“Break left, break left!” rasped the Marine.
“No, no!” yelled Turk over the radio, but it was too late — a pair of heat seekers flashed from the F-35’s wings. Turk made his cut in the sky, diving away from what was now a one-on-one furball between Cowboy and the UAV.
Tiny flares poured from the back of the drone like little matches thrown by a pyromaniac. As Cowboy’s missiles sniffed for the heat source, the plane managed a cut so sharp that it looked like it was flying sideways. Knowing his missiles would miss, Cowboy started a turn to line up another shot. But the F-35 couldn’t match the smaller robot’s maneuverability, and within seconds he lost sight of the UAV.
It didn’t take a sixth sense or advanced radar to know it would now angle behind him. Cowboy started weaving desperately in the sky, drawing a convoluted ribbon that made it difficult for the UAV to get a bead on him. He saw Greenstreet passing in Basher One below him, and then the Tigershark — very disappointing, since it meant they weren’t in position to blow his pursuer out of the air.
“Let him target you and start to fire,” said Turk over the radio. “Then hit your chaff.”
“What?”
“Do it,” said Turk.
“Where are you?”
“Trust me.”
“Let this bastard lock on my tailpipe?”
“The chaff will blow him up. Make sure you hit it when I say.”
I don’t see how, thought Cowboy to himself.
Turk tightened his turn and then accelerated, trying to get on the UAV’s tail. But he was just too far away to get a lock.
The drone was tight on Cowboy’s six. What Turk was telling him to do surely went against every instinct the Marine aviator had, not to mention years of training. But it was the only way to get out of the situation if Turk couldn’t get a bead on the UAV.
The enemy robot tightened its noose around the F-35’s tailpipe. Even if Cowboy didn’t make a mistake, he was going to get creamed in a few seconds.
The laser fired.
“Do it!” yelled Turk. “Chaff! Chaff! Chaff! Keep your course straight!”
The rear of the plane seemed to explode. Turk felt a hole open in his stomach — he’d gotten his friend shot down.
In the next moment there was another explosion, this one with fire. Cowboy’s plane hadn’t blown up at all — Turk had seen the canisters of chaff exploding. The reflected laser beams had destroyed the UAV.
“You’re clear, Basher Two,” Turk told Cowboy.
“What the hell just happened?”
“You overloaded his flashlight,” said Turk, easing off the throttle and running his eyes quickly over the indicators.
The hatchway on the stern lifeboat deck blew with a discreet car-ufff and a small puff of smoke. Mofitt ran over and kicked it with his foot, shoving it out of the way. He fell to his knees, peered down, then disappeared into the hole before anyone could stop him.
Two Marines hustled forward to join him.
“Careful!” yelled Danny. He stepped back to ask Achmoody what was going on.
“Two guys down here, both with assault rifles,” reported the trooper. “We’re gonna hit them with gas.”
“Hold off. We found a passage down,” said Danny.
There was a shout from the hatchway and then a run of gunfire.
“Our guys are behind them!” Danny told Achmoody. “Our guys are there.”
There were more shouts, then silence.
Damn, thought Danny. Why did I let them go down?
Mofitt had surely acted on impulse, undoubtedly wanting to redeem himself. But there was a difference between acting bravely and being a fool — he should have been more careful.
I should have been more careful, thought Danny. I should have stopped him.
A head popped up from the manhole. “We got ’em,” said the Marine who emerged. The second grunt came up behind him, then Mofitt.
The corporal was drenched in sweat, but he was smiling.
“They were loaded for bear,” he said. “The Whiplash guys are getting them.”
Right on cue, Achmoody came over the radio and told Danny they had gotten the two men who’d fired at them. Both were dead. Achmoody said they looked like technical people — Europeans and Asian, dressed in shorts and T-shirts, with flip-flops.
“Their footwear clashed with their AR-15s,” added Achmoody, delivering the gallows humor with a straight, even tone. “These guys had a box of magazines between them. Would have taken us all day to get them out if you hadn’t sent the Marines down.”
“They went on their own,” said Danny. He was proud of Mofitt, even as he realized the Marine had been a little reckless. But sometimes you had to go overboard to show others who you really were.
“There’s a hatchway out the side of the ship,” said Achmoody. “Might be one of those submarine ports we found on the beached boat. Looks just like it.”
Danny glanced over at the prisoners. Two of the men were barefooted and wearing shorts; the others were in jeans with sneakers or work boots. He hadn’t even noticed.
“Sergeant, get those two guys in shorts and bring them over here,” he said.
The sergeant whistled to one of the guards, then started shouting instructions. Mofitt started over with one of the other Marines.
Danny turned and put his hand over his ear, listening as Turk reported in on the situation in the air. Someone shouted behind him. He whirled around in time to see Mofitt race across the deck and throw himself into one of the men wearing shorts, who’d grabbed something from near the life raft.
As they tumbled over the side of the ship, there was an explosion.
The man had grabbed a bomb disguised as a fire extinguisher in the raft and tried to detonate it. Mofitt had saved at least a half-dozen lives, including Danny’s, at the cost of his own.
25
While the Sabres were light for aircraft, Braxton couldn’t bring them all the way to the launch pad on his own. But there was no need — all he had to do was bluff the four Chinese sailors guarding them into helping him.
“We need to get the UAVs loaded,” he told them, speaking in English first and then Mandarin.
“Commander Wen-lo said to leave them here,” said one of the men in English that was better accented than Braxton’s Chinese.
“If you want to go argue with him, go ahead,” said Braxton, holding out his hands. “He’s talking to someone in Beijing, and he’s pretty pissed. The guy has quite a temper.”
The sailor hesitated, then ordered the others to help. They had the aircraft on small trolleys; pushing and pulling, they took them to the launching area.
The launchers rode rails out from the trees, rising to launch the planes. After launching, they were programmed to prostrate themselves — to Braxton, they looked as if they were begging for more.
He went over and helped the men slide the Sabres onto the launch slots. He would have preferred refueling them — the underground tank had a hose assembly hidden in the foliage a short distance away — but there wasn’t time, and he calculated that it wouldn’t be absolutely necessary.
“Come on, come on,” he said, directing the men to push the second UAV into position. Only two of the four were working. “You and you, go help!” he barked.
They frowned but went over. As they did, Braxton walked to the edge of the clearing. An oblong green box sat in the dirt half covered by castor oil plants. He reached in, fumbling until he found the thumb reader.