“Let’s get there, then.”
“Good.”
“Uh, one thing, sir. I gotta tell ya… I don’t speak Malaysian, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Neither do I,” said Danny, scrambling to his feet.
Turk’s fingers tightened involuntarily on the F-35B’s stick as the mortar shell struck the field to his left, close enough for the air shock to push the plane sideways as it lifted off. For an instant he was sure he would lose control. But the aircraft was extremely stable, even in short-takeoff mode, and while the explosion had spooked him, it wasn’t strong enough to actually disturb the plane. The plane’s computer adjusted the angle of the rear nozzle, and the plane continued up and off the runway, quickly gathering speed. The massive fan behind the cockpit churned furiously, adding its own impetus to the thrust of the engine at the rear. Airborne, Turk cleaned the landing gear, folding the wheels inside the plane. The large panel above the fan and the two smaller ones behind folded down for level flight, the F-35B becoming “just” another fifth generation fighter.
I’m up, Turk thought. Not too bad. So far.
“Basher Four, Basher Four, are you reading me?” asked Greenstreet over the radio.
Turk clicked the mike button. “Yeah, I’m up. I’m still getting used to the, uh, controls.”
“Get south and stay out of the way.”
“I’ll give it a shot,” said Turk sourly.
Gunfire erupted on the western side of the base as Danny and Mofitt reached the position where the Malaysians were supposed to be. The positions — a few logs and sandbags with good sight distance down the hill — were empty.
“Colonel Freah, are you reading me?” blared the radio.
“This is Freah. You’re loud and clear.”
“The Malaysians moved all the way down to the road. They’re another two hundred and fifty yards from your position,” said Captain Thomas. “We need them to pull back — we’re going to hit the rebels with bombs when they come up the road. Then they can sweep in behind us.”
“All right.”
“Can you send Mofitt down to them?”
“We can get down there.”
“The rebels are moving — we need it quick.”
“We’re on our way.”
Danny told Mofitt what they had to do, leaving out the fact that Thomas hadn’t wanted him to go. There was no way Danny was staying behind.
“I don’t know exactly what’s down there,” said Mofitt. “I can’t see through the brush.”
“I know. We’ll go as fast as we can. But don’t get too far ahead of me.”
“Colonel, you don’t have a weapon.”
“I have my sidearm.” Danny unsnapped the holster of his personal weapon, a Glock 20 chambered for 10mm. It was a big gun, and the ammo packed an extreme wallop. The recoil was nasty as well, though not quite as extreme as might be expected from such a large round. “Lead the way.”
Mofitt took off, sorting through the trees in a zigzag pattern, occasionally stopping to let Danny catch up. He heard two trucks on the road, as well as more gunfire from the western end of the base. He visualized what was going on: the rebels had split their ground force, with a small group making an attack to the west. Meanwhile, the main group was coming up the road, intending to sweep up from the southeast while the defenders were occupied on the other side. The Malaysians had either somehow realized this and gone down to meet them, or simply blundered into the right spot at the right time.
Or wrong spot at the wrong time, depending on your point of view.
The F-35s would make quick work of the trucks, but they couldn’t hit them if the Malaysians were too close.
Mofitt stopped about ten yards from the road. Danny went down to his knees as he reached him.
“They must be moving up the road,” said Mofitt. “You can hear the gunfire. I’m thinking they realize the flank’s vulnerable.”
“Yeah,” agreed Danny. “But we gotta pull them back. Come on.”
“They may be trigger happy, Colonel. Better stay behind me, just in case.”
“You move so damn fast, I don’t have a choice,” said Danny.
Once in the air and moving like a “regular” airplane, the F-35B was relatively easy to fly. She wasn’t one of the racehorses Turk was used to, but she wasn’t a dog either. She went where she was told to go, responding crisply to his inputs.
Turk climbed through 5,000 feet, moving into a gradual orbit around the airfield as he sorted himself out. His helmet was an extension of the plane’s display panels, providing critical information on the systems; it was similar enough to the systems he was used to that he had to keep reminding himself he couldn’t handle the controls with gestures or voice commands, but actually had to fly with his hands and feet.
Not that this was a bad thing. It forced his mind and body to work together in a familiar and reassuring way, one that chased away trivial cares and worries. It was both a release and an exhilaration, a combination he had felt the first time he slipped into a pilot’s seat, as if his DNA had been programmed exactly for such an environment.
But he was more than a pilot. He was a warrior as well, and as he climbed he started looking for a way to join the battle.
The experience in Iran had cemented that identity. Thrust into an environment that was completely foreign to him — one where control was quite frankly beyond his grasp, where there were no checklists and where logic had almost nothing to do with what happened — Turk had not simply survived, but thrived. Iran’s nuclear warheads and their secret stockpile of weapons grade uranium had been destroyed because of Turk Mako. Plenty of other people had helped, but at the very end it had been him, his actions, that completed the mission.
In another man that realization might have caused extreme conceit. But in Turk it had the opposite effect — it tempered him, made him realize he should be humble. If he was a great pilot and a great fighter, then he surely didn’t have to prove himself, much less boast about it; what he had to do was his job. Destiny had given him tools, like a kid born with special math skills who had to work twice as hard to put them to work in the best way.
And so as he saw the other planes mustering for attack, Turk brought his plane into the tail end of their formation, forming as wingman on Basher Three, flown by Cowboy. Greenstreet, in Basher One, immediately noticed.
“Four, what’s your sitrep?” said the squadron commander.
“Forming up. I have Three’s wing.”
“Negative. I want you to maintain orbit over the base. Stay out of the way.”
“I’m armed and ready to help.”
“You’re armed and dangerous,” snapped Greenstreet. “Just chill, Air Force. You’ve done a hell of lot already.”
Three months before, Turk might have responded angrily, interpreting the remark as a slam against his abilities. Now he just shook his head, shrugged, then acknowledged. He’d find another way to contribute.
Danny could hear the trucks moving on the road as he and Mofitt finally reached the Malaysian captain.
“We have to fall back,” he told Captain Deris. “Come on. Pull back.”
“The enemy are going to attack,” said Deris. His thick accent took Danny a moment to decipher. “We must fight.”
“The planes will get them,” said Danny. “Come on. It’s OK. We’re not giving up. Let the planes do their job, and then we’ll take over.”
The captain nodded, then began shouting to his men, ordering them to fall back. A few moments later a pair of mortar rounds exploded behind them. The Malaysians hit the dirt. Bullets began raining through the brush. The enemy had seen that they were falling back and misinterpreted it as a panicked retreat.