“Yes, it does.” Curtis sighed. “You have a lot to contribute. Everyone recognizes your potential, even the President. But no one likes a loose cannon. Your plan is to be implemented immediately, and your aircraft will be directed to launch and execute their assigned mission. But I’ll be the one giving the orders, with the full sanction of the National Command Authority.”
“My plan — what?”
“It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you ever since I pinned on your third star, Brad,” Curtis said. “You can be a real asset to this government and to the country, but you’ve got serious internal conflicts that need to be resolved. I used to think it was just a huge chip on your shoulder, but now I think it’s more… you really walk on the edge.
“Now you’ve got the only small, heavy attack group that’s mobilized and ready to act. You’re out of the picture, but your team’s been activated. The Megafortresses launch immediately. They’ve got full MILSTAR and NIRTSat access, and MADCAP MAGICIAN is cleared in-country. You and I will watch from the Command Center here and pray we’re not too late.”
Elliott couldn’t believe it. After this major ass-chewing, the National Command Authority — the President — was actually sanctioning his mission!
“Choppers inbound”‘ the radioman shouted. “Take cover!”
A small convoy of trucks and armored vehicles were at the Denerokin gate to the Fisikous compound, heading out to evacuate the Marines to the embassy across town when someone in the truck’s cab shouted the warning. Hal Briggs and John Ormack, flanking Dave Luger in the back of a Yugoslavian-made truck, were nearly knocked to the ground when the alarm was sounded and Marines started jumping off the truck and scattering — they didn’t even wait for the trucks to come to a stop. The Air Force officers followed. With Luger between them, Ormack and Briggs dashed a few hundred yards clear of the twenty-vehicle convoy, toward the relative safety of a line of low wood-and-brick storage sheds. McLanahan and Gunnery Sergeant Wohl were right behind them, carrying four heavy canvas sacks filled with classified manuals and other documents taken from the design-center security building.
“For a minute I actually thought we were going to make it,” Luger said, sounding defeated. But at least he was looking better the closer they got to the gate and freedom. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged, his skin devoid of any healthy color, and his arms and legs shook from pain and weariness, but otherwise he was acting stronger and moving with very little help.
“We will make it, bro,” Briggs said. “You just hang in there.” Briggs was carrying an M-16, and he had it raised to the gradually dawning sky along with the other Marines surrounding them — as with the others, he assumed any aerial assault would come at them from the east, with the sun at the backs of the attacking pilots. McLanahan and Ormack carried only sidearms and knives — they were still not allowed to carry any weapons that might harm a nearby Marine if used improperly.
They saw the Marines’ response before they saw the threat — a flash of light and a streak of smoke arced toward the horizon as a Marine, one of six still on the roof of the design-center security facility building, fired a man-portable Stinger at the incoming enemy helicopters. Their eyes followed the missile’s smoke trail, and they saw three huge Soviet-made helicopters, now in steep bank turns, ejecting missile-decoying flares.
“Shit,” Wohl cursed, “who told that guy to launch a missile? Snyder must be getting antsy. Now those things will be after us like stink on shit.”
“They look like Mil-24 Hind-Ds,” McLanahan said. “Rocket pods and antitank or heat-seeking missiles.”
“Just keep your heads down and don’t fire that rifle,” Gunnery Sergeant Wohl said. “If they see the muzzle flash, we’re all dead meat.”
“What do we do? Run?”
“We make like we’re not here,” Wohl said. “If they don’t find any more resistance, they’ll go after the trucks and hopefully leave after reconnoitering the area. If they try to land or unload paratroopers or infantry, we’ll go after them then — those things are very vulnerable on the ground. Otherwise we’re no match for attack helicopters.” Wohl was already thinking attack even as the big assault helicopters moved closer, their array of weapons hanging from the winglike weapons pylons now clearly visible.
Sure enough, all three Hind-Ds managed to evade the Stinger fired at them and continued their run toward the Institute. They opened fire at about five hundred yards’ range with rockets and machine-gun fire, one after another, slicing the truck convoy apart with ease. “They didn’t go after the Marines on the roof,” Briggs observed.
“They must have orders not to shoot the place up, to pick their targets carefully,” Wohl said. “Now I hope Snyder attacks—”
Sure enough, a few seconds later the Marines launched a second Stinger at the trailing helicopter, and this time the tiny missile flew straight into an engine exhaust baffle and exploded. The helicopter’s huge rotor simply stopped turning when the missile hit, engulfing the entire fuselage with fire, and the machine dropped out of the air like a poorly punted football wobbling through the air. It crashed just a few hundred yards outside the Denerokin security gate, near the railroad yards.
“Got one!” Briggs shouted.
“That was our last Stinger,” Wohl said. “Those flyboys will be pissed now. Get ready to run if they come after us. Try to find a cellar or an open door. Stay out of the open.”
The first two helicopters swooped in over the base, and the destruction really started.
Despite their enormous size, the Soviet-made helicopters wheeled and moved with incredible speed and agility. These older-model helicopters had a Gatling-style gun in a chin turret, and the gun seemed to move in every direction at once. Every time a man moved, the turret turned in his direction and let loose with a one- or two-second burst. The flimsy wood-and-brick buildings they were hiding behind were barely enough to protect them.
The Byelorussian crews saved their 57-millimeter rockets for the armored vehicles and heavy trucks, and they rarely missed — every long, low whoosh! was followed a split second later by a powerful explosion and the crunch of steel. Trying to return fire with rifles was as fruitless as it was dangerous — the big helicopters moved like prizefighters, darting up and down, wheeling and spinning and darting back and forth, exposing first a door gunner, then the chin turret, then a rocket pod, then another door gunner to threats.
The crews aboard those enemy choppers were good — very good.
The Lithuanian soldiers kept the situation from turning into a bloodbath. Just one of their ZSU-23-4 antiaircraft-artillery units was operational, and it had only a small amount of ammunition remaining, but a single two-second burst of fire from the deadly weapon was enough. The burst from the Lithuanians’ ZSU-23-4 hit the hub of the lead Mil-24’s tail rotor, causing smoke to stream from the tail. It had obviously hit something vital, because the Hind-D did not tiy to attack the ZSU-23-4—it wheeled away and climbed, escaping while it could still fly.
A Lithuanian soldier was sprinting across the road near where Wohl, Briggs, McLanahan, Ormack, and Luger were hiding. McLanahan stepped forward away from the building they were hiding behind and yelled, “Hey! Over here!”
Gunnery Sergeant Wohl grabbed McLanahan by the jacket and dragged him back to cover. “Get back here, McLanahan!”