Maggot listened for a moment and then keyed the transmit button on his survival radio. “They’re coming my way,” he whispered. The radio’s earpiece kept falling out of his ear, and he had to hold it in place to hear.
“Beat feet west,” Bag told him. “Try to get on the far side of the ridgeline. Help is on the way.”
Maggot clicked the transmit button twice in acknowledgment and switched the radio to the silent mode. He checked his compass and pushed into the jungle, fully understanding what he had to do. But it was hard going, and the rain was starting to fall. Branches tore at his flight suit, and he stumbled twice. But the shouting wasn’t as loud, and he was pulling away from his pursuers. The foliage thinned out as the terrain started to slope upward. I might do this, he told himself. He pushed through a patch of ferns and stopped. “Ah, shit,” he moaned, looking directly at a jagged cliff of limestone rising fifty feet above his head. His spirits crashed around his ankles as the shouts grew louder. Again he checked his compass as he heard someone crash through the jungle. He turned south and moved along the base of the cliff. A woman stumbled out of the brush less than five feet in front of him. For a moment they stared at each other. Then she held a finger to her lips and pointed behind her. Then she pointed to the north, in the direction he had come from, and made a waving motion, trying to make him understand. Maggot stood there, not sure what to do. Frustrated, she pushed him, urging him to retrace his steps. He nodded and headed back to the north as the shouts grew louder. The woman watched him go and then turned to the south.
“Maggot’s gone silent,” Bag radioed. He glanced at the big multifunctional display screen on the right side of his instrument panel and punched at the buttons on the edge, calling up a map display with an SAR function overlay that displayed the location of Maggot’s homing beacon. “I’m still picking up his beacon. It looks like he’s moving back to the north. I’m going down to take a look.” He dropped his Hog to fifty feet above the trees and firewalled the throttles. He crossed the lanes that Duke’s cannon had carved in the jungle, jinking hard to avoid any ground fire, and turned toward the ridgeline. He rolled back and forth, finally pulling up to clear the ridgeline.
“Not good,” he transmitted. “It looks like the Gomers have reached the base of the ridgeline. But Maggot is still moving.”
Another voice came on frequency. “Air Boss, Basher’s fifteen minutes before RTB for bingo.” Basher was the call sign for the flight of four fully armed Hogs holding in a nearby orbit. “Use it or lose it,” the flight lead added.
“Copy all,” Bag answered. He knew that another flight of four should be inbound to replace Basher, but he hadn’t heard from them. It was time to make things happen. But what?
“Is the crest of the ridgeline clear?” Kamigami asked.
“Affirmative,” Bag answered.
“We’re in,” Kamigami radioed. “Gold’s approaching the ridgeline from the west and landing on the backside. Red will stand ready to extract Maggot if he can reach a safe area.”
Bag circled to the north and turned south to fly down the western side of the karst formation, keeping the ridgeline between him and the bad guys. Kamigami’s helicopter crossed under him and hovered over the edge of the ridgeline, as far back from the eastern side as it could get. Kamigami was the first man out, closely followed by twenty men. The helicopter seemed to fall away and was never exposed to ground fire. Again Bag flew along the ridge. But this time he climbed high enough to see over to the east. He caught a glimpse of the main road, which was still crowded with refugees, but he couldn’t see any movement in the jungle or along the base of the ridgeline. A puff of smoke erupted from the edge of the tree line, and Bag slammed his Hog down, putting the ridge between him and the threat. He never saw the Strela missile that passed harmlessly behind him. But he knew it was there.
“Fucking lovely,” he muttered under his breath. He checked the display screen. Maggot was still moving to the north. He may have been preoccupied, but the black boxes were still doing their magic.
“We’re taking incoming,” Kamigami radioed. “Mortars.”
Another voice came on the radio. “Air Boss, Loco flight with four, five minutes out, sixty minutes play time.”
Now Bag had eight Hogs. He made a decision. “We’re running out of time and need to get their heads down. Gold, if you have me in sight, flash your position.” He rolled right and watched the ridgeline anxiously. Two flashes blinked at him, followed by two more flashes. “Got you,” he radioed. Now he knew Maggot and Kamigami’s location. “Gold, can you lay down smoke below you on a bearing of zero-nine-zero?”
For what seemed an eternity, there was no answer. Then a puff of smoke drifted up from the jungle canopy. “Shit hot!” Bag roared over the radio. As best he could tell, Maggot was on one side of the smoke marker and moving north while the hostiles he had seen were on the other side, to the south. It was all he needed. “Gold, keep the smoke coming. Basher Flight, you’re cleared in hot. Stay south of the smoke and one kilometer away from the LOC.”
“Smoke in sight,” Basher lead radioed.
The mortar rounds worked their way along the ridgeline, driving Kamigami and his team to cover. But his mortar team kept at it, lobbing a fresh smoke round into the jungle below and then scooting to a new location. But without a good target, Kamigami wouldn’t waste any of their limited ammunition in a vain attempt to discourage the hostile fire. Fortunately, the karst’s jagged terrain offered them good cover. But he knew that sooner or later an enemy round would find them. It was just a matter of time. He found the rhythm of the mortars and moved quickly between incoming rounds, using crevices and low points for cover, his radioman right behind him.
Kamigami finally discovered what he was looking for: a long, narrow fissure that cut across the ridge. He dropped into the gap and wiggled to the edge. He scanned the jungle with his binoculars and then reached for the headset his radioman was holding at the ready.
Bag’s voice came over the radio. “Maggot, how copy?”
“Read you five-by.”
“Rog,” Bag replied. “There’s a clearing five hundred meters in front of you. Head for it. Break, break. Red, how copy?”
Tel answered. “Read you loud and clear. We’re in position and holding.” Kamigami allowed a grunt of satisfaction. The boy was doing good.
“Stand by to move in when cleared,” Bag ordered.
Kamigami decided it was time to get involved. “Air Boss, this is Dragon Gold. Recommend Red drop his team of shooters here before the pickup.”
It all made sense to Bag. Why risk more lives than necessary during the extraction? “Red,” he transmitted, “can you do it?”
“Can do,” Tel replied.
Kamigami again swept the area with his binoculars. An unusual movement in a tree caught his attention, and he hit the zoom lever on his binoculars. A man was perched high in the branches holding a radio to his mouth — an artillery spotter. Without turning, he said, “I need the L42.” The L42 was a sniper rifle carried by one of his shooters, a very proficient marksman. But in this particular case it was something he wanted to do himself. To the south he saw two A-10s in a steep descent as they dropped down to the deck and turned toward him.
“Behind you,” his radioman said. He reached back and felt the barrel of the sniper rifle. He pulled the weapon forward and chambered a round. He worked himself into a shooting position and laid the crosshairs in the scope on the spotter’s head. He squeezed off a round and watched as the man’s head exploded. He didn’t fall but slumped forward, still tied to the tree, his radio dangling from a lanyard strapped to his lifeless wrist. A series of mortar rounds walked across the ridge in retaliation, falling wide. “That stirred them up,” his radioman said. Kamigami searched for another target but found nothing. Now the lead A-10 was in the pop, climbing to fifteen hundred feet while his wingman stayed low and a mile in trail. Kamigami swung the rifle back to the dead spotter still hanging in the tree. A man had climbed up the tree and was reaching for the spotter’s radio. It was a poor shot, but Kamigami took it anyway. The slug hit the man in the right shoulder, knocking him out of the tree just as the A-10 rolled in and released two canisters of CBUs.