by Dale Brown
“He’s sick,” said Turk.
“Damn. We need to get the plane off. It’s a sitting duck.”
“I’ll fly it,” said Turk. “Take me up there.”
“But—”
Turk grabbed hold of the man’s arm and pushed him in the direction of the runway. “Let’s go!”
DANNY STOOD AT the side of the small bunker as Captain Thomas took control of the situation. The rebel force was sizable, nearly four times the number of Marines assigned to guard the perimeter. But the Corps had a slogan: every Marine is a rifleman. And Thomas lived by it: he had already drilled the maintenance and support people in the defense of the base. He now rallied them into position, readying for the assault the Shadow had seen coming.
Ironically, all that preparation left Danny feeling useless; he didn’t have an assignment.
“Give me a rifle,” he told Thomas. “I’ll help on the perimeter.”
The captain frowned. “No offense, sir, but—”
“I guarantee I’ve seen more action than you, Captain,” answered Danny.
“Yes sir, but, uh . . .”
Danny knew that Thomas considered it his job to provide security, and that he would feel responsible if anything happened to him. He’d been in the same spot himself, many times.
“Look, Captain, I can shoot as well as most of your men, I’m sure,” he said bluntly. “You need bodies. And if anything happens, I gave you a direct order, which everyone here will vouch for.”
“What I could use is someone liaising with the Malaysians,” said Thomas. “I haven’t been able to reach them on the radio. Their equipment is primitive—and that’s if they remember to use it. I need someone who can get a radio to them and tell them what to do. They can reinforce the southern side of the perimeter.”
“Did Turk go down to talk to them?”
“Uh, Captain Mako ran up to the airstrip to fly one of the planes,” said a lance corporal who just entered the bunker, wearing his helmet and carrying an M-16A4. “One of our guys is sick, I heard.”
“Give me a radio,” said Danny.
Thomas hesitated, but then complied. “Mofitt, go over with the colonel,” he said, turning to the man who’d just come in.
“Yes, sir, right away.”
“Let’s do it,” said Danny.
ONE OF THE F-35s started down the runway as Turk ran up. It took him by surprise, and he ducked involuntarily as it roared past, both pilot and steed eager to get into the air.
Turk continued toward the other planes. Two crew dogs were attaching bombs to the hard points of the nearest aircraft, despite the continuing whistle of the mortar attacks. A pair of rounds landed every thirty or forty seconds, with an occasional single shell breaking the pattern. They were getting closer to the runway, walking up in fits and starts.
Turk spotted Colonel Greenstreet in front of the wing of the plane being armed. He was shouting at the ordnance men, yelling at them to finish their business so he could get in the air and do some “f-in’ good.”
A second F-35 taxied out from behind the aircraft. It hesitated a moment, then seemed to explode off the runway so fast that Turk thought it had been hit by a mortar shell.
One of the crewmen spotted Turk and ran to him.
“Captain! Have you seen Lieutenant Rogers?” he shouted.
“He’s sick,” said Turk. “I’m going to fly. Get me to his plane.”
The crewman pointed to the very end of the tarmac and began running toward it. Turk caught up in a few seconds and then passed him, racing to the F-35B as the shriek of incoming rounds pierced the air. The shells exploded a hundred yards away, off to the right; while they landed harmlessly, Turk realized that the enemy had changed its sights and was now aiming at the planes and the runway.
A crew chief met Turk as he reached the airplane. “Captain Mako?”
“Rogers is sick!” shouted Turk. “I’m getting his plane up!”
“Uh—”
“I’m checked out on it,” he said. “We leave it on the ground it’s dead.”
That was apparently enough of an argument for the crew captain, a gunnery sergeant who’d heard Turk during the briefings and knew he was a pilot.
“She’s fueled!” shouted the gunny. “We just put some bombs on the rack.”
“Good! Let’s go.”
“You need gear!” yelled the NCO. “Where the hell is your helmet? You need a flight suit!”
“Get them quick or I’m going up like this,” said Turk. Technically, he didn’t need either, but one of the gunny’s men was running up with a helmet, and Turk knew he’d have a much easier time with the plane if he was geared up properly. Fortunately, the suit was a little big and he was able to get into it quickly.
“Careful where you step, Captain,” said the gunny as he climbed into the plane.
“Call me Turk!”
“Get your helmet on!”
“In the plane!” Turk pulled himself over the fairing and slipped in.
It had been two years since he’d been in an F-35B, let alone flew one. Though the plane shared a large number of parts with the Air Force’s F-35A, in truth it was a much different animal, certainly when taking off and landing.
And it had been quite a while since he’d flown an A model as well, come to think of.
“Damn.” Turk momentarily blanked. He stared at the controls. “What the hell do I do first?”
The crew chief appeared on his right with the helmet.
“Here, Captain!” he shouted as two more rounds landed somewhere behind them. These sounded much closer than the last set. “You sure you’re good?”
“Yeah, yeah. Come on. Let’s go!”
“What the hell are you doing!” yelled Greenstreet, materializing on his left.
“Rogers is down in the bunker puking his guts out,” said Turk. “He’s sick.”
“What?”
“He’s sick. Something he ate. We have to get the plane off the ground.”
“Where’s the rest of your gear?”
“We don’t have time—I’m just going to get it off the ground.”
If Greenstreet thought that wasn’t a good idea, the thud-thud of two more rounds falling, these near the edge of the runway, convinced him otherwise.
“Go! Get him off the ground!” he shouted to the crew. “And don’t wreck my plane!”
