The MiG had him fat in its pipper.
“Suck on this, raghead!” he shouted, pushing the OV-10 into a desperation dive as the left engine gave out and the emergency lights indicated it was on fire.
Aboard Raven , over Iraq 2138
THE COMPUTER TRIED TO GET HIM TO STOP, BUT HE WAS
balls-out committed now. The cannon clicked empty and the MiG kept coming and Fentress could see the Iraqi pilot hunkering over his stick, so intent on nailing his quarry that he didn’t even see the Flighthawk closing in.
The screen flashed and C3 gave him a verbal warning as RAZOR’S EDGE
407
well as a proximity tone, but all he could hear was Zen’s calm voice.
“Nail ’em. Now.”
The Iraqi pilot saw something and turned his head toward the side, leaning back in the direction of the Flighthawk.
Then the screen went blank.
ZEN FELL BACK IN THE SEAT, AS EXHAUSTED AS IF HE’D
flown the plane himself. He let his head go all the way back, staring at the compartment ceiling.
It wasn’t exactly what he would have done—it wasn’t, quite frankly, as good as he would have done. But Fentress had saved the Bronco.
“Wild Bronco to Hawk leader.”
Zen turned toward Fentress, who sat stone still in his seat.
“Yo, Hawk leader. Nice flying, Zen boy.” Mack was laughing, the SOB.
“Hawk,” said Zen. “But that was Fentress who nailed the MiG.”
“Fentress, no shit. Good shootin’, nugget boy.”
Fentress said nothing, pulling off his helmet.
“What’s your status, Bronco?” Zen asked.
“Lost an engine. Probably got a little wing damage.
Nothing we can’t live with. We ought to get some of these planes at Dreamland,” Mack added. “Best stinking plane I ever flew.”
Zen turned Mack over to Alou so they could discuss the course home. In the meantime, Fentress eased his restraints and leaned back in the seat. He looked white, beat as hell.
“Hey, that was a kick-ass move,” Zen told him. “You used your head.”
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“Yeah.”
“I mean it,” said Zen. “You did good. You saved the Bronco.”
“Yeah. I did.”
“Listen, we can come up with something besides Curly. How about Hammer or Sleek or something?”
Fentress shrugged, then turned his head toward Zen.
He looked tired, and sweat had soaked his curly locks.
But he still smiled. “Curly’s okay. Kinda fits.”
“You did okay, kid,” said Zen. “You did okay.”
Not only did he mean it, he actually felt a little proud.
VII
The Easy Way
High Top
30 May 1997
2201
DANNY GROANED AS HE PULLED HIS ARMS OVER THE MA-rine corpsmen helping him out of the Bronco. Pain and fatigue had settled over him like a patina on a bronze statue; it was so much a part of him that he had forgotten what it felt like not to hurt. Once out of the aircraft, he made an effort to move his legs and began insisting that he didn’t need the stretcher waiting a few feet away.
“Hey, Cap, happy Memorial Day,” said Powder, walking over.
“Uh-huh.”
“Chinook’s comin’ to evac the wounded over to Incirlik. That means you, Cap,” added Powder.
“Where?” asked Danny.
“Incirlik.”
“The helicopter, I mean. Where is it?”
“Inbound,” said Nurse. “You gotta go, Cap. That leg’s for shit and I bet you got internal bleeding in your chest there. Head’s banged too. You look woozy.”
“E-ternal bleeding,” said Powder.
“Corporal’s lost a lot of blood. I’d give him better than fifty-fifty,” added Liu. “Gunny’s cursing his butt off over 412
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there on the litter—you hear him? Took some hits in the chest and leg.”
Danny shook his head. Nurse tried to gently prod him toward the stretcher.
“Hey, don’t shove me,” Danny said.
“We’ll take care of stuff here,” said Liu. “Major Alou says we’re going home soon—Marines taking over the base.”
“What happened to the laser parts?” Danny asked.
“Waiting for FedEx,” said Powder. “That or the Marines, whoever gets here first. Bison and the boys got them all aboard the Blackhawk before it took off.”
Danny heard a helicopter approaching in the distance.
He tried turning in its direction, then gave up. Nurse was right—he ought to take it slow.
“Hey, Captain, next time can I drive the helicopter?”
asked Powder.
“Sure thing,” said Danny, letting them ease him onto the stretcher.
Dreamland Command Center
1700
THE TIME HAD COME FOR THE SHIT TO HIT THE FAN. DOG
stood in the middle of the room, waiting for the connection to snap through. When it did, General Magnus’s face was redder than he expected, though his tone was one of sympathy and even sadness.
“Colonel.”
“General.”
“Your men?”
“As far as I know, they’re all okay.” Dog held his head erect, shoulders stiff. “The missile that hit the Hind struck the top of the aircraft when they were about ten feet off RAZOR’S EDGE
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the ground. It carried through the engine housing before exploding. They crashed, but they were very lucky.”
“Any friendly fire incident needs a full investigation,”
said Magnus.
“Yes, sir, of course.”
“I heard a rumor that your people carried this out on their own initiative,” said Magnus. “That they were responding to a fluid situation, and reacted. Properly, with justification, but without a full plan in place. That would account for CentCom not getting the proper notification.”
Something jumped inside Dog’s chest. Was Magnus suggesting he lie to avert what might be a politically embarrassing investigation?
Maybe. It might avoid problems, short-circuit months of hand-wringing that wouldn’t benefit anyone—including him, Dog knew.
But it was a lie.
“I ordered that mission, sir. I felt the Whiplash directive was sufficient authorization. I stand by my decision.”
Magnus nodded. “Colonel, if I told you that you were relieved of command, would that be an order you were prepared to follow?”
“Of course.”
Magnus pushed his lips together. Dog felt his neck muscles stiffen; the room turned cold. “Is that what is happening here?”
“No,” said Magnus. “Not at all.”
“Sir?”
“It’s no secret that I and the administration don’t see eye-to-eye,” said the general, his tone changing.
“If I’ve done anything—”
Magnus’s stern expression broke for just a moment.
“You’re about the only thing we agree on,” said Magnus.
“You’re a good man, Colonel. You made the right call and 414
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you stood behind it.” The general paused, but before Dog could say anything else, he went on, his tone even softer than before. “Dreamland is going to be—excuse me, the command structure involving Dreamland is going to be changed.”
“In what way?”
“Good question,” said Magnus. “All I know at the moment is that you are no longer my concern. Dreamland is no longer part of my command.”
Flustered, Dog tried to think of what to say. “JSOC?”
he said finally. “Are we under the Special Forces Command?”
“No,” said Magnus. “I’m late for a meeting right now, I’m sorry,” he added. “Orders will be cut soon. I’m not privy to them.”
“Who do we answer to—I mean, who’s our commander?”
“The President,” said Magnus.
“Of course,” said Dog, “but I mean—”