by Robert Gandt
“The marine whose butt you just saved. Great job of forward air control, Yankee. Can you make it to our perimeter?”
“It depends on how many—uh, oh. Stand by, Boomer.”
She lowered the radio and peered down the hillside.
Something down the slope moved—a glint of metal, a patch of the wrong color.
She waited, watching the bushes and boulders.
There it was again. Coming toward her. Taking their time, being stealthy, using the rocks and shrubs.
How many? How did they know she was here?
Easy, she realized, looking at the orange smoke that was still gushing upward. They saw the smoke and heard her calling targets on the SAR frequency. A no brainer.
Across the valley, Maxwell’s Hornet was making another pass on the retreating Sherji. She considered calling a strafing pass on her own hillside. Forget it. The guys coming up the hill were already too close to her position.
“What’s going on, Yankee?” came the marine commander’s voice. “Are you in trouble?”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I’ve been in trouble for the last twenty-four hours, sir. This is just more of the same. Sorry, I’ve gotta go now.”
She stuffed the radio back in her satchel and surveyed her escape routes. The Sherji owned most of the real estate on the hillside that sloped toward the marines’ perimeter. Behind her lay an undulating series of gullies and then a terraced slope that someone had cultivated with rows of sorghum. At the far end of the gullies, about three hundred yards distant, rose another wooded hillside punctuated by craggy rock formations.
Throwing the satchel over her shoulder, she scuttled up the path toward the gullies. The Sherji might get a glimpse of her, perhaps even take a shot. So be it. She would do what she did best—run.
In a sprint she reached the shoulder of the hill, then dropped into one of the gullies and headed toward the woods. At the end of the gully she ducked behind a boulder and stopped to look back.
No Sherji. At least none on her heels. For a moment she stood still, listening. She didn’t hear anything coming her way. Just the sound of her own raspy breathing—and the throaty whine of the jets overhead.
The Super Hornets were still shredding the Al-Fasr position. She saw a Hornet skimming in low over the ridgeline, flame spitting from the muzzle in the long slender nose. As the Hornet came off target, B.J. noticed something else.
A smoke trail, going straight up. It was the same squiggly, erratic kind of trail she observed when the Cobra gunship was destroyed.
She fumbled for the radio in her satchel. While she punched the transmit button, her eyes followed the wispy column of smoke.
The Hornet was in a hard right bank. The smoke trail was following it.
“Flares, Runner!” she yelled in the radio. “Smoke in the air! You’re targeted.”
Chapter Twelve
Mercenary
Al Hazir, Yemen
1305, Tuesday, 17 June
He heard the warning at the same time he picked up the telltale smoke. It was coming from the grove of trees near where the guns had been concealed.
Maxwell’s thumb went for the flares/chaff switch on the throttles as he yanked the Hornet into a seven-G turn. Speed and Gs were his best defenses down low. He was only five hundred feet above the terrain. A Hornet moving at four-hundred knots was a hell of a lot tougher target than a hundred-mile-per-hour chopper. Hitting such a target with a shoulder-launched weapon was a nearly impossible task. Unless the shooter got lucky.
A sudden concussion passed through the airframe of the jet like a hammerblow. Maxwell felt a vibration that seemed to come from the tail of the fighter.
So the shooter got lucky.
The jet was still flying. Maxwell tensed, ready to pull the ejection lanyard. How badly was he hit? He rolled the Hornet out of its right bank. The fly-by-wire flight control system was still working. The damage seemed to in the tail section, maybe the stabilators. If it wasn’t too bad he could—
“Engine Fire Left!” It was the voice of Bitchin’ Betty, the robotic aural warning. Her irritating monotone cut like a knife through the cockpit. “Engine Fire Left!”
He yanked the left throttle back, then punched the illuminated fire light, discharging the extinguisher.
The red light remained on. The vibration worsened, sending a tremor through the jet.
