OBJECTS FLEW AROUND ZEN’S HEAD WITHOUT ANY LOGICAL
sense. He saw Breanna dancing, saw himself walking, saw his wheelchair tumbling as if lost in a zero-gravity orbit around his head. He fought to get away from riddled unconsciousness, swam toward reality, the seat on the Flighthawk deck of Raven. Fentress was there somewhere. Fentress needed his help.
Fentress stood with a pair of Colt .45s, taking potshots RAZOR’S EDGE
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on the shooting range. Clay pigeons morphed into real pigeons, which morphed into hawks, which morphed into helicopters.
Helicopters, enemy helicopters.
“Nail the mothers, Curly,” he shouted. “Lead helo first.
Knock the others off course. Go!”
AS THE FIRING BAR FLASHED RED, FENTRESS REMEMBERED
Zen’s advice about the computer being slightly optimistic. He started to count off three seconds to himself, but his adrenaline got the better of him; his finger depressed the trigger after one. Just under a hundred 20mm bullets perforated the engine and then the cabin and then the engine of the Hip; the chopper dipped and then fell below his target pipper. Fentress let off on the trigger, pushing right for the lead helicopter. The cannon’s recoil had stolen some of his momentum, but he managed to turn tightly, and found his target on his right wing. The bar flashed red and he began firing immediately, the bullets trailing downward as the Hip jinked left. Flares shot from the rear of the helicopter. Fentress managed a quick angle shot but couldn’t hope to maneuver behind the helicopter.
He hit the gas and boogied away, gaining speed and altitude for a second run. Turning his wing for a dive back, he saw one of the helicopters streak across his view to the left, and he hesitated a moment, surprised that it had managed to get by him. The hesitation cost him a shot on a second Hip, which came at him from less than half a mile away, chin gun blazing. Reflexes took over; Fentress tucked over and dove for the ground, spinning into a tight turn to put his nose back in the direction the helicopters had taken. At the same time, the AWACS controller warned that the rescue chopper, an MH-60 spec ops craft, was zero-one from pickup.
“Hawk,” he said, lining up on a Hip.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
On the ground in Iraq
2030
DANNY MANAGED TO SLIDE TO THE GROUND BEHIND THE
rocks as Gunny shouted; the tight report of the spotting round was followed by the heavier thump and whiz of the 83mm rocket from the Marine’s SMAW. Danny pushed up in time to see the rocket plow through the windshield of the pickup truck, exploding in a hiss of steam. The dozen men packed into the rear were caught as they tried to jump; they burst out of the dust cloud in pieces.
The other truck jerked right but stayed on the wide road, avoiding the wreckage of the first pickup and gunning its engine. Three or four men began firing Kalash-nikovs over the cab.
“Well, we got their attention,” said Gunny, throwing the now empty SMAW down and pulling up his light machine gun.
As the Iraqi gunfire began pinging into the nearby rocks, Gunny poured 5.56mm slugs into the front end of the truck. The white pickup kept coming for about twenty feet, then rolled over in flames. A second explosion shot debris everywhere; Danny felt something whack against his chest and arm as he ducked. He saw or felt Gunny pushing off to his left, trying to swing his gun up; Danny threw himself around and opened fire in that direction.
Something shrieked, then cried in pain. Danny continued to fire, spraying bullets left and right. Iraqis were less than twenty yards away, maybe closer.
“All right, all right, all right,” Danny yelled, telling himself to stop firing, to get discipline.
Hunkering down, he reached for a fresh clip and slammed the new bullets home. The Marine sergeant was curled against a rock to his left, no longer firing.
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God—did I shoot him?
Danny looked to the left up the slope, saw nothing. A bullet ricocheted off one of the stones behind him. He threw himself flat on his stomach, then crawled back toward the road. There were at least two Iraqi soldiers in a ditch paralleling the highway about twenty feet from his position. The truck smoldered behind them; there might be more men sheltered there, though it was impossible to tell.
He knew they’d have a good line on Gunny. He’d have to drag him to cover.
As he got up, one of the Iraqis in the ditch opened fire.
Danny dropped. The bullets just missed.
The Iraqis’ line of fire only extended about five or six yards up the slope; Danny knew he could probably make it past them, thanks to his body armor. But carrying Gunny would slow him down considerably. He’d have to take out the bastards first.
“Gunny!” he yelled.
No answer.
Jesus, he thought. If I killed him, what will I do?
Aboard Quicksilver , over Iraq 2035
AT 25,000 FEET, QUICKSILVER WAS WELL ABOVE THE ACtion, though thanks to the continually updated photos from the Dreamland mini-KH satellite, they had a ring-side seat. The Flighthawk was fencing with the Iraqi helicopters; two were down but the other two were now within two miles of the pickup zone. The rescue Blackhawk MH-60 raced toward the site, balls-out; he’d get there maybe sixty seconds after the Iraqi helos.
“Quicksilver to Hawk leader. Stand off. We’ll get the Hips with our AMRAAMs,” she said.
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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Her copilot didn’t wait for the command, opening the bay door as he zeroed in on the target.
“Hawk leader?” she repeated. “Stand off. We have to nail those helos now. Zen?”
“Zen’s not flying the Flighthawk,” Ferris said. “Fentress is.”
Aboard Raven , over Iraq 2040
THE HELICOPTER GREW FAT IN HIS CUE. AS FENTRESS
pressed the trigger, he heard Breanna’s hail.
He hesitated a second, just long enough for the helicopter to cut right and drop, avoiding him. He tucked right, began shooting anyway, lost the helicopter. He had to throw the Flighthawk left to avoid a looming cliff face—if the rocks had been covered with moss, he would have scraped it off.
“Shit!” he cursed, flailing right after the helo.
“Stay within yourself,” said Zen.
“I can’t.”
“Yes you can.”
“Zen?”
“It’s me. Hold on— Quicksilver wants you to stand off.
They’re targeting with AMRAAMs.”
He pulled back. “Hawk leader to Quicksilver. Acknowledged. They’re yours.”
“Fox One!” said Chris Ferris, the copilot in Quicksilver, announcing the missile shot.
In the next second the AWACS controller broke in.
“Quicksilver, Raven, Wild Bronco—break ninety immediately! Bandits off runway at A-3. MiGs! Break!
Break!”
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Aboard Wild Bronco , over Iraq 2045
MACK SMITH SAW THE PICKUP TRUCK BURST INTO FLAMES
as he sailed by. There were a couple of guys at the foot of the hill near the crash site, maybe four or five hundred yards down the slope; they had to be Americans. He tried to radio their position to the AWACS but got overrun by all the excitement. The Iraqi Hips were now less than two miles away, and smoke filled the lower left quadrant of the horizon as he turned back toward the site.
The Flighthawk and Quicksilver were taking potshots at the Hips, with what sounded like little success; he couldn’t help thinking he would have nailed every single one of the suckers if he’d just had guns on his damn plane.