Whiplash

27

Danny dove to the ground as Red Henri began firing. Within seconds soldiers on all three sides had begun blasting away. Both Colonel Zsar and Uncle Dpap shouted at their men to stop firing, but their voices were lost in the din.

Danny told the Voice to have two of the Catbirds strike in the space between the rebel groups, hoping to discourage Red Henri and give enough cover to Zsar and Dpap’s forces so they could retreat. The explosions only added to the confusion. Worried that the others would be overrun, Danny told the Voice to launch the remaining UAVs against the spearhead of Red Henri’s force as it rallied around the trucks. The four explosions crated six vehicles — but still didn’t calm the fighting.

“Captain!” yelled Boston over the radio, reverting to the title he had used for so long. “Where are you?”

“I’m here,” said Danny, pressing against the dirt. “The Sudanese have helicopters on the way. Somebody tipped them off. There are two gunships, four transports. You’re going to have to shoot the gunships down.”

“You sure you want to do that?” Boston asked.

“Do it.”

The choppers were already close enough to be heard over the gun battle. Boston jumped out of his truck and ran to the rear, throwing the door open as the firing continued. He pulled out a metal box about the size of a carry-on bag and opened it on the ground.

Danny and Nuri could have purchased a dozen SA-7 shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles in Ethiopia if they wished; they would have been more than adequate to deal with the choppers. But the Whiplash team’s hip-launched Rattlesnakes had a far greater range.

“Hip-launched” was a bit of a misnomer; the missile was typically fired from a standing position with the launcher about chest high, so the operator could sight the target on the display at the top of the launching unit. The description had been coined because the missile and launcher assembly were about a third the size of the SA-7 and other traditional shoulder-fired weapons.

The name Rattlesnake — officially the weapon was known as the AIM-19x — was a tribute to the Sidewinder family of air-launched missiles. The AIM-19x was a derivative of the late model Sidewinders, with a smaller warhead propelled at extremely high speeds by a two-stage rocket motor. The first stage, which included two sets of maneuverable fins and a variable thrust mechanism, brought the missile to its target. As the projectile was about to hit, the second stage ignited, pushing the warhead through with devastating effect.

The weapon was intended to be used primarily against helicopters, though the warhead was an equal opportunity shredder of engines and other metal. Besides its terminal velocity, the secret of its success was a guidance system that could home in on heat sources, electronic signatures, or a radar reflection — or all three simultaneously. Once locked and launched, the tiny chip that constituted its brain was smart enough to see through decoys, ignoring hotter heat sources if they did not correspond to the data picked up by the other detection methods. This made defensive flares — the most common antimissile defense — useless.

A fact the Sudan gunships were about to discover.

The aircraft were flying in a staggered formation in front of the troop ships, aiming to part at the point of attack. They would sweep in opposite directions around the gathered rebels, machine-gunning their positions after launching rockets at the vehicles.

Boston zeroed in on the lead chopper and fired just before it began its attack. The Gazelle pilot’s first warning that he was in trouble were the sounds of a clunk and rip above him, as if a bolt had shot down a long metal tunnel and then torn it in two. Punctured, the engine immediately stopped working, leaving the rotor to spin on sheer momentum. Fuel flooded into the turbine chamber, where it ignited from the heat of the damaged metal. The explosion blew apart the rear portion of the cockpit with so much force that the spine of the helicopter snapped in two. The chopper fell forward, bent like a paper clip. The pilot tried frantically to pull it up, not realizing what was happening. Within two seconds the Gazelle lay in a burning heap on the ground.

Defensive flares began cascading from the choppers. The second gunship unleashed its rockets, setting two of the vehicles in Red Henri’s fleet on fire and cratering two others. Boston drew a bead; a moment later the helicopter went down, crumbling only a few yards from one of the trucks it had just destroyed.

