“Metal fatigue, probably,” one commented. “You don’t maintain something, you use it too hard, that’s what happens. They should have known that.”
“I wonder if all of them are in the same shape,” another said.
“Probably — or close to it. Makes our job easier, huh?”
“No. That was a one-in-a-thousand mishap,” Parto said firmly. “We’ve got an hour — if we move fast enough, we can take out two more.”
Not one of them would have expressed doubt openly, but he could see it in each face. Hell, he felt it himself, the gut feeling of revulsion and fear that made him want to beat feet as far and as fast as he could from this place.
But that’s what they were here for, wasn’t it? To take the risks that they didn’t want to subject their families and friends to back in the States? They were the hard spear tip of the American military, protecting the soft underbelly of the civilian population, and sometimes it came down to this — put up or shut up.
He didn’t have to tell any of them that. They would make the connection in their own way, come to the same conclusion. There was no help — they had to take out the ones that they could.
Suddenly, he heard a crashing in the bushes. Chief Petty Officer Jesus Lacar held up a hand, nodded, and silently slipped out of the group. He would find whoever was approaching and dispose of the problem.
The noise stopped. A few moments later, he reappeared. His face was pale and tight.
“Whatever it was, it got him,” he said, his voice steady, maybe too steady. “Definitely a nerve agent. He had blood coming out of his mouth and was in convulsions when I got there. Big red boils all over his skin, some of them breaking open. And his eyes…”—the man could not repress a shudder—“his eyes were solid bloodred. They must’ve been hurting bad because he was trying to claw them out.”
“Better here than at home,” Parto said finally. “Come on, let’s move out.”
The next crew they approached was much sloppier. The guard had his back to him as Parto approached, and he died quickly and quietly. They were in the clearing in a heartbeat, moving silently, but not as carefully as they had before. The clock was ticking.
On signal, six handguns rang out with a double tap, dropping six men, and then again until everyone was dead.
If we hit the missile… He shuddered to think how close to disaster they may have come before.
“One more,” Parto said, as they hastily regrouped. “We have twenty minutes — we’ll use them.”
Maskiro’s people disliked giving him bad news. Over the previous three days, he’d gone from an aggressive, canny tactician into an easily irritated manic. So, when the Russian air traffic controller saw the spate of aircraft symbols appear around the American aircraft carrier, he groaned.
Maskiro was behind him in an instant, stinking of sweat. “What is that?”
“It appears to be aircraft launching from the carrier, comrade,” the controller said, trying to keep his voice level.
“Impossible. They will not take the chance of incurring civilian casualties. I have that on the best authority and we are not.” Maskiro’s voice trailed off as he saw the aircraft symbols merge into a single mass, and then break apart into two separate flights. One group headed for the island. The second turned north, staying out of range of the antiair weapons, but clearly intending to intercept the reinforcement MiG squadron now approaching the island.
“No.” Maskiro picked up the portable radio that connected him with the medium-range land attack launchers. He paused for a moment, and the controller thought he saw a flash of sanity and sorrow. Before he could speak, the radio came to life.
“Command, sector one commander. Comrade, three stations have failed to conduct their hourly status reports. I have been unable to raise them by radio. I think we must consider the possibility that American special forces are now on the island.” The sector commander had no hesitation in voicing his opinion, since he was out of Maskiro’s immediate reach. “I have ordered additional security measures, but I cannot guarantee our security here. Comrade, your orders?”
Maskiro howled in rage. He slammed the radio down on the desk and turned insane eyes around the room as though seeking someone to take the brunt of his anger. The radio blared again. “Comrade, your orders?”
Maskiro grabbed the radio. “Launch. I repeat, all land attack site launch! Now!” He then turned to the air controller. “Notify the inbound flight and Comrade Korsov that we are under attack.” Maskiro drew his personal side arm and chambered around. “And that we will fight here to the death.”
FIFTEEN
With a slider in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, Tombstone was on the flight deck with Coyote’s two weapons experts. They’d spotted the MiG just aft of the island to stay clear of the long line of fighters waiting to launch. Greene was ignoring the MiG, staring hungrily at the catapult and the Tomcats.
Coyote’s experts made a cursory examination of the exterior of the MiG, then the chief broke out a multimeter and started taking readings. “You’re sure they told you it was the same?” the chief asked, shouting to be heard over the launching aircraft.
Tombstone had no idea whether the chief recognized him and didn’t care. “Yep. That’s what he told me.”
The chief put away his gear. There were four carts loaded with missiles and aviation ordnance men standing by, just waiting to download the antiair missiles Tombstone had flown in with. “You understand, I can’t get into the guts of it, not with a lot more gear and a lot more time.”
Tombstone nodded. “But the fact that the hard points match up says a lot, doesn’t it?”
Gurring spoke up. “Yes, of course. But we don’t even know how the system is grounded. If it doesn’t work the way ours does and you catch a stray shot of voltage you could light off a missile and not be able to get it off your wing. If that happens, you’re out of there.”
“I know. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
The chief looked at the younger pilot. “And how about him?”
Tombstone turned to Greene. Yes, how about you, my moody little sidekick? Just what the hell is going on with you? “You don’t have to go,” Tombstone said. “This is strictly volunteer.”
An offended expression crossed Greene’s face. “You think I don’t have the guts?”
“I never said that. But you have to admit, you’ve been off lately.”
Greene waved away his concerns. “Maybe. But no way you’re going to try this without me. No way. Of course I’m in.”
Tombstone nodded, pleased. “Okay, let’s do it. We shoot the HARMs then buster back here. The admiral’s got a Tomcat with your name on it as soon as you land.”
Tombstone had never seen any weapons crew work more quickly or more efficiently. There was not a single wasted motion. The techs waltzed around each other as they went through the precise business of downloading one missile from hard points, lowering it to a carry cart, and sliding the HARM cart underneath. Uploading the two missiles took less than eight minutes, with the team on the right side edging out the team on the left by a few seconds.
The chief grunted “Not bad.” Tombstone turned to him, astounded.
“Chief. Not bad? Your crews upload HARMS onto an aircraft they’ve never seen before and do it faster than I’ve ever seen anyone load up any missile — and you say not bad? Where did you get these guys? Are they robots?”