The computer kept giving him connection warnings as he maneuvered. He still couldn’t see the site on his viewer.
“I need you to come south, Raven,” he told Alou.
“Can’t do it,” said Alou.
Zen began climbing back. As he did, the Hawk radars came back on. He tucked left but too late; the RWR
screen blinked red as the computerized voice told him he was being tracked.
“Come on! Nail those mothers,” he told Alou.
“Ten seconds to launch,” said the copilot. “Area at the far end, near the livestock pen. Must be camo’d well.”
With ECMs blaring and his disposables disposed, Zen plunged the Flighthawk toward the radars, zigged hard and pulled down, trying to both beam the Doppler radar and line up for his attack run. But this was physically impossible—the Hawk targeting radar spiked him. A half second later, the battery launched a pair of SAMs.
Fuck it, he thought, thumbing the cannon screen up. If he was going out, he was going out in style. The barracks building at the south end was just coming into view at the top of his screen.
It disappeared behind a cloud of white steam.
It took him a second to realize it was antiaircraft artillery, firing from inside a pen of milling animals near the building. A thick hail of lead rose from Zsu-23s or possibly M-163 Vulcans in netted pits below the animals, perhaps tied into the Hawk radar. Zen had to break his attack, and he twisted south. Clear, he turned back in time to see the Hawk battery explode.
“Bull’s-eye on the SAMs!” said the copilot. “Kick ass.”
“Triple A in the pig pen,” Zen told Alou. “Kind of figures. I got it.”
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Yours,” said Alou. “We have three AGMs left. Fentress, get Whiplash in as soon as the flak’s gone.”
Bullets spewed from the guns as Zen rocked northward. As the closest torrent began to separate into two distinct streams, Zen pressed the trigger on his own cannon. The Flighthawk spewed shells into the dirt and panic-stricken animals in front of the triple-A pit; he rode the torrent into a low wall in front of it and then through the sloped turret. The cloud of gunfire parted and then cleared; Zen turned to the east beyond the target, trying to sort out the battlefield before making another pass.
Flames spewed from the Hawk battery. Men were running from the barracks. Two of the flak guns were continuing to fire, one east, one west. The Hind was about ninety seconds away.
And the building with the laser?
It sat at the north end of the complex. The roof panels on the west side were folding downward. There was movement inside but Zen couldn’t tell what was going on.
“I think the laser’s getting ready to fire,” he warned.
“I’m going to grease it.”
“We’ll get a missile on it,” said Alou.
“No time,” he said, pushing over.
Aboard Whiplash Hind, over Iran 1750
DANNY WENT TO THE DOOR AS THE HIND GLIDED INTO A hover, preparing to launch its missiles. Black smoke curled on the other side of the complex, and he could see men running in different directions, some to take defensive positions, others to save themselves.
“Watch the Flighthawk!” he barked, but the warning was drowned out by a thundering succession of whoops RAZOR’S EDGE
337
from the rocket launchers. The rockets left the wing pod with a furl of white smoke and a hard shake; Danny felt as if a giant had grabbed hold of the Hind’s wings and was systematically trying to empty its stores on the enemy. Zen said something about targeting the laser building, then warned about flak, but in the rush of noise and fire and smoke it was impossible to figure out what he was saying. Danny wanted only one thing—to get down on the ground and complete their mission.
“Let’s go, Egg, let’s go!” he yelled as the rockets stopped. The Hind whipped right, but then twisted backward, away from the target. “What the hell?” he asked Egg.
“Flighthawk is firing!” warned the pilot. “He wants us to stay back.”
“Get us into the complex now!” said Danny. “Just do it!”
“Yes, sir. Hold on.”
The helicopter lurched eastward. Danny saw the small robot plane pass almost in slow motion, smoke erupting from its mouth. Steam enveloped the side of the target building.
“Down! Down!” said Danny.
As if in response, the nose of the helicopter pitched hard toward the earth.
Northern Iran
1755
THEY WERE NEARLY TWO HUNDRED MILES FROM ANHIK, more than six or seven hours away by car, when the call came on his satellite phone. The connection was poor, but General Sattari understood immediately what had happened.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Repulse the attack at all costs,” he told Colonel Vali, though the command was completely unnecessary. “Reinforcements will be sent.”
The general told the driver to go up the road to a high point. When they reached it, he got out of the car with the telephone and walked off the road to a pile of rocks, more for privacy than to ensure good reception. The driver the black robes had supplied was undoubtedly a spy. The bastards hadn’t even let him fly back in the helicopter.
No wonder. Thoughts of treachery ran through his head. Khamenei had tipped off the Americans or the Chinese somehow—it wasn’t clear who exactly was attacking.
Sattari emptied his mind and calmly began dialing the squadron commanders he knew would be loyal to him.
Smoke rose between the distant hills.
His imagination? Surely he could not see the attack from here.
“Anhik is under attack,” Sattari said into his phone when the connection went through. “Send assistance.”
He repeated the words six times; each time the man on the other line said nothing more than “Yes” or “Right away.” As he clicked the End Transmit button after speaking to the last commander, Sattari turned toward Anhik, as if perhaps he might at least witness the battle there.
The smoke was gone.
His experts had told him the laser was undetectable.
Khamenei must have betrayed him somehow.
He remembered getting the news of his parents’ death.
The message read only, “Your parents have become mar-tyrs.”
Had he not expected his dream to end this way?
Sattari walked back to the Rover. “Anhik,” he said.
“Go.”
RAZOR’S EDGE
339
Aboard Raven , over Iran 1803
ZEN KEPT HIS FINGER ON THE TRIGGER, RIDING THE STREAM
of bullets through the laser director, across the building and into the flak dealer nearby. The gun rattled and burst like an overheating steam engine, but he was too busy to admire his handiwork. The last gun turned nearly straight up, unleashing its shells at point-blank range. The Flighthawk stuttered momentarily, then tipped right, one of its control surfaces nicked by a shell. The computer immediately compensated and the plane responded to Zen’s push on the throttle slider, galloping south.
He took a breath as he banked back to finish the job. As he looked to his left to try and locate the Hind, the antiaircraft battery began firing again, its shells arcing off to his left. Zen thought it must be trying to nail the chopper.
Anger welled inside him; driven by instinct and emotion, he rushed to protect his friends, pushing the throttle to the firewall and mashing his trigger even though he was out of range. The ground and smoke and dust parted, replaced by a red tunnel of flame; he pushed the cannon shells into the antiair gun like a knife into the heart of an enemy.
Clearing, he banked left and began to climb. As he rose, he saw Raven two miles away to the northwest. It was a shock to realize he was actually sitting back there in relative safety, not dodging through the bullets and fire at the battlefield.