Mack was only vaguely aware of the other following behind him. Despite his chains and his resolve to go slow and look for a chance to escape, he was trotting, moving quicker than he wanted.
The Imam was waiting at the back corner of the building.
“Into the plane,” the Iranian commander. A few yards away, three soldiers pulled a black tarp off a small, high-winger aircraft in the field behind the building. The twin-engined, boom-tailed craft was an ancient Antonov An-14 ‘Clod’ – a Soviet-era transport used mostly as a civilian plane thirty years ago. As the cover was removed, a man ran to the rear of the fuselage, yanking open a set of clamshell doors and ducking inside. The small plane rocked with his footsteps as he leapt into the cockpit; the engines started almost instantly, revving with a high- pitched grumble.
“Quickly,” said Iman.
“No,” said Mack.
“You will come now,” said the Iranian. He raised his hand, revealing a pistol. Before any of the Americans could react, he fired point-blank into Jackson’s forehead. The Marine’s head snapped back and them seemed to disintegrate; his body fell almost straight down beneath it.
“The sergeant will be next,” the Iman added, quickly pushing his gun into Gunny’s face. One of the guards had already grabbed the Marine from behind.
“Into the plane, Major, or your sergeant will die,” said the Imam. “You and the captain will be dragged aboard anyway. I will not kill you, even thought that is plainly what you desire.”
Meekly, Mack bowed his head and started for the plane.
Northern Somalia
23 October, 0455
Danny fell headfirst over the seat, barely hanging on to his submachine gun. A hurricane seemed to descend around him; his nostrils burned with the smell of plastic and metal burning.
“Captain! Captain! Captain!”
He couldn’t locate the voice. He tried to stand, felt his throat revolting. He threw himself down to the floor. Instead of landing against the carpet, he kept going, his head and shoulders falling into the open air.
The side of the plane next to him had been blown away. Hanging on by his feet, he flailed back toward the aircraft. The he saw that the skin of the plane had been twisted into something like a ramp; it would be easier to climb down. As he turned around and began to try to do so, an arm came out of the thick smoke in the plane. He yanked it over him, pulling a man out of the hole, pushing him to climb down. He only realized it was the Iranian pilot as the body slipped and then rolled to the ground.
Another explosion erupted to his left. Danny felt a surge of air against his face, found another body rolling against his. He grabbed it and pushed it toward the tarmac. He rolled down after it, saw it was Talcom.
“Where’s Hernandez? Where the fuck is Hernandez?” he screamed.
Powder, dazed, maybe unconscious, didn’t answer. Danny clambered back up the jagged side of the plane, prodding through the acrid brown stench. He reached the floor of the passenger compartment, got to his feet, and near nearly fell backward as flames erupted in his face. The heat was so intense he could only retreat, tumbling over backward and falling out of the plane headfirst. He managed to grab a piece of metal, slowing himself but ripping his uniform and cutting his arm as he pirouetted around. He fell next to Talcom, who as trying to stand; both men slammed down and flattened the still-dazed Iranian pilot.
It would have been comical had the fuel truck nearby not erupted.
Somehow, Danny managed to pull Talcom and the pilot away. All three collapsed about twenty yards from the jetliner, gasping for breath and feeling the hot flame of the tanker truck.
“Hernandez, we lost Hernandez,” said Freah when Liu grabbed him.
“No, he’s in the Osprey,” said the medic. “Come on. We have to go. Fighter are coming. Let’s go. They blew the hangar.”
Danny shook his head clear, bolting to his feet. He’d lost his MP-5, but he seemed okay; he didn’t think he’d been hurt.
Sunburned maybe. Damn fire was hot.
“My team,” he shouted, twisting back.
“We’re all here!” yelled Liu. “Come on, Captain.”
A massive black cloud hung over the hangar at the other end of the field. The Delta Osprey was taxiing away from it, toward them. An APC was rumbling thirty yards away.
Danny stood motionless as the armored personnel carrier’s turret began to revolve in the direction of the Delta Osprey. Then he started to run toward the APC with all his strength.
“Captain! Captain!” shouted Liu.
As Danny ran. He reached into his pocket for the grenade.
Nothing but MP-5 clips.
Cursing, he kept running. He remembered he’d used the grenade in the airplane and reached for the other pocket, retrieving a stun-grenade. The grenade wasn’t powerful enough to do anything to the exterior of the vehicle; it would have to be thrown inside.
He fumbled with the taped pin as he bolted atop the APC. It was an ancient vehicle, a BTR-60P with an eight-wheeled chassis and a 12.7mm gun mounted in a turret at the front. The gun barrel lurched back, firing toward the Osprey. Danny grappled with the hatch, but there was no way to open it once locked from the inside. He threw himself on top of the gun turret, thinking he might stuff the grenade through the gun opening, but he saw there’d be no chance of that as the gun fired again; desperate, he pulled his Beretta out and stuff the barrel against the small viewing slot at the side of the front of the truck; Danny fell to the ground. The Osprey was revving its rotor furiously, pulling away. Danny rolled the grenade beneath the APC and ran back for his own craft, expecting at any moment to be shot. The ground rippled near him and he felt himself flying into the air.
Liu and Hernandez caught him just before he hit the ground, stumbling but managing to keep their balance as their Osprey lurched backward toward them. The others grabbed them and Danny felt himself suddenly pulled upward, the rotorcraft taking off with its bay open.
“We’re in! We’re in!” yelped Talcom.
Bison stood near the open doorway, firing his SAW. The APC continued to fire at them.
“Shit,” said Freah.
Chapter 5
TV time
Ethiopia
23 October, 1540
You could smell a combat base. Part of it was the sweat in the air. Part of it was spent fuel, and the ammo being packed.
Another part was fear.
Zen smelled it as he worked his way down the Megafortress;s stair ramp, levering himself sideways down each step, aware that he was being stared at – or actually, that people were pretending not to stare at him. He used his arms and shifted his weight carefully as he lowered his butt; he wanted to come down on his own power, but he also didn’t want to fall on his face.
It had been more than five years now since he’d been on a combat base, not counting his brief rotation in Turkey to enforce the no-fly zone in Iraq. This felt different for all kinds of reasons. For one thing, he’d probably had more sleep on his flight over than his whole time during the Air War.
And for another, well, he hadn’t had to use his arms quite so much.
Sergeant Parsons held the wheelchair for him on the tarmac. Zen came off the side into it, managing to swing himself upward and fall perfectly – almost perfectly – onto the chair.
“I’m getting too heavy,” he told Parsons. “Have to lay off the ice cream.”
“You find ice cream here, you let me know,” said the sergeant. “Let me go check on our birds.”
Parsons ducked under the wing to examine the Flighthawks, which were attached to the inner wing spars of Raven. Zen pushed himself a few feet away, taking stock of the crowded air base. Tensions had continued to escalate during the night. There had been raids against bases in Northern Somalia. The Iranians had sunk a ship in the Red Sea. Two U.S. aircraft carriers were steaming from the western end of Mediterranean. The Saudis and Egyptians were furious about U.S. overflights and reconnaissance missions, to say nothing of the President’s