“I won’t. Don’t worry about that,” snapped Turk, reaching to start the engine.
“You good, Captain?” asked the crew chief, his voice considerably kinder if just as loud as Greenstreet’s.
“Yeah, I’m good. Get yourself to shelter.”
The Marine gave him a thumbs-up and disappeared off the wing as the ground shook with a fresh explosion.
Turk looked back at the panel.
“What the hell have I gotten myself into?” he said aloud.
BRAVE MEN AND COWARDS
1
Malaysia
MOFITT LED DANNY down to the Malaysian camp. The corporal, with the tall, lean build of a natural runner, trotted at a strong pace, glancing over his shoulder every few paces to make sure Danny was still with him. By the time they reached the edge of the Malaysian army bivouac, Danny was winded and had to pause for a moment to catch his breath.
“You all right, Colonel?” asked the Marine.
“I’m OK. You can go back now.”
“No offense, sir, but the captain wouldn’t like that.”
“All right. Come on.”
The Malaysians’ tents were arranged in a semicircle, with their commander’s tent in the middle; they were all empty.
“They might be in the trenches,” said Mofitt, trotting in the direction of a sandbagged defensive position about thirty yards downhill from the tents. But the Malaysians were nowhere in sight.
“Hang tight for a minute,” said Danny. He took the radio and called back to the Marine commander, asking if the Malaysians had checked in.
“Negative. Where are you?”
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“In their camp,” Danny told him.
“They’re not there?”
“Roger that.”
“Stand by.”
Captain Thomas came back on the line a moment later, having checked the video from his overhead UAV. “They’ve gone down to the spot on the perimeter already,” said the Marine. “They’re in defensive positions.”
“All right, we’re going,” Danny told him.
“Is Mofitt with you?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Roger. Be advised, the rebels look like they’re getting ready to attack.”
Danny looked over at Mofitt, crouched nearby against the sandbags. The corporal was scanning the area in front of them with his night vision.
“They’re holding the line near the road,” said Danny. “But they have no coms.”
“Let’s get there, then.”
“Good.”
“Uh, one thing, sir. I gotta tell ya . . . I don’t speak Malaysian, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Neither do I,” said Danny, scrambling to his feet.
TURK’S FINGERS TIGHTENED involuntarily on the F-35B’s stick as the mortar shell struck the field to his left, close enough for the air shock to push the plane sideways as it lifted off. For an instant he was sure he would lose control. But the aircraft was extremely stable, even in short-takeoff mode, and while the explosion had spooked him, it wasn’t strong enough to actually disturb the plane. The plane’s computer adjusted the angle of the rear nozzle, and the plane continued up and off the runway, quickly gathering speed. The massive fan behind the cockpit churned furiously, adding its own impetus to the thrust of the engine at the rear. Airborne, Turk cleaned the landing gear, folding the wheels inside the plane. The large panel above the fan and the two smaller ones behind folded down for level flight, the F-35B becoming “just” another fifth generation fighter.
I’m up, Turk thought. Not too bad. So far.
“Basher Four, Basher Four, are you reading me?” asked Greenstreet over the radio.
Turk clicked the mike button. “Yeah, I’m up. I’m still getting used to the, uh, controls.”
“Get south and stay out of the way.”
“I’ll give it a shot,” said Turk sourly.
GUNFIRE ERUPTED ON the western side of the base as Danny and Mofitt reached the position where the Malaysians were supposed to be. The positions—a few logs and sandbags with good sight distance down the hill—were empty.
“Colonel Freah, are you reading me?” blared the radio.
“This is Freah. You’re loud and clear.”
“The Malaysians moved all the way down to the road. They’re another two hundred and fifty yards from your position,” said Captain Thomas. “We need them to pull back—we’re going to hit the rebels with bombs when they come up the road. Then they can sweep in behind us.”
“All right.”
“Can you send Mofitt down to them?”
“We can get down there.”
“The rebels are moving—we need it quick.”
“We’re on our way.”
Danny told Mofitt what they had to do, leaving out the fact that Thomas hadn’t wanted him to go. There was no way Danny was staying behind.
“I don’t know exactly what’s down there,” said Mofitt. “I can’t see through the brush.”
“I know. We’ll go as fast as we can. But don’t get too far ahead of me.”
“Colonel, you don’t have a weapon.”
“I have my sidearm.” Danny unsnapped the holster of his personal weapon, a Glock 20 chambered for 10mm. It was a big gun, and the ammo packed an extreme wallop. The recoil was nasty as well, though not quite as extreme as might be expected from such a large round. “Lead the way.”
Mofitt took off, sorting through the trees in a zigzag pattern, occasionally stopping to let Danny catch up. He heard two trucks on the road, as well as more gunfire from the western end of the base. He visualized what was going on: the rebels had split their ground force, with a small group making an attack to the west. Meanwhile, the main group was coming up the road, intending to sweep up from the southeast while the defenders were occupied on the other side. The Malaysians had either somehow realized this and gone down to meet them, or simply blundered into the right spot at the right time.
Or wrong spot at the wrong time, depending on your point of view.
The F-35s would make quick work of the trucks, but they couldn’t hit them if the Malaysians were too close.
Mofitt stopped about ten yards from the road. Danny went down to his knees as he reached him.
“They must be moving up the road,” said Mofitt. “You can hear the gunfire. I’m thinking they realize the flank’s vulnerable.”
“Yeah,” agreed Danny. “But we gotta pull them back. Come on.”
“They may be trigger happy, Colonel. Better stay behind me, just in case.”
“You