“Does Danny know?”
“Captain Freah is on his way here,” said the sergeant. “He had to round up his men.”
“Send a car.”
“It should be there in about ten seconds,” said Ax.
Dog put down the phone. While in theory the team could be headed anywhere, even a training mission, Dog realized it must mean things had popped in Somalia. More than likely, that was why Washington wanted to talk to him.
Better that than the JSF.
He took a moment to pull on his old leather flight jacket, then went back outside, where a Humvee was waiting for him.
Danny Freah was at the wheel.
“Whiplash has been activated,” said Freah as Dog pulled himself into the seat.
“Ax just told me. You have transport?”
“I was hoping you could expedite something. They want us in Africa yesterday. There’s a C-5 en route from back East.”
“A C-5?”
Freah smiled and shrugged. His team consisted of only six men; they carried their forty pounds of equipment on their backs. The big Lockheed transport planes could move the better part of a company.
Freah quickly lost his smile. “Word is, two of our pilots went down in Somalia. And two or three Marines stayed back to help them. One of the pilots was Major Smith.”
“Shit.”
“A rescue operation is being planned.”
“That C-5 will take eighteen hours to get you there.”
“At least,” said Danny.
Bastian folded his arms across his chest. ISA and Madcap Magician would have its own units nearby, but obviously they were anticipating serious trouble.
“Maybe we can wedge your boys into the backseats of our SR-71s,” he joked.
“We only have one on the base,” said Freah, who didn’t seem to be joking. He pulled the Humvee in front of the Taj. “What about a Megafortress?”
“An EB-52?”
“Major Cheshire says Fort Two could make the run in less than twelve hours.”
“Fort Two is a test bed. They nearly crashed a week ago.”
“I know that,” said Freah. “I also know the Somalians have this thing about dragging soldiers through the streets after they kill them.”
Dog got out of the truck and walked into the building, barely pausing for the security scan. Danny caught up in the elevator; neither said anything as the car began its slow descent.
Africa was a damn long way to go in a plane that typically never left the protected airspace over Dreamland.
On the other hand, there was at least a rough precedent. Another EB-52 had been used in Central America during the Maraklov/James fiasco some months before. The plane had acquitted itself quite well.
But it had also been flying with a full crew.
Fort Two was more than a transport. If he was going to send it halfway around the world, he should send it with a full weapons load. It’d be invaluable.
Hell, it’d be the star of the show. Demonstrate what Dreamland could do.
That wasn’t what this was about. They had to get Smith and the others out.
“Ax, get Major Cheshire over here right away,” he said as he stormed into his office.
“She called a few minutes ago to say she’s on her way,” said the sergeant. “ETA in zero-five. Your burger should be here by then as well,” added Ax. “Fries too. Got one for Captain Freah as well. Coffee’s on the boil.”
Northern Somalia
22 October, 0525 local
MACK SWAM MINDLESSLY, EYES CLOSED, BODY buffeted by the waves. A fish or something had attached itself to his chest, clamping powerful jaws around his ribs. He gasped for air, then realized he wasn’t swimming at all—he was hanging by his parachute harness. Every part of his body ached, but his ribs hurt most of all; he guessed some were broken.
He’d lost his helmet somewhere. Undoubtedly he’d taken it off himself, but he couldn’t remember doing so. He was suspended about thirty feet up the side of a jagged hill, the top of his chute snagged around a tree or rock. One of his hands had somehow tangled in his lines, and his legs were roped against each other. He faced a sheer cliff.
There was a knife in his speed pants. He tried to bend his body, and felt himself starting to fall. Desperately he tried to grab the rock; he rolled sideways, still caught.
Smith tried leaning toward his leg, but found he was stuck. As he craned his head upward he saw someone else on the hill above him.
It was a woman. Her dress fluttered.
No. The parachute.
He was in shock, close to losing it. He was going to die here.
Mack told himself to calm down. All he had to do was get off the hill, get his radio. They’d be looking for him by now. The sun was already up.
Shit. His wingman hadn’t been nearby. They’d have only the vaguest idea of where he was.
Not like when Zen went down.
He felt a twinge in his legs. They hurt, but nowhere near as bad as his ribs. A good sign, right?
Smith had a pocketknife beneath his vest, secured there by a lanyard clip. Steadying himself against the rock face with his left hand, he managed to thread his other arm free from the tangle. Then he slid his fingers beneath the vest to feel for the knife. He had to lever his elbow around, and felt a fresh twinge from his ribs as he grasped the clip and worked the knife free. He brought it back and pulled it open, only to have it slip from his hand. Dirt and small rocks slid all around him as he grabbed helplessly for it.
Shitfuckinhell. This can ’ t be happening to me. Not me, goddamn it. I ’ m too fuckinggoddamngood a pilot to have my fanny waxed and end up snagged on a stinkinggoddamnfuckinghell hillside. It ’ s a goddamn joke.
Smith took as deep a breath as his injured chest would allow, then pushed his right arm in the direction of his tangled legs. He felt himself start to slip, but kept going; he tumbled sideways again, but snagged, crashing against the rocks as he grabbed his leg with his right hand. He got the knife, then realized his legs were pinned together, not by the parachute line, but by the metal buckles on the lower straps, which snugged the pant legs above his boots. He levered the long knife blade behind one of the straps and freed himself, carefully gripping the knife this time. As he straightened out he began to drop again; he managed to swing his elbow against the rocks as he slipped down about five or six feet before the chute once more snagged. As he stopped he smacked the side of his face, scraping his cheek and nose.
When the burn subsided, he realized he could simply slip himself out of the harness and drop free. Problem was, the ground was still a fair distance.
Twenty-five feet? Maybe only twenty. There were bushes at the bottom of the ravine.
Long way to fall, even if the pigmy trees broke his fall. Better to slip down some more, even though the scrapes hurt like hell.
Knife swung his legs forward and back, gently at first, then harder, trying to nudge himself down. A sharp knob on the rock poked his forearm. Dirt and pebbles shot down the hill, but he stayed put.
His gut began to retch. Bile came up into his mouth and his ribs screamed with pain.
Stinkingfuckshithell. How the hell can this be happening to me? Me!
Knife clawed at the wall next to him. Maybe it would be easier to climb up it. He lodged his knife into the webbing of his vest, then tried digging his feet into the cliff side. He levered himself up a few feet, one step, two steps, a third. He managed to pull himself up enough so that the lines hung free. He stepped to the right, trying to avoid getting tangled. He took one step, then slipped and fell, sliding two or three feet before managing to grab on and stop.
Nothing to do but let himself fall.
But as he reached to unclasp his harness restraints, the rock or tree or whatever it was holding him began to give way. He pushed himself close to the face of the hill, trying to squeeze into the dirt and rocks as he slid. He clawed and slipped the whole fifteen feet to the ground, crashing through foliage so sharp he thought he had fallen into a spear pit.