and there didn’t appear to be any soldiers or guards between them and the aircraft.
“On the plane! On the plane!” screamed Danny, jumping to his feet. Talcom and Hernandez were already at the ladder cart, exchanging gunfire with someone at the top. “Use the concussion grenades!” he shouted as he ran. “Knock them out! Don’t hurt our guys!”
His men didn’t need to be reminded of such basic procedure, but Danny yelled them anyway. Talcom and Hernandez had managed to get inside the plane in a few seconds it took for him to reach the ladder. He took the rungs two at a time, a concussion grenade in his hand. He slipped his thumbnail beneath the tape, ready to toss it in.
“We’re clean! We’re clean!” Talcom was yelling. “Somebody’s in the cockpit!”
Danny threw himself into the airliner, rolling on the rubber-matted floor. The plane shook with a nearby explosion. Something burned on the other side of the base, faint red flickers mixing with the predawn twilight. Danny pulled out his small penlike flashlight, playing its narrow tungsten-lit beam carefully across the interior. The airliner was configured as a bare-bones passenger transport with fifteen or sixteen rows of seats between the boarding door and the flight deck. Talcom and Hernandez were huddled near the cockpit, their heads next to the closed door, listening to see what was happening on the other side. Freah spun around, checking the rear of the plane. There were maybe another dozen rows of seats back to a curtain. He got to his feet and ran back, ducking into the last row of seats.
He took the concussion grenade from his pocket, held it up so the others could see.
Talcom gave him a thumbs-up. Freah pulled the pin and rolled the grenade under the curtain. In the next moment his men at the front fired off the lock on the cockpit door. Danny waited for the boom of the grenades, then dove up and over the seats, rolling into the gallery.
No one was there. A cargo compartment lay beyond the gallery. He tried the door, found it locked. He stood back, fired at the recessed handle. It still wouldn’t budge. He threw himself against it, his flashlight slipping from his hand and clanking so loudly against the counter that for a split second he thought it was a gunfire.
“Captain! Captain!” yelled Hernandez.
Danny spun back to see a dazed man with vaguely Middle Eastern features being herded down the aisle by his two sergeants.
“Guy’s the pilot. They were just ready to take off, I think,” said Hernandez. “Head’s scrambled or maybe I just can’t understand what the hell he’s saying.”
“APC coming up from the other end of the base,” added Talcom. “Egg’s holding him off.”
Freah grabbed the pilot. “Where are our men?”
The man shook his head as if he didn’t understand. Freah tightened his grip and pushed him against the seat.
“My people!” he demanded.
The man said something unintelligible.
“Captain, our grenade probably beat shit out of his eardrums,” said Powder. “Even if he understands English, he probably can’t hear. sucker’s lucky he wasn’t killed.”
“Patrol boat?”
“I have it designated. We can take it out at will. Machine-gun fire on the north side of the base. I think they’re shooting at us. No SAMs. No radar.”
Breanna continued around, edging the Megafortress over the water. They were within the lethal envelope of a shoulder-fired missile like a Stinger or the SA-16, the Russian equivalent; she had to be ready to pull evasive maneuvers at any second. Still, she found her thoughts wandering, drifting down to the assault teams, wondering if they had found Mack.
Why did she care? Why had Jeff accused her of having an affair with him?
“Bree?”
“Take it out,” she snapped, her unconscious alerting her to the fact that the patrol boat had snapped on a scanning radar. Her hands were already prodding the Megafortress away.
“Missile away,” said Chris. “Scope is now clean.”
The boat had turned off its radar, but nonetheless began firing its weapon, a large-bore cannon. The air below them crackled and popped with the explosions.
Suddenly it smoothed out and the horizon glowed.
“Got the motherfucker,” said Chris. “Big fucking burn. Go baby, go baby.”
“Good one.” Breanna checked her warning screens, making sure Fort Two hadn’t been hit. They were clean, systems in the green.
“APCs launching an attack,” said Chris, back on the FLIR.
“Can you take them out?”
“I can get one, if you can spin us back so I can get a better look. After that, we’re down to our last missile. You still want to save it?”
“Yeah,” she said, beginning to bank.
“APC near the hangar or the airliner?”
“Hangar,” said Breanna.
“Here’s something for you to take home to the Ayatollah,” said Chris as he pickled the missile off.
Breanna’s laughed was interrupted by the RWR buzzer. The two MiG-29’s they’d scared off earlier were on their way back.
Northern Somalia
23 October, 0445
The bus stopped near the gate, allowing the flatbed with the plane to get by. As the Imam walked up the steps, something exploded about a mile away.
“We are under attack,” the Iranian said calmly. “You will follow me off the bus.”
“No, we won’t,” said Mack. This was a gift – now it made sense to stall.
“You will follow me off the bus,” A trio of fresh explosions rocked the vehicle even as he spoke, though they did not affect his manner.
“Maybe we better,” said Howland. “We’re going to get blown up here.”
As if to underline his words, the top of the bus was perforated by machine-gun fire. Outside, men were yelling and screaming. Smith heard the sound of tank and truck motors roaring nearby. The whomp of descending helos – or maybe Ospreys – filled the air.
“You will follow me now, said the Iranian, disappearing out the front. The two Somalians trained their weapons on the Americans.
“What do you think?” Gunny asked.
Bullets sprayed nearby, sending dirt and rocks against the side of the bus.
“I say let’s move,” said Howland. “And at least get ourselves out in the open where we can make a run for it.”
“Yeah,” said Mack finally.
They didn’t move fast enough for the Somalians – one of them raised his rifle and sent a quick burst through the roof of the bus. The four Americans flinched, but kept moving, walking deliberately to the front and then down the steps. Somalian soldiers crouched nearby; one or two men ran and others yelled, though they seemed confised, perhaps panicked. It was unclear where the attack was coming from or even what was attacking them. a large jet zoomed ahead, its hull dark against the moon. One of the soldiers stood and emptied his AK-47 at it.
Idiots might as well shoot at the star, Mack thought.
The Imam had begun walking toward the back of the terminal building a few feet away. One of the guards went to Mack and prodded him to follow, pushing with the barrel end of his rifle. As Mack began to walk, there was a fresh burst of gunfire behind him. A machine gun began firing nearby, shaking the ground and air with a jackhammer thud.
Mack felt something sharp flick him in the face. He thought it was a bug at first; reaching up, he found his face wet with blood. A bullet had chipped a piece of cement up and nicked him below the cheekbone.
The guards pushed the Americans toward a knot of soldiers at the side of the terminal building, urging them to run and occasionally firing into the air. It wasn’t clear whether they were shooting at the plane or planes attacking, or just trying to scare them; neither made much sense.
