managed to get Hawk One away from the second bank of ZSUs as the roof of the warehouse opened and the flak dealers began peppering the air.
“Wing damage, Hawk Two,” warned the computer.
Zen could feel it. Hawk Two began to wobble, threatening to yaw out of control.
Time to eject.
Shit, he yelled at himself. I’m half a mile away.
The computer helped stabilize the plane, but the damage was severe, and went well beyond the wing. Zen opened the warning/status screen; he had multiple hits, pending systems failures in the control and engine sections. Power was dropping rapidly.
Destroy the Flighthawk?
Better to land if he could. Whiplash could take it with them, lashing it beneath the Osprey.
He cold always hit the self-destruct switch later.
Jeff did a quick check on Hawk One, just to make sure the computer had it under control; then he jumped back into Hawk Two. She was jerking up and down, wrestling with the air instead of gliding through it. he fought the wings level and aimed toward a nice flat piece of sand a quarter mile ahead. As gently as he could, he put her down on her belly, skidding and then spinning to a stop.
“We have the location marked,” Jennifer said.
“Yeah,” said Jeff.
He put himself into Hawk One, pulling the plane over him as the new image kicked into the top of his screen.
“JSTARS is sending reinforcements,” said Cheshire.
“You have to keep me close,” he told her, pushing the Flighthawk lower and back toward the flak.
Danny turned as a grenade whizzed from Liu’s launcher. There was a low, dull explosion and everything started moving in slow motion. He ran toward the building, ignoring the canvas-backed truck that had come out from the other side. There was a stairwell down; he grabbed the red metal pipe blocking off the side and swung himself down into the hole.
Powder had beaten him there. He was standing in front of the doorway inside a small alcove. He waved his right hand at Freah to stay back, then gripped his SAW at the handle. The door swung out toward them.
A set of metal steps led downward. Freah, leaping ahead of Talcom, took two at a time. A metal door at the bottom gave way as soon as he butted it with his machine gun; he stopped stooped and rolled in a concussion grenade.
If they’d had a chance to plan this, to work the whole thing out, they’d probably by going in with masks, smoking the bastards out.
But hell, if they’d a chance to plan the damn thing out, they wouldn’t be the ones doing the attack.
“I got ya, I got ya,” said Powder, taking a covering position as Danny plunged into the dark hall.
Nothing. No fire. nothing. He ran for all he was worth.
“Door!” he heard himself yell. Powder was on top of him, throwing him down and in the same instant punching the door with the machine gun, ducking, rolling.
Two men fell out behind the doorway.
Light up ahead.
“We’re taking fire up here,” said Liu over the com set.
“Hold your positions.”
“We are. Delta’s en route.”
“Room’s empty,” yelled Powder. Danny started moving down the hall. The boron-carbide vest gave him a dangerous sense of invulnerability – a foolish sense, since he knew that while the vest could stop point-blank machine gun fire, it covered less than fifty percent of his body.
They came to a T. Both hallways were dark. Smoke curled at his nostrils, made him sneeze.
“Which way we goin’?” asked Powder.
“You that way. I’m this way,” Danny said, wiping his nose.
“And I’ll meet ya in the mornin’,” said Powder, pushing forward.
Gunny grabbed the soldier’s leg, yanking him to the ground. He grabbed for a gun, cursing as he realized he’d found one of the unarmed camera people instead of a soldier.
“This way. They’ve all left,” the pilot was shouting. “Stay low –”
“Damn Air Force. Bunch of know-it-alls,” grumbled the sergeant as he scooted for the doorway.
“Missiles!” Jeff yelled as his RWR lit up. A Libyan Roland mobile antiaircraft batter had just activated its radar from inside a disguised post at the south end of the complex.
“We’re out of JSOWs!” warned the weapons officer.
“Evasive action,” said Cheshire.
“No!” yelled Zen. “I can nail them! Keep me close. I’ll get them with the Flighthawk’s cannon.
“We’re too vulnerable here, even with the ECMs.”
“The Roland will take out the Delta Osprey if I don’t nail it,” said Zen.
Someone shouted something back, but he’d stopped listening. He was in the U/MF now, butt tied to its seat, pushing for the dish spiking the mother ship.
The tanklike launcher sat behind a low wall a mile ahead. Its two-armed turret twisted toward the Flighthawk, its parabolic head spinning as it got a lock.
“Weapon,” he told the computer.
The cannon bar appeared at the top of the screen.
Yellow, yellow. Red.
Locked.
Too soon, Jeff told himself, remembering how optimistic the gun radar was. Wait until you can’t possibly miss.
The Roland seemed to move downward. There was a puff of smoke.
It had fired a missile.
The bar suddenly went yellow. His targeting radar was being jammed, probably by Raven itself.
“Boresight,” Jeff ordered. He’d fire manually. The site cleared to a manual cross with a square aiming cue.
He was too high. He nudged, now less than a quarter mile away, moving incredibly fast through the haze.
Zen squeezed, saw the line of bullets move out ever so slowly, impossibly slowly toward the tank, saw the first one get the dish, saw the second, the third begin to unzip the metal as he nudged his aim point lower, the metal hissing.
Nailed the son of a bitch.
Breanna felt the Megafortress slipping from their grip as they were buffeted by a wave of flak. Two missiles were in the air behind them; there was so much going on it was impossible to keep everything sorted.
“Roland on our butt!” yelled the weapons officer. “I’ve handed off the ECM to auto mode, but we’re not shaking it. Watch the flak! We’re too damn low!”
Cheshire cursed, cranking the Megafortress into a tight turn, once more trying to beam the missile’s persistent guidance system. The fact that the German-built antiair weapon was a known commodity wasn’t making it easy to evade. The ECMs were blaring, there was more tinsel in the air than on a dozen Christmas trees, and still the damn thing was coming for them.
“Hold on,” barked Cheshire.
In the next second she slammed the Megafortress in a full-bore dive, plunging straight for the earth. Finally confused, the Roland continued on for ten yards – but ten yards only. Realizing it had missed, its onboard circuitry lit the warhead.
Raven was shaken, but unbowed. Cheshire rolled out at two thousand feet.
Right into a wall of flak.
Rap heard the pops next to her, the sound of an old-fashioned percolator kicking up a fresh pot of coffee. Something flashed in front of her.
For a second she blanked. Then she realized she was shaking her head, her hand on Raven’s yoke. The plane
