sailed toward the helicopter. He began to fire his cannon, even though he wasn’t lined up right, he pushed his rudder to swing into the shot, but was too high and then too far to the right. He thought he heard a stall warning and went for throttle; rocketing upward, he realized he was low on gas.
The helo was still hovering. The missile had missed.
His RWR bleeped. The MiGs were on them already. Shit.
“Pelican! Get the fuck out of here!” he screamed.
He plunged his aircraft back toward the remaining vehicle, again firing before he had a definitive target. Meanwhile, Poison Three called a missile launch; things were getting beyond hot and heavy.
Knife reached to put the throttle to the redline, already plotting his escape southwest toward Poison Two.
Something thudded directly behind his seat. He felt the Viper’s tail jerk upward, and in the next instant realized the control stick had stopped responding.
“I’m hit,” he snapped. And in the next instant he pulled the eject handles, just before the plane tore into a spin, its back broken by not one but two shoulder-fired SA-16’s
Gunny and Jackson were still fifteen yards from the Chinook when it started to pull upward. But the old sergeant had been prepared for this – he’d removed the flare pistol from his vest pocket to signal them.
Before he could fire, something exploded above him. He jerked his head back and saw the plane that had been covering their escape erupt in a fireball. Something shot into the air; a second or two later he realized it was the pilot.
Gunny turned around.
“Gunny, Sarge, shit. helo’s this way,” said Jackson, grabbing his arm. “Come on.”
“We got to go get that pilot,” Gunny said.
“Fuck that.”
“Here,” Gunny said, pressing the flare gun into his point man’s hand. “I’ll catch up.”
“The hell you will,” said Jackson. The corporal tugged the older man around.
“I’m giving you an order to get the hell out of here,” said Gunny.
“If you’re stayin’, I’m stayin’. I got point,” said the Marine, pushing past in the direction of the parachute blossoming in the firelit sky. It was falling over the low hill to his right, away from the Gulf of Aden.
It was probably a moot point by now, since the Chinook was thundering off in the distance. Still, Gunny appreciated the sentiment.
“I hope to hell that pansy-ass pilot’s got a radio,” he grunted, following up the hillside.
Chapter 4
Whiplash
Dreamland
21 October, 2000 local
Colonel Bastian walked the two miles from his office to the base commander’s ‘hut,’ the wind chilling his face. He’d shipped the summary of his report via the secure e-mail link and packed off the full package, committing himself before he could change his mind. You were supposed to feel good when you followed your conscience, but he felt as if he’d just stabbed a friend.
A lot of friends. Not to mention himself.
Dog paused near the entrance to the low-slung adobe structure that was his temporary home at Dreamland. The guard assigned to his premises had taken shelter in a blue government Lumina parked a few yards away. Surplused aircraft and failed experiments sulked in the darkness, watching him with steely eyes. Among the planes were craft once considered the nation’s finest – a B-58 Hustler, some ancient B-50 Superfortress upgrades, three or four F-86 Sabres. They were indistinguishable in the shadows, tarped and in various stages of disrepair. But Dog felt their presence like living things, animals driven to cover.
Time moves on, he though to himself.
He waited for something more profound before finally shaking his head, realizing he was freezing out here. The desert turned cold once the sun was gone. He trotted to ward his front door, deciding to throw himself into bed and rest up for the inevitable storm tomorrow.
The phone was ringing inside as he opened the fiberglass faux-wood door. He picked up the handset, bracing himself for an angry blast from one of the many generals and government officials connected with the F-119 project.
But the caller was his own Sergeant Gibbs.
“Colonel, we need you back at the office,” said Ax.
“What’s going on?”
“You need to make a secure call back to D.C.,” said the sergeant. “Whiplash has been activated.”
“Does Danny know?”
“Captain Freah is on his way here,” said the sergeant. “He had to round up his men.”
“Send a car.”
“It should be there in about ten seconds,” said Ax.
Dog put down the phone. While in theory the team could be headed anywhere, even a training mission, Dog realized it must mean things had popped in Somalia. More than likely, that was why Washington wanted to talk to him.
Better that than the JSF.
He took a moment to pull on his old leather flight jacket, then went back outside, where a Humvee was waiting for him.
Danny Freah was at the wheel.
“Whiplash had been activated,” said Freah as Dog pulled himself intot he seat.
“Ax just told me. You have transport?”
“I was hoping you could expedite something. They want us in Africa yesterday. There’s a C-5 en route from back East.”
“A C-5?”
Freah smiled and shrugged. His team consisted of only six men; they carried their forty pounds of equipment on their backs. The big Lockheed transport planes could move the better part of a company.
Freah quickly lost his smile. “Word is, two of our pilots went down in Somalia. And two or three Marines stayed back to help them. One of the pilots was Major Smith.”
“Shit.”
“A rescue operation is being planned.”
“That C-5 will take eighteen hours to get you there.”
“At least,” said Danny.
Bastian folded his arms across his chest. ISA and Madcap Magician would have it own units nearby, but obviously they were anticipating serious trouble.
“Maybe we can wedge your boys into the backseat of our SR-17s,” he joked.
“We only have one on the base,” said Freah, who didn’t seem to be joking. He pulled the Humvee in front of the Taj. “What about the Megafortress?”
“An EB-52?”
“Major Cheshire says Fort Two could make the run in less than twelve hours.”
“Fort Two is a test bed. They nearly crashed a week ago.”
“I know that,” said Freah. “I also know the Somalians have this thing about dragging soldiers through the streets after they kill them.”
Dog got out of the truck and walked into the building, barely pausing for the security scan. Danny caught up in the elevator; neither said anything as the car began its slow descent.
Africa was a damn long way to go in a plane that typically never left the protected airspace over Dreamland.
On the other hand, there was at least a rough precedent. Another EB-52 had been used in Central America during the Maraklov/James fiasco some months before. The plane had acquitted itself quite well.
But it had also been flying with a full crew.
Fort Two was more than a transport. If he was going to send it halfway around the world, he should sent it
