Razor's Edge d-3

by Dale Brown

  Aboard Quicksilver, on the ground at Incirlik 1905

  Zen watched from his wheelchair at the back of the Flighthawk deck as they carried O’Brien and then Ferris out. Jennifer had already gone down to see if Alou was landing or if she could talk to him over the radio; Raven had escorted them here but there had been no way to communicate outside of hand signals.

  After he landed the Flighthawks, he’d had plenty of time to go back over the video. There was only one site in the area they had flown over that could have possibly held a laser — a dilapidated factory a half mile off a highway, a mile and a half from a fair-size town in northeastern Iraq.

  Two trailers were parked outside of it. There were no defensive positions that they could see, but there was a long trench running between the trailers into the building. Cables might be buried there.

  While the fire had cost them the data needed to coordinate it positively, it was at least roughly where the cell phone calls and radio transmissions had originated from.

  It had to be where the laser was.

  “Hey,” said Breanna, coming down the ladder. “You okay?”

  “I’m okay.”

  She glanced back upward, as if she’d forgotten no one else was aboard. “Listen, I’m sorry,” she told him.

  “What for?”

  “We haven’t — you and I have been kind of off kilter lately. I don’t know why.”

  Zen shrugged.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Yeah, I love you too,” he said. The words sounded odd to him, too rushed or too quick, not as sincere as he meant. But if she noticed, she didn’t say.

  Chapter 65

  High Top

  2010

  Danny Freah glanced over from the communications section in the Whiplash trailer, making sure he was still alone; the HQ had become something like a rec room for the base personnel. Ordinarily he didn’t mind, but the conferences with Dreamland Command and Raven were to be conducted in total secrecy.

  Bison was at the door, enforcing the secure protocol with his M16A3, full-body armor, and a day and a half’s worth of unshowered B.O. Danny gave him a quick wave, then turned back to the main com screen, adjusting the volume on his headset. The excitement of the rescue — and the harried ride back on only one engine — had been eclipsed by news of what happened to Quicksilver.

  “The damage was done by some sort of energy discharge weapon,” said Alou, who was en route back to High Top Base in Raven. “I saw it myself. Had to be laser.”

  “We concur,” said Dog.

  “The radio transmission data points to a small warehouse complex, more like a building and some trailers in Box AB-04,” said Alou. “It should be just about big enough for a laser.”

  “Give me the coordinates and we’ll look at it,” said Dog. “The mini-KH is now on line. We can have it maneuvered into place by morning.”

  “I want to move right away,” said Alou. “I say we return to refuel, and go.”

  “The colonel and I have been discussing another option,” said Danny before Dog could answer. “I’d like to get us in there and take a look at it before we blow it.”

  “Why?” asked Alou.

  “Because if we just destroy it, we’re not going to settle any of the questions,” Danny said. His words raced from his mouth. “I say we get on the complex ASAP, Colonel.

  From what Jennifer Gleason relayed, it’s an easy shot.”

  “You don’t know that the laser itself is there,” said Alou. “It’s probably mobile.”

  “It may be mobile,” said Dr. Rubeo, who was in the secure room with Colonel Bastian. “If it’s as advanced as Razor. If — a big question.”

  “See — we have to get that question answered,” said Danny.

  “There’s no way you’ll have the Osprey repaired in time to join us,” said Alou.

  “We’ll find other transportation,” said Danny, who already knew it would be several days before they had a new engine to replace the damaged one. “If this map is right, there are no defenses whatsoever. Nearest armed units would be in a town a mile and a half away. We’re in and out before they know what hit them. Ten minutes of video on the ground, maybe grab some pieces — that would be invaluable.”

  “Big risks,” said Bastian. “Even just a bombing mission. Granted that Quicksilver was more vulnerable to radar, but Raven will still have to open its bomb bay to fire. That would make even a B-2 visible, at least in theory.”

  “I concur,” said Rubeo.

