hard to comply, jerking to the right and pulling her nose up.
Between the sharp maneuvers and the cascading decoys exploding behind the plane, the heat-seeking missiles the MiGs had fired flew by harmlessly, exploding more than two miles away.
Now it was his turn.
His turn. His brain stuttered, as if it were an electrical switch with contacts that weren’t quite clicking.
“Stinger air mines,” he said. “Sullivan?”
“Targets out of range.”
“Fuck.”
Everyone on the circuit seemed to be hyperventilating. Englehardt turned his eyes toward the sitrep screen on the lower left portion of his dash. His position was marked out in the center — where were the Flighthawks and the MiGs?
A tremendous fireball flared in the corner of the windscreen — a partial answer to his question.
Starship brought up the main screen of
“Good work, dude,” he told the computer. “I’ll take it from here.”
The second MiG had turned to the east after firing its missiles. Now about twenty miles from the Megafortress, it was banking through a turn that would leave it in position to launch its AMRAAMskis.
“
“You want me to get him or are you going to use the Anacondas?” prompted Starship.
“He’s ours,” said Sullivan, the copilot.
“Yeah, we got him,” said Englehardt. “Anacondas. Take him, Kevin.”
Jennifer Gleason snugged her bulletproof vest tighter as Danny and the Marines fanned out from the Osprey. Automatic rifle fire rattled over the loud hush of the rotating propellers. She had a 9mm Beretta handgun in her belt, and certainly knew how to use it. But she also knew that it wasn’t likely to be very effective except as a last resort.
She wasn’t scared, but standing in the bay of the aircraft with no way of making a real contribution made her feel almost helpless. A single Marine corporal had stayed behind with her, guarding the defused warhead; everyone else was taking on the guerrillas outside.
A bullet or maybe a rock splinter tinged against the side of the Osprey. Jennifer jumped involuntarily, then put her hand on the pistol.
Two or three minutes passed without anything else happening. No longer hearing any gunfire, she took a step toward the door.
The Marine caught her shirt. “Excuse me, miss. The captain said you are to stay inside until he gives the OK.”
“It’s safe.”
The corporal frowned. “Sorry, ma’am. His orders.”
“Would you go outside?”
“Not the question.”
“Well what the fuck is the question?”
The Marine frowned but didn’t let go. He swung his other hand up and pushed the boom mike for his radio closer to his mouth. Jennifer folded her arms, waiting while the corporal called for permission.
“Captain says proceed with caution.”
“Caution is my middle name,” said Jennifer. She rushed down the ramp and curled behind the aircraft, staying low. She could see clusters of Marines on both the left and right; they were standing upright.
Jennifer trotted across the rock-strewn field of scrub and dirt, heading toward a jagged piece of metal that stood straight up from what looked like a dented garbage can. She knelt near the damaged missile part; it looked as if it were part of one of the oxidizer tanks located at the top of the weapon just under the warhead section.
“Where’s Captain Freah?” she asked a nearby Marine.
“That way.” He pointed across the field in the direction of the two trucks destroyed by the Flighthawk. “Careful, ma’am. We’re still mopping up. Those suckers were hiding in the rocks and grass.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Jennifer began walking across the moon-lit field, the grass and weeds gray in the light. There were pieces of metal strewn on the ground. Bits of wire and paper and plastic were bunched like fistfuls of confetti dumped by bystanders grown tired of waiting for the parade to pass. She caught a whiff of burnt metal and vinyl from one of the trucks that was still smoldering up ahead.
She found Danny near one of the trucks.
“Where’s the warhead?”
“That way. Hang on a second — one of the Marines thinks he saw some movement up near those rocks. We’re checking it out.”
A guerrilla lay perhaps twelve feet away, his torso riddled with bullets. Jennifer stared at it, waiting while Danny talked to other members of the team.
“All right,” he said finally. “But you stay next to me.”
“I intend to.”
“By the way — the corporal’s mike was open in the Osprey,” added Danny. “Anybody ever tell you you curse like a Marine?”
“Most people say worse.”
Thirty seconds after the Anacondas left the Bennett’s belly, the MiG launched its own missiles. Englehardt had anticipated this and turned the plane away, hoping to “beam” the radar guiding the missiles.
“ECMs,” he told Sullivan.
“They’re on. Missiles are tracking.”
“Chaff. Stand by for evasive maneuvers.”
He put the Megafortress on her wingtip, swooping and sliding and dropping away, just barely in control. He pushed back in the opposite direction and got a high g warning from the computer, which complained that the aircraft was being pushed beyond its design limits. Englehardt didn’t let off, however, and the airplane came hard right.
There was a loud boom behind him. A caution light popped on the dash. For a moment he thought they’d been hit. Then he realized that engine one had experienced a compressor surge or stall because of the change in the air flow rushing through it.
The compressor banged, then surged a second time. Easing off on the stick, he reached to the throttle, prepared to drop his power if the engine didn’t restart and settle down on its own.
“Missile one is by us,” said Sullivan.
Englehardt concentrated on his power plant. The exhaust gas temperatures jolted up, but the power came back. He babied the throttle, moving his power down and steadying the aircraft.
“Splash the MiG!” said Sullivan as their Anaconda hit home. “Splash that mother!”
Englehardt felt his pulse starting to return to normal. He slid the throttle glide for engine one up cautiously, keeping his eye on the readouts. The engine’s temperatures and pressures were back in line with its sisters’; it seemed no worse for wear.
“What happened to that second missile the MiG fired?” he asked Sullivan.
“Off the scope near the mountains,” said the copilot. “No threat.”
“Rager, what’s near us?” Englehardt asked. His voice squeaked, but it didn’t seem as bad as earlier.
“Sky is clear south,” answered the airborne radar operator.