Danny began crawling back toward what he thought was Colonel Zsar’s position. He’d gone about five yards on his belly when he realized he was heading toward Uncle Dpap’s Jeep. He started to change direction but a burst of bullets from one of Red Henri’s machine guns stopped him.

Rebels were screaming and firing indiscriminately. The troopships were landing on the perimeter. The gun battle was already a chaotic swirl, and it was only just beginning.

Sensing that staying low wasn’t going to protect him much longer, Danny jerked to his feet and ran, racing toward Uncle Dpap’s vehicle. As he ran, a pair of bullets slapped at his ribs, twisting him around. One hit the back of his vest, the other the side. Three more bullets flew at him as he fell. One smashed straight into his chest.

The outer vest saved him, but the force still took his breath away. It took him nearly a minute before he could roll back to his stomach and began crawling again.

“Don’t shoot him!” yelled Tilia.

Danny got up and ran toward her, ducking behind the Jeep as a fresh hail of bullets flew in his direction. She lay crouched behind the fender, a rifle in her hand.

By now the Sudanese troops who’d landed were firing at the rebels. Some of Red Henri’s troops swung around to meet the approaching threat. But they found themselves caught in a cross fire, as both Colonel Zsar and Uncle Dpap’s soldiers fired at both them and the regulars.

“Did you do this?” Tilia demanded.

“Hell no!” said Danny.

“Who did?”

“I have no idea.”

Instead of answering, Tilia raised her gun and fired a long burst at one of Red Henri’s trucks, cutting down one of the machine gunners. Danny looked to her right and saw Uncle Dpap on the ground, huddled against the Jeep.

He crawled to him. Dpap’s head was covered with blood, and his eyes were dazed, focused on something far beyond the battlefield.

“Are you all right?” Danny asked, but he knew he wasn’t. Uncle Dpap’s breath was shallow. He wasn’t dead, but he had only a few minutes to live.

Danny glanced back at Tilia. Her lips were pressed tight together, her eyes half closed as she aimed her gun. There were empty magazines and bullet casings all around her.

She’d lost everything. Even if she got out of there, even if no one else in Uncle Dpap’s army was hurt, Tilia’s position in the troop was done. Dpap’s brother, who was back in the village safe, would not give her the respect or the position Uncle Dpap had.

IT WAS COMMANDER JOHN WHO HAD BETRAYED THEM. Resenting his brother’s domination, he had been working with a spy from the Sudanese army for months, waiting for the right opportunity. After alerting his contact of the meeting, he had given a cell phone to one of the young soldiers who slept in his house and told him to make a call when the meeting began. Egyptian advisors to the Sudan army had been waiting; they found the nearest cell tower to the phone within seconds, and the ambush was launched.

Tilia looked more beautiful than ever in the fierce red light and violent white flashes of the battle. The image burned into Danny’s brain, imprinting itself in his memory.

Never had he felt so hopeless.

“You have to retreat,” he yelled to her. “Get your men. Come with us.”

She pretended she didn’t hear him. She had already decided she would kill as many men as possible today — Red Henri’s, the government’s, whoever she could. And then she would take Uncle Dpap’s body back to their people.

“Boss, time for us to get the hell out of here,” said Boston over the radio. He’d pulled the men back to the trucks. So far no one had been injured — but that was only through sheer luck.

“Where’s Flash?” Danny asked.

“He’s looking for you.”

“Tell him to get back to the truck,” said Danny. He reached toward Tilia. “I have to go,” he told her, touching her shoulder.

“Go,” she said.

He took a half breath, then pushed away. His first step was toward the trucks. Then he remembered that he had not gotten the biomarker onto Tarid.

He changed direction, running in a half stoop toward Colonel Zsar’s position. A knot of soldiers were crouched behind one of the trucks, firing at one of the helicopters as it backed away from the battle.

The Voice warned that there were more choppers on the way.

“Where’s the colonel?” yelled Danny in English. “I have to talk to him.”

No one answered.

“I need Arabic,” he told the Voice. “Translate, translate.”

