Sniper Elite: One-Way Trip

CHAPTER 53

As far as General Couture was concerned, the moment that Sandra Brux’s Mayday call went out over the emergency band, the entire game changed. He didn’t require the president’s permission to commence rescue operations for a downed pilot of either sex.

“Chief Shannon’s one clever son of a bitch, Captain. He’s left us no choice but to help him.” He turned his back to the screen. “Okay, listen up! I want two alert F-16s scrambled out of Bagram, right now — with whatever they’re carrying — and find out exactly where our airborne B-52s are. I want to keep those bastards in the mountains at bay until we can get a napalm strike in there! Get those Air Force helos inbound for the extraction, and tell them they’re flying into a hot LZ. Also, I want SOAR prepped and standing by to back them up in case this goes to shit. Lastly, somebody find out who the hell Big Ten is and what the hell kind of support he’s providing.”

“Sir, I’ve already got Big Ten here on the flight roster!”

“Feed me, Sergeant.”

The sergeant poked his head out from behind his computer screen. “It looks like he might be a CIA Spectre gunship, sir, but it’s… well, it’s confusing. I’ve cross-referenced the tail number, and this aircraft was supposed to have been taken out service back in ’98. Which doesn’t make any sense because on the next page it says it’s presently based out of Diego Garcia. So I don’t know what the hell to make of it, sir. I think we’re safe to assume that it landed in Jalalabad early yesterday for unspecified electrical repairs… but I can’t guarantee it, sir.”

“Where’s it supposed to be now, Sergeant?”

“Says here, sir, that it departed Jalalabad forty-five minutes ago, bound for Kabul.”

Couture turned toward Metcalf, hands on his hips. “For unspecified electrical repairs,” he echoed. “And since nobody in Jalalabad would ever dream of poking around in CIA business…”

Metcalf lifted his eyebrows and looked toward the console. “Sergeant, what’s the airplane’s configuration? Are we talking about a run-of-the-mill Spectre?”

The sergeant ran his hands over the keyboard. “It doesn’t look like it, Captain. This aircraft keeps changing its designation. It’s been listed as damn near everything at one point… a Combat Talon I, Combat Talon II, Dragon Spear, Spectre… a Combat Shadow, a Commando II — the list goes on, sir. I have no idea how it’s configured now. I’m sorry, but it could be damn near anything.”

Metcalf caught and held the general’s gaze, asking over his shoulder: “Was it ever STAR-equipped, Sergeant?”

The sergeant paged down. “Yes, sir. It’s been STAR-equipped twice — according to what it says here — but it’s not now.”

Metcalf grinned at General Couture. “Are you taking bets tonight, General?”

Couture shook his head. “I suddenly smell Bob Pope back in Langley… and I’d never take a bet where that cagey son of a bitch was involved.”

“I’d say that’s probably smart money, sir.”

The general shook one of the filterless cigarettes from the pack of Pall Malls, offering it to Metcalf, who shook his head. He pulled the smoke from the pack with his teeth and struck a match. “The funny thing,” he said, shaking out the match and tossing it onto the table. “The president himself ordered Steelyard and Crosswhite into that crazy bastard’s custody. Word around the Hill is that he’s got files on everybody… or at least everybody seems to be afraid he does.”

Metcalf watched the screen, wondering what the hell was taking Gil so long to get Sandra out of the building. “This is taking longer than it should, General. I think something’s wrong this time.”

They stared at the screen as a man entered Kohistani’s house. A few seconds later, he came running back out and up the lane. A few seconds after that, men with guns starting pouring out of the command post and heading down the lane toward Sandra’s quarters.

Couture drew pensively from the cigarette, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Looks to me like the proverbial shit just hit the fucking fan.” He looked to the back of the room. “How much longer on those F-16s?”

“Taxiing for takeoff now, General. ETA ten minutes.”

“Where are my B-52s?”

“Twenty minutes south, sir. They’re going to have to refuel before they can make the strike.”

Couture spit a fleck of tobacco from his lower lip. “Might as well be twenty days.”