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Dreamland Command Center
1600
“WHY TAKE A PRISONER?” SAID RUBEO. “IS HE SUPPOSED
to be our consolation prize?”
The others stared at Dog from their consoles. The feed from Danny Freah’s smart helmet, relayed through the tactical satellite and the Whiplash communications network, played on the screen at the front of the situation room. It showed him searching the large warehouse behind the scientist.
“He can tell us what they’re doing there,” Dog said.
“If he’s not the janitor,” said Rubeo. “It’s a parking garage.”
“I believe it’s a covert communications facility,” said one of the scientists. “The trenches outside indicate large cables. The work stations—”
“We have more complicated systems working the lighting,” said Rubeo. “Obviously, we made a mistake—this isn’t a laser site.”
“The section at the left of the bench area included two radar screens. This must be where they’re coordinating the missile launches from,” insisted the other scientist.
“Don’t be so dismissive.”
“I’m being a realist,” hissed Rubeo. “Missiles didn’t bring down those planes. They’re merely wasting them, just as we are wasting our time here.”
“Bull.”
“All right, everybody take a breath,” Dog said. “We’ve got a ways to go here. We’re not even off the ground.”
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Aboard Wild Bronco , on the ground in Iraq 2400
MACK LEANED DOWN FROM THE PLANE AS DANNY FREAH
ran up, the props still turning slowly. He had what looked to be the CPU unit of a personal computer in his arms.
“So?” he yelled to him.
“We got a prisoner and some gear. We’re grabbing all the computer stuff we can grab. I’m going to throw this on the floor of my cockpit.”
“You have to secure it or it’ll shoot around the cockpit when we take off.”
“I’ll sit on it.”
Shit, thought Mack. These Whiplash guys were all out of their minds. “So are we taking the laser or what?”
“There’s no laser here. It may be some sort of communications site, maybe not even that. Can you get the plane closer?”
“Yeah, I guess. Wait—what do you mean, a prisoner?”
demanded Mack.
Freah ignored him, tossing the computer piece into his end of the cockpit.
Two of the assault team members ran up with pieces of equipment. They looked like looters who’d hit an electronics store during a power blackout.
“Where we going to put this prisoner?” Mack shouted.
“Shove him in the back with the guys,” said Danny.
“That’s too much weight.”
“We’re taking him back, Major. One way or the other.
I’ll strap him to the wing if we have to.”
“Shit, Danny—”
“You’re telling me you’re not a good enough pilot to get this crate off the ground, Major?”
“Hey, fuck yourself,” said Mack, but Freah had already 256
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disappeared. He kicked the dirt once, then turned back to the airplane.
This wasn’t like driving a truck. Weight was critical, especially if they were going to make it over the mountains. He’d worked it out to the pound before the flight, figuring they’d carry away only two hundred pounds of gear.
No way they were going to hold it to two hundred.
Shit. They could start an electronics shop with this stuff.
Grousing to himself, Mack reached into the cockpit for his flight board. An experienced Bronco pilot would know where he could cheat, but he had to rely on the specs.
The Iraqi added how much? Another 150.
Hopefully.
The tanks were another problem. The explosion had pockmarked part of his runway. Stinking idiots did that on purpose, just to make his life difficult.
Mack worked over the numbers, trying to make sure he could make the takeoff on the small runway. The problem was, he had to climb almost right away, and had no face wind to help. He wasn’t going to make it. Had he screwed up his calculations before? He was close to 500 pounds too heavy.
There had to be more margin for error. Somewhere.
Drop the Sidewinders. That’d do it.
Shit, fly naked?
Who was he kidding, though? The only thing he could use the heat-seekers for was as booster rockets.
Mack turned back to see two of the Whiplash people hauling a sack forward. They were almost on top of him before he realized the sack was a person.
“Hold,” he said, walking to them. “How heavy is he?”
The two troopers were wearing helmets and apparently RAZOR’S EDGE
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couldn’t hear him. He grabbed hold of the Iraqi, whose eyes were so wide and white they looked like flashlights.
He held him up, shaking him a bit.
A hundred fifty, maybe a little more.
“You’re lucky,” he told the EPW after dropping him on the ground. “Few more pounds and we woulda had to cut your leg off to get airborne.”
Aboard Raven , over Iraq 30 May 1997
0012
THE COMPUTER FLEW HAWK ONE IN THE ORBIT AROUND
the area at eight thousand feet as Fentress took a break.
His heart wasn’t beating so crazily anymore and he felt good, damn good—the ground team confirmed that he had nailed the tanks.
Actually, they’d turned out to be armored personnel carriers. Same difference.
Zen would be proud of him.
“Bronco is ready to take off,” said Alou.
Fentress retook the stick and began to come back north. Smith grumbled something over the open circuit about wanting wind. Fentress banked, watching as the Bronco struggled to get airborne, its nose bobbing up and down violently as it approached a curve in the road. Fentress felt a hole open in his stomach—he’d never seen an airplane crash before, not in real life.
He didn’t now. The Bronco kept going straight, apparently airborne, though just barely.
“Bronco is up,” he told Alou.
“Good. How’s your fuel?”
He checked his instruments, running through a quick 258
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scan before reporting back that they were right on the mark as planned. They traded course headings, double-checking the positions the computers plotted out for them as the Bronco slowly began picking up speed.
“I didn’t think he’d make it,” Fentress told Alou. “Take off I mean.”
“Mack Smith always cuts it right to the bone,” said Alou. “That’s the way he is.”
“A little like Zen.”
“In a way.
“Mack helped develop the Flighthawks,” Alou continued. “He’s never flown them, but I’d guess he knows them as well as anyone, except for Zen. He helped map the tactics sections.”
“Why didn’t he fly them?”
“Doesn’t like robots.”
Fentress had Hawk One flying above and behind the OV-10, following the slow-moving plane much as he would follow a helicopter. He would arc behind at times to maintain separation, while still keeping close to his escort. At the same time, he had to stay relatively close to Raven, which was flying a kind of spiraling oval back toward the base at high altitude.
“Mack was in the air when Jeff had the accident that cost him his legs,” said Alou. “Not that they got along too well before that. But, uh, I’d say there’s still some bad blood there.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. Not the sort of thing you want to bring up in ca-sual conversation with either one of them, I think.”
“Yes, sir.”
Alou laughed. “Hey, relax, kid. You’re one of us now.
You kicked ass down there. Zen’ll be proud of you.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, uh, right.”
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