cunning plan. Ever hear of Joshua Chamberlain?'
'A cunning plan? Little Round Top?' Fulton rolled his eyes, saying, 'Why don't I just blow my brains out now?'
'Just get in.'
'What about Fletcher?' Fulton asked.
'Wahab's getting him.'
Buckwheat bolted at a crouch for the Hummer. As he did, he heard the on-board radio say, 'Rattus, Biggus; we're ninety seconds out. We can see the burning aircraft. We can also see what looks to be a loaded truck convoy leaving the city heading west. One of the gunships is going after the convoy; the other's yours. Where do you want it?'
***
Biggus practically strained his neck, twisting his head to keep an eye on everything that was going on in the air and on the ground, as the medevac bird loitered. For all practical purposes he was playing FAC, or forward air controller. He may have been a little rusty, but he did have some limited experience at it.
From the radio came Rattus's words, 'We're just behind the topographical crest. The bad guys are mostly along the northern military crest. That's about seventeen or eighteen hundred meters south of the airfield.'
Biggus put the mike to his lips and asked, 'Can you give us a marker?'
'We'll give you lights for ten seconds, both vehicles, in thirty.'
'That'll do. Then what?'
'You'll probably need more than one pass,' Rattus said. 'When you've expended your load, or as much as you need to, let me know. Then we're gonna charge, right over the top, all guns-such as they are-blazing. We'll meet you at the airstrip, west of the burning aircraft.'
'Roger,' Thornton said. It sounded pretty desperate to him but, then again, they did have the hurt limey. So . . .
Biggus gave orders to the other two. After hearing a couple of 'Rogers,' he shut up and watched.
As the armed aircraft to his north made its first pass, all he could say was, 'Awesome.'
The aircraft carried fourteen of what were called 'S-8, 80mm' rockets, seven under each wing. The rockets were the mixed lot Victor Inning had provided; two per pod carried flechettes; three were high explosive; one was incendiary. The first one set to fire from each pod was illumination. One of these, from his right pod, the pilot to Biggus's north fired first.
Four seconds after the flash of the rocket's ignition could be seen, a two-megacandle flare blossomed over the truck convoy, slightly off center and to the north. In that four seconds the CH-801 had closed its range by two hundred and forty meters, give or take. In the next several seconds, the pilot let loose one entire pod, walking them up the road at and around the seven trucks. Most missed. In fact, all the high explosive and incendiary rounds missed. The flechette rockets, on the other hand, each of them spitting out two thousand thin, finned, steel darts, didn't have to be all that on target. Close was good enough where 'close' was defined as two and a half truckloads of human flesh reduced to twitching, screaming, moaning, bleeding, gagging, puking, shitting lumps of meat . . . in a fraction of a second.
As the pilot turned away-safer that was than passing over a convoy of armed men, even if their drivers were jinking like mad-to line up for another run, his door gunner, Manuel, let loose with a long, two hundred round burst of machine gun fire. Manuel didn't hit much either. But his tracers did add to the overall ambience.
Buckwheat noticed that the fire snapping over the ridge slackened, indeed almost ceased, right after the northern sky lit up from the flare.
They're watching the fireworks, he thought. That, and probably shitting their pants. Now's the time, now, for the other strike to go in.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
'A sword for the LORD and for Gideon!'
-Judges 7:20, the Bible, New International Version
D-Day, Rako-Dhuudo-Bandar Cisman highway, Ophir
Reilly listened to the reports from the scouts: 'Scout Four . . . SitRep . . . fourteen tanks, moving east on the road . . . two groups . . . four tanks leading then ten more about four hundred meters after . . . dismounts riding on top . . . five or six, maybe seven, per.' 'Scout Two . . . same . . . just reaching the bend at Checkpoint Five.' 'Scout One, I make them at Checkpoint Four.'
So far, so good, he thought. Fourteen tanks with a gap of four hundred meters . . . mmm . . . call the column one point one klicks long. That'll fit in the kill zone. Why only fourteen though? There were supposed to be up to twenty-four. He called the TOC, back on the ship, to ask.
Boxers voice answered, 'When the UAV went over the lager there were ten still there, most with people working on them.'
'Roger.' Okay then, ten down for maintenance. Par for the course.
Then he heard, 'This is Scout Two. Two more tanks, no dismounts on top. A klick and a half behind the others.'
Shit! How did the UAVs miss that? Two tanks a kilometer and a half behind would put them out of the kill zone when he initiated the ambush. He didn't want to face one tank in a fair fight, let alone two. There's a solution, but . . . man, that sucks.
'Scout one, Alpha Six,' Reilly sent.
'Scouts.' Snyder's voice sounded worried. Ah, he understands the problem, too.
'When we initiate, I need you to engage the follow-on tanks.'
There was a pause while Snyder formed a reply. That reply was, 'Are you out of your fucking mind? We've got machine guns. That's it.'
Reilly's voice stayed calm and firm. He understood perfectly well how Snyder felt. 'I know. I don't expect you to kill anything. I just want you to button them up and make them think they're in the kill zone, too. And don't lose track of them when they roll off the road.'
The answer to that was long enough in coming. 'Wilco.' I will comply.
