The rotors began to cough to life, but not before the headman had also taken out the copilot, the undernose 12.7mm multibarrel rotary machine gun immobilized by a maneuver that would have done any American rodeo proud, as ropes from two camels, one pulling hard left, the other hard right, prevented it from moving, even if the operator above was still functional enough to try for a traverse. Aussie, David, and Choir went inside the cabin, where four of the Spets were already dead from the concussion, the others in such a state that they fell quickly beneath the enfilade of small-arms fire.
“Bloody waste!” Aussie said, reloading the Parabellum mag, then grabbing a fire extinguisher to put out a small electrical fire that had started up forward. “And a bloody shame none of us can drive one of these friggin’ things.” It was a singular deficiency that none of them had ever thought much about before. They were men who had been trained to survive in the harshest environments in the world, wherever they were dropped, and it was a matter of no small pride that at least one of them could get by in the local language, but piloting a chopper had not yet been added to the course, and for a moment they all felt less for it. But if that was the case, they would soon have ample opportunity to show what they were made of should the Combat Talon and its fighter escort appear.
Already Salvini had received a burst message that ChiCom fighter units were being scrambled to intercept the incoming American F-15 Eagles. And it was only now that Aussie Lewis and the others realized what an extraordinary sacrifice the Mongolians had made for them and how it answered Freeman’s question about whether or not the Mongolians would stand in his way if Freeman drove south. Everything the SAS/D team had seen showed clearly that the Mongolians had no intention of trying to stop the Americans from reaching Mongolia’s hated Chinese neighbors.
For Freeman, however, this might not be that much help after all, for he could not move south with any confidence so long as the missiles in the Turpan depression in western China were still intact. The British Labour party was playing blackmail with the Tories: We’ll support an overflight if you will agree to higher capital gains tax. It was a question of who would give in. Meanwhile Frank Shirer was being summoned to the wing commander’s hut at Lakenheath. Here a Captain Fowler-Jones, from the British navy air arm, was accompanied and introduced by a Captain Moore of the USAF. Fowler-Jones did most of the talking.
“So you’re not satisfied?”
Frank was taken aback — wasn’t the British officer corps supposed to be known for its polite reserve?
“Haven’t time to waste, old boy,” Fowler-Jones pressed. “You’re not satisfied flying the big jobs?” Fowler-Jones indicated the nine B-52s on the rain-slick tarmac.
“Well,” Shirer began tentatively. “I’d rather be flying Cats.”
“He means Tomcats,” Captain Moore put in.
“Yes, yes, I know. F-14s. Good plane, but we have all the fighter pilots we need, at least for that caliber weapons platform.”
There was a long pause.
“Shot down, weren’t you?” Wing Commander Fowler-Jones said bluntly, opening a file and studying it. “Twice.”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked up at Shirer. “Learn anything?”
Shirer shrugged. “A MiG-29’s a lot better than we thought it was. In the stall slide it can—”
“Yes, quite, but your nerves, and I want gospel on this. Up to snuff?”
“Yes, sir — I believe so.”
“Believe so? Know so?”
“Know so.”
“Well then,” Fowler-Jones said to the U.S. captain. “That’s that.”
“May I ask—” Shirer began.
“Harriers!” Fowler-Jones said. “We’re very short of men on Harriers. Vertical takeoff and landing. Old carrier pilots like yourself often get quite good at it in a short time. Short takeoff and landing, that is. You game?”
“Yes — yes, sir.”
“You sound hesitant!”
“No, sir, I’m just—”
“Yes, yes, I know. You just expected a top-of-the-line combat fighter. Well I’ll tell you this, Shirer, we need good Harrier men right now. Can’t go into all the whys and wherefores at this time. Need to know. Follow me?”
“Yes, sir,” Shirer lied. The man talked like a telex machine.
“Quite frankly they’re the only aircraft in any supply we have left in this theater. Idea is that if this mission to China goes off then we could give Harrier escort. In-flight refueling of course.”
The Harrier, Shirer thought. Jesus — it might be better than jockeying the Big Ugly Fat Fellows, but it had always been the ugly duckling of production lines with its funny ferry tips or swivel jet nozzles at the end of each wing that made it look more like an aspiring fighter blighted by dropsy than a revolutionary new aircraft.
“Not the new Harrier Two, mind you,” Fowler-Jones explained, to show there was no misunderstanding. “It’s the Harrier One. Single-seater job we’re offering you people.”
“People?”
“Yes,” Captain Moore put in. “The idea is to put in a flight or two of Harriers to go in with the B-52s.”
“Yes,” Fowler-Jones cut in. “Riding shotgun, I believe you chaps call it. If we get the word go, it would mean two Harriers per bomber. As I say, in-flight refueling — in Pakistan before you go over the Hindu Kush to join the big chaps on the raid in. I assume you’re in-flight qualified?”
Shirer still hadn’t shown the kind of enthusiastic response Fowler-Jones had been looking for, and he snatched up his cap and gloves. “Well of course if you’d rather not. I just thought that some of you people were itching—”
“No, sir,” Shirer began. “I mean yes. I’d be happy to go, sir.”
“Good. Your combat experience — just the thing we need. But you’ll have to get used to the Harrier in short order. That’s up to you, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, sir. What field?”
“They’re squadroned in Peshawar. You’ll join them there.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, Shirer saluted and Fowler-Jones was gone.
“Is it anywhere near Lakenheath?” Shirer asked Captain Moore.
“What?”
“Peshawar.”
“You’re joking! Other side of the world! You heard him— Hindu Kush and all that. Harrier squadron is based in Peshawar. At the moment Pakistan is in bed with Washington and London. You see, this way they don’t have to move fighters around where they’d be noticed by the Chinese.”
“Oh? How about moving nine B-52s around? They’d notice that, wouldn’t they?”
“Sure would, but we’ve been flying C-15 relief planes from the military’s air transport command during the spring floods, dropping urgent food relief. At least that’s one reason why planes have been flying back and forth from London to Pakistan for the last two weeks. So when the B-52s show up on Chinese radar they won’t know the difference. That is, until they start turning in toward the Turpan depression. That’s when they’re going to need you boys.”
“Oh,” Shirer said, “and what do you think the Chinese’ll do then?”
“Don’t worry, pal,” Moore cut in. “All their top-of-the-line fighters — Fulcrums especially — are in eastern China. Right now they’re trying to bottle up Manchuria and keeping one sharp eye on Taiwan. They can’t have their jets all over the place at the same time.”