  “One thing I noticed,” cut in Alou. “And maybe it’s a coincidence or maybe it has to do with the radars, but the altitude of all the planes hit was at least twenty thousand feet.”

  “And?” said Dog.

  “Maybe it can only hit aircraft at that altitude or higher.

  Maybe it’s optimized for that.”

  “If this is a laser, it can strike anything from five centimeters to thirty-five meters off the ground,” said Rubeo.

  His face filled the screen as he spoke, the video feed automatically concurring with the active voice feed. “I suggest we wait and plan a full raid,” added the scientist. “I agree with Captain Freah about the utility of a close inspection, but the operation should be properly planned.

  We’ll have the mini-KH positioned in six hours.”

  “They may move it by then,” said Alou.

  “Unlikely,” said Rubeo.

  “Razor’s mobile.”

  “Pul-ease. We are dealing with Iraq,” answered the scientist. “Even if this is mobile, they can’t go scurrying around the countryside with it. They’ll hide it in a building.”

  “I agree with Merce,” said Danny. “The sooner the better. They won’t be expecting it.”

  “We’re not sure if this is the site, though,” said Dog.

  “It’s got to be, right, Doc?” asked Danny, sensing the scientist would back him.

  “Possibly. It’s within parameters. Even if they were a full generation behind — and let us say that is more likely — the building needed for the director would not have to be very large,” said Rubeo. “I believe anything above two thousand square feet would do, assuming some of the equipment were contained on a second level or even in an auxiliary station. The director itself is not particularly large, and at least a portion of it has to be exposed so it can fire. Razor, of course, can be mounted on a large tank chassis. That greatly increases the possible number of sites.”

  “What the hell is the director?” asked Danny. “The command post?”

  Rubeo gave him one of his best “what a bonehead I’m dealing with” expressions.

  “The director focuses the laser or high energy beam,” explained Colonel Bastian. “It’ll look a little like a very large searchlight. It will have some baffling on it to prevent ambient light from changing the focus during daylight.”

  “Precisely,” said Rubeo. “We will feed you some con-ceptual drawings that you can use for a target. It’s the easiest part to destroy. Now, if the Iraqis are more than a generation behind—”

  “Then it wouldn’t work at all,” said Colonel Bastian.

  “Precisely,” said Rubeo. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good,” said Danny.

  “The director itself is interesting, but not the highest priority for intelligence,” said Rubeo. “The software that controls it would be extremely interesting. We’d want to ID the gas makeup, of course. An exact signature could help us determine who built it and—”

  “I’ll get you everything you want,” said Danny.

  “The chemical warfare sniffers you carry can be modified to give us a reading,” said Rubeo. “You’ll have to find Sergeant Garcia and tell him to follow the directions I send.”

  “Whoa, not so fast boys,” said Dog. “You haven’t outlined the risks, and we haven’t solved the problem of getting there, or of grabbing intelligence for the strike.”

  “We can use the Flighthawks for intelligence,” said Alou. “They’re at High Top.�
��

  “Zen isn’t.”

  “Captain Fentress is there. He’ll fly them,” said Alou.

  “The risks are worth it, Colonel,” said Rubeo. “If this is a laser, intelligence on it would be overwhelmingly valuable.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” said Dog. “What are the risks?”

  “Well, the risks — we could fail,” said Danny, leaving it at that.

  “And you get there how?” asked Dog.

  “I was hoping to chop one of those Marine transports, but we won’t have any inbound until daybreak,” said Danny, who’d checked twice. “But I have something else in mind, something much better, that we could use right away.”

  * * *

  “You’re out of your fucking mind, Freah. Out of your fucking mind.” Mack Smith shook his head, then slapped the side of the OV-10. “You want to ride in the back of this?”

  “Plenty of room. Garcia tells me four or five guys can fit, with full gear.”

  Garcia, who had been hovering nearby, tried to inter-ject. Danny waved at him to be quiet.

