“Get those fucking ship missiles,” Melfi yelled, pulling his M-16 to his side. He ignored the complaint from his knee and began to run toward the heaviest gunfire.
SMITH WHIPPED BACK TOWARD THE TARGET AREA, finally satisfied that he had ducked the SAMs. A wall of tracers illuminated the coastline, thrown up by four or five Russian-built ZSU-23 antiaircraft guns. It occurred to him that he was only seeing a fourth or a fifth of the actual bullets being fired, since only the tracers showed in the dark. A shitload of lead was being propelled into the sky.
Fired blindly, but dangerous nonetheless. Knife clicked his radio, asking Poison Two for his position.
No answer.
“Two, this is Poison Leader, posit?”
Nothing.
“Two? Give me your position. Two? Posit?”
“Poison Two blind,” his wingman finally replied. “Two-one-one for one-three off egress.”
Smith blew a long sigh into his mask before plotting his wingman’s position with the bearings he’d broadcast. He thought he’d gone down.
“All right, you’re five, six miles south of me, due south,” Knife told him.
“Poison One, copy. I have you on radar. I’m Angels twenty-five. Out of arrows, Knife. I took some flak but I’m okay. Engine’s fine. Controls responding.”
“You’re hit?”
“Roger. Fuel’s fine. Nothing bad, but I can see burn marks on the wing and I felt it.”
Knife glanced at his own fuel gauge, calculating that he had enough for perhaps five more minutes’ worth of action before hitting bingo, the theoretical turnaround point. He was still carrying four GBUs under his wings.
They were intended for the Silkworms. But the ground team still hadn’t checked in, which meant that they weren’t in position to illuminate the targets with their laser designators.
He’d have to do it himself. No big deal, as long as he could find the targets beyond the wall of flak.
Assuming his wingman was okay.
“Two, if you can hold an orbit, I’m going to mop up.”
“Copy. Go for it, Knife. I’m fine.”
Smith tried hailing the ground team as he plotted a course toward the Silkworms. He climbed to just over twenty thousand feet, well out of reach of the flak. But the air seemed to percolate with it, his Viper shuddering as he came up on the dirt landing strip that marked the western end of the target zone.
The radio static cleared as he eyeballed the master arm panel.
“Poison One, we are sparking the target. Repeat, sparking your target.”
About fucking time, he thought, acknowledging and leaning slightly on his right wing. He was ten miles from the site. Eyes pasted on the video screen, he hunted for his target. There were vague blurs, but no cues, no nothing. The LANTIRN targeting gear was having a hell of a time sorting through the battlefield smoke. In the meantime, the cloud of flak had moved in his direction.
“Poison One, have you acquired?”
“Negative,” he groused. “Just make sure you got it on.”
“We’re taking fire.”
Yeah, no shit. Join the party.
He was less than five miles from the target and running over a minefield of antiaircraft fire before the target finally crystallized in his monitor. The sparkle had a big, fat Chinese-made SS-N-2 missile dead on; he goosed off one GBU, then released another, just to be sure.
“Find me another target,” he barked.
The magic flashlight moved to a new target. As he was about to launch he realized he was about to overfly his target. He pickled anyway, got messed up, confused, lost himself for a second pulling around to retarget. His RWR screamed a fresh warning and for a half second Mack Smith fell completely apart, lost his concentration and the plane, fell behind himself in a whirl of gravity-fed vertigo, the F-16 responding to his sharp jerk on its fly-by-wire stick.
Jesus, he thought. Oh, God, I’m screwed.
THE ANTISHIP MISSILE SITE ERUPTED WITH A CASCADE of secondary explosions, each bigger than the last, as if a series of larger and larger gas cans had been ignited with a pack of firecrackers.
“That’s it, let’s go, let’s go!” Gunny shouted. The explosions were so intense he could feel their heat on his face, and he was nearly a half mile away.
“The pilot wants more targets!” shouted the corn specialist.
“Tell him he’s blown everything to hell,” shouted Gunny, grabbing the man with the target designator and yanking him backward. “We’re going while the going is good! Come on, girls! Come the fuck on!”
His men finally snapped to behind him as he trotted back toward the LZ. The explosions at the missile-launching pad had shocked the defenders silent, but Gunny knew that wasn’t going to last. He fanned his arms through the air, urging his men back toward the waiting Chinook.
He found himself standing at the spot where Gaston had been hit.
He glanced down, looking for the remains of the poor kid’s lost arm, thinking to give it a decent burial.
Wasn’t there.
A fresh explosion snapped him back to life. He whirled around, saw his point man trotting toward him, a grin on his face. Jerry Jackson was first in and last out.
“Hey, Sarge.”
“Jackson, knock that fucking watermelon grin off your face and get moving,” Gunny yelled.
“Gee, sweetheart, I didn’t know you cared,” mocked the corporal as he caught up.
“We got everybody?”
“Didn’t see no one,” said Jackson. “Better check around for Gaston, though. You know how he likes to jerk off in the bushes.”
“Yeah,” was all Gunny could manage.
KNIFE’S STOMACH PITCHED TOWARD HIS MOUTH. HE clamped his teeth shut, holding steady on the control stick as the dark, oxygen-deprived cowl slipped back from over his face. The F-16 could withstand more than nine g’s, at least one more than its pilot under the best of circumstances, and this was hardly the best. The plane was pointing nearly straight down, shrapnel streaking all around, an SA-3 somewhere in the air, hunting for his belly. He could escape it—he’d been in more difficult spots—but only if he could keep his head clear. And right now that seemed damn impossible.
Gravity clamped its thick fingers around his temples. Squeezing with all its might, it began to mash his skull into powder. The wind ran from his chest, and a long, jagged sword began ripping up his stomach.
An image shot into his head—Zen Stockard, his body being propelled from the F-15 cockpit, hurled sideways in a tumble.
Poor bastard.
Just not good enough. Not as good as me.
I am not getting fried here.
Smith regained control of himself as well as the plane, rolling through an invert and now tracking to the north, the RWR still bleating. Even so, he began hunting for a target. Everything was on fire below, everything; he couldn’t find anything to hit.
Knife jinked and saw a large shape passing through the air maybe four hundred yards away. It was the missile the Somalians had fired, but to Knife it seemed like the demon that had tormented him all through the attack, the panic that had tried to sneak up on him, panic and rust and doubt.
“No fucking way,” he screamed. He pulled himself up in the slant-back seat, straining against the restraints. The enemy missile shot clear, unguided, lost, no longer a threat.
The ground team’s Chinook was two miles away and taking fire; there were armored cars approaching from behind the buildings. He took a quick breath, switching the mode on the LANTIRN bomb-guidance system to allow him to designate the target himself. The targeting cue instantly zeroed in on the lead vehicle.
“Good night, motherfucker,” he said, loosing the GBU from his wing.
GUNNY AND JACKSON WERE TWO HUNDRED YARDS from the helicopter when the ground began percolating with heavy machine-gun fire. The two Marines dove into a ditch, where they found themselves pinned down with half a dozen other Marines. They could hear but not see the helicopter beyond a row of low trees or bushes. An armored car or personnel carrier, maybe two, rounded out from behind the near building and began firing.