guided bombs, which robbed the pilot of some flexibility during the attack as the system had to lase its target. But Jenkins and his flightmates were firing GPS-guided munitions. Their targets had been preprogrammed before takeoff, and while the pilot could override them, his gear showed him there was no reason to. He got a steering cue on his HUD, the computer compensating for the wind.
As he swung to the proper position, Jenkins hit the red button on his stick, which gave the computerized bombing system authority to drop the bomb. The bay doors behind him opened with a clunk — air buffeted the plane, and warning lights blinked on the dash, reminding him he was a sitting duck, an easy and very visible radar target as long as the plane’s symmetry was broken.
This was the longest part of the flight. Even though it took the automated systems only a few seconds to eject the bombs, in these few seconds Jenkins was the most mortal of men, obvious to the radars and a slow, barely maneuverable black target in a light sky.
And then the buffeting stopped with a loud clunk, and the warning lights were gone, and though he was too busy to glance over his shoulder — and the view too obstructed to see — Major Jenkins knew he had just nailed his prize and would live to celebrate it.
Van Buren listened as the F-117A pilots checked in, announcing that their missiles had been launched. The Hercules with the first drop team was late, about three minutes behind schedule. But they were into it now, no turning back; the gun-ship was just coming on station, its first task the van that Ferguson was supposed to hit.
His hope that Ferg had somehow made it disintegrated a few seconds later as the gunship pilot reported a direct hit on the van, with “shitloads of secondaries.”
As the gunship began mopping up the two ZSU-23s left at the north end of the field, Van Buren said a silent prayer for his friend and Conners, then made himself get up and check on his men.
28
The plane had already gotten outside the hangar when Ferguson heard the first rumble. There were shouts from below and explosions in the distance.
“Let’s get to the cockpit,” he told Conners. “We’ll stop the bastards from taking off.”
Conners grunted and started after him. As Ferguson began to run, he heard a sound similar to a vacuum cleaner and felt the aircraft starting to shake. The dim light narrowed. The engines whined to life.
“The door,” yelled Conners.
Ferguson tripped as he ran. He grabbed his rifle, but then stopped himself from firing as the mechanism slapped shut. They were in the dark.
“There’s got to be some sort of switch if it’s powered,” Ferguson told Conners. “We’ll get it later if we have to. Let’s try to get in the cockpit. Come on.”
Ferguson reached the wall at the front of the plane and slapped at it with his hands, trying to feel for a ladder or something that would take him up to the flight deck, which on a 747 sat at the top of the plane, almost like the second story of a two-story building. There was no ladder, and he couldn’t find a handhold. He went to the side, found a place to climb up, but lost his balance and tumbled to the floor of the plane, smacking his head so hard as he landed that he temporarily lost consciousness.
Conners, unable to climb, felt around with his hands for a ladder or steps. As he did, he smelled metal burning. A loud secondary explosion sounded in the distance, rocking the jet.
“Get down here, you guys,” he called to the assault team, as if they might hear him over the engines on the plane. He stepped back, pulled his rifle up, and aimed it at the door. But as he started to press the trigger, the plane jerked forward. Conners lost his balance, and the three slugs buried themselves harmlessly in the material wedged along the roof of the fuselage.
29
The AC-130 located not one but two different active antiaircraft batteries. The first shot from its howitzer nailed one of the ZSU-23s in the center of its chassis, causing the four barrels to fold in on themselves midshot. Flames crescendoed in every direction, red and yellow streamers that unfolded like the petals of a flower.
The pilot of the AC-130 U “U-boat” had to come hard south to get a shot on the second battery, which had been located to the east of the camp proper. As he pulled the big Herk on to her mark, he saw that the Chechens had moved an airplane onto the end of the runway.
They were committed to the flak dealer, which began spraying lead in their direction. The pilot got a cue on his target screen and hit the trigger, but the shot trailed off as the Herk hit a sudden updraft current. He worked the stick and the rudder as if he were piloting a World War II dive bomber, homing in on its prey. Sparks flew across his bow, but he had the shot. The large aircraft shuddered, then seemed to push forward and simultaneously dip her right wing. They’d been hit — but they’d also nailed the ZSU-23-4.
30
Samman Bin Saqr realized with the first explosion that he had miscalculated badly — it was not the Russians who had found him, but the Americans. As calmly as he could, he worked the plane, starting the engines, securing the hatches, moving forward on the runway.
His flight engineer had not come aboard, but that was a minor matter. He began to turn as he reached the northern end of the runway, his right wing nearly scraping the side of the building as he turned. He hesitated for a second, fearful that in his ineptitude he had failed Allah. But then God smiled at him — he cleared the building and had the nose of the plane pointing into the wind, directly down the runway.
“Let us proceed,” he told his copilot, Vesh Ahmamoody. Vesh reached for the thrusters, propelling the flying bomb into the sky.
ACT V
Mischief, thou art afoot.
Take thou what course thou wilt.
