with a full weapons load. It’d be invaluable.
Hell, it’d be the star of the show. Demonstrate what Dreamland could do.
That wasn’t what this was about. They had to get Smith and the others out.
“Ax, get Major Cheshire over here right away,” he said as he stormed into his office.
“She called a few minutes ago to say she’s on her way,” said the sergeant. “ETA in zero-five. Your burger should be here by then as well,” added Ax. “Fries too. Got one for Captain Freah as well. Coffee’s on the boil.”
Northern Somalia
22 October, 0525 local
Mack swam mindlessly, eyes closed, body buffeted by the waves. A fish or something had attacked itself to his chest, clamping powerful jaws around his ribs. He gasped for air, then realized he wasn’t swimming at all – he was hanging by his parachute harness. Every part of his body aches, but his ribs hurt most of all; he guessed some were broken.
He’d lost his helmet somewhere. Undoubtedly he’d taken it off himself, but he couldn’t remember doing so. He was suspended about thirty feet up the side of a jagged hill, the top of his chute snagged around a tree or rock. One of his hands had somehow tangled in his lines, and his legs were roped against each other. He faced a sheer cliff.
There was a knife in his speed pants. He tried to bend his body, and felt himself starting to fall. Desperately he tried to grab the rock; he rolled sideways, still caught.
Smith tried leaning toward his leg, but found he was stuck. As he craned his head upward he saw someone else on the hill above him.
It was a woman. Her dress fluttered.
No. The parachute.
He was in shock, close to losing it. He was going to die here.
Mack told himself to calm down. All he had to do was get off the hill, get his radio. They’d be looking for him by now. The sun was already up.
Shit. His wingman hadn’t been nearby. They’d have only the vaguest idea where he was.
Not like when Zen went down.
He felt a twinge in his legs. They hurt, but nowhere near as bad as his ribs. A good sign, right?
Smith had a pocketknife beneath his vest, secured there by a lanyard clip. Steadying himself against the rock face with his left hand, he managed to thread his other arm free from the tangle. Then he slid his fingers beneath the vest to feel for the knife. He had to lever his elbow around, and felt a fresh twinge from his ribs as he grasped the clip and worked the knife free. He brought it back and pulled it open, only to have it slip from his hand. Dirt and small rocks slid all around him as he grabbed helplessly for it.
Shitfuckinhell. This can’t be happening to me. Not me, goddamn it. I’m too fuckinggoddamngood a pilot to have my fanny waxed and end up snagged on a stinkinggoddamnfuckinghell hillside. It’s a goddamn joke.
Smith took as deep a breath as his injured chest would allow, then pushed his right arm in the direction of his tangled legs. He felt himself start to slip, but kept going; he tumbled sideways again, but snagged, crashing against the rocks as he grabbed his leg with his right hand. He got the knife, then realized his legs were pinned together, not by the parachute line, but by the metal buckles on the lower straps, which snugged the pant legs above his boots. He levered the long knife blade behind one of the straps and freed himself, carefully gripping the knife this time. As he straightened put he began to drop again; he managed to swing his elbow against the rocks as he slipped down about five or six feet before the chute once more snagged. As he stopped he smacked the side of his face, scraping his cheek and nose.
When the burn subsided, he realized he could simply slip himself out of the harness and drop free. Problem was, the ground was still a fair distance.
Twenty-five feet? Maybe only twenty. There were bushes at the bottom of the ravine.
Long way to fall, even if the pigmy trees broke his fall. Better to slip down some more, even though the scrapes hurt like hell.
Knife swung his legs forward and back, gently at first, then harder, trying to nudge himself down. A sharp knob on the rock poked his forearm. Dirt and pebbles shot down the hill, but he stayed put.
His gut began to retch. Bile came up into his mouth and his ribs screamed with pain.
Stinkingfuckshithell. How the hell can this be happening to me? Me!
Knife clawed at the wall next to him. Maybe it would be easier to climb up it. He lodged his knife into the webbing of his vest, then tried digging his feet into the cliff side. He levered himself up a few feet, one step, two steps, a third. He managed to pull himself up enough so that the lines hung free. He stepped to the right, trying to avoid getting tangled. He took on step, then slipped and fell, sliding two or three feet before managing to grab on and stop.
Nothing to do but let himself fall.
But as he reached to unclasp his harness restraints, the rock or tree or whatever it was holding him began to give way. He pushed himself close to the face of the hill, trying to squeeze into the dirt and rocks as he slid. He clawed and slipped the whole fifteen feet to the ground, crashing through foliage so sharp he thought he had fallen into a spear pit.
Finally on the ground, Mack lay back, trying to blink away the pain – trying, in fact, to blink away everything: Africa, the mission, the shoulder-fired SAMs that had hit him.
Had to be shoulder-fired SAMs. He’d had no warning and they’d gotten his tailpipe. But Mack Smith wasn’t supposed to be the kind of pilot who got his fanny nailed like that, was he?
Finally, Knife rolled over and got to his feet. He removed his Beretta from the vest, checking to make sure the weapon was loaded. It felt heavy in his hand, a little greasy, as if it were covered with oil.
The ejection-seat survival kit and life raft sat at the very base of the hill a few yards away, looking as if someone had come and set them out for him. Besides flares, water, some candy bars, and other odds and ends, the kit included a PRC-90 survival radio, backing up the one he carried in his vest.
As he bent to open the kit, he heard some something crashing through the bushes a few yards away. He slid to one knee, slowly raising the pistol to eye level.
Something moved and he fired.
There was a squealing, a subhuman voice, a half growl.
“I’m sure as hell glad that wasn’t me,” said a voice behind him.
As Smith jumped back, something grabbed his pistol hand. He began to fight back, found himself wrestled to the ground.
“Relax, pilot, we’re on your side.”
A green and black mask contorted over him.
It wasn’t until the teeth flashes white and gold that Knife was certain the figure was human.
“I’m Sergeant Melfi. My point man Jackson is around here somewhere. We’re Marines. Come on, Captain, let’s get the fuck out of here. Shooting that pig may have felt good, but it’s gonna bring a bunch of Somies runnin’.”
“Pig?”
“Whatever. Fuck, maybe it was a lion,” said Melfi. “Come on, Captain, let’s go.”
“I’m Major Smith.”
“Whatever. Come the fuck on. We have to get on the other side of these hills and find some real cover.”
Dreamland
21 October, 2030 local
Dog stood over his desk, studiously ignoring the blinking light on his telephone. The light indicated that someone from Deborah O’Day’s office was holding – and had been holding for at least ten minutes.
“The thing to do is split the Whiplash team between two planes,” he told Cheshire and Freah. “This way we can crew them. they’ll arrive loaded for bear.”
“We don’t have two planes ready,” said Cheshire. “Only Fort Two is in shape to fly. Raven’s computer and fly-by-wire systems are still being upgraded to take care of the problems Fort Two encountered. We should have them on-line tomorrow night.”
“What about Plus?” Bastian asked, using the nickname for Megafortress One, officially carried on the books as EB-52-DT1A Megafortress Plus. Plus had been used a few months before to help recapture the stolen DreamStar
