The new airborne command was fully operational before Palmer hit the ground.
26
Fitzduane let his rucksack drop away on its line as he flared in.
The ruck would hit first and he would land lighter, but that was not going to be much use if he landed smack in front of a terrorist bunker.
It was not an academic thought. He was used to the more maneuverable rectangular ram air ‘chute, and the circular T15 the airborne used was markedly less responsive.
He had remembered too late and now was going to pay the penalty. What a fucking stupid, unprofessional error.
He hit hard and then skidded onto his back. Pain shot through his body and then he smashed into something soft and yielding. Without question, it was the worst landing he had made in he hated to think of how many jumps. He was lying on – or half in – an eviscerated body. Whose side it belonged to it was impossible to tell.
Flame stabbed over his head and turned into green tracer. The noise was deafening.
With horror he realized he was lying directly under the firing aperture of the bunker. The only good news was that the gun crew inside had been temporarily blinded by his parachute wrapping itself around the emplacement.
There was a surge of flame as the heavy machine gun fired again through the folds of fabric and his parachute ignited.
Fitzduane rolled to one side, turning over again and again, and as he did so an AT4 rocket flamed out of the darkness and hit the bunker just below the aperture. The structure exploded.
Figures stumbled out of a trench at the back of the bunker.
Silhouetted against the sudden flame of an A10 missile strike on the perimeter, he could see the curved magazines of AK-47s.
There were six terrorists in the group. Two seemed dazed, but the others carried themselves as if they would like to find out who had blown up their home.
Fitzduane's M16 was still in its padded jump case. He was of the opinion that this might be a great idea to avoid unnecessary damage while training, but as a combat technique he thought it sucked. He was going to die because some bean counter objected to wear and tear on the weaponry. If he got back, he was going to find whoever ordered this idiot shit and do something unfriendly to them.
He pulled a Willie Pete from his map pocket, pulled the pin, hoped the fuse had been set correctly, and waited three long seconds.
The terrorists heard the sound of the pin being removed, but identifying a single sound when the world is blowing up around you was not easy. In the background Fitzduane could see the breath of a dragon as an A10 blasted uranium-depleted shells at a terrorist tank.
The tank exploded as Fitzduane threw the grenade.
As the missile left his fingers he drew his pistol and fired twice at one terrorist who had been turning toward him. The rounds hit the man in the face and snapped his head back just as the phosphorus grenade exploded.
Two terrorists were left standing as white smoke eddied around them. Both were burning, one screaming terribly.
Fitzduane fired again, double-tapping head shots.
Both figures slumped.
A smell of still-burning flesh wafted toward him. The phosphorus burned at 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit and was nearly impossible to put out.
He cut his M16 out of its case with his fighting knife and jacked in a round. The A10s and C130 Spectre gunships were pounding the perimeter, but unless requested the center belonged to the airborne.
Despite the background of flashes, it struck him that the place was damn dark, and then he remembered the night-vision goggles on a cord around his neck under his shirt. He pulled them out and clipped them on his Kevlar.
His heart gave a sudden start.
Half a dozen infrared-detectable laser beams were focused on his torso. That they had not fired already was encouraging, but the thought that six charged-up paratroops had him in their sights was a little chilling.
"Dead woodpecker," he croaked.
"Fuck ‘em all, Colonel," said Brock cheerfully.
His shape detached itself from the ground, moved forward, and then went down again.
I'm up, I'm seen, I'm down. You took longer, and if your enemy was remotely competent you died. And God will miss you. Only the glint tape on his helmet – detectable solely with the night vision goggles and the air force's equipment – gave away his position. Brock was one mean mover, and judging by how little Fitzduane could see of his platoon as he looked around, he had trained his men equally well.
"Situation?" said Fitzduane. Carlson had remarked that no matter how much you prepared, command during the first thirty minutes of a large-scale drop was at best all about managing chaos. Even in a tight insertion, heavy equipment ended up in the wrong place and units got horribly mixed up. Enemy fire and other hostile action compounded the confusion.
An airborne assault initially tended to be a controlled mess. Resolving that mess was less up to the commanders than to the initiative of little groups of paratroopers. In the opinion of the airborne's critics, it was a horrible way to run a war and alarmingly untidy.
The only thing that could be said in its favor was that it worked.
"I've rounded up most of the platoon," said Brock. "Two are still missing, but they know the objective. Sorvino caught one from that emplacement." He made a gesture toward the smoldering ruins of the heavy-machine-gun position. "He's dead."
"Cochrane?" said Fitzduane.
"We've got him," said Brock.
"Give me the rest of it," said Fitzduane.
"The air force have well and truly worked over the heavy hostile positions," said Brock, "but there are a lot bad guys out there spread out in small groups and moving around through linked spider holes and tunnels. That means you don't know where they are going to pop up. If their shooting was a little better we'd have to earn our pay, but as it is they tend to fire high and don't live long enough to adjust. But we're taking some casualties. There is just too much hot metal flying around. It will get easier when our heavy stuff cuts in. It will get a whole lot worse if a reserve starts to throw at us. It's their armor that worries me. They're supposed to have it, but I don't see it. So where is the stuff? It's a fucking shell game."
The RT operator called Brock and he took the proffered microphone.
Around their position Fitzduane could hear and see the volume of fire emanating from the 82 ^ nd rapidly increasing as units and impromptu fire teams got their bearings. Targets were being identified and M60s were methodically clearing out their designated sectors with SAWs, rifle fire, and grenades. Bunkers were being taken out with AT4s and the smaller LAWS.
On a terrain or model map, Madoa airfield encased in its perimeter defenses had seemed a neat, manageable size.
On the ground, it was brought home to Fitzduane just how large any full-size airfield really was. Two brigades of the 82 ^ nd had dropped onto the place, and now, from his ground-hugging position, the area looked surprisingly empty. True, competing tracers sliced the air and there were constant flashes and explosions over a background of machine-gun and rifle fire, but there were almost no people to be seen.
They were surrounded by thousands of troops trying to kill each other, but from his position they were invisible. It was disconcerting. Fitzduane was used to special-operations missions where your own group was so small virtually your entire focus could be on the enemy.
In this situation, managing your own team was almost an end in itself. It was a whole new layer of worry, and it brought home just what conventional command in combat was all about. There was a paradox in the situation. Special operations were intrinsically much more difficult – but also they were easier. Your training was better, funded, your equipment was normally better and your focus was tighter. Your main area of responsibility was destroying the enemy. It made life simpler.