“Splash it or shoot it?”
“Shoot it.”
“Negative. You see the ground team?”
“Negative. But I’m pretty sure I saw some fire being returned against that machine-gun,” added A-Bomb.
Knowlington checked back with Wolf. The ground team had checked in, saying they were proceeding to Silo, the prime pickup point. Doberman had dropped his two pods there earlier.
The controller didn’t mention Dixon. It’d been a long shot, too long — no right to hope for it, Skull told himself.
Wolf said the Herk seemed to be running behind a few minutes, but everything was shaping up nicely.
Except that the F-16s that were supposed to relieve them had been delayed.
“Can you remain on station?” the controller asked.
“We’re going to have to,” replied Knowlington. “Have our tanker move further north so we don’t have too far to fly.”
“What’s your fuel situation?” asked Wolf, suddenly concerned. He paused to let Skull respond, but he didn’t. “Maybe you should go south now,” said the controller, probably doing the math himself.
“Negative, negative,” said Skull. “Bring the tanker north and tell him to stand by.”
“I don’t know if we can do that.”
“Then scramble the SAR assets to pick us up. We’re not leaving these guys hanging.”
CHAPTER 63
Salt’s GPS told him he’d reached the spot, but he couldn’t see the pod containing the STAR kit. He was starting to get a little concerned — the Herk was due ten minutes ago, and he wasn’t sure it would hang around. Walking home was not an option.
A light flared in the distance. One of the Hogs had lit a massive flare four or five miles to the west.
As Salt turned his gaze from it back toward the Iraqi holding Davis, he saw a dead body lying in the shadow ahead, a blanket over his head.
Poor dead bastard, he thought. Wind ripped his blanket off.
He took a step forward, instinctually moving to restore the corpse’s decency, even if it could only have been an Iraqi. Then he saw it wasn’t a body at all, but the pod he’d been searching for. The second lay a few yards away.
“There. Stop!” he told the Iraqi, gesturing with his rifle. “Put Davis down.”
The man stopped but didn’t understand enough to put the wounded sergeant down. Without time to explain or bother, Salt dropped the com pack and ran to the long metal canister. He pried it open, fingers desperate. The fall had jolted the cover, making it more difficult for him to separate the latched casing. Finally, he got it open just as he heard a plane in the distance.
One of the Hogs? Or the MC-130?
Salt fumbled with the gear, dragging the poles upright, setting them in the ground right there instead of running up to the high point of the area. He screwed in the connector for the helium inflator, cursing his bum luck, cursing everything. Where the fucking hell was Wong?
“I am right here, Sergeant,” announced Captain Wong, running down the short hill that led to the rendezvous point. “There is no need to get overly flustered — the approaching plane is an A-10, not the MC-130.”
Salt spun around as the captain ran directly to the pod, placing his gun on the ground. He removed two suits, which looked like padded olive green ski gear. The hoods had fur fringe around them.
“Dress quickly, and prepare Sergeant Davis,” said Wong. “I will prepare the prisoner.”
“Fuck the prisoner,” said Salt.
“He is more valuable than you or I,” said Wong, going to the second canister. “He will go on the harness set with Lieutenant Dixon,” he added, gesturing up the hill. “I trust he will be here shortly. He does not run quite as fast as I.”
“Dixon?”
“My other assignment. Have you radioed to initiate the pickup?”
“I just got here.”
“I’ll make the transmission once the gear is set,” said Wong. “The Hercules is supposed to proceed to Silo even if we do not broadcast.”
“How are you getting back, Captain?” asked Salt.
“The future is not our present concern,” said Wong. “Quickly now. The Hercules should arrive at any moment, and I believe I hear a vehicle in the distance.”
CHAPTER 64
If the Hercules had been equipped with an ejector seat, Lars would have pulled the handles by now. The blare of the RWR warnings, the flak, and the explosions had drilled into his skull from all directions, carbon-tipped bits eating right through to the bone.
Yet not one of the threats, real as they were, had been anywhere near the Hercules as it flew. MiGs, SAMs, a flight of F-15E Strike Eagles inbound to Baghdad crossing his path — everything had been miles and miles from his plane. He knew from Wolf that all hell was breaking lose near his target zone, but couldn’t see it, flying too low and too slow; nonetheless, every flicker of pink, of red, of green, panicked him. Somehow he managed to hold the control column steady as he flew on; somehow the big plane kept herself precisely on the path for the rendezvous point. They were making bad time — they were roughly twenty-five minutes behind schedule and getting worse — but there was nothing he could do about that, and it was decidedly better than being off course.
They were now inside ten miles of their pickup spot, not yet in contact with the ground team. Wolf had confirmed that the commandos were alive, at least, and proceeding toward Silo, the code name for the prime pickup point. But the team had not checked back.
“I think we ought to go right in,” said the navigator. “Hit our mark in case they’re there but can’t use the radio. This low, we’re going to have trouble hearing them.”
Going straight in was the briefed procedure, and Lars knew what the navigator said might be true. Still, Wolf ought to be able to get them on the air, or contact them through the A-10s flying cover. Lars opened his mouth to tell Kelly to contact the ABCCC again, but nothing came out. He worked his tongue around his lips and teeth, swallowed, trying to force some saliva toward his dry throat.
“Try another hail,” he managed.
“Wolf would have told us if they’d come up. You’re on course,” added Kelly, leaning over his shoulder. The flight engineer was looking at the radar unit, or maybe just pretending to. “Everything’s cool,” added the sergeant, patting his shoulder.
“Yeah,” said Lars, seeing his left hand shake but powerless to stop it. “Cool.”
The assistant jumpmaster and the winch-operator and the tail-position operator reported that they were ready. Someone else in the back said something, then there was another voice Lars couldn’t make out. After they snagged the line they’d have to get it to catch it then clamp it then release it then winch it then hook it then release it then grab the men.
No, he had the order wrong. Hook clamp release pull.
No…
Just fly the plane. That was tough enough.
The Herk’s GPS NAVISTAR computer projected a crosshair over the target zone as they approached, just as if they were making a covert drop in hostile territory. Lars felt his body hitching, weighed down by the helmet and heavy flak jacket. As he hit his turn and brought the Herk up off the deck, he caught a glimpse of the moon; it was nowhere near full but it would be bathing them in light, making them an easy target.
A flare lit in the distance off their right wing.
We’re going to fry, he thought. Fry.