The jet was rolling to the left. He had the stick to the full right position—with no effect. The electronic inputs to the flight control system were gone.
The Hornet was slicing toward the brown hills below.
Like all fighter pilots, he had visualized this moment. During all the years he had flown fighters, he had never been forced to eject. Given a choice, this wasn’t the way he’d do it—high speed, low altitude, hostile territory.
No choice.
He shoved his helmet back against the headrest. Closing his elbows tight to his sides, he gripped the ejection lanyard between his legs with both hands and yanked the handle.
The shock was greater than he expected. It felt as if he were being shot from a cannon. The wall of air hit him, blurred his vision, ripped at him like a beast. He was an unguided missile hurtling through the sky at half the speed of sound. Dimly he felt the drogue chute slowing him, sensed the automatic release from the seat.
With a violent jerk, the main chute opened.
He knew he was close to the ground, but he couldn’t tell how close. He felt himself make one pendulum swing beneath the deployed chute, then sensed in his dimmed vision the earth rushing up to meet him. He crashed through the foliage, limbs snagging and snatching at him. He crashed in a heap at the base of a scraggly tree.
For nearly a minute he lay there gathering his senses. The parachute canopy was snarled in the tree. Something was jammed into his face. It hurt like hell. He realized it was his oxygen mask, skewed up over his nose from the wind blast.
Still dazed, he detached the mask, then unhooked the seat pack from his harness. His hands trembled as he worked the fasteners on the harness.
He did a quick assessment, moving each limb, one at a time. No broken bones, no major sprains, at least that he noticed yet. He was bleeding from a small gash in his forearm. There were some abrasions, probably from the plunge through the tree.
He tried pulling the parachute canopy down from the branches. The more he yanked, the more snarled the canopy became. To hell with it. He didn’t like leaving the thing there, but he couldn’t waste time getting it down.
He had to gather the essential equipment, then put some distance between him and the parachute, which was flapping in the breeze like an outdoor advertising sign. The Sherji would know exactly where to start looking. Maxwell had no illusions about the treatment he would get from those he had just finished strafing.
He checked his sidearm—the Colt .45. It had survived the ejection, still strapped inside the leather shoulder holster. He retracted the slide, quietly eased it home, feeding a round into the chamber. He stuffed the pistol back into the holster. He shoved the helmet and mask beneath a shrub, along with the torso harness and life raft and other equipment he wouldn’t need.
First he would find a hiding place, then break out the radio and make contact with the recovery team.
The terrain sloped upward to the west. That would be the best course. Head that direction, put a few miles between him and the telltale parachute. Then he’d—
“Put your hands against the tree.”
It was a guttural, thickly accented voice, coming from behind him. He turned to look at the speaker.
“Don’t move. I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
Maxwell got a look at him. A stocky man with short, brown hair and a stubble of beard. He wore a brown flight suit and held a semi-automatic pistol in his hand.
“Who are you?” Maxwell asked.
“My name is Rittmann. I’m here to kill you.”
<>
A gift from heaven.
The American pilot was his passage out of Yemen.
Rittmann had no illusions about his status with Al-Fasr. Even before the disastrous air battle, Rittmann knew that Al-Fasr was finished with him. He was expendable, just like the worn-out MiG-29 he had been flying. He was certain that the Sherji, who were now in a ground battle with the Americans, had orders to kill him if he turned up alive. Or deliver him to Al-Fasr, who would dispose of him in one of his own imaginative ways.
Now he had something of value to offer Al-Fasr. A captured American pilot! He would be an immensely valuable bartering item. Al-Fasr would be persuaded not only to give Rittmann his liberty but he would even compensate him for having shot down one of the American jets.
Rittmann sized up his trophy. The man was half a head taller than he, fit-looking, with dark hair and a mustache, in his late thirties, maybe early forties. He seemed to have suffered no serious injuries from the ejection.
“Put your hands on the tree,” Rittmann said again.
