When he swept back again over the blazing wreckage, he saw that nothing was left of the Fulcrum, just smoking fragments and debris. Fires were burning along the slope of the valley where hunks of the fighter had landed.
His eyes scanned the landscape, looking for a chute, any sign that the pilot had escaped.
Nothing.
The MiG pilot — he prayed that it was Al-Fasr — was dead.
This was the moment he had been waiting for since the day in Dubai when they had killed Josh Dunn. He had wanted revenge, and here it was.
He had expected that when this moment came, he would be feeling something — pride, relief, exultation. He should be hearing trumpets and choirs of avenging angels. Down in his gut he should be feeling a grim satisfaction.
No such emotion was rising up in him. Josh Dunn was gone. So were the sailors and marines and pilots killed by Jamal Al-Fasr and his terrorists. Nothing would change that.
Revenge wasn’t sweet, he thought. It was empty.
A glance at the EFD — engine fuel display — returned him to the present. The totalizer indicated nine-hundred pounds remaining. Less than ten minutes flying time.
He wouldn’t make it out of Yemen.
Gritti listened to the reports on the PRC-90. On either side — east and west — of the complex he had landed two companies of marines. They were applying a pincers on the Sherji who were dug in outside the old BP compound. The Cobras were raking them with 2.75 rockets and rotary cannons.
He removed the steel-rimmed spectacles and took a look through his field glasses. A few scattered pockets of Sherji were still resisting. “What the hell are they fighting for?”
Hewlitt, who was given to philosophizing, offered a theory: “It’s a macho thing. These are mountain men, an ancient Islamic warrior clan. They may not feel like dying, but they have to prove that they’re not afraid to. Once that’s established, they’ll pack it in.”
“They’d better start packing,” grumbled Gritti. “They’re wasting my time and ordnance.”
The Sherji’s western-flank defenders had already gotten a close-up look at the pair of LAV-25 light tanks rumbling toward their line and reached a pragmatic decision. A white flag was flying over their position. Slowly, each of the hundred and fifty fighters rose from cover and began stacking AK-47s and machine guns.
While a squad took charge of the prisoners, the tanks charged into the complex, followed by an infantry company. Under fire from three sides, the defenders on the eastern flank quickly reached the same conclusion as their western comrades. One by one, they laid down their arms, making a show of placing their hands on their heads.
In the command Hummer, Gritti and Hewlitt rolled into the compound on the heels of the advancing marines. After transmitting a situation update on the satellite UHF radio, Gritti climbed out and looked around.
A hard-surfaced gravel road ran between two rows of tin-roofed buildings. At the end of the road, on either side, swelled half a dozen earth-covered mounds, each large enough, Gritti supposed, to store vehicles and supplies.
Inside the complex, between two of the buildings, over two hundred Sherji were kneeling in a cluster while marine intelligence specialists and the linguist went through the group. Gritti could see the prisoners nodding agreeably and pointing to various features in the compound.
He turned to Hewlitt. “Anyone report seeing Al-Fasr?”
“They claim he’s flying one of the MiGs.”
Gritti watched the advance fire teams cautiously entering the complex of tin-roofed buildings. “What about mines and booby traps?”
“The clearing squad is working the area. The captured Sherji all swear that it’s clean. Nothing planted.”
Gritti nodded toward the kneeling prisoners. “Do they understand how extremely pissed off I’m going to be if any of my marines step on a mine?”
“I told them you will cut off their balls with a bayonet.”
At this, Gritti had to grin. “Tell ’em that’s just for starters.”
“Runner One-one is fuel critical. I need a tanker now.” Maxwell tried to suppress the urgency in his voice.
“Roger, Runner One-one,” answered the controller in the Hawkeye. “Texaco tanker is on Bravo station. Can you make it to him?”
“Negative. I’ve got six minutes left. Maybe less.” His totalizer was indicating seven hundred pounds. At such a low quantity, the indication could be off by several hundred pounds.
The controller didn’t answer for several seconds. Maxwell knew he was conferring with the tanker pilot and the Air Warfare Commander in the Reagan. Finally the controller came back. “We can’t join you with the tanker in time, Runner One-one. He’s too far from you.”
“Okay, then give me vectors to a runway. Any runway.”
Another long silence. After half a minute the controller said, “Sorry, Runner One-one. Closest suitable would be San‘a. That’s more than ten minutes’ flying time.”
Maxwell didn’t argue. Whether or not he could make the San‘a airport was irrelevant. He knew the United States Navy didn’t want one of its Super Hornets dropping into the capital of the country they’d just finished attacking.
“Okay, give me a vector to a safe ejection area.”
“Copy, Runner. Take a heading of 110 and climb to ten thousand. We’re alerting the SAR helo now.”
Maxwell felt his stomach churning. Another damned ejection over Yemen. It had to be some kind of record. Using the ejection seat of a jet fighter was, by definition, a violent and dangerous way to exit an airplane. He’d gotten away with it once, and that was as much luck as he deserved.
He nudged the nose of the jet upward and started the turn to the southeast. He mentally reviewed the ejection procedures: squawk emergency; cabin pressure ram/dump; shoulder harness locked…
His thoughts were interrupted by a transmission. “Runner One-one, do you read Boomer?”
It was a new, croaky voice. Maxwell had to think for a second. “Is that you, Gus?”
“Affirmative. I hear that you’re gonna punch out of another government-issue airplane. That’s kind of wasteful, isn’t it?”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“I’ve got one, Runner. How about a ten-thousand-foot runway?”
As runways go, it was neither wide — only about seventy-five feet — nor straight. It had a few gentle twists, undulating across the high desert like the path of a snake. The British had constructed the road half a century ago. Al-Fasr had resurfaced it, added gravel, and turned it into a runway for fighters.
“If those MiG jockeys could fly off this road,” said Gritti on the tac frequency, “it should be a piece of cake for you squid tailhookers.”
Against the drab bleakness of the desert, the road was nearly invisible. Not until he was close — lower than two hundred feet above the ground — did he get a clear view of the surface.
It was rough.
Landing a $40-million fighter on a surface that you wouldn’t drive a new truck on was an unnatural act. He flared the jet — another unnatural act for a pilot accustomed to slamming down on a carrier — and eased the Hornet’s wheels onto the narrow road.
Scrunch. Scrunch. The landing gear bit into gravel. Maxwell held his breath as the full weight of the jet settled onto the road. For several seconds he remained tense, waiting to see if the road surface would support the twenty-ton F/A-18.
It did. He snatched both throttles to OFF.
Unlike the MiG-29, the F/A-18 was intended for the sterile runways and flight decks of the U.S. Navy. The Hornet’s F414 engines self-destructed at the first whiff of a foreign object in their intakes.