He had to think for a moment. His stomach was getting tight—a sign sometimes that all was not right. What should he do? Should he send a scramble-burst message back to his bosses and tell them what had happened? Ask for further orders? Or would this just waste time? The forte of the unit was they were supposed to be autonomous. They were supposed to be able to think on their feet, take advantage of any situation.
But he was also under orders to report extraordinary events back to the office, both good or bad. Did an incredible stroke of good luck qualify as “extraordinary”?
“Fuck it, Smitty,” Delaney cursed, reading his thoughts. “Don’t call those assholes back in Washington. They’ll just fuck it up. Let’s just do it. Before we think too much about it. Besides, I got some shit to do back home.”
Smitz looked up at Norton. His rock of good judgment. Surprisingly, Norton was smiling.
“You heard the man,” Norton said, indicating Delaney. “He’s got ‘some shit to do.’”
Gillis and Ricco were now standing nearby as well. They were nodding in agreement. So were Chou and the Army pilots.
Smitz slammed his NoteBook shut and turned off the power.
“OK, screw it,” he said finally. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 21
They came out of the sun, like a thunderstorm of fire and burning metal.
Red tracers. Streaks of flame. Blinding yellow explosions. Palls of smoke rising in seconds. The noise, the screech of engines. Deafening enough to puncture eardrums, enough to make them bleed. Every sound of combat could be heard now—except the screams.
Norton had gone in first. His Hind’s gigantic nose cannon was pumping out its enormous shells as soon as he came over the top of the mountain. His first target, of course, was the T-72 battle tank sitting astride the fake highway. There was no simulated nightmare here. He threw more than thirty high-explosive shells into the mammoth tank, and it blew apart like a kid’s toy.
Next, he looped up and took out the first suspected AA gun emplacement, the one on the ledge about two thirds of the way up the south mountain wall. This took fifteen of the big shells before exploding in a ball of fire and dust. What Norton believed was a SAM site located on the west mountain wall appeared in his targeting circle next. He let his wing guns take care of this potential threat, shredding it with a five-second twin burst.
Another quick turn and he was firing at the second suspected AA site. Three seconds from his side guns and it was vaporized. Another 90-degree turn, another pair of five-second bursts, another suspected SAM site reduced to twisted metal and flaming embers.
Just like that, his first strafing run was over. He’d taken out the tank, two AA gun sites, and a pair of SAMs in less than thirty seconds. Without getting so much as a ding on his aircraft.
And not a Fulcrum in sight.
Delaney was now on his tail. They turned as one and like two World War One Spads, they swept over the hidden base, back and forth, firing their massive guns and hitting everything but the building where the prisoners were thought to be kept.
Norton was screaming at the top of his lungs now—an involuntary quirk of combat he’d picked up in Desert Storm. He was shooting at anything and everything he thought looked target-worthy. The gaggle of metal and wires on a perch overlooking the factory. Was it another AA gun or some kind of weather station? No matter. It was gone in a three-second burst. That glint of white plastic sitting on a trailer with four wheels near the roadside. Was it a mobile SAM launcher or a satellite dish in disguise? It made no difference. A barrage of missiles from his wing pylons and the thing was gone.
That garage, at one end of a narrow street. Could there be another T-72 hiding inside? Again, it didn’t really matter. A ten-second burst from the monster nose cannon and the place was left a pile of smoking debris.
Delaney was making it his job to decimate the smoking factory. His chopper was buzzing around the substantial three-stack structure, pouring cannon fire and missiles into every part of it. Secondary explosions were going off all over the building, indicating flammable materials were inside. Soon there was more smoke smothering the area as a result of Delaney’s handiwork than there was originally from the factory’s smoke screen.
The combined Hind attack lasted no more than three minutes. It was so sudden and so determined and extensive, not a single shot was fired back at them. And so far the two targets they wanted untouched—the Ranch house and the covered aircraft—hadn’t received so much as a scratch.
With much excitement then, Norton sent a message to the other three choppers loitering just over the mountains.
“Come on in,” he told them. “The water’s fine.”
The trio of big choppers arrived over the scene not a minute later.
They found themselves looking down on the swath of destruction Norton and Delaney had caused with their huge Russian choppers. There was smoke and fire everywhere, as if the place had been carpet-bombed. Confusion itself seemed to be rising up into the winds.
Norton and Delaney went sweeping up and down the hidden valley again, firing their guns almost randomly as the first of the two Marine-laden Halos came in and touched down in a perfect three-point landing.
The huge chopper landed about 150 feet away from the Ranch house. As soon as it was down, the Marines began pouring out—just as they had practiced.
“Truck One down and clear,” came the message in Norton’s headphone. “Join the party, Hound Dogs!”
That was all Norton had to hear. He put the big Hind on its tail, did an almost impossible 180-degree loop, and with some twisting and turning, brought the chopper in for a bumpy, neck-wrenching landing. Delaney bounced in right on his tail, nearly colliding with him in the process. Only a last-second swerve by Norton prevented a catastrophic collision.
Predictably, Delaney was up and out of his cockpit even before the Hind stopped rolling. He nearly decapitated himself with his hasty exit, but jacked up as he was on adrenaline, not even the still-spinning razor-sharp rotor could interfere with what he wanted to do next.
Norton exited his own aircraft quickly as well. Delaney was positively on fire when he ran up to him. Somehow he’d gotten a hold of two M-16’s.
“C’mon, Jazz!” he yelled, throwing one rifle to Norton. “Show time! Let’s do it!”
Delaney began running towards the Ranch house. The Marines were still pouring out of the nearby Truck One. There was much shouting in the air. The sound of gunfire crackled all around them.
Norton started running too. He and Delaney were about one hundred yards from the prison building. Between them and their goal stood the T-72 tank, smoking heavily. They ran past it—but then Norton suddenly skidded to a stop.
“Wait a second, Slick!” he yelled to Delaney.
Delaney put on the brakes so fast he nearly fell on his ass.
“What?” he yelled back to Norton.
But Norton was already climbing up onto the burning tank.
“Jeesuz, Jazz!” Delaney screamed at him. “What the fuck are you doing? That thing could blow at any second and …”
But Norton was not listening to him. He was burning the tips of his fingers trying to pry open the tank’s turret hatch. It took a few massive pulls but finally the thing sprang free. Norton had the presence of mind to stick the snout of his M-16 into the hatchway and fire off half a clip. He didn’t want to meet anyone on the inside coming out. But all he could hear was his bullet rounds clanging off the sides of the crew compartment.