The American was regarding him with curiosity, his hands still at his sides. Typical American insolence, thought Rittmann. A bullet through the elbow would teach him some manners.
Not yet, he told himself. The pistol shot might reveal his position to the Sherji or to any Americans patrolling the area. Later.
He approached the pilot, keeping the Czech-made Parabellum pistol pointed toward him. The man watched him, still curious.
“Your name is Rittmann?” the American said. The blue eyes studied him, still curious. “You’re German.”
“My nationality doesn’t matter.”
“Former East German? You hired on to fly the MiG-29s.”
Rittmann felt a flash of anger as he remembered the insults the East German military had endured from the Americans. He aimed the pistol in the man’s face. “I ask the questions. Turn around and do as I say.”
Slowly the man turned, his manner still imperious, insolent. Rittmann promised himself that he would change this man’s attitude.
He removed the sidearm, a heavy, large-calibered automatic pistol. Peculiar, he thought, hefting the gun. How could the highly advanced American military issue such a useless weapon? A pistol like this one could not possibly be fired with any accuracy.
Keeping the muzzle of the Parabellum pressed into the man’s back, he searched the pockets of his flight suit. He removed the survival knife, a dull-bladed tool with a serrated edge. Another odd weapon, as useless as the obsolete pistol. Americans were strange.
He dumped out the contents of the pilot’s survival pack, including a handheld radio, various signaling flares and pyrotechnics, and a device that looked like a global positioning system. Rittmann was impressed. Unlike the silly gun and the knife, this was definitely not obsolete equipment.
When he was finished, Rittmann stepped back and said, “You will tell me your name and rank.”
“Samuel Maxwell. Commander.”
“To what flying unit are you assigned?”
“United States Navy.”
Rittmann jabbed the pistol into his ribs. “Geschwader! I want to know your unit and base.”
“Are you an interrogator? I thought you were a pilot.”
“From an aircraft carrier you came, is that not correct? What flying unit?”
“None. Actually, I’m a tourist. Where did you learn to speak such bad English?”
Rittmann’s anger burst out of control. In an overhand, chopping swing, he brought the butt of the Parabellum down on the back of the man’s neck. The American grunted and dropped to his knees.
Rittmann delivered a kick to the man’s ribs, causing him to double over. “On your feet. I give you one more opportunity to answer my questions.”
The American raised himself up on a knee, then slowly stood. The blue eyes had narrowed to slits, fixed on Rittmann like he was a specimen.
In truth, Rittmann had no interest in the man’s answers. Al-Fasr’s sources had already reported that the F/A-18s came from the aircraft carrier Reagan, cruising the Gulf of Aden. The only purpose of Rittmann’s questions—and the subsequent punishment—was to make this American Scheisskopf beg for mercy.
“Your unit. Its designation and its commanding officer. Tell me now!”
The American returned his gaze.
Rittmann swung the pistol again, striking him in the face. The man reeled backward, his cheek spurting blood. Rittmann’s pent up anger was taking control of him. He swung again, the blow glancing off the man’s head.
Stunned, the American dropped to one knee. Again Rittmann considered using the Parabellum, blasting him in the elbow or the knee, inflicting some real pain.
No, not the gun. The knife.
He unsheathed the Denckler fighting knife. The twenty-centimeter, double-edged blade was honed to a razor sharpness. For years Rittmann had imagined actually using the Denckler in combat. The oldest and most basic of military weapons, it was beautiful in its pure simplicity. No weapon instilled such raw terror as the cold sharp steel of a knife.
He shifted the pistol to his left hand. With the handle of the knife nestled in his right palm, he stepped toward the kneeling American.
<>
The first slash caught him across his raised forearm. The German was holding the knife at waist level, thrusting it like a fencer.
He slashed again, ripping through the sleeve of Maxwell’s Nomex flight suit. Maxwell tried to dodge the thrusts, but he was slow, still dazed from the ejection and the blow on the head. Blood spurted from the wound on his right arm.
