“No, but when the B-52s start crossing that old Hindu Kush or thereabouts, buddy, they’ll move a few.”
“Sure they will, but by then the mission’ll be half over. You guys in the Harriers probably won’t see anything more exciting than an avalanche.”
“This is all assuming that the Chinese don’t figure we’re going to hit them.”
“Right. Where’s your faith in Intelligence? Look how we pulled me wool over old Saddam Insane’s eyes.”
“Maybe, Captain, but the Chinese aren’t the Iraqis. Besides, once bitten, twice shy. Anyway,” Shirer continued, “what the hell are British Harriers doing in Pakistan?”
“They aren’t British, they’re Pakistani. But don’t worry. By the time you go up there’ll be Old Glory on the tail.”
“Jesus,” Shirer said, “this is all politics.”
“So what’s new? All you need to know is you’d better get a handle on the fuckers in case you’re going in. Brits’ll make the decision yea or nay anytime now.”
“Yeah, well I hope the Chinese fall for your relief flight routines.”
“Don’t worry. They’re too busy trying to lock up Manchuria.” Then Moore hit him with the bombshell. He’d have ten days from the moment he reached Peshawar to train on the Harrier. To brighten him up, Moore told Shirer that the older single-seater went faster than the newer Harrier Two.
“How fast?” Shirer asked, the veteran of Mach 2.3 Tomcats.
“Around point nine,” Moore said.
“Point nine!” Shirer stopped in his tracks.
“Not all the time,” Moore assured him. “Sometimes it drops to Mach point eight.”
“Jesus Christ! Has it got enough power to take off?”
“Well, it hasn’t,” Moore said, adopting Shirer’s ironic tone. “You see there are these four guys, good runners, one under each wingtip, one under the nose, the other under the—”
“Up your ass!” Shirer said.
“Not if I can help it.”
Shirer couldn’t help laughing. Well hell, at least he’d be flying again — a lone eagle.
Pulling out the coil of strong ply nylon rope and the tight roll of twenty-three-foot-long polyethylene balloon, Aussie clipped on the first of the Thermos-size pressure tanks and pulled the safety pin, releasing a hiss of helium gas, the balloon inflating in an obscene condom shape until the second tank kicked in and filled the twenty-three-foot-high balloon that now, with its flanged tail also inflated, took on the shape of one of those tethered AA balloons used during the German air attacks over Britain.
Within five minutes the white balloon, trailing its white nylon rope like some gigantic tadpole tail, rose to five hundred feet, the end of the rope trailing earthward, already attached by means of a ring bolt to a wide strip of canvas harness that was now clamped tightly against Salvini’s midriff. The Combat Talon’s dull rumble could be heard before the sudden scream and sonic boom of the F-15 fighters that were well ahead of the Talon passing over them.
Even though the dust had settled, it was still difficult for Aussie to see the horizontal V that extended from the Talon’s nose like a pair of scissors, one blade projecting left, the other right, the idea being that the Talon, using the balloon as a fix above it, would fly its V into the nylon rope like someone extending two index fingers in front of him, snaring the line, which would then jerk the man off the ground as the Talon kept going, winching him up.
Should the Talon miss catching the cable with its nose V, the cable, instead of endangering the props, would slide off the V against a taut protective wire strung from wingtip to the forward fuselage, thus buffeting the balloon rope along the protective wire away from the props. At least that was the theory. It was tough enough to do without interference, but with the knowledge of Siberian MiGs now scrambling aloft to meet the F-15s, everything, as Aussie said while checking Choir’s harness, was “a tad tight!” Next Aussie made sure that Choir’s chute was firmly attached in front of him and head held up.
“You ready, Mr. Williams?”
“No — Mother of God,” Choir replied.
“Ah! You’ll be laughin’ in a few minutes. Here she comes. Come on, Choir, legs straight out, hands palm down, head up — atta boy.”
The rope looked like a thread of curving cotton stretching between him and the four-tailed balloon. There was a line of orange tracer arcing from the east and then two orange streaks: Sidewinders from the F-15s. Aussie could see the slack taken up as the Talon’s V snared the line, then suddenly Choir was jerked violently aloft. It was the most dangerous moment, for if the Talon hit a wind shear or lost altitude for any reason, Choir would smash into the ground at over 130 m.p.h. But the Talon kept climbing, and slowly they could see the arc that was the balloon’s line with Choir at its end reducing in angle as the Talon crew continued winching him up, the line growing tauter. Salvini was the next to go, his balloon already hissing loudly, inflating with the helium and rising heavenward.
Aussie glanced at his watch. It was 1005. Smacking Salvini’s boots together, making sure he was in the correct position, Aussie joshed him. “Bet you ten bucks they winch me aboard faster than you.”
“What?” Salvini asked, his anxiety, for all his SAS/D training, suddenly betraying itself.
“Bet you ten bucks,” Aussie repeated, “that they take longer to winch you in than me.”
“Oh yeah? And how do you figure that?”
“Easy,” Aussie retorted. They could hear the tracer getting closer. “You’re heavier than I am.”
“I’m as fit as you are.”
“Course you are. But you’re heavier. Come on, pay up or shut up.”
“You’re sick,” Salvini said, his anxiety written all over his face.
“All right, five bucks. I can’t do better than that. Right?”
Salvini nodded, thinking that the Australian was now asking him if he was in the proper position for the jerk. He was, but Aussie always liked to make sure of a bet. “Five bucks, okay?”
“Yeah — five bucks, all right, all right. Where’s the Talon?”
“She’s making the turn,” Aussie said. Just then a small sandstorm broke locally and they could see nothing.
“Damn it!” Salvini said.
“Don’t sweat it, sport,” Aussie encouraged. “The Talon’ll pick it up. We can’t see them, but they can see the rope up higher. Just you get ready for the—” Before he finished, Salvini simply disappeared into the dust, Aussie barely glimpsing his boots as he was jerked aloft.
“Two up, two to go,” Aussie said cheerfully. David Brentwood was thanking the Mongolian herdsman who had risked his life and family to help them. Already the herdsmen were gathering up their ghers and packing, ready to move, to avoid any punishment patrols that might be sent out from Ulan Bator.
“Come on, Dave!” Aussie yelled. “Or you’ll miss the friggin’ bus.”
Within two minutes Brentwood was in his harness, Aussie having already released the balloon from its small bedroll-type wrapping. As it expanded, disappearing into the dust, it looked like some fantastic ghost in a mustard cloak.
“Palms down,” Aussie instructed him. “Davey, you want to make a wager?”
“No.”
“Ten bucks they winch me in faster than you?”
“No. You’ve got some scheme to help pull yourself up a few feet on the cable and beat us all, is that it?”
“No way,” Aussie said. “Look, I’ve never been on one of these things either. I just figure my luck’s in. What do you say — ten bucks.”
“All right — anything to shut you up.”
“That’s my man.”
“Where’s that damn Talon?” Before Aussie could answer him, there was a loud explosion, followed by another.