“And what have they won?” continued the pilot. “Why, two lovely five hundred pound bombs, right down the poop chute.”
He releasing his bombs and pushed the stick for a quick drop on the second tank. It was close to physically impossible to nail them both on the same swoop given their separation and his steep angle, but A-Bomb went for it anyway, swinging the Hog’s wings.
The shot fluttered toward the aim point, then fritter away.
The Iraqis actually had the gall to try and shoot at him as he began to pull back on his stick; a fair-sized knot of soldiers appeared in the center of his windscreen and he had to exercise an extreme amount of willpower not to toss his bombs at them, saving the heavy iron for the tank.
Which, really, he should have gotten on that first run, tough angle or not. Problem was, he decided, he hadn’t gone with the flow. He’d gone with a game show, when he should have just gone with The Boss.
No problem. He clicked the play button on his personal stereo and dished up “Thunder Road.” At the same time, he slammed the Hog into a butt-crunching, face-distorting negative-G turn and climbed, looping out at the top, and nailing down into a dive toward the tank. The Hog snapped her tail and picked up speed, revving with pleasure as her pilot decided to use the cannon instead of the bomb.
This is what she was designed to do: unzip Soviet tanks. And even if this wasn’t Europe and the big hunk of metal in front of her was technically bigger and thicker than her designers had envisioned her frying, the Hog had fury and momentum on her side.
The tank commander’s 7.62mm winked at the plane as she came. It seemed to A-Bomb that a bullet or two actually grazed off the lower titanium hull.
“Don’t do that,” A-Bomb warned. “You’re only going to piss her off.”
The tank commander obviously heard him, for the stream of bullets veered away.
“You know what I’m here for,” sang Shotgun, echoing Bruce Springsteen as he pressed the kill button. His first bullets greased harmlessly across one of the Dolly Parton plates at the front of the t-72. The stream moved upwards, streaming left and right, until A-Bomb found the relatively soft top of the turret.
Then he nailed it down, riding the rudder pedals as his uranium slugs erased the bastard’s top and back end.
Shotgun let off on the gun, pulling up and sailing over the rock quarry, considering whether to find something else or get more altitude. He was just banking when he heard Doberman shouting in his head. A frantic warning cut through the chaos, drowning out the Big Man’s saxophone:
“Missile on the hill! Missile on the hill!”
CHAPTER 72
Dixon scrambled to his feet as the bombs separated from the Hog, aimed squarely at the top of the tank stationed to the east of the mountain. By the time they exploded, he was throwing himself forward over the edge of the crater, and in the same motion spraying the figure standing below him with bullets.
Wounded, the man staggered backwards, away from the SAM pack; Dixon pushed himself to his feet, felt the ground exploding and remembered the guard. He lost his footing and fell, tumbling in the dirt against the jagged rocks, bullets flying around him. He tried to aim his gun but lost his grip. He saw the guard, and fumbled to get his finger back on the trigger. Someone yanked at his leg as he fired.
He missed the Iraqi guard, but made him duck for cover.
The other man he’d shot clung to Dixon’s leg, clawing at him and reaching for his pistol. Dixon smashed him with the side of the submachine gun, crushing his own finger against the man’s skull. Dixon yelped in pain, then pushed back as the man grabbed again for his pistol, sending three slugs into the Iraqi’s skull.
Dixon spun and threw himself in the direction of the missile pack on the ground, letting off a long burst from the MP-5 back in the direction of the ridge. The Iraqi guard there fired back. Dixon pumped his gun until the clip emptied. Finally, the Iraqi soldier disappeared— whether hit or simply reloading, Dixon didn’t care.
A heavy machine gun began peppering the ridge as Dixon grabbed the SA-16 missile launcher from the dirt. He ducked, fumbling with the controls. When the machine gun stopped, he rose, propped the launcher on his shoulder and aimed it toward the Iraqis.
Nothing happened when he pressed the trigger. He had to duck down as the Iraqi machine gunner chewed up the rocks in front of him. Examining the launcher, Dixon realized there were two triggers, one a primer and one the actual trigger. As soon as the machine-gun stopped, Dixon jumped up and fired the heat-seeking missile downward in the direction of his enemies.
CHAPTER 73
A-Bomb cursed as the SAM launched toward him. He kicked out more flares and wagged his butt around, jinking crazier than a topless dancer working for tips, before realizing the rocket had been aimed downwards. It flew straight into the hillside, bouncing off a rock before exploding. A sixth sense told him Dixon had grabbed the SAM, the kid deciding to try playing wingman without a plane.
Just then, the CD skipped four tracks. “Born to Run” slammed into his ears.
Talk about karma. At exactly the same moment, the helo pilot hit the radio and said he was coming in and could somebody do something about the machine guns? A-Bomb lit the Gatling, aiming to ice the enemy nests near the roadway.
He hoped Dixon, if that really was Dixon, had seen the helicopter and got his butt into the damn whirly sardine can. Playing Rambo in the rocks was all well and good, but it was time for him to call it a day.
CHAPTER 74
Metal and pulverized stone hung thick in the air as Apache One raced toward the position Turk had given them. Hawkins started to warn the pilot about an APC with machine guns in their path, but he was already greasing his rockets and veering right. They flew directly over another gun position before spotting the hideout, well hidden on the hill next to Sugar Mountain.
Hawkins caught himself against the frame and thought they’d been hit, cordite and God knew what else blowing around his head. But the pilot was only trying to get down onto the hill as quickly as possible. The Iraqis were firing everything they had as the helicopter’s skids neared the rocks.
A grenade or something equally obnoxious exploded near enough to send dirt ripping through the helo rotors. The pilot shouted something but Hawkins was out of the craft by then.
He saw Dixon squatting and shooting a few yards from the position; a grenade shot off in the direction of the Iraqi trucks.
Sergeant Winston was lying behind rocks in a shallow trench, right in front of Hawkins. As slowly and calmly as he could, the captain bent down over him, waiting as Stone brought the backboard and stretcher.
“Take your time, take your time,” Hawkins said, as much to himself as to Stone. Despite a fresh hail of bullets and screaming explosions all around them, the captain did his best to make sure Winston’s neck was secure as they lifted him out.
He felt himself slip on the rocks, caught his knee against something hard, and felt his gut wrench. His head suddenly felt light and he knew he’d been hit. He bent forward and managed somehow to get to his feet, guided by the stretcher. Soon, they were strapping Winston stiff to the skids. The pilot was screaming in his face. They got aboard, Dixon scrambling and jumping. The helicopter rose into the air, the cabin shaking as it was laced with gunfire. One of the Hogs streaked in front of them, inches away it looked like, smoke and fury pouring from its mouth as it nailed the Iraqis who were trying to kill them.