Rittmann seemed to be enjoying the one-sided duel. A smile flitted over his face as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, advancing one step at a time.
He thrust again. The point of the blade caught Maxwell’s left shoulder, penetrating the fabric of the flight suit. Blood streamed down Maxwell’s left arm.
He tried to fend off the knife thrusts, but the German was quick. Too quick. It occurred to Maxwell that the man could have killed him already. What did he want? Did he intend to carve him up first, then kill him? It was if he were settling an old score.
Rittmann thrust again with the blade. Maxwell dodged the slashing blade—and tripped. He tumbled backward, then rolled, trying to regain his feet.
Too late. The German lashed out with his boot, catching Maxwell in the chest. The German was on him before he could regain his feet. Light glinted from the polished blade as he thrust it toward Maxwell’s throat.
“That’s enough! Drop your weapons.”
The voice came from behind. The German stopped in mid-thrust. The smile was gone, replaced by a look of confusion.
“Drop the gun and the knife on the ground.”
It was a woman’s voice.
Rittmann nodded. His lips parted in a knowing smile, and he turned to face her.
Blam! He felt the bullet sizzle past his ear.
The smile vanished, and he let the knife drop.
“The gun,” said the woman. “Drop it or the next bullet goes into your head.”
He released the pistol. It fell to the dirt with a plop.
Rittmann stared at the intruder. His eyes took in the blackened face, the flight suit, the diminutive size. She was holding an automatic pistol in both hands, ready to fire again. It was incredible. “You’re a woman?”
“You better believe it,” said Maxwell, rising to his feet. He gathered up Rittmann’s pistol and the knife. He looked down at his bloody sleeve. “Lieutenant Johnson, for the record, I am very glad to see you. I don’t suppose you could have gotten here a couple of minutes earlier?”
“Couldn’t run any faster,” said B.J. “You should have punched out closer to where I was.”
“I should’ve dodged the SAM. Then I wouldn’t be here.”
She looked the German over. “Who is he? He doesn’t seem like a very nice person.”
&nb
sp; “This is Herr Rittmann,” said Maxwell. “Formerly of the East German Air Force. We’re going to get to know him very well. But first, you’ll have to excuse us while we finish some international business.”
“Business?” B.J. looked at him questioningly.
“A reciprocal trade matter.”
He tried not to telegraph what was coming, but at the last instant the German sensed it. The punch came straight from the shoulder, with all his strength behind it, augmented by anger and several gallons of adrenaline.
Rittmann tried to duck, but he was a micro-second too late. Maxwell’s fist caught him just beneath the right jaw.
The German let out a whooshing sound as he flipped backward, arms and legs askew.
B.J. stared at the unconscious man. “Skipper, is that a civilized way to treat a prisoner of war?”
“Who said I was civilized?”
“Good point. I retract the question.”
Maxwell retrieved his Colt from Rittmann’s pocket. In the distance he could hear the rattle of automatic weapons. The marines were still shooting it out with the Sherji. The jets were no longer overhead.
Chapter Thirteen
Colt .45
Sana’a, Republic of Yemen
1745, Tuesday, 18 June
“It’s Maloney,” said the voice on the phone. “We need to talk.”
Claire could tell that he’d been drinking. She was at her desk, working on a dispatch to her bureau chief in Bahrain.
“About what?”
“Not on the phone. I’ll pick you up in front of your hotel in twenty minutes.”
She groaned. Of all the ways she could choose to spend an evening in scenic Sana’a, going for a ride with a drunk was not one of them. “Is it urgent?”
“It has to do with the lucky guy you told me about.”
Claire’s heart froze. Sam. Something had happened. “I’ll be waiting at the lobby door.”
<>
The relentless pinging stopped.
Three hours had elapsed since the Ilia Mourmetz settled into its hiding place beneath the littoral shelf. The Mourmetz’s passive listening equipment was hearing the steady passage of sub-hunting helicopters and S-3 Vikings.