“Weasel reports Rolands are down. SA-2 is not active. Watch the guns at Splashdown. What’s your position?”
Gunny’s excited voice snapped in before Doberman could answer.
“Two chutes! Two chutes! I have two parachutes off my nose, two miles maybe. Shit! Those bastards are luckier than a dog in a whorehouse!”
CHAPTER 15
Captain Conrad watched as his navigator hit the ground a good thirty seconds ahead of him, tucking his feet and falling over into the sand. The wind took the nav’s parachute, pitching him along the ground like a bag tossed in the street.
That was all the hint Conrad needed — he got his legs moving as he touched down and worked the snaps off with his hands, hoping to release the chute and step off like a pro. He undid one but not the other and ended up dragged along as ignobly as his backseater. The wind was so strong it finally yanked the chute away, leaving him to roll in the dirt for several yards before his momentum finally gave out.
He stopped facedown, helmet in the dirt; he did a pushup to his knees, then began laughing uncontrollably.
Damn sight for anyone to see, he thought. Good thing his squadron mates hadn’t been along or he’d never hear the end of it.
As Conrad hauled off his helmet the ground shook with the roar of an approaching jet. A pair of American A-10s whipped directly overhead, no more than thirty feet off the desert sand — so close, in fact, that he thought for a moment the Yanks might reach out a hand and try to grab him.
They didn’t. But they circled back so low and slow he could see the lead pilot give him a thumbs up. He waved, then ran to Charlie.
“Up and at ‘em, Charles,” he told the lieutenant, who was hunched over the sand.
“Stomach’s not right,” said the backseater, leaning over to retch.
Not terribly anxious to succumb to the power of suggestion, Conrad quickly backed away. He took out his emergency radio, dialing in the distress frequency. The A-10A pilot answered his hail in under thirty seconds.
“Bravo Baker,” he said, beginning the elaborate recognition procedure, which would culminate with a series of personal questions to prove he was who he said he was.
“Fuck that,” answered the Yank. “I’m Doberman. You guys okay?”
“Tip top,” Conrad.
“Yeah. Hang on while we figure this out.”
“Quite.”
“Come again?”
“Ten-four,” Conrad told him, trying to toss up a little American slang.
“What are you saying?”
“Standing by,” he responded.
The wind howled, shoving gritty sand into Conrad’s eyes; he removed his gloves to clear them, then retrieved his sunglasses from beneath his survival vest for protection. By now the sun had set and the dark glasses turned the landscape into a mass of shadows, blurry grays and blacks, like walls being moved toward him. Conrad lifted the glasses slightly away from his face, holding them like shields against the dust and looking sideways. A thick cyclone of soot rose directly south of him — Sister Sadie.
He ran back to his navigator, who was now sitting cross-legged on the desert sand. Nevins had pulled off his survival vest and found a cap and scarf in his gear.
“You look like a nomad,” Conrad joked.
“Fucking wind,” said Nevins, reaching into a flap pocket on his pant leg. He removed a pair of goggles.
“Thanks,” said Conrad, grabbing them.
“Fuck!”
“Make sure your radio works,” Conrad told him, ignoring the protest. “Quickly. Our contact is Devil Three — Doberman. Go on.”
Nevins took out the radio reluctantly, still a little jittery with stomach upset as he hooked in the earplug. As soon as Conrad saw that he had hailed the Yank, he began trotting away.
“Hey! Hey!” shouted the nav.
“I’ll be back!” Conrad told him, turning and running backwards. “Have to pay my respects.” He wheeled and ran for all he was worth toward the wreckage of their plane, more than a mile away.
CHAPTER 16
Hawkins had trouble both hearing the co-pilot and keeping his balance as the Chinooks hovered above a stretch of empty desert about twenty-five miles southwest of their target. Worse, he couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on. He knew the reconnaissance Tornado had gone down — but what about the target? Was it clean, hot or what?
“Devil One isn’t answering,” said the co-pilot.
“Try again.”
“Sergeant Williams in Splash Two wants you.” Tired of trying to act as a go-between, the co-pilot slipped the bulky British headset back to Hawkins, who held it to his ear, bracing himself against the back of the seat with his leg.
“What’s up?” he asked the SAS sergeant who was heading the team in Splash Two.
“My question to you,” answered the sergeant.
“I’m trying to figure it out. We don’t have target data.”
“Heli pilot’s worried about sand getting in his engines,” said the sergeant.
“So’s ours,” Hawkins told him.
“Losing light.”
Hawkins and his men were used to working at night, but neither the Apaches nor the Hogs were equipped with the sophisticated gear that would allow them to support a night operation. Nor were the Chinooks and the SAS teams fully equipped to do so. Escaping as night fell was one thing, but run into serious defenses and the darkness could work against them.
Defenses that could take down a Tornado were by definition serious. But was the missile at the site, or one of the launchers several miles away that they’d been briefed on?
“Stand by Splash Two,” Hawkins told the sergeant. He tapped the co-pilot, who’d turned his attention to his instruments. “Can you get me Devil One?”
“I’ll try. Wind is kicking up fierce down here,” he added. “One your Apaches is turning back.”
“What?”
“Engine trouble. The sand, no doubt.”
“Get me the fucking Hogs. Shit.”
CHAPTER 17
Everything was falling apart. They had a plane down, deep in enemy territory. They had no intelligence on the landing zone, and had lost the element of surprise.
And now one of the Apaches had engine trouble.
None of it was Hack’s fault, and yet there was a hole in the side of his stomach. He tried to fight off the doubt that crept all around him, tried to focus on the rapidly dimming landscape outside his canopy. It wasn’t too late; they could still nail this thing down if he kept his head, if everyone kept their heads.
“Devil One, Devil One,” squawked one of the British helicopter pilots, though he didn’t identify himself. “What is this situation? We need a sit rep. Repeat, sit rep.”
“Devil One. British craft, identify yourself.”
Static.
As he transmitted again, Preston checked his fuel. They had between thirty and forty minutes of linger time left before nudging reserves. The dash to the target area would eat up nearly ten of that.
A new voice came back from the RAF Chinook — Hawkins.
“Devil Leader this is Splash Commander. What do we have?”
“Sister Sadie is down; we’re attempting to establish contact,” he told Hawkins.
“What’s the sit at Splashdown?”
“I’m still working on that,” said Preston. “Sadie was hit before he could tell us.”
“We need to know now.”