the forward cabin's two seats, holding on tight with whitened knuckles. The Black Hawk was shuddering and bouncing wildly as Peter fought to hold the helicopter just fifty feet above the rolling crests of the ocean waves — all the while flying at more than one hundred knots. He had brought them in at very low altitude to avoid being picked up by the airfield's radar.
Smith swung his binoculars to the right. For the first time, he saw the three huge flying wings lined up one after another on the long concrete strip. The lead aircraft was already moving faster and faster, rolling smoothly toward takeoff. At first, his exhausted mind refused to accept that anything so big and, at the same time, so fragile-looking could possibly be airworthy.
Then, in a flood of understanding, the facts and images fell into place, pulled from memory. Several years ago he had read up on NASA's scientific experiments with high-altitude solar-powered long-endurance robot planes. Nomura must have stolen the same technology for his own vicious ends. “Good lord!” he said, rocked by the sudden realization. “Those are Nomura's attack aircraft!”
Quickly he briefed the others on what he remembered of their flight profile and capabilities.
“Can't our fighter planes shoot them down?” Randi asked somberly.
“If they're flying at close to a hundred thousand feet?” Smith shook his head. “That's beyond the maximum ceiling for any fighter in our inventory. There's not an F-16 or F-l 5 or anything else we own that can fly and fight that high up!”
“What about your Patriot missiles?” Peter suggested.
“One hundred thousand feet is above their effective ceiling, too,” Smith replied grimly. 'Plus, I'll bet those damned drones out there are built to avoid most radar.“ He gritted his teeth. ”If they're at high altitude, they'll be invulnerable and probably undetectable. So once those planes are operational, Nomura will be able to hit us at will — unleashing nanophage clouds over any city he chooses!'
Horrified by the danger he saw looming before the United States, Jon focused his binoculars on a small group of men standing together just off the runway. He drew in a short, sharp breath. They were wearing gas masks.
The world around him seemed to blur, slowing while his mind raced. Why were they wearing masks? And then, suddenly, the answer — the only possible answer — leaped out at him.
“Take us in, Peter!” Smith snapped. He jabbed a finger at the airfield. “Straight in!”
The Englishman glanced at him in surprise. “This isn't an attack mission, Jon. We're supposed to be scouting — not riding in with sabers drawn like the bloody cavalry.”
“The mission just changed,” Smith told him tightly. “Those planes are armed. That son of a bitch Nomura is launching his attack now!”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Frowning, Peter banked the Black Hawk tightly, turning in toward the airfield. Santa Maria's coastline loomed larger, rapidly taking on shape and definition as they flew toward it at one hundred knots. The Englishman turned his head for just a moment, looking at Randi. “You'd better break out the weapons.”
She nodded. The three of them were already wearing Kevlar body armor, and the helicopter had come equipped with three M4 carbines, cut-down versions of the U.S. military's M16 assault rifle. She moved back into the troop compartment, careful to keep a tight grip with at least one hand on anything bolted down.
Abruptly Peter banked the Black Hawk through another tight turn— this time swinging the helicopter north to fly parallel to the runway. “Half a tick,” he said. “Why do this the hard way? Why not just hover above these damned drones and shoot them down over the sea?”
Smith thought the suggestion through. It made perfect sense. He reddened. “I should have thought of that,” he admitted reluctantly.
Peter grinned. “Studying medicine when you should have been studying tactics, eh?” He pulled back on the controls. The UH-60 rose steadily, climbing several hundred feet above the sea in a matter of seconds. “Keep an eye on that first drone, Jon. Let me know when it's aloft.”
Smith nodded. He leaned back in his seat to stare out the cabin's right-side window, over Peter's shoulder. A sudden bright white flash and a puff of dust near the airfield caught his eye. A small dart sped toward them, riding fast on a pillar of fire. For a fraction of a second he stared in disbelief. Then his survival instincts kicked in. “SAM! SAM!” he roared. “At three o'clock!”
“Hell's teeth!” Peter exclaimed. He yanked hard on the controls, adroitly handling the foot pedals, collective, and cyclic stick to throw the Black Hawk into a tight descending turn toward the oncoming missile. At the same time, he stabbed a switch on the control panel, activating the helicopter's IR flare dispenser.
Incandescent flares spewed through a wide arc behind the diving UH-60. Looking up, Smith saw the incoming surface-to-air missile streak right overhead and then curve away sharply, following one of the decoy flares as it tumbled slowly toward the ocean. He breathed out. “Must have been a heat seeker,” he commented, irked to hear a tremor in his voice.
Peter nodded. His lips were pressed tight together. “Man-portable SAMs usually are.” He sighed. “Back to square one, I'm afraid. We daren't mess about at altitude — not with a missile threat like that sitting right behind us.”
“So in we go?” Smith suggested.
“Too right,” Peter said, baring his teeth in a fierce fighting grin. He brought the Black Hawk down so low that its main landing gear seemed to be skimming right over the curling waves. The airfield, now dead ahead, grew rapidly through the forward canopy. “We go in hard and fast, Jon. You clear the left. I'll clear the right. And Randi, God bless her, will do whatever else needs doing!”
“Sounds like a plan!” Randi agreed from behind them. She handed Smith one of the M4 carbines and three thirty-round magazines. With a shortened barrel and a telescoping stock, the M4 was a somewhat lighter and handier weapon than its parent, the M16. He snapped one magazine into the rifle and tucked the spare clips away in his pockets. The third carbine went to Peter, who wedged it beside him on the pilot's seat.
“Thanks! Now, buckle in,” Peter yelled back at her. “The landing will be just a tad bumpy!”
There were more flashes rippling along the runway ahead of them. Several men were standing out in the open, steadily firing at the oncoming helicopter with assault rifles. Five-point-fifty-six mm rounds smacked into the Black Hawk — pinging off the main rotor, ricocheting off its armored canopy and cockpit, and punching through the thin alloy sides of the fuselage.
Smith saw Nomura's first flying wing lift off the ground and begin climbing. He slammed his fist onto the side of his seat in frustration. “Damn!”
“There are still two more on the ground! We'll deal with that one later,” Peter assured him. “Assuming there is a later, that is,” he added under his breath.
The Black Hawk clattered low over the tarmac and spun rapidly through a half-circle, flaring out to thump heavily into the long grass growing beside the runway. More rifle bullets spanged off the canopy and went whirring away in showers of sparks. Smith hammered the seat belt buckle hard, opening it, grabbed his M4 carbine, and forced his way back into the troop compartment. Peter followed closely, pausing only to set a couple of switches on the control panel. Overhead, the rotor blades slowed dramatically — but they kept turning.
Randi already had the left-side door open. She crouched in the opening, sighting down the barrel of her carbine. She glanced over her shoulder. “All set?”
Jon nodded. “Let's go!”
With Randi right behind him, he leaped out of the helicopter and dashed south along the fringe of the runway. Rifle rounds cracked low overhead, coming from a pair of guards running toward them across the concrete. Smith threw himself down in the tall grass and opened fire-squeezing off three-round bursts in an arc from left to right.
One of the guards screamed shrilly and flopped forward, cut almost in half by two high-velocity bullets. The other dropped flat on the concrete and kept shooting.
From her position on Smith's right, Randi coolly took aim. She waited until the sights settled on the goggles of the guard's gas mask and then gently pulled the trigger. His head exploded.
