The Megafortresses were parked only a few feet away— Raven with its wingtip half apart. To Danny’s mind, it wasn’t the most secure setup; the planes were out in the open and bunched together, very vulnerable to a mortar attack. On the other hand, it would take an extremely dedicated fanatic to approach the base. His men had established an IR and ground radar picket around the slopes; a chipmunk couldn’t get within three hundred yards without them knowing about it. And even though it twisted every which way, they had the rock-strewn dirt road covered for a good half mile in both directions.
It was more a path than a road. A donkey—or a goat—would scrape its flanks on some of the curves.
Danny itched to get in on the action south, maybe hop down and look for the pilots. If the Marines ever got here, they might be able to do that.
“Can I fire up the ’dozer and clear the rocks away?”
asked Bison.
“Yeah, go ahead—wait a second. Maybe I’ll take a shot at that.”
“Privileges of rank, huh?”
“I want to see what all the fuss is about,” said Danny.
But as he took a step toward the ’dozer he heard the drone of a propeller in the distance.
Over southeastern Turkey
2230
MACK JAMMED THE THROTTLES FOR PROBABLY THE EIGHT
hundredth time since taking off, looking for the Bronco to 142
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
give him even two more knots. He told himself it was a damn good thing it was dark; if it had been daytime, he’d be able to see how slow he was going and really get frustrated. The gauge pegged 260 nautical miles per hour, but Mack doubted he was going half that fast. The altimeter showed 18,000 feet, and that he almost could believe—he had cleared a peak a short while ago by what looked like a good three inches.
Though a propeller plane, the Bronco wanted to be taken seriously. You had to wear a speed suit and strap yourself in, just like in a pointy-nose, go-fast jet. And it did respond—you could stick where you wanted it to go, by God; the sucker moved its nose and tail with good, solid jerks.
But it wasn’t an F-22 or an F-15 or even an F-16. And the damn cabin was colder than hell. General Elliott, sitting in the seat behind him, had given up his campaign to cheer him up; more than likely he’d passed out from hypothermia.
Somewhere ahead was the scratch base they were heading to, High Top. Two Megafortresses had managed to land on a strip that probably wasn’t even long enough for this plane. Typical Whiplash/Dreamland stunt, he thought. Probably patting themselves on the back.
He couldn’t get away from them, try as he might. Zen would be there, with his gorgeous wife. Merce Alou.
Danny Freah.
Odds were Jennifer Gleason would be too. Now there was a brain worth digging into. Though to be honest, Bree was more his style.
Mack checked the INS against his paper map. He’d long ago learned to rely on GPS readings that showed his location on three-dimensional maps accurate to half a centimeter. This—hell, this was just about dead reckon-
RAZOR’S EDGE
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ing, same sort of navigating Christopher Columbus used when he thought he’d discovered China.
God, was he going soft?
Bullshit on that. Mack knew right where he was. And he could fly anything—any friggin’ thing—any time, anywhere. This old workhorse was proof of it.
Slower than horseshit, though. God. Taxi would’ve been faster. Donkey cart.
So where the hell were these jokers? He knew he ought to be in their face by now.
Mack hit the UHF radio, trying to get the controller at High Top. Nothing came back.
The wind whipped up. His forward airspeed stepped lower, dropping below 250 knots.
“How we doing, Major?” asked Elliott from the back.
“Pluggin’ along, sir.”
“Handsome aircraft, isn’t it?”
Handsome?
“Uh, yes, sir.”
“A lot of grunts owe their lives to OV-10s,” said the general, renewing his pep-talk bid. “Impressive little airplane in its day.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Eight-eight Delta Zeus, this is High Top base,” said a low but clear voice on the Bronco’s UHF channel. “Hey there, Wild Bronco, we have you at ten miles. You’re looking good.”
Wild Bronco?
“Delta Zeus acknowledges.” Mack did a quick check of the INS—stinker was right on the mark.
“Getting close, General,” Mack told his passenger.
“Very good, Mack. You made good time. We may turn you into a bird dog yet.”
“Yes, sir.”
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
The ground controller ran down the runway’s vital statistics, emphasizing not only its relatively short run but the obstruction at the approach. The lights flicked on, and Mack was somewhat surprised—he’d expected a simple box and one, a very basic pattern often employed at scratch bases. But the CCTs had enough lights out to make a 747 pilot comfortable; they’d even managed a warning strobe on the ridge near the start of the runway.
“Looks like LAX down there,” said Mack.
“Uh, sir, we can do without the insults.”
“I was kidding,” said Mack.
“So was I. Wind has been a bitch. I’ll give you readings all along. There’s a notch in the hills that seems to am-plify it about fifty yards from the leading edge of the runway; we’ve measured it at sixty there.”
Sixty. Holy shit.
“We’re looking at only thirty knots at the moment,”
added the controller, “but God only knows if that’ll hold.
At least it stopped raining, huh, Major?”
“Delta Zeus.”
“That’s—hold on—thirty-two knots, gusting, uh, gusting to forty-five. Thirty knots.”
“Thirty knots, Delta Zeus,” acknowledged Mack. The high-winged Bronco would be buffeted by any wind, but 30 knots—let alone 45 or 60—would make things somewhat hairy on the narrow and short runway. He’d have to push his right wing down, stick and rudder himself into what amounted to an angled skid across the tarmac.
Check that, metal grid.
He came at the runway well off to the east, no flaps, expecting the winds to push him in line as they tried to tear his wing over. Mack wasn’t disappointed. As he fought the stick and left rudder, the plane touched down almost perfectly on the center line of the runway. That was about the only thing that was perfect—he went reverse pedals, RAZOR’S EDGE
145
reverse engines, reverse prayers, then jammed the brakes so bad they burned, and still nearly fell off the edge of the runway. Fortunately, the wind finally died and he turned around to follow a crewman waving him toward a parking area at the extreme northeastern end of the field. He bumped over a dirt and rubble ramp, the plane jittering a bit as he found a spot next to one of the Megafortresses.
The big black plane loomed in the darkness beyond a hand-portable spotlight, a puma ready to strike.
General Elliott had his canopy open and was clambering out the side of the plane before the props stopped spinning. Mack waited for the crewman who’d flagged him in to help chock the wheels and secure the aircraft, then made his way toward some nearby tents.
“Here’s Mack,” boomed General Elliott as Mack entered the large tin can that served as Whiplash’s temporary headquarters.
“The whole gang’s here, huh?” said Mack, glancing around and nodding to Merce Alou, Breanna Stockard, Jeff, and Chris Ferris. Jennifer Gleason’s beautiful body was tucked into a loose sweater—Mack turned a 150-watt smile on her before waving to everyone else.
“Okay, so here’s my theory,” said Elliott, already well into his business here. He told them about how the planes could only have been shot down by a long-range laser, possibly guided by the SA-2 and other radars. “Mack looked at one of the planes,” added the general.
“So?” There was an edge in Jeff Stockard’s voice as he nudged his wheelchair forward from the corner where he’d been sitting. Same old Zen—he probably still blamed him for the accident that cost him his legs.
“Like the general said, only thing that could have nailed that plane was the laser,” Mack told him. “Exploded the wing, sliced it right off.”