Murdock burned off half a thirty-round magazine in a little over a second, then spun to the right, shifting targets to the searchlight that was swinging now to capture him in its glare. The dazzle from the spotlight was blinding through the low-light goggles, but Murdock had squeezed his eyes shut behind the rubber-padded objective lenses and was firing at where he estimated the light must be. An instant later, he sensed the light beating against his eyelids flare and go out. Hit!
When he opened his eyes again, his low-light optics revealed an all-out battle, with at least thirty men firing in almost every direction. Bullets clipped the stone wall nearby and whispered overhead with a sound like ripping paper. The familiar flat crack of AKMs fired on full auto filled the night, as did the hard, jutting stab of their muzzle flashes.
Doc and Razor were halfway down the beach, running flat out. Garcia was hanging back, firing his HK in precise, carefully aimed three-round bursts.
"Boomer!" Murdock called over the tactical radio. "Get your ass off this beach!" Garcia didn't appear to hear. Shit, was his radio off? "Boomer! Acknowledge!"
Murdock started to run toward the SEAL, crouched far over and moving with an easy, long-legged stride. Bullets struck the sand near Garcia, but he stayed in position, leaning into his submachine gun as he continued to mark down Yugoslav soldiers. When he saw Murdock, he lowered his weapon and grinned beneath his NVD goggles. His tactical radio, a small box strapped to his assault vest high up on his left shoulder, had been smashed open by a stray round.
"C'mon, L-T!" Garcia called. "You've got to-"
… and then Boomer was flung back, arms outstretched, subgun flying, as a round struck his chest with a vicious sounding thwack.
"Oh, shit!" Murdock fired another burst, then dropped to one knee at Garcia's side. "Boomer! Boomer, can you hear me?"
The bullet had gone through the SEAL's upper chest, in the front, out the back, clean through his flak vest. There was a lot of blood, and Boomer appeared to be unconscious.
With one arm, Murdock hoisted the wounded SEAL to his feet, then began staggering down the beach. Bullets hissed and thudded in the sand to either side, and something snapped at his left sleeve. The water! They had to reach the water!…
But as the gunfire at their backs increased in manic intensity, Murdock didn't think they were going to make it.
6
The AC-130U Specter was the direct descendant of the Spooky gunships so beloved of ground troops during the Vietnam War. The Spookys had been C-47s, WW II-era cargo planes mounting a deadly trio of 7.62 miniguns pointed out their left door and windows.
So effective had they been in close air support of ground troops that the U.S. Air Force had expanded on the idea. The AC-130U Specter gunship was a very specially modified C-130 Hercules, an ungainly transport remade into the image of a special warfare warrior. The 130U model mounted a single 25mm five-barreled General Electric Gau-12U Gatling Gun. Fed by a two-canister automated loader system, the high-speed gun could deliver a rate of fire of either 3600 or 4200 rounds per minute. The Specter also mounted a 40mm cannon and a 105mm howitzer, and all weapons were linked to laser range finders, an infrared sensor, radar, low-light television, and a sophisticated fire-control computer. All three weapons were mounted in the aircraft's port side, like the broadside of some ancient war galleon. Forward, a soundproofed battle control center sported an impressive array of television monitors, computers, radar screens, and IR sensor displays.
It was there that Major Peter K. Selby, the aircraft's fire control officer, sat with two sensor operators, scanning banks of television monitors. Three particular display monitors showed what the gunship's weapons were pointed at. The images on the screens were indistinguishable from those of a black-and-white television set, save that each was centered on a set of cross-hairs. Viewed in infrared, the scene below was day bright, unusual only in the fact that the engines of the Mi-8 Hip and an army truck parked nearby were glowing as brightly as a neon sign.
"Looks like they're having a damned party down there," Selby said. "You got 'em sorted yet?"
"No, sir," one of the sensor operators said. "Somebody's mad at someone, though. There's a hell of a lot of shooting going on down there."
Selby nodded. He could see several groups of men moving across the beach, and the muzzle flashes from their automatic weapons were distinctly visible. A helicopter was parked on the highway near a line of trees, and there was a hell of a lot of activity along the coast highway.
"Any sign of anti-air assets?"
"Negative, sir. Not so far. The Harriers have been circling for ten minutes, though, inviting them to come out and play."
The Specter gunship, flying low and slow, would be an easy target for enemy aircraft. Escort for this mission was being flown by a pair of Marine Harrier IIs flying off the Nassau. Any sign of Yugoslav MiGs, SAMs, or mobile flak, and the Harriers would pounce like a couple of hawks.
"Okay, then we can probably assume we're clear," Selby said. "Let's see if we can raise our guys." Reaching to an overhead console, he switched on a radio, adjusted the frequency, then picked up a hand microphone. "Nomad, Nomad," he called. "This is Night Rider. Do you copy? Over."
There was no immediate answer. The angle of the scene revealed on the TV monitors slowly changed as the Specter gunship circled the battle on the beach at a range of over two miles, and at an altitude of eight thousand feet, just above the lowest layer of clouds. The Specter's infrared optics penetrated the overcast almost as easily as it penetrated the night.
"Nomad, Nomad, this is Night Rider. Do you copy? Over."
"Night Rider! Night Rider!" sounded from an overhead speaker. The voice coming over the air-ground channel was scratchy with static, and Selby thought he could hear the thud and rattle of gunfire in the distance. "This is Nomad. Go ahead!"
It was a strange feeling to be talking to a man who was, at that moment, under fire. Selby had experienced the strangeness of this high-tech participation in battle before, during Desert Storm and he'd never gotten over it. Here, aboard the AC-130, the only sound was the drone of the aircraft's engines, the hum of electronics, the low voices of the sensor operators. Except for the tilt to the deck, he might as well have been in an air-conditioned room in the Pentagon basement. The man he was talking to, just a few miles away, was fighting for his life.
"Nomad, we are circling your approximate position at eight thousand. Understand you might need assistance, over."
"Night Rider, Nomad, that is affirmative," the voice came back. "Wait one while we sort ourselves out for you."
"Roger that. Night Rider, standing by." He turned to one of the sensor operators. "Let's back off a bit and see if we can get a shot of more of the beach, okay?"
"Yes, sir."
The scene receded as the operator adjusted the lens magnification. Damn, there sure as hell was some kind of a ruckus going on down there. Selby could see dozens of men, and a lot of gunfire. But on infrared TV, all uniforms looked alike and there was no way to pick out the ones worn by Navy SEALS.
"There, sir," Sergeant Zanowski, the senior operator, said. "Clear signal. There's another."
Three… no, five bright stars had appeared on the screen, three up on the beach, two more by the edge of the black water. There were two more now, also in the water. Each SEAL was wearing a standard survival vest strobe attached to his assault vest, but capped with an IR filter. Switched on, the light was invisible to the hostiles, but it showed up clearly to the AC-130's IR cameras.