Egg had trouble getting his ’dozer started.
“Hey, use it or lose it,” shouted Powder from the ground as Egg fumbled with the ignition.
“What’s the story?” shouted Danny.
“Something’s screwed up with the engine,” said Egg.
He pulled off his glasses, cleaning them on his shirt, then pushed back his cap on his bald head as he studied the machine. He looked more than a little like an owl in cam-mies.
“Pull out the doohickey,” said Powder.
“Shut up,” snapped Egg. He leaned over the front of the ’dozer, looking in the direction of the engine.
“Loose wire or something?” Danny asked.
“You got to pull the doohickey out. It’s basically a Volkswagen with a big ol’ blade on it,” said Powder.
“What the hell is he talking about?” Danny asked Egg, who by now was strung over the front of the machine.
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“Got me, Cap.”
“Can I try?” Powder asked.
Danny was about to order him to help square away the rest of the gear when Egg jumped down. “You want to try it? Go ahead, fucker. Be a wise guy.”
“Captain—if I get it going, can I drive it?”
“Go ahead,” insisted Egg before Danny could say anything. “Come on, know-it-all. Let’s see you start it up.
This is a diesel. It’s not a Volkswagen. It’s a bull-fucking-dozer.”
“Bull-fucking-dozer,” laughed Powder, clambering into the seat.
“He’ll never get it going,” Egg told Danny. “No way he’s going to. I think the—”
The rumble of the second ’dozer coming to life drowned out the rest of what the team’s heavy equipment expert had to say.
Aboard Quicksilver , over southeastern Turkey 1413
ZEN EASED THE FLIGHTHAWK BACK BEHIND THE MEGA-fortress then gave the verbal command, “Trail One,”
telling the computer to put the plane into a prepro-grammed escort course behind the mothership. They had refueled just before approaching the target area; assuming things went well on the ground, they’d have nothing to do for the next two hours. A pair of MH-60 Pave Hawk helicopters were en route out of Incirlik, escorting Chinooks carrying runway mesh. O’Brien and Habib, meanwhile, had finished testing the combat configuration on Quicksilver’s Deep Drink sensor suite and were scanning Iraq for signs of trouble.
The Deep Drink gear, which was carried by Raven as 116
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well as Quicksilver, could be divided into two broad cate-gories. The first was a set of radar receivers and jammers.
A passive-detection system swept six bands and was capable of finding radars five hundred miles away, depending on their strength and profile. A high-powered detector could analyze A-J radar bands simultaneously, delivering real-team target data directly to GPS-based munitions or to B-1 and B-2 bombers equipped to receive it. And there was a combination repeater-transponder-noise jammer that worked like the ALQ-199 ECM unit.
Deep Drink’s second set of capabilities were based around a wide net of wires and dishes embedded in the Megafortress’s skeleton, turning the plane into a giant radio antenna, a combat version of an E-3 Elint gatherer. A dozen intercepts could be processed at once, with Quicksilver’s onboard computer able to handle one channel of 64-byte coding on the fly. The Deep Drink gear included what its designers called “hooks” to allow the data to be transmitted via a broadband satellite network back to an NSA or military analysis center, but neither the satellite nor the transmission system had made it off the drawing boards yet.
Additionally, Quicksilver carried IR detectors designed to monitor missile launches. With a little bit of fine tuning they could pick up the flare of a shoulder-launched SA-3
from a hundred miles away. The gear was stowed in the bay normally used for Stinger antiair mines on other EB-52s, including Raven.
O’Brien took the radar detection duties, while Habib began making and plotting intercepts. Zen, meanwhile, clicked his own radio through American frequencies, listening in as a pair of patrol planes cruised south of them, just over the Iraqi border. F-16 jocks, they mixed irrever-ent banter with terse instructions and acknowledgments, RAZOR’S EDGE
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flying a simple “racetrack” or extended oval the length of their patrol zone. An AWACS control aircraft flew about a hundred miles to the northwest of Quicksilver, scanning for radars in the area as well as watching for enemy aircraft. Zen hailed them all, asking how things were going.
“Quieter than my mom’s bedroom,” said one of the Eagle jocks. “Where are you from, Flighthawk One?”
“Edwards,” answered Zen. It was SOP to mention the large base just south of Dreamland rather than Dreamland itself.
“Meant where’d you grow up, homeboy,” answered the pilot. “I’m guessing Virginia.”
“Spent a lot of time there,” said Zen.
“You northerners are all alike,” said the other pilot, who had a deep Georgia twang.
“Who you calling a northerner?” countered the other pilot.
“What are you flying there, Flighthawk?” asked the Georgian. “And what’s your location?”
“I’m in Turkey, and you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” said Zen.
The pilot’s undoubtedly sarcastic response was overrun by the AWACS controller.
“Gold Flight, break ninety!” he yelled.
Before either plane could acknowledge or the controller could explain further, O’Brien cut over the interphone. “SA-2 radar active in box alpha-alpha-six.
Refining calibration.”
They’d divided Iraq into squares or boxes for easy reference; AA-6 referred to a northeastern portion about 150
miles from Quicksilver—and maybe seventy from the F-16s. But the next thing Zen heard was the shrill anguish of the AWACS controller, screaming over the open mike.
“Oh my God, they’re gone. Oh God, they’re gone.”
III
High Top
Whiplash Forward Operating Area “High Top,” Turkey 28 May 1997
1640
DANNY FREAH KNELT DOWN BEHIND THE THEODOLITE, TRYing to make sure the ridge beyond the runway was low enough for the Megafortresses to land. If he was reading the device’s screen right—and while it was extremely simple, that was not guaranteed—there was about three meters of clearance, well within parameters. They were running close to an hour behind schedule but at least they had the mesh down. They’d run into some troubles with the helicopters that had delivered it, but they’d probably set a world’s record getting the rough strip ready.
To Danny, it looked like a hell of a lot of space. According to the surveying instruments, new and old sections together stretched exactly 1,642.7 feet. Not counting the slight bump—more like a six-inch ramp—between new and old sections, and a stubborn group of pockmarks and bumps about forty yards from the northern end, it was as flat and level as any runway in the States.
There was a ton of work to do yet—widen the turnaround, finish out the parking section, set up a command area and better perimeter posts, augment the lights, 122
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maybe even add cable and a swimming pool. But it was time to land the planes.
“Hey, Cap, ready to rock,” said Clark, one of a pair of combat air control or CCT specialists who’d come in with the helicopters. “Landing lights, strobes, cloth panels—we could put a 747 in here if you want. Get kinda squished at the far end, but it would land pretty.”
Danny nodded, following the controller across the parking area toward a set of sandbags where Clark and Sergeant Velis had set up a radio to talk the airplanes in.
Clark grabbed a pair of chemical light sticks and a portable radio, then trotted toward the end of the runway.