on and off, hoping to squeeze a last volt from them.

Still nothing.

Maybe he could get one of Clyston’s guys to rig up some sort of power draw off the Hog itself. Need a transformer or something, but how hard could that be to get?

Hog’s only flaw— no built in stereo.

“See anything?” asked Doberman.

“Nah.”

“Let’s take another pass. I’m going lower.”

“You worried about something?”

“Just making sure.”

A-Bomb was just making his turn when Doberman barked something over the radio. The front of the lead plane began spitting bullets, the tracers dancing a tight line down to the edge of the hill in front of them. A-Bomb swooped around and upwards, trying to quickly build altitude to get his own run in, but by the time he was reoriented it was over. The flare gave him a good view; nothing was moving. Doberman was already circling out.

“Shit, what happened?” he asked Doberman.

“Thought I saw something. Maybe not.”

Dead now, if anything, Dog Man,” said A-Bomb.

“Yeah, OK, I’m bringing the helo.”

“I’m doing a pass and clearing west,” said A-Bomb. The Hog gave a throaty roar as she hunkered down into the fumes of the vanquished enemy. She loved being here, and snorted for more, as if the cannon’s ammunition drum were overloaded and she could only get some relief by blowing a couple of hundred rounds.

A-Bomb wanted to oblige her, and scanned the approaching shadows and curling smoke for signs of the enemy. He realized now that he shouldn’t have cashed his chips in for the buggy ride— what he really wanted, damn it, was a set of night-vision binoculars. That was what he was talking about. A pair of those suckers and he could see fleas moving down there.

Something was running in the corner of his screen, down on the flat plain where the commando helo had gone down. He gave rudder to line up better, trigger ready. Every part of his body was in the windscreen, inching into the target.

One shadow, two, three.

His guys? Or the enemy?

Damn music would have told him. Music gave him a sense of things. Flying without music was like flying blind.

Worse.

The helicopter was between him and his target. He slipped right, riding the Hog as slow as his old pickup truck in reverse. It wasn’t easy to nail something as small as a man.

Wax ‘em or let them go? He strained to get a good view in the darkness.

Should he shoot or let ‘em go?

Clash song.

Which was another thing: He’d left his Clash CD back at King Fahd.

A-Bomb swung low, pushing the Hog into the dirt. The three shadows loomed in the crosshairs. He had them easy, felt the trigger starting to give way under the pressure of his finger.

Something made him hold off. They threw themselves on the ground as he passed. He picked the Hog up by her tail, flopped around and back for another run. He was low now, really, really low, even for a Hog, barely twenty feet off the ground. He was going slow enough to land — or stall, which would pretty much be the same thing.

His guys or the enemy? The helicopter popped up from behind a small rise not far away. Any of these guys could take her out with a pop gun.

The Gat jumped up and down below his feet. He had all three shadows dead on, dead if he wanted, but now, only now.

Had to be his guys.

If they weren’t, his guys were dead.

“It always tease, tease, tease, tease,” he sang, supplying his own music from the Clash song.

Definitely his guys. He gave them a barrel roll as he passed overhead.

“We got something moving up there on the highway, ten miles,” said Doberman. “Other side of Sugar Mountain. They’re cranking.”

“I got people moving here.”

“Ours,” said Doberman. “Helo’s got ‘em. Come on.”

A-Bomb leaned his head back as he accelerated to follow. What song should he try next?

CHAPTER 48

Hawkins gripped his grenade launcher as a second shadow erupted near the tank, this one bursting into a brilliant all of fire.

“The Hogs!” Ziza shouted as the dark shadow of an A-10A crossed against the flickering flames. A stream of red tracers erupted from the anti-aircraft gun — and then it too erupted in an explosion. Hawkins and his two men stood and gaped as the warplanes ripped up their enemy. In less than ninety seconds, the entire Iraqi contingent had been vacuumed away. A flare exploded above. The commandos watched in awe as the ugly forks of death mopped up.

The A-10’s were the last thing the Iraqi force had been expecting. They were about the last thing Hawkins had been expecting as well.

But shit damn, they had great timing.

“Let’s go,” he shouted, jumping into gear as the airplanes took a breather. The three commandos began running toward the open plain where they expected the helicopter to appear.

He’d taken two steps when Hawkins felt something in his leg tear. He began to limp, then nearly fell over.

One of the Hogs came in low, thundering overhead. They were supposed to be quiet for jets, but damned if the plane’s engines didn’t sound like tigers spoiling for a fight. Pushing back to his feet, he decided he loved that sound.

The helicopter came over the far hill and blinked a searchlight, either to show them where it was or to tell them to get their butts in gear. His leg was fucked up bad, and he felt blood as he reached down to hold it, hobbling forward. Turk grabbed him by the arm, half supporting him, half pushing.

The Hog took another turn overhead, like a sheepdog pushing her lost lambs toward the shepherd. The helo was less than fifty yards away, loud and beautiful in the fading flare light.

Hawkins would have sworn the A-10 pilot gave him a victory roll before pulling off.

CHAPTER 49

Heavy felt the F-111F move ever so slightly to his left, Klecko compensating for some turbulence.

