Slaughterhouse

SEVENTEEN.

A voice crackled in Dekker’s radio headset. “Six, this is One. Hueys are inbound, single file formation. I can see them over the terminal building. Over.”

Dekker heard the characteristic racket the Hueys generated over the buzzing rumble of the final Black Hawk as it lifted off. He turned toward the passenger terminal building, but he couldn’t see anything. Nomad One was the tactical designation of the MRAP at the entrance to the helicopter assembly area, and the gunner there had elevation on his side. His sightline was superior to what Dekker had, standing on the deck.

“Can you hit them, One? Over.”

“I can try, Six. Over.”

“Light ’em up! Fire for effect!” Dekker shouted as he ran back toward the MRAP. The Air Force guys in the M249 SAW nest were hunkering down, getting ready for action. Farther downrange, a second machinegun position was also getting squared away, not that there was much to do in the way of preparation. Everyone was cocked and locked, and a final radio check had been conducted. Everyone could talk to each other, and the aviators were staying within range.

Even though the Black Hawks weren’t outfitted with heavy weapons, every helicopter had two pintle-mounted M240 machineguns, one on each side. Dekker and the aviation commander agreed that the UH-60s shouldn’t be used as attack platforms, but they could certainly provide covering fires if required, as well as airborne surveillance. Avoiding the Hueys wouldn’t be terribly difficult for them, since the Black Hawks enjoyed a fifty-knot speed advantage. Dekker was thankful the helicopters were remaining nearby. He was sure Nomad could use their assistance.