Because it was one serious hellcat, if you had the balls to stick and rudder it. He put his wing just about straight down as he turned, getting the American position in view.
“Thunder One, this is Wild Bronco,” he said, trying to reach the MH-60G rescue helicopter on its own frequency. “I have one maybe two Americans on the slope near the road. You guys hear me?”
No answer. He could see the helicopter, an angry-looking Pave Hawk specially modified for Special Forces work. A man hung out the door over a machine gun as it came in; someone on the ground moved. The helicopter skimmed into a hover, then touched down a few yards from the wreckage of the Hind.
Gunfire ripped from the road. There were half a dozen Iraqis down there. Something flared—a shoulder-launched SAM?
Shooting at him?
That did it. Mack pushed his stick in and pirouetted in 392
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the sky, kicking out diversionary flares. He’d run the motherfuckers over if he had to.
On the ground in Iraq
2050
THE ROTORS OF THE MH-60G PAVE HAWK SPEC OP HELO
continued to spin as the Whiplash wounded were loaded in. The rotors made an odd whirling sound, a kind of low whistle, as if the Sikorsky herself were telling them to get a move on.
Powder helped Liu shoulder the litter into the helicopter as the door gunner let loose another burst in the general direction of the Iraqi ground troops. Something whizzed behind him, and Powder threw himself to the ground. The mountain shuddered, and the helicopter, hovering less than a foot off the dirt, reared to the side.
“Mortars!” he shouted. “Fucks have mortars!”
He jumped up, saw Liu in front of him and grabbed him.
“Into the helicopter!” he shouted. He scooped up his gun from the ground. “Go! Go!”
Liu started to say something, but Powder just pushed him toward the Blackhawk. He heard another round of in-coming and dove forward down the slope.
“Get the helo off,” he yelled. “It’s a sitting duck!”
Aboard Wild Bronco , over Iraq 2055
THE BASTARDS DUCKED AS HE CLOSED IN, BUT AS MACK
approached the ground a mortar shell shot up toward the slope.
RAZOR’S EDGE
393
If he only had a stinking gun.
“Coyote AWACS—this is Bronco. Get that helo off the ground! Now! They’re going to get roasted. Go. Come on. No time to be a hero. Go! Take off. Jesus,” said Mack, still talking as he rolled back north.
“Bronco. There are two MiGs headed for you,” answered the AWACS controller. “Get out of there!”
“Hey, screw yourself,” said Mack, though he didn’t press the send button. “Think I’m a wimp or something?”
On the ground in Iraq
2057
DANNY COULD SEE WHERE THEY WERE FIRING THE MORTAR
from. He had a fragmentation grenade and thought he might be able to reach the mortar if he could get any sort of weight behind the throw. But that would expose him to the Iraqis in the ditch.
Stand up, toss the grenade as quickly as he could, duck back down, he told himself.
That would leave him with two smoke grenades. Use one to cover his retreat up the hillside. Use the other to deke them, give him a clear toss at the mortar.
A fresh burst of AK-47 bullets kicked through the nearby dirt. As the mortar whizzed again, Danny lobbed a smoke grenade in the direction of the ditch, waiting for it to land, judging—hoping—the Iraqis would see it and duck. He counted two seconds, then rose and wailed the fragmentation grenade at the men with the mortar.
His knee buckled with the throw. The grenade sailed only about twenty yards. As he fell his arms sailed out, spread-eagle, a rush of pain coming over him.
Danny swam back through the dirt, grabbing his gun and steadying his aim on the ditch. His eyes narrowed 394
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
down to slits, compressed by a fresh wave of pain at the top of his head. He felt as if someone had taken a nail gun and plastered a dozen spikes through the top of his helmetless skull. He heard a sound like a vacuum, thought it must be the mortar, and fired wildly. He saw an Iraqi as the smoke wafted clear. The man turned toward him with a pistol, and Danny leveled his MP-5 and fired. The bullets spun him back, his pistol falling at his feet.
The mortar lay on the ground, beyond another body.
The Pave Hawk roared above somewhere. Other helicopters, other planes, gunfire—the noises jammed together. Danny stopped listening. Dirt tore at his eyes. He needed to rest; the sensation overwhelmed him.
Someone was behind him.
Danny spun so fast he lost his balance. An injured Iraqi had struggled to his feet two yards away. He held his hands out, weaponless.
Danny just barely caught himself from pressing the trigger. He wanted to—he felt no mercy, knew he’d be shown none if the situation was reversed. It was wildly dangerous not to fire, but he couldn’t bring himself to kill a man who had his arms up.
As Danny continued to stare at him, the Iraqi lowered his eyes. He kept his hands above his head.
A prisoner was the last thing he needed now. But he couldn’t shoot the SOB. Just couldn’t.
“Go,” Danny told him.
The man didn’t move.
“Go!” he shouted. He shot a few rounds into the air, yelling and screaming. “Go! Go! Go!”
The Iraqi, terrified, finally began to move.
“Get the hell away from here!” shouted Danny. “Go!”
The man finally seemed to understand. He began to RAZOR’S EDGE
395
run, looking over his shoulder after a few steps, ducking his head a bit as if in thanks. Then he put everything he had into his stride, running into the distance.
Okay, Danny thought. Okay. Now how the hell do I get out of here?
POWDER REACHED GUNNY AS GUNFIRE ERUPTED A FEW
yards farther away, down near the road. There was too much smoke to see anything, but he figured Captain Freah had just taken out the mortar. He turned the Marine sergeant over as gently as he could, staring at him until he saw that he was definitely breathing.
“Hey,” mumbled the sergeant. “Didja get the fucker?”
“Who?” asked Powder.
“One of those bastards tried to flank us.”
Powder craned his neck up. There was a body maybe ten yards across the slope.
“Any others?” Powder asked.
“Dunno. What happened to the captain?” Gunny gasped between the words.
“Probably around here somewhere.”
“Water?”
Powder gave the injured Marine a drink and looked over his wounds. He had been hit in the side and the arm and lost a lot of blood. How serious the wounds were was hard to tell, but it’d all be academic if they didn’t get the hell out of there ASAP.
Aboard Wild Bronco , over Iraq 2059
MACK TRIED TO SORT ALL THE COMMOTION OUT OVER THE
common radio circuit as he shadowed the highway. The 396
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MiGs had their afterburners lit and were two minutes away. Two F-15s had moved up to intercept but hadn’t gotten radar locks yet, the amateurs. The MH-60 had been hit but was still flying; its pilot proceeded to argue with the AWACS controller about what he should and shouldn’t do.
“Wild Bronco, you have your orders. Break ninety!”
“Bullshit. I’m not leaving guys there.”
Mack passed the mortar area, saw that it had been neutralized. One of the Iraqis had even been captured.
Hell, he could put down, pick them up, and get the hell out of there before the Eagles even found the stinking MiGs.
So why not?
Why not indeed.
“Wild Bronco to Coyote—send the Blackhawk home,”