In the next instant he found their target.

“Yes!” he shouted, and the plane popped upward. In the next few seconds a million things happened, but as far as Heavy was concerned, nothing, absolutely nothing happened: he kept the thin needle of laser light trained on one infinitesimally small shadow of a pipe. The plane banked and rolled out, wings swinging and Pratt and Whitney’s whining. The Paveways edged their fins and adjusted their glide slopes, striving toward the laser pinprick. Heavy just sat there, all 136 pounds of flesh, bone and muscle thrown into a small dot in the middle of a thin shadow near the center of his target screen. His eyes, his brain, his fingers were all there, all locked, as much part of the bombs as part of him.

The shadow mushroomed into whiteness once, then again and again. The fourth bomb either missed or malfunctioned or he just totally lost it. They were gone now, cranking away, accelerating and he let himself ease back, taking a break to celebrate.

“Good,” said Klecko.

“Good,” Heavy said back.

And damn if his neck didn’t hurt like hell.

CHAPTER 50

Hawkins threw himself at the door of the helicopter. Turk grabbed him and pulled as the AH-6 began moving away, its pilot trying to get the hell out while the getting out was good.

Hawkins rolled on the floor, got up, and then wedged himself between the two front seats. He was practically kissing the control panel.

“Go to Sugar Mountain,” he told the pilot. “The rock quarry. We got two guys waiting for us there.”

“With all due respect, sir, we’re going to be lucky if we get back to the Fort. Real lucky,” said the pilot. “Part of our tail’s shot up and the gauges say the fuel’s iffy.”

“Screw that,” said Hawkins.

The pilot grimaced but began an arc in the northward direction toward the quarry. Hawkins managed to squeeze into the forward seat, changing places with Quilly. He wasn’t quite settled when the Hogs radioed the helicopter to tell the commandos they had spotted a new convoy heading east on the highway. The column had trucks and tanks and was about four, maybe five miles from Sugar Mountain.

“They’re going to see us, maybe even beat us if they stay on the road,” said the pilot.

“What about the Hogs?” Hawkins asked. “Can they take those bastards down?”

“One of them just called bingo,” said the pilot. “They’re low on fuel. They’re engaging the vehicles on the highway but they’re going to have to break off.”

“Just get us the fuck there!” said Hawkins.

As the pilot picked up the tail and began scooting toward the mountain, the horizon flashed white. The Little Bird’s FLIR went crazy for a second.

“Bomber just took out the bunker,” said the pilot.

“Fuck,” said Hawkins.

“Hogs are bingo. They’re breaking off. What are we doing, sir?”

As much as he didn’t want to leave his men, Hawkins realized going to Sugar Mountain now was beyond foolish. They might not even be alive, depending on where they were when the bombs hit.

In every battle, there was a time to regroup. It wasn’t necessarily the time you wanted it to be, but if you didn’t recognize it, you usually didn’t get a chance to fight again.

“Back to the Fort,” said Hawkins. “Son of a bitch. Son of a fucking bitch.”

CHAPTER 51

Doberman squeezed his stick tight enough to wring water from it as he got the cannon into the second truck. Hot uranium mixed with explosives as he erased the utility vehicle from the Iraqi order of battle. He tried pushing his rudder enough to get a shot on another vehicle but ran out of space and time, pulling off and flashing to the right so A-Bomb could come in on his own run.

He figured it was safer to smash them without using the flares; the shadows were thick enough, and while it wasn’t necessarily easy to sort what was what, the Iraqis were totally confused and probably defenseless. The few thin tracers raking the air arced in the wrong direction.

Unfortunately, he was into his fuel reserves.

Time to go home.

A-Bomb pulled up, his green and black camo a blur in the dawn light.

“How’s your fuel?” Doberman asked his wingman.

“Yeah, I’m bingo.”

Doberman got their position on the INS and called it in to the AWACS. Then he checked in with the commandos’ helicopter.

“We ought to refuel at Apache,” said A-Bomb after they had set sail southwards.

“You figure out how to land in a thousand feet and take off again, let me know.”

“They’ll have fifteen hundred feet with the mesh they’re talking about,” said A-Bomb. “That’s more than enough.”

“They got bullets and Twinkies?”

“Negative.”

“Then I guess we’re going back to Al Jouf.”

“Man, you’re a grouch in the morning. You ought to drink more coffee.”

“Hold your thermos out and I’ll grab a cup.”

“You got it.”

Doberman half-suspected A-Bomb might try it. He fought the twinge of fatigue tickling the corners of his eyes. Then, he tapped into the commandos’ frequency and hailed the helo pilot, who by now was almost at Fort Apache.

“I understand one of our guys was on your mission,” he told the pilot. “Like to say hi if I can. Lieutenant Dixon?”

“Dixon’s still on Sugar Mountain,” said Doberman. “Squad leader got hurt and he stayed with him.”

“What?”

Another voice, obviously angry, cut off the pilot’s answer with a single word: “Out.”

Even though he understood the need for the silent com, ordinarily Doberman would have taken offense to the tone. But all he could think about was the hole in his stomach, even as he reached to see if the throttle could cough up some extra horses.