“Who says they don’t?”
“Uh, everyone says they don’t.”
244
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Everyone’s the CIA. Those spooks couldn’t read the writing on a billboard at twenty paces. Why in hell would the Iranians be attacking our planes?” continued the general. “We’re in Iraq. Why would Iran attack us?”
“I didn’t say they did. I said the Iraqis—”
“Brad says they did. Iranians, not Iraqis.”
“He thinks they may have sold it to them. The Iranians as well as the Chinese have shown interest in Razor, and as a matter of fact—”
“Lasers. Fancy Dan Bullshit.” Clearwater practically spit. He was a foot soldier at heart; last week he had lectured Jed for ten minutes on the value of a rifle that never jammed. But while he claimed he didn’t go for “fancy Dan bullshit,” the record showed that he’d made sure his men and women were equipped with the latest technology, including hand-held GPS devices, satellite phones, and laser-dot rifle scopes.
“If there’s a laser, why haven’t the satellites seen it?”
Clearwater asked, echoing the CIA’s main legitimate argument against the laser.
“There’s only one launch detection satellite near enough to cover that part of Iraq,” said Jed. “And it’s not designed to detect laser bursts.”
“Fancy Dan bullshit.”
Clearwater turned the corner and entered a conference room. Jed followed along. There were six other people inside, none lower than a brigadier general.
“You boys know Jed,” said Clearwater. “NSC sent him down to keep our noses clean.”
“Well, uh, that’s not exactly my, uh, job, sirs,” said Jed.
Admiral Radmuth, sitting next to Jed, gave him a wink.
The men, who headed different commands organized under CentCom, apparently knew that Clearwater himself had asked to borrow Jed for his technical expertise—not RAZOR’S EDGE
245
to mention his backdoor access to the White House.
“Gentlemen, let’s get this donkey cart in motion.”
Clearwater slapped his hands on the table. “I want a full update, starting with what we’re hitting this axlehead Saddam with, and what we can expect in return. You have ten minutes. Then Boy Wonder and I are on the plane for Incirlik.”
“On the plane?” Jed’s voice squeaked involuntarily.
“I’m going to Turkey?”
Clearwater turned and smiled at him, probably for the first time ever. He clicked his false teeth, then turned back to his lieutenants. “Gentlemen, I believe pride of place belongs to the Air Force. We have nine and a half minutes left.”
Aboard Raven , over Iraq 2345
CAPTAIN FENTRESS LEANED TO THE RIGHT WITH THE
Flighthawk as he came out of the turn, nudging the throttle slide to max. The Flighthawk picked up speed slowly at first, but once it got through 330 knots, it seemed to jump forward, slicing toward the target building. The metal warehouse sat to the left; as he approached, Fentress saw that the sides were missing from one of the two trailers, revealing what looked like a pair of generators. The Flighthawk whipped past, following Fentress’s prompts as it slid above the empty roadway parallel to the building. He backed off the thrust and began to turn, misjudging his speed and ending up far wider than he’d planned for the next, lower run over the area.
Piloting a Predator typically took four people, and that 246
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
was a slow-moving, low-flying aircraft, relatively forgiving of mistakes. Light-years more complicated, in some ways the Flighthawk was actually easier to fly—its sophisticated flight control computer, C3, did myriad things for the pilot. But in other ways piloting the U/MF at speeds close to Mach 1 was as demanding as doing a bi-nomial equation in your head while pushing a tractor-trailer through an uphill maze. His thoughts were consistently a half second behind the plane, and his reactions another second or two behind that.
Not bad for a rookie, maybe, but the six men in the Bronco needed him to be a hell of a lot better.
He’d die if he screwed up. Just die.
C3 noodled him, showing how far off course he’d gone with a dotted red line. Fentress brought it back, kept his speed low, getting a look at things.
“Whiplash team is ninety seconds away,” said Alou.
“We’re patching your feed through.”
Fentress felt his heart pound.
“Hawk leader, this is Whiplash,” said Danny. “The vehicles on the east side beyond the parking area of that second building—can you take a pass so we can find out what they are?”
Vehicles? He hadn’t seen any.
“Roger that.” Fentress slammed the Flighthawk into a turn so abruptly that the computer gave him a stall warning. He eased off, took a breath—it wasn’t a big deal; Zen got those warnings all the time. The computer was just a big sissy.
He knew that Zen would have fried his ears off for that.
But Zen wasn’t here.
Concentrate, he told himself.
Fentress told the computer to switch the viewing mode on the main screen from starlight to IR, which would RAZOR’S EDGE
247
make the vehicles easier to spot. He found his course, following the dotted line drawn up by the computer, and dropped through five thousand feet, nudging his speed back until he was just under 200 knots. Running toward the site from the northeast corner, he saw nothing but a flat field and a torn fence, but as he pulled overhead and began to turn he spotted two tanks dug into the ground about a hundred yards from the building, right near the road the Bronco was supposed to land on.
He’d have to take out the tanks.
“Hawk leader, this is Whiplash.”
Fentress could get them both in one pass, but it would be easier, surer, to take them out one at a time. Go for the sure thing.
Zen would agree.
He was already lined up.
“Weapons,” he told the computer. The screen changed instantly, adding crosshairs, targeting data, and a bar at the bottom that could automatically indicate whether he should fire or not once he designated the target.
“Hawk leader?”
Something buzzed into the top left of his screen.
Fentress felt the blood drain from his head directly to his legs. He was nailed, dead.
No—it was the Bronco!
“Captain Fentress?” said Alou.
“Tanks, two tanks, on the road, dug in,” he said.
Tanks? Or the Razor clone?
Tanks—he could see the lollipops on top.
By the time he had it sorted out, he’d overflown them.
He started to bank.
“They’re definitely tanks,” said Fentress. “Nothing else down there, nothing big enough for Razor, at least outside of the building. I’m going to take the tanks.”
248
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Whiplash copies,” said Danny. “We’ll hold for your attack.”
Fentress banked to the right, sliding toward the warehouse to get it in view of the sensor. As he did, a yellow light erupted from a low hill on the right.
“Flak!” yelled a voice he hadn’t heard before. It had to be the Bronco pilot, also plugged into the circuit.
Flak, a Zeus firing 23mm slugs. Not even—something lighter, a machine gun.
Take that out too, after the tanks. People there, another vehicle.
Razor? Razor?
Calm down, damn it. Just a pickup.
Fentress pushed on, scanning the warehouse through his turn before starting for the tanks. He got his nose onto the first one, tried to ignore the pounding of his heart. His target bar flashed red.
Fire, he thought. Fire.
His fingers cramped. He couldn’t move them.
He was beyond the tank.
“What’s going on, Hawk leader?” demanded the Bronco pilot.
“Targeting tanks,” said Fentress. He cut southward, came back quickly—too fast. The tanks blurred.
Just fire!