The trench ran down from the helicopter through a small sewer pipe at the edge of the berm. Thick black gook covered the bottom. To Hawkins, it conjured up an image of oil draining from an old car engine.
A jet roared overhead and two Chinooks stuttered in on his left, the reserves being ordered in to help one of the units. Dirt flew into his face. “Incoming! Incoming!” yelled someone.
The damn A-10 is firing at us, Hawkins thought.
Then a fresh spray of dirt and chips of cement showered over his head. He realized that the Iraqis were firing some sort of mortar from beyond the hump of dirt below the hangar and runway area.
“Incoming!” yelled someone, and Hawkins realized it was him. Something ripped over his head, a hot stream of air pushing him flat on the cement apron in front of the MiG — the Pave Hawk had jerked upwards, giving the machine-gunners an angle on the mortar man.
Crowley had raced to the far end of the berm beyond the hangar, pumping his 203. His grenade and the Pave Hawk’s machine-gun bullets hit the Iraqi defenders at the same time. Blood and dirt flared into a large secondary explosion behind them. A vehicle had been wedged into the berm. Crowley’s grenade ignited the gas tank.
“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Hawkins shouted. He turned around, saw that Wong was on the plane. One of his men was following up the berm.
Secure against counterattack.
Crowley and Pig were already blazing away at two knots of Iraqis in ditches nearly a hundred yards away. Those trenches had obviously been intended as fallback positions for attacks from the south, and were open to the berm. His men had the Iraqis in them pinned down, though they didn’t have enough of an angle to get them all.
Two Apaches were concentrating on a vehicle or a bunker or something about three hundred yards to his right, across and well beyond the runway. The rest were whipping back and forth above the two barracks-type buildings the SAS were attacking. Heavy machine-gun fire announced that the Iraqis were putting up stiff resistance. Smoke poured from one of the windows.
Hawkins turned and called for Krushev, his com specialist. The team tasked with grabbing the fuel truck had landed; its Chinook was still on the ground. He couldn’t tell whether they had met resistance or not.
Wong was lying across the wing of the MiG.
Hit?
Hit?
No. The Intel expert jumped up and then did a hand-roll off the wing, obviously inspecting something.
So where the fuck was Preston? Had the prissy major wimped out under fire?
CHAPTER 42
Hack slammed his knee against the helicopter door. his body slid sideways into the open air, the world pirouetting around in a grayish-white tangle. His head slammed hard against the concrete and he cursed, his lungs flaming with anger as he pushed back to his feet then collapsed, his knee crumbling with pain.
Smoke and the spent exhaust of the helicopter hung thick in the air, making it difficult to breath and even harder to think; an Apache gunship whipped toward him, its nose gun revolving downward as if Preston were being targeted. Something tried pushing him down from behind; Hack wheeled around and slammed the butt-end of the M-16 at it, only to realize that it was Fernandez, the Delta sergeant assigned to get him safely off the helicopter and into the plane. The blow landed against Fernandez’s side, but if he felt it, the sergeant gave no hint. The burly Delta trooper set Preston on his feet, then ran back to the helicopter to get Eugene, the British mechanic.
A ladder had been pushed near the plane. Hack hobbled, then skipped, finally gaining momentum and managing a full run. But before he could get to the ladder, the ground rocked with a heavy explosion. He lost his balance and dropped his rifle as he spun. Once more, he slammed his head hard against the concrete surface of the runway access apron as he landed.
Something red covered his eyes — he thought the MiG had exploded and felt a pit in his stomach; anger at the thought of his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity being taken from him. Cursing, he got to his feet, so mad that he nearly smashed the rifle barrel end into the ground. He might have tried putting the fire out with his bare hands, but with his first step he realized that the plane hadn’t exploded — it was standing there not five feet away, untouched by the chaos around it.
“Major, I am ready for your assessment,” said Wong, his voice calm as he appeared at Preston’s side. He nudged Preston toward the other side of the plane, where a large boarding ladder constructed of tubular steel sat next to the cockpit. Painted bright orange, the contraption looked like a piece of scaffolding for a construction site.
It held Preston’s weight easily. With his rifle in one hand, he climbed up quickly and touched the cobra cowling along the forward fuselage, The fin extended forward from the wing, which helped give the Russian plane extraordinary flight stability in difficult maneuvers.
The cold metal stung his bare hand. Hack ran his fingers along the louvered vents for the cannon, the tear-shaped port seemingly too small to house the muzzle of a weapon. Adrenaline boiled through his arms and legs, breaking his movements into sharp jumps and harsh jerks. He grabbed the edge of the cockpit, hauling himself onto the chin fairing. The Zvezda K-36D ejection seat sat behind an old-style dashboard of dials and rocker switch-gear. The instrument set was much closer to that of an A-10A than an F-15C.
The restraining straps were cinched against the seat. No helmet. No flightsuit.
Not that he expected to find them here.
His own gear — where the hell was it?
Shit. Back on the helicopter. He’d forgotten it in the rush. Even if he didn’t need the suit and helmet, he wanted the flight board. He’d taken it with him on every flight he’d ever made, even the Russian Fulcrum spin. It was good luck.
“Major, the jamming station control panel is in the upper left hand-quadrant, below the angle-of-attack.,” said Wong. He popped the back of a small camera, quickly changing the film as he spoke. “Please examine it first. Information on the radar warning scope would likewise be beneficial. I have photographed the cockpit and the flight computer. I will now document the exterior hard points and other areas of interest.”
Hack spun around, nearly kicking Wong in the face.
“I need my gear,” he said. “It’s in the helicopter. Get it.”
Wong looked at him coldly. “Your bag is on the apron there, where Sergeant Fernandez placed it.”
“Good.” Hack looked to his right. The hangar was open and unguarded. “The Iraqis must keep their flight gear in the hangar. Come on.”
“Please. We must complete our evaluation of the aircraft first,” said the captain, refusing to clear off the ladder.
Hack stepped away and leapt off the airplane, holding the M-16 in front of him for balance as he landed. It wasn’t as far as he thought; his right leg buckled slightly but he kept his balance, staggering a step ahead. Then he turned to run to Eugene, who was examining the underside of the wings.
“Not plumbed for air-to-air refueling,” the British mechanic announced. That wasn’t big news — almost no MiGs were. “Or for wing tanks. I’m not familiar with the mounting on points three and five; perhaps it is an Iraqi arrangement for unguided bombs.”
“Forget all that,” Hack told him. An Apache whizzed low overhead drowning his words. He shouted as loud as he could. “Fuel. Is it fueled?”
“What?” said the mechanic.
“We need to fuel it!”