PART THREE
LAZARUS
CHAPTER 38
Dixon pushed Budge down, and in the same motion swung the rifle on his right shoulder around to level it at the glowing cigarette ten yards away. The dot of red blurred into an oval meteor, flaring to the right. Dixon slid his trigger finger into the AK-74, his stomach pinching tight. His entire body jerked against his finger, pushing his life and hope into the quick burst it commanded, but there was no rumble at his side, no pull upwards from the front of the barrel, no bullets flying across the darkness into his enemy.
In his haste and fear he had put his finger against the guard, not the trigger.
The cigarette disappeared. The smoker miraculously had not noticed them.
Dixon waited for the air to come back into his lungs. When it finally did, he unfolded his finger as deliberately as he could and placed it where it belonged. The boy lay curled on the ground next to him, his neck on the other rifle.
Dixon reached over and gently removed the gun. He put his finger to his lips then held it up, wagging it to tell him he must be quiet and wait.
“I’ll be back,” he whispered, patting Budge reassuringly. The child bobbed his head, seeming to understand.
Moving silently, the second rifle slung over his left shoulder, Dixon clambered across the slope toward the spot where the cigarette had flared. He bent his head forward, eyes peering into the dimness to try and sort the shadows into shapes.
A dozen steps and he entered a patch of light thrown by the moon; he inched back, eyes adjusting well enough to see the edge of a wall eight feet away around the slope. In the dimness the enemy position looked as if it were made of books, immense dictionaries or encyclopedias stacked on their side. BJ hugged the ground, eyes pinned on a narrow globe at the middle of the row of books — the head of a soldier, who leaned against the sandbags, peering down the hillside through a pair of binoculars or a starscope.
A red dot flaring behind and to the left of the globe showed Dixon where the cigarette smoker was. The dot moved further back, behind the bend, out of his sight and aim.
Were there others? Dixon narrowed his mouth, stifling his breath into long, quiet pauses so he could hear. If there were other Iraqis, they were silent, not even fidgeting.
The man with the binoculars said something to his companion. He stretched back and the other man got up, took the glasses. They jerked into action.
Now was the time to fire. He could get them both with the same burst — get them both with the same bullet.
Trucks approached in the distance below, driving from the south in the general direction of the hill. The men began speaking excitedly, tapping each other. They leaned forward across the wall, trying to share the viewer.
Best to sneak away, Dixon realized. He and the kid could slip down the hill while their attention was drawn to the trucks.
He took a step back, kicking loose rocks.
One of the Iraqis jerked his head around. Dixon’s finger snapped, this time against the trigger.
CHAPTER 39
Doberman mashed his throttle, urging the turbofans to give him every ounce of thrust they could. The wind had shifted to kick the Hog in the face, holding her back at precisely the wrong moment. The pilot cursed and strained against his seat restraints, as if his weight might make a difference to the aircraft’s momentum.
If stinking Preston hadn’t screwed up his first attempt to hook into the flying tanker they’d be there by now.
Stinking rusty major who thought he was hot shit just because he’d flown pointy-nose teenagers.
“Keep up with me, Four,” Doberman snapped to his wingman.
“Four,” grunted Preston. He sounded as if he’d gotten out of the plane and was pushing it uphill.
Actually, Doberman’s indicated air speed was four hundred and sixty-five knots — close to an all-time Hog record for level flight with a combat load. But he was still a good two or three minutes away from getting into target range.
Once there, it could take considerably longer to find the convoy.
“I’ll call the targets,” Doberman said. “The station wagon’s our priority. Screw any SAMs or Zsu-Zsus — leave them for the Tornadoes. Wolf has them right behind us.”
“Four.”
Stinking Wong. Why the hell couldn’t he get the goddamn time right?
Doberman glanced at the Maverick targeting screen. He had the outline of a highway at the top right corner. It was the highway that led to Al Kajuk and intersected with the one Strawman was on. Swinging along it would make it easier to find his target.
But it would also take him through the lip of the remaining SA-11s’ radar coverage. Flying at medium altitude, he’d be an easy target.
Worth the risk.
“Follow my turn,” he barked to Preston, hanging a hard right, eyes glued on the Mav screen to guide him.
“Four. We’re moving off the briefed course, into —”
“Follow my turn.”
“Four.”
Wolf, the mission controller, called back, asking for an ETA.
“In target range in zero-two,” said Doberman, afraid that wouldn’t be good enough.
The highway cut a sharp line in the middle of the screen. He plotted the target zone in his head, decided he’d look for the T, then pivot; the station wagon would sit to his right, roughly in the center of the screen if he could hold this course.
More speed, more speed.
Ninety seconds.
“Wolf acknowledges. We have live bait. Ground team attempting to tie them down.”
The controller said something else but Doberman lost it. Before he could ask him to repeat it his RWR went crazy. The SAMs had woken up, and they were angry.
Somewhere to the south, the electronic warfare operators aboard the two Tornadoes tasked to the mission licked their lips and lit the wicks on their spanking new BAe ALARMS; the high-tech radar killers burst from beneath their bellies, streaking upwards as their integrated circuits calculated the surest way of quashing the offending defenses.
But the speeding missiles were of small comfort to Doberman. The Iraqis had already launched their SA-11s missiles, and there was nothing he could do but fly toward them.
CHAPTER 40
Salt felt the grenade pop from the blunt nose of the launcher like a paint ball phiffffing into the air. He didn’t bother firing another, knowing the projectile would nail the lead truck. He turned quickly, bending his head as he tried to sight the Mercedes through the M-16’s starscope. He couldn’t find the target at first, and by the time he dished a grenade in its direction the first one had exploded, distracting him enough to screw up his aim. Davis yelled something behind him. He’d left the Satcom and grabbed the SAW, opening fire in the direction of the convoy.
The earth turned into a barbecue pit, flames bursting all around them, rockets streaking upward, the tank beginning to fire, the armored car — actually an armored personnel carrier with a special cannon — thumping the ground. Men poured from the troop trucks. At least two heavy machine-guns flailed.
Salt popped another grenade, but in all the confusion it was impossible to tell where it hit. He threw himself down over the sniper rifle, pulling his body back over the long gun as the ground reverberated. It was all a matter of being patient, as impossible as that seemed — you took your shot only when it was there, and to get it there you had to move deliberately. He squirmed around behind the sight, swinging the light fifty on its tripod. He moved the crosshairs across the vehicles, past the truck and the muzzle flash of the APC. He got the station wagon first, saw a driver but no one else, slipped his aim back toward the Mercedes.