“I need to talk to the general himself,” Dog told him.
“I’m sorry, Colonel, I can’t put you through.”
Dog folded his arms in front of his chest, trying to mar-tial his patience. “This is a top priority item. It involves a matter of immediate importance,” Dog told him.
“Then explain it to me,” said the major.
“I can’t,” said Bastian.
“Then this conversation is over,” said the major, who snapped off the connection.
“Asshole,” said the lieutenant in a stage whisper.
Dog began pacing again. In fairness to the major, he probably didn’t understand why a “mere” lieutenant colonel would need to speak right away to a four-star general, especially since that colonel was ostensibly calling from Edwards Air Force Base, where the duty roster showed he was assigned to support squadron.
Ordinarily a good cover, but in this case perhaps a bit too good.
Magnus could get through to Clearwater, he thought, and would appreciate the heads-up himself. But Dog hadn’t been able to hunt him down in D.C. He’d had to use the secure e-mail message system to tell him about the damage to Quicksilver and the fact that it had been forced to land at Incirlik, and still didn’t have an acknowledgment.
Dog glanced at his watch. Less than fifteen minutes until takeoff for the mission.
No way he was going to delay it.
“Listen, Lieutenant, I’m going to go catch a breather.
Page me if General Magnus or General Clearwater RAZOR’S EDGE
235
calls, and if there’s anything from Whiplash or the Megafortresses. Otherwise, I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
High Top
2302
“YOU TAKE THAT KNEE OUT OF MY SIDE RIGHT NOW, POWder, or I’m going to twist it back behind your head.”
“If you had room to twist it behind my head, Bison, it wouldn’t be in your goddamn side.”
“That ain’t his knee,” said Liu.
“Real funny, Nurse,” said Powder.
“We taking off today or what?” said Egg, the fourth member of the Whiplash team crammed into the rear of the Bronco. He wagged his flashlight toward the roof, throwing bizarre shadows across the M-4 carbines, grenade launchers, and MP5s they’d lashed there.
The Marine Corps had outfitted several OV-10s for special operations, turning the rear area into a passenger compartment. While no Marine was ever heard to complain—at least not within earshot of his commanding officer—the accommodations hardly fit the definition of spartan, let alone cramped. And that was in a plane specifically designed, or at least modified, to their specifications. This aircraft made the Marine versions seem like 747s. Sitting on their rucksacks, each man had his helmet and backup oxygen in his lap. There was no light, and no communication with the cockpit.
“Which one of you didn’t take a shower?” Bison asked.
“Hell with that,” said Egg. “Liu had some of that soup.”
“Jesus,” groaned the others together.
236
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“About time,” said Powder as the airplane’s engines started up with a roar. The vibration from the engine worked into his spine and skull.
“Man, this is nuts,” said Bison. “Powder, take your damn elbow out of my ribs.”
“Where do you want me to put it?”
“You want me to tell you?”
“You don’t watch yourself, I will.”
The plane jerked forward as the engine noise jumped fifty decibels.
“Man, I gotta go to the can,” said Egg.
“I think we’re taking off!” yelled Bison. He dropped his flashlight as the plane stuttered upward, and the Whiplash assault team was left in temporary darkness.
Just as well, thought Powder. Dinner roiled in his stomach. He’d gone over to the Marine mess and scoffed up a few helpings of roast beef and mashed spuds. He thought now the gravy had been a mistake.
“Whoa—we’re up,” said Bison.
“I been in trucks smoother than this,” said Egg.
“Sixty-seven minutes away,” said Powder.
“Hey,” said Egg. “Anybody smell roast beef?”
DANNY BRACED HIMSELF AS THE BRONCO PULLED NEARLY
four g’s, turning around a sharp crag in the mountains en route to their target.
“Captain, are you still with us?” asked Dr. Ray Rubeo over the Whiplash circuit, which was being fed by the tactical communications satellite into his smart helmet.
“Yes, sir.”
“As we said before, video of the director unit would be very useful. We want measurement of the focusing appa-ratus, but you needn’t bother with taking parts from it.
Simply blow it up.”
“Right.”
RAZOR’S EDGE
237
“The chemical samples, the readings—those are higher priorities. The disk array is what we specifically want. Now, if the weapon is Razor size, you can expect the computer gear to be fairly small. On the other hand, if it’s stationary, I would imagine you’ll be hunting for something about the size of a large cabinet, similar to some of the memory devices we use here with the work stations.”
“Gotcha,” said Danny. They had already gone over the priority list and the likely layout of the weapon and any facility housing it twice.
“We’ll be right here, watching what you do,” added the scientist as Mack warned that he was going to take another sharp turn.
“Great,” groaned Danny as gravity knocked him sideways.
MACK SMITH CHECKED THE ENGINE GAUGES AGAIN. THE
turbos were maxed out, but with all the extra weight, they were barely doing 190 knots. Fortunately, they didn’t have to climb; he’d laid out a zigzag course through the passes and then a straight run down to the site. The night was dark, with only a small sliver of moon, but he figured that was in their favor—the darkness would make it tough for anyone on the ground to hit them.
Once past the last peaks ahead, he’d have a clear shot.
Landing on the road, though, was going to be a bitch—he figured he’d have to drop a “log” flare on a first approach to see the damn thing, then hustle back in before the light burned out or anyone on the ground nailed him.
At least he wasn’t flying completely naked. He’d managed to talk Alou out of a pair of Sidewinders. Garcia had mounted them on the OV-10’s launcher.
He almost hoped he had a chance to use them. This sucker turned on a dime. He’d lure a MiG onto his butt, 238
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
turn quick, then slam the two heat seekers right down his tailpipe.
All in all, he had to admit the Bronco was a lot of fun to drive.
Drive, not fly, he thought. You couldn’t really call moving under 200 knots flying.
“We’re running behind,” said Danny, who was sitting in the copilot-observer’s seat behind him.
“Really?” he replied over the Bronco’s interphone circuit. “Well hold on while I hit the rocket power.”
Aboard Raven , over Iraq 2320
FENTRESS FELT HIS CHEST IMPLODE AS MAJOR ALOU
counted down the seconds to launch, taking Raven through the alpha maneuver to exert maximum separation force on the Flighthawks.
People’s lives depended on him doing his job without fucking up. That had never been true before.
Alou thought he could do it. To Alou, there wasn’t even a question.
And Zen?
Fentress hadn’t asked. As far as he knew, no one had.
Alou was in charge of the mission. He thought he could do it. He would do it.
“Alpha,” said Alou.
Fentress’s pinkie jerked with some kind of involuntary reaction on the joystick controller, even though he’d turned the launch over to the computer.
“Flighthawk launched,” confirmed the computer.
Though it was night, the view from the robot was as clear and defined as if it were day. In fact, he could tell the computer to present it as a cloudless sky at high noon RAZOR’S EDGE