They came to a T. Both hallways were dark. Smoke curled at his nostrils, made him sneeze.
“Which way we goin’?” asked Powder.
“You that way. I’m this way,” Danny said, wiping his nose.
“And I’ll meet ya in the mornin’,” said Powder, pushing forward.
Gunny grabbed the soldier’s leg, yanking him to the ground. He grabbed for a gun, cursing as he realized he’d found one of the unarmed camera people instead of a soldier.
“This way. They’ve all left,” the pilot was shouting. “Stay low –”
“Damn Air Force. Bunch of know-it-alls,” grumbled the sergeant as he scooted for the doorway.
“Missiles!” Jeff yelled as his RWR lit up. A Libyan Roland mobile antiaircraft batter had just activated its radar from inside a disguised post at the south end of the complex.
“We’re out of JSOWs!” warned the weapons officer.
“Evasive action,” said Cheshire.
“No!” yelled Zen. “I can nail them! Keep me close. I’ll get them with the Flighthawk’s cannon.
“We’re too vulnerable here, even with the ECMs.”
“The Roland will take out the Delta Osprey if I don’t nail it,” said Zen.
Someone shouted something back, but he’d stopped listening. He was in the U/MF now, butt tied to its seat, pushing for the dish spiking the mother ship.
The tanklike launcher sat behind a low wall a mile ahead. Its two-armed turret twisted toward the Flighthawk, its parabolic head spinning as it got a lock.
“Weapon,” he told the computer.
The cannon bar appeared at the top of the screen.
Yellow, yellow. Red.
Locked.
Too soon, Jeff told himself, remembering how optimistic the gun radar was. Wait until you can’t possibly miss.
The Roland seemed to move downward. There was a puff of smoke.
It had fired a missile.
The bar suddenly went yellow. His targeting radar was being jammed, probably by Raven itself.
“Boresight,” Jeff ordered. He’d fire manually. The site cleared to a manual cross with a square aiming cue.
He was too high. He nudged, now less than a quarter mile away, moving incredibly fast through the haze.
Zen squeezed, saw the line of bullets move out ever so slowly, impossibly slowly toward the tank, saw the first one get the dish, saw the second, the third begin to unzip the metal as he nudged his aim point lower, the metal hissing.
Nailed the son of a bitch.
Breanna felt the Megafortress slipping from their grip as they were buffeted by a wave of flak. Two missiles were in the air behind them; there was so much going on it was impossible to keep everything sorted.
“Roland on our butt!” yelled the weapons officer. “I’ve handed off the ECM to auto mode, but we’re not shaking it. Watch the flak! We’re too damn low!”
Cheshire cursed, cranking the Megafortress into a tight turn, once more trying to beam the missile’s persistent guidance system. The fact that the German-built antiair weapon was a known commodity wasn’t making it easy to evade. The ECMs were blaring, there was more tinsel in the air than on a dozen Christmas trees, and still the damn thing was coming for them.
“Hold on,” barked Cheshire.
In the next second she slammed the Megafortress in a full-bore dive, plunging straight for the earth. Finally confused, the Roland continued on for ten yards – but ten yards only. Realizing it had missed, its onboard circuitry lit the warhead.
Raven was shaken, but unbowed. Cheshire rolled out at two thousand feet.
Right into a wall of flak.
Rap heard the pops next to her, the sound of an old-fashioned percolator kicking up a fresh pot of coffee. Something flashed in front of her.
For a second she blanked. Then she realized she was shaking her head, her hand on Raven’s yoke. The plane followed her nudge to the right.
“Jesus, that was close,” she told Cheshire.
The major didn’t answer. Bree glanced to the right and saw the pilot slumped forward in he seat. A good portion of the cockpit and fuselage lay beyond her had been mangled by triple-A.
Danny pushed his back against the wall as he edged further into the complex. The com unit had gone dead; the guns seemed to have stopped. The hallway was filled with a dull red light, perhaps from an emergency lighting system further on.
A shape loomed ahead. He leveled the MP-5 at it, saw something flash.
A bee whizzed by him in the hall. Something ripped the floor next to him.
He squeezed off a burst. The shadow fell backward.
When nothing else came from behind the shadow, Danny slipped further along the wall. The Libyan soldier had fallen face-first, his AK-47 beneath him. Freah kicked the man, making sure he was dead.
He heard something ten yards ahead. He slid down, holding his breath.
Two shadows appeared, hugging the far wall. He raised his gun in their direction.
“I sure as shit hope you’re a fuckin’ American,” said a low grunt.
“Hands up and move forward, fast!” he ordered.
“Gunnery Sergeant James Rocardo Melfi,” announced the first shape, lunging toward him. “And this is Captain Howland.”
“Where’s Smith?” asked Danny.
“We haven’t seen him since Sudan,” said Gunny. “What the hell took you girls so long?”
“We had to do our hair,” said Danny.
Zen swung Hawk One around the edge of the complex, gunning for Raven’s wing. He was at Bingo fuel. It was a long way back to base; if they didn’t set sail soon the Ospreys would be towing both U/MFs home.
But at least they’d be able to. The Roland was off the air. And the stream of antiaircraft had finally run dry.
“I need to get home or refuel, Nancy,” Jeff said, punching the intercom. “You know what? As soon as that flight of F-14 Tomcats gets here, let’s set course for that emergency base in Greece. My fuel won’t be so tight. I’ll meet you at fifteen thousand, okay?”
“I don’t know that we can make fifteen thousand,” answered Breanna. “We’re chewed up pretty bad, Jeff. Triple-A chewed through the fuselage while we were trying to get under the SAMs. Nancy got hit, and she’s at least unconscious, if not worse. I’m still assessing damage up here.”
“Are you okay, Bree?”
He felt his heart leaping out toward the front of the plane. He felt like he was a million miles from her, as if he were here and she were back at Dreamland.
“I’m intact,” she said. “How about you?”
“As intact as I get,” he managed. His hands were starting to shake; he gave control over to the computer, settling the Hawk into a shadow trail.
“Hey, Bree?”
“Yeah, Jeff?”
“I love you.”
“Me too, baby. Me too.”
Tripoli
24 October, 0655 local
As they got out of the helicopter, flames erupted from the building behind them. Tripoli was apparently under attack; the Imam’s Allah had apparently stopped smiling at him.
One of the guards turned quickly, ducking with his weapon. The other pushed Mack down toward a set of cement steps that led to a long dock. Pleasure craft were arrayed in a marina to the left.
To the right, an ancient Piaggio flying boat strained a mooring at the end of the wooden gangplank. Mack took a step toward it, then threw himself down as a pair of F/A-18’s screamed less than a hundred feet overhead, en route to a target further inland.
The Imam pulled him to his feet. His voice remained resolute, but for the first time since Somalia he made it obvious that he had a pistol in his loose-fitting sleeve.
“Into the airplane,” said the Iraina.
“Who’s flying?” asked Mack.
“You,” the Iranian said, motioning toward the seaplane. The Piaggio’s cockpit sat in front of a high wing flanked by two overhead engines. “There has been a change of plans.”