“Bennett, I need you to get closer to Hawk One,” he said.
“I’m going to lose the connection.”
Englehardt didn’t answer. The Flighthawk and her mother ship were moving away from each other at close to a thousand miles an hour—or sixteen a minute.
“Disconnect in fifteen seconds,” warned the computer, using an audible message as well as the text on the screen.
“Bennett! Need you north!”
Starship felt the Megafortress lurch beneath him.
“We’re on it,” said Englehardt.
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Near the Chinese-Pakistani border
2340
DANNY FREAH SQUATTED TO ONE SIDE OF THE PASSAGEWAY
between the Osprey’s cockpit and cargo area, watching as the aircraft headed toward the landing zone. He could see the Flighthawk’s red-yellow tracers arcing across the sky. Small bursts of green rose up toward the spray—ground fire.
“What do you think, Captain?” asked one of the pilots.
“I think we’re going in, if you can make it.”
“We can make it.”
Danny turned around and yelled to the landing team.
“LZ is hot. Show these bastards what the Marine Corps is made of.”
Aboard Dreamland Bennett,
over the Chinese-Indian border
2343
“MIGS ARE TALKING TO THEIR BASE AGAIN,” SULLIVAN TOLD
Englehardt. “I’m betting they don’t like our course change.”
“How close is the Cheli?”
“Their nearest Flighthawk is still ten minutes off.”
Ten more minutes. Englehardt worked his tongue around his mouth, trying to generate a little more moisture for his throat.
“They’re dropping off,” said Sullivan.
For a moment Englehardt felt relieved. The Indians must be low on fuel by now, he thought, and were backing off and going home.
Then he realized that wasn’t the case at all.
“Evasive maneuvers. Give me flares!” he shouted, a second before the missile-launch warning buzzed on the cockpit dash.
STARSHIP WAS JUST ZEROING IN ON A CLUSTER OF SMALL
arms f lashes at the landing zone when the Megafortress 294
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seemed to plunge beneath him. He kept his hand steady, staying with his target and ignoring the urge to jump back into Hawk Two and battle the MiGs.
The key thing to remember when you’re flying two planes, Zen always said, is to finish one thing at a time.
Zen.
Starship lit the Flighthawk’s cannon. The ground in front of the aircraft began to percolate, dirt and rocks erupting from the landscape as the bullets hit. He gently wagged the stick back and forth, stirring the mixture of lead and rock into a veritable tornado.
He let off on the trigger and pulled up. He didn’t see any more tracers from the ground. If there were more guerrillas there, they’d taken cover.
“Hawk One orbit at 15,000 after targets are destroyed,” he told the computer. “Danny, landing zone is as clean as it’s going to get.”
ENGLEHARDT PUSHED HARD ON THE STICK, THROWING HIS
whole body against it. The Megafortress twisted herself hard to comply, jerking to the right and pulling her nose up.
Between the sharp maneuvers and the cascading decoys exploding behind the plane, the heat-seeking missiles the MiGs had fired flew by harmlessly, exploding more than two miles away.
Now it was his turn.
His turn. His brain stuttered, as if it were an electrical switch with contacts that weren’t quite clicking.
“Stinger air mines,” he said. “Sullivan?”
“Targets out of range.”
“Fuck.”
Everyone on the circuit seemed to be hyperventilating.
Englehardt turned his eyes toward the sitrep screen on the lower left portion of his dash. His position was marked out in the center—where were the Flighthawks and the MiGs?
A tremendous fireball flared in the corner of the windscreen—a partial answer to his question.
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* * *
STARSHIP BROUGHT UP THE MAIN SCREEN OF HAWK TWO
just in time to see the robot turn away from the MiG it had destroyed.
“Good work, dude,” he told the computer. “I’ll take it from here.”
The second MiG had turned to the east after firing its missiles. Now about twenty miles from the Megafortress, it was banking through a turn that would leave it in position to launch its AMRAAMskis.
“Bandit Two is getting into position to attack,” said Starship over the interphone. “I’m not going to be able to close the gap before he fires.”
“Bennett,” acknowledged Englehardt. Even with the one-word reply, his voice had a tremble to it.
“You want me to get him or are you going to use the Anacondas?” prompted Starship.
“He’s ours,” said Sullivan, the copilot.
“Yeah, we got him,” said Englehardt. “Anacondas. Take him, Kevin.”
Near the Chinese-Pakistani border
2350
JENNIFER GLEASON SNUGGED HER BULLETPROOF VEST
tighter as Danny and the Marines fanned out from the Osprey. Automatic rifle fire rattled over the loud hush of the rotating propellers. She had a 9mm Beretta handgun in her belt, and certainly knew how to use it. But she also knew that it wasn’t likely to be very effective except as a last resort.
She wasn’t scared, but standing in the bay of the aircraft with no way of making a real contribution made her feel almost helpless. A single Marine corporal had stayed behind with her, guarding the defused warhead; everyone else was taking on the guerrillas outside.
A bullet or maybe a rock splinter tinged against the side of 296
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the Osprey. Jennifer jumped involuntarily, then put her hand on the pistol.
Two or three minutes passed without anything else happening. No longer hearing any gunfire, she took a step toward the door.
The Marine caught her shirt. “Excuse me, miss. The captain said you are to stay inside until he gives the OK.”
“It’s safe.”
The corporal frowned. “Sorry, ma’am. His orders.”
“Would you go outside?”
“Not the question.”
“Well what the fuck is the question?”
The Marine frowned but didn’t let go. He swung his other hand up and pushed the boom mike for his radio closer to his mouth. Jennifer folded her arms, waiting while the corporal called for permission.
“Captain says proceed with caution.”
“Caution is my middle name,” said Jennifer. She rushed down the ramp and curled behind the aircraft, staying low.
She could see clusters of Marines on both the left and right; they were standing upright.
Jennifer trotted across the rock-strewn field of scrub and dirt, heading toward a jagged piece of metal that stood straight up from what looked like a dented garbage can. She knelt near the damaged missile part; it looked as if it were part of one of the oxidizer tanks located at the top of the weapon just under the warhead section.
“Where’s Captain Freah?” she asked a nearby Marine.
“That way.” He pointed across the field in the direction of the two trucks destroyed by the Flighthawk. “Careful, ma’am.
We’re still mopping up. Those suckers were hiding in the rocks and grass.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Jennifer began walking across the moon-lit field, the grass and weeds gray in the light. There were pieces of metal strewn on the ground. Bits of wire and paper and plastic were bunched like fistfuls of confetti dumped by bystanders grown RETRIBUTION
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tired of waiting for the parade to pass. She caught a whiff of burnt metal and vinyl from one of the trucks that was still smoldering up ahead.
She found Danny near one of the trucks.
“Where’s the warhead?”