“Translate mode operational. Phrase was already delivered.”

“Again,” said Danny, who hadn’t heard it in the confusion. “Where is the colonel?”

The soldiers didn’t respond. One of the men had retrieved a mortar from the truck and was loading it to fire.

“You have to retreat,” Danny told them.

The mortar shell whipped upward, sailing far over the regular army’s position. Two of the rebel soldiers began shouting corrections.

Always in the past, the rebels were the ones on the offensive. The ambushed regulars, taken by surprise, would quickly panic. They expected the same now, not realizing these were specially trained troops who’d worked for months with Egyptian advisors. They were not about to give up easily.

Danny saw a man he thought was Colonel Zsar huddled with another man behind another truck about ten yards away. As he rose to run over, the Voice warned that two more helicopter gunships were on their way.

“You have to retreat,” Danny yelled as he ran, using just the Arabic words. He slid in behind the men. “Colonel Zsar, you have to retreat!”

The man turned. It wasn’t Zsar, but one of his lieutenants.

“I don’t have time for you, gun dealer,” said the man.

“The army is sending reinforcements.”

“Did you bring them?”

“I’m not a fool.”

The lieutenant pulled his pistol out. He was angry about the ambush, and though he believed it was Red Henri’s fault, he couldn’t be sure. At the moment it didn’t matter — he pointed the gun at Danny’s head.

“You betrayed us,” he said. “Why are we being attacked? We’ve never been attacked.”

The Voice translated, but Danny didn’t need to know the exact words — the gun was obvious enough.

“Not me.” Danny pointed at his chest, where the bullet had hit his vest. “They’re trying to kill me, too.”

He said the words in English, ignoring the translation.

The lieutenant straightened his arm to fire. Danny felt all of the blood in his body rush away. He was paralyzed, welded to the spot. He saw the gun.

A burst of fire took the officer down.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” yelled Boston, appearing at Danny’s side. He grabbed his vest and jerked him backward.

“I need Tarid,” said Danny.

“Screw that.”

“I need to tag him,” insisted Danny. But he started running with Boston toward the truck.

About five yards from the trucks he spotted a knot of men hunkered near the road. They were a good thirty yards away, kneeling and crouching. A battered pickup sat between them and most of the battle.

Tarid had to be among them, Danny thought. He wasn’t anywhere else.

“This way!” he yelled to Boston.

Danny’s intuition was correct. Realizing the helicopters meant they were being attacked by an elite force, Tarid had tried to escape as soon as the battle started. He’d run to the truck, but its engine compartment had been shot up by one of Red Henri’s men and it wouldn’t start.

He raised his rifle as the two men approached, then realized it was the arms dealer. His respect — and fear — of Bani Aberhadji was so great that it overcame his suspicions that the man had arranged the ambush. Still, he had little use for him, and debated whether to shoot him as he ran.

Danny saw the gun in his hand. He tucked his head down. He was going to complete his mission, even if it killed him, even if fear overwhelmed him.

“The army is sending reinforcements,” Danny shouted. “You have to retreat.”

Tarid stared at him.

“You’ve been shot,” said Danny. He reached his left hand toward Tarid’s brow, which was covered with blood. He touched it for a second.

Tarid brushed the fingers away angrily. It was someone else’s blood.

“Who the hell are you?” he said. “Who are you?”

“Kirk,” said Danny.

“Go,” said Tarid.

“Come with us. We’ll take you to safety.” Danny reached for him. “Come on.”

“No, you go,” said Tarid, pulling back and raising his weapon.

“I’m just trying to help,” said Danny, starting to back away.

“Go!” yelled Tarid.

One of Colonel Zsar’s men began yelling at Tarid, pointing toward the highway. A rocket-propelled grenade streaked overhead, its whistle piercing the air before it struck the open field a hundred yards away.

“Boss!” yelled Boston.

“All right,” said Danny, turning. “Time to go.”