  “The Marines did this all the time in the Gulf War,” he told Mack. “The building isn’t ten feet from the highway, which is long and flat, plenty enough for you to land. You come in, zip around, take off. Easy as pie.”

  “Pie, huh? Apple or peach?”

  “You’re awful touchy today, Major,” said Danny. “You were looking for action — well, here it is.”

  “Action and suicide are different.”

  “You don’t think you can do this?”

  “I can fuckin’ do it. There is nothing I can’t fly. This — this is a piece of cake.”

  “Great. How long before we’re ready to take off?”

  Chapter 66

  Dreamland Command Center

  1315

  Colonel Bastian walked back and forth behind the console, waiting for the connection to go through. He’d decided to give CentCom’s commander a heads-up about the Razor strike.

  Like all of the U.S. joint service commands, CentCom was headed by a four-star general, in this case Army General Clayton Clearwater. He was an old-line soldier with a reputation both for daring — he’d been with an airborne unit in Vietnam — and stubbornness. Dog had met him exactly once, during a three-day Pentagon seminar on twenty-first century weaponry. Clearwater had given a short address during one of the sessions, talking about force multipliers and asymmetric warfare. While the speech had been aimed at the Joint Services Special Operations Command, his ideas were in line with the Dreamland/Whiplash concept.

  Of course, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t view the Razor mission as interfering with his domain. But his reaction was beside the point. Bastian wasn’t calling him to ask for permission — the Whiplash order clearly gave him the authority to proceed.

  Still, touching base was politic.

  “Nothing?” Dog asked the lieutenant handling the center communications board.

  “Just getting through now, sir.”

  The lieutenant spent a minute haggling with his equiv-alent at CentCom’s communications center before being transferred to the general’s line. A tired-sounding Marine Corps major — CentCom didn’t have the high-tech secure video gear Dreamland used — finally came on the line.

  “Bastian?” he said curtly.

  “I need to talk to General Clearwater.”

  “You’ll have to talk to me,” said the major. He was an aide to the general’s chief of staff — pretty far down the totem pole and undoubtedly lacking code-word clearance to talk about Whiplash, let alone any of Dreamland’s weapons.

  “I need to talk to the general himself,” Dog told him.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel, I can’t put you through.”

  Dog folded his arms in front of his chest, trying to mar-tial his patience. “This is a top priority item. It involves a matter of immediate importance,” Dog told him.

  “Then explain it to me,” said the major.

  “I can’t,” said Bastian.

  “Then this conversation is over,” said the major, who snapped off the connection.

  “Asshole,” said the lieutenant in a stage whisper.

  Dog began pacing again. In fairness to the major, he probably didn’t understand why a “mere” lieutenant colonel would need to speak right away to a four-star general, especially since that colonel was ostensibly calling from Edwards Air Force Base, where the duty roster showed he was assigned to support squadron.

  Ordinarily a good cover, but in this case perhaps a bit too good.

  Magnus could get through to Clearwater, he thought, and would appreciate the heads-up himself. But Dog hadn’t been able to hunt him down in D.C. He’d had to use the secure e-mail message system to tell him about the damage to Quicksilver and the fact that it had been forced to land at Incirlik, and still didn’t have an acknowledgment.

  Dog glanced at his watch. Less than fifteen minutes until takeoff for the mission.

  No way he was going to delay it.

  “Listen, Lieutenant, I’m going to go catch a breather.

  Page me if General Magnus or General Clearwater calls, and if there’s anything from Whiplash or the Megafortresses. Otherwise, I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  Chapter 67

  High Top

  2302

  “You take that knee out of my side right now, powder, or I’m going to twist it back behind your head.”

  “If you had room to twist it behind my head, Bison, it wouldn’t be in your goddamn side.”

  “That ain’t his knee,” said Liu.

  “Real funny, Nurse,” said Powder.

  “We taking off today or what?” said Egg, the fourth member of the Whiplash team crammed into the rear of the Bronco. He wagged his flashlight toward the roof, throwing bizarre shadows across the M-4 carbines, grenade launchers, and MP5s they’d lashed there.

  The Marine Corps had outfitted several OV-10s for special operations, turning the rear area into a passenger compartment. While no Marine was ever heard to complain — at least not within earshot of his commanding officer — the accommodations hardly fit the definition of spartan, let alone cramped. And that was in a plane specifically designed, or at least modified, to their specifications. This aircraft made the Marine versions seem like 747s. Sitting on their rucksacks, each man had his helmet and backup oxygen in his lap. There was no light, and no communication with the cockpit.

  “Which one of you didn’t take a shower?” Bison asked.

  “Hell with that,” said Egg. “Liu had some of that soup.”

  “Jesus,” groaned the others together.

  “About time,” said Powder as the airplane’s engines started up with a roar. The vibration from the engine worked into his spine and skull.

  “Man, this is nuts,” said Bison. “Powder, take your damn elbow out of my ribs.”

  “Where do you want me to put it?”

  “You want me to tell you?”

  “You don’t watch yourself, I will.”

  The plane jerked forward as the engine noise jumped fifty decibels.

  “Man, I gotta go to the can,” said Egg.

  “I think we’re taking off!” yelled Bison. He dropped his flashlight as the plane stuttered upward, and the Whiplash assault team was left in temporary darkness.

  Just as well, thought Powder. Dinner roiled in his stomach. He’d gone over to the Marine mess and scoffed up a few helpings of roast beef and mashed spuds. He thought now the gravy had been a mistake.

  “Whoa — we’re up,” said Bison.

  “I been in trucks smoother than this,” said Egg.

  “Sixty-seven minutes away,” said Powder.

  “Hey,” said Egg. “Anybody smell roast beef?”

  * * *

  Danny braced himself as the Bronco pulled nearly four g’s, turning around a sharp crag in the mountains en route to their target.

  “Captain, are you still with us?” asked Dr. Ray Rubeo over the Whiplash circuit, which was bei
ng fed by the tactical communications satellite into his smart helmet.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As we said before, video of the director unit would be very useful. We want measurement of the focusing appa-ratus, but you needn’t bother with taking parts from it.

  Simply blow it up.”

  “Right.”

  “The chemical samples, the readings — those are higher priorities. The disk array is what we specifically want. Now, if the weapon is Razor size, you can expect the computer gear to be fairly small. On the other hand, if it’s stationary, I would imagine you’ll be hunting for something about the size of a large cabinet, similar to some of the memory devices we use here with the work stations.”

  “Gotcha,” said Danny. They had already gone over the priority list and the likely layout of the weapon and any facility housing it twice.

  “We’ll be right here, watching what you do,” added the scientist as Mack warned that he was going to take another sharp turn.

  “Great,” groaned Danny as gravity knocked him sideways.

  * * *

  Mack smith checked the engine gauges again. The turbos were maxed out, but with all the extra weight, they were barely doing 190 knots. Fortunately, they didn’t have to climb; he’d laid out a zigzag course through the passes and then a straight run down to the site. The night was dark, with only a small sliver of moon, but he figured that was in their favor — the darkness would make it tough for anyone on the ground to hit them.

  Once past the last peaks ahead, he’d have a clear shot.

  Landing on the road, though, was going to be a bitch — he figured he’d have to drop a “log” flare on a first approach to see the damn thing, then hustle back in before the light burned out or anyone on the ground nailed him.

  At least he wasn’t flying completely naked. He’d managed to talk Alou out of a pair of Sidewinders. Garcia had mounted them on the OV-10’s launcher.

  He almost hoped he had a chance to use them. This sucker turned on a dime. He’d lure a MiG onto his butt, turn quick, then slam the two heat seekers right down his tailpipe.