Where?
“No!” he shouted. “No! No! No!”
“Fox One!” said the lead pilot.
RAZOR’S EDGE
369
Aboard Whiplash Hind , over Iraq 1942
DANNY PULLED HIS MP-5 NEXT TO HIM ON THE BENCH. HE
could see white through the helicopter window across from him—snow from the mountains.
Home, almost home. It’d be warm there now, almost spring.
Egg was flying low enough to stop for traffic signals.
Hopefully he didn’t kick into a goat or something—the CentCom lawyers would be peeved.
Lawyers. Holy shit. What would Major Pee-liar say about stealing a laser from the Iranians? Give it back.
The Iranians had probably stolen it from the U.S.
somehow. He had merely returned the favor, Danny thought.
His guys were sharing some MREs with the Marines.
They must be really, really hungry.
He started to laugh. His leg twinged.
Then it pounded.
“Hey, Nurse, maybe I will have that morphine,” he said, pushing upright again. He twisted toward Liu, but his view was blocked by a flash of bright red and yellow flames. He felt himself falling backward and realized home was even farther away than he’d thought.
VI
Friendly Fire
High Top
30 May 1997
1942
AS MACK PROCEEDED THROUGH HIS INSPECTION OF THE
Bronco, Garcia followed along behind him, waxing elo-quent about what the addition of five-bladed, infinite-pitch propellers and supercharged turbo engines would do to the aircraft’s performance. Mack had mustered gen-uine admiration for the OV-10, but it paled beside Garcia’s lust. The pilot would have liked nothing better than to help the techie try some of his improvements, but he was in something of a hurry to get going. He’d been ordered to return to Brussels posthaste and prepare a brief on the recent air campaign. This meant considerable work, though not necessarily the kind he enjoyed—he’d have to listen to CentCom commanders brag until his ears fell off. On the other hand, it also meant serious career chits. No doubt it would help push his campaign to win assignment as squadron commander back onto the fast track.
“A few tweaks here and there, Major, this becomes the best COIN aircraft in the world,” Garcia said as they walked toward the rear. “There’s an opportunity here. We stick some of the Flighthawk sensors on it, do a mondo 374
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
upgrade to the engines, telemetry tie-in with the Whiplash team. Add microrobots to extend real-time viewing. Gonna serve somebody—”
“Another song lyric, huh?” Mack ducked beneath the tail. The worn paint was becoming familiar. “Am I going to make Incirlik?”
Garcia looked at him as if he’d just asked if the world were flat. “Well, yes, sir.”
“How about Brussels?”
“Assuming you refuel, not a problem.”
Mack gave the crewman a thumbs-up. If no one at Incirlik actually asked for the aircraft, well, it wouldn’t be right to just leave it in a hangar there. He was personally responsible for its safety. That meant he’d have to take it with him, all the way to Brussels if necessary.
Maybe that French aerospace consultant would like a ride. He’d personally tuck her in.
Hell, at this point he’d settle for Patti Good Teeth.
Mack pulled himself into the cockpit. Helmet on and straps cinched, he gave Garcia the thumb and cranked the engines. The plane tugged at its brakes as he completed the preflight. He still had no weapons, but Garcia had wrung a few more RPMs out of the engines and, even more important, adjusted their whine so they sounded very much like a pack of vintage Harleys tearing down the highway. There was loud, and then there was loud; Mack never minded a few decibels as long as his eardrums got pounded in style.
Cleared by the tower, Mack began trundling toward the far end of the runway. Just as he made his turn and went to gun the throttle, a familiar voice broke over the long-range radio.
“We have a helicopter down by friendly fire,” said Breanna Stockard. “Repeat, Whiplash Hind is down.”
“Shit,” said Mack. He whipped the turbos and raced RAZOR’S EDGE
375
down the mesh strip. Climbing out swiftly, he banked south, veering off his flight plan.
“Quicksilver, this is Wild Bronco, ” he said. “What’s going on, Bree?”
“The Hind was hit about twenty miles south southeast of the border. Whiplash team is aboard.”
“You have a visual?” he asked.
“Negative. We don’t have an exact location. Just com-mencing a search.”
“Copy that. Give me what you’ve got, beautiful. I’m on my way.”
Aboard Raven , over Iran 1955
FENTRESS’S HEART POUNDED IN HIS EARS, BUT OTHERWISE
he felt almost relaxed, his hand moving the joystick smoothly left as he began the new search pattern. He had the infrared view selected; the sensors should have no trouble locating the warm body of the helicopter in the cold air. The computer had already been instructed to highlight possible wreckage “clusters,” as they were referred to by the programming.
Pushing the Flighthawk through the long, jagged valley, Fentress imagined he heard Zen telling him to slow down. The slower he went, the better the odds of seeing something or being seen.
As he neared the end of the search grid, Fentress pushed a bit farther west and made a wide, looping bank onto a new search track. He backed the throttle down, forward airspeed nudging toward 200 miles an hour. Flying the Flighthawks fast wasn’t very hard; they were bullets with stubby wings. Flying them slow, however, took patience and grace. You had to concentrate on what you 376
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
were doing, and yet you couldn’t get so caught up in the details that you started to fight the computer as you bucked through the eddies.
Fentress narrowed his eyes on the screen, trying to keep his concentration. He had to find his guys.
BREE PULLED ZEN TO THE FLOOR AND THEY STARTED TO
dance. His legs hurt but they kept dancing. He pushed his arms tighter around her, holding himself up, resting, but the music got faster and faster. She broke free and danced wildly. He did the same, though his legs were hurting.
It was good that his legs hurt. They hadn’t hurt for so long. He’d known in the hospital that they didn’t hurt, knew what that meant, though he’d tried not to face it.
Zen fought to walk. Giving that up—and yet not giving up everything else—that was the impossible thing. Accepting his paralysis without accepting that it doomed him—had he ever really done that?
It was only when he decided he wouldn’t walk, that he had to concentrate on getting back any way he could, that he made real progress.
He’d give up everything to walk again. Everything.
Bree? Not Bree. Bree he wouldn’t give up.
She danced in front of him. The dream began to fade.
His legs continued to hurt.
Dreamland Command Center
1055
DOG PUT HIS HAND ON THE LIEUTENANT’S SHOULDER, steadying the young man as he worked the com gear and flicked back and forth between the different feeds, trying to locate the helicopter wreckage. There wasn’t much more they could do from here.
RAZOR’S EDGE
377
“Feed pending from General Magnus,” the lieutenant told Dog.
“Yes, I see. Keep it there. Don’t open it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The door to the secure room opened and Major Cheshire entered, carrying a tray of coffee and dough-nuts. “Hey, Colonel,” she said lightly.
“Major.” Dog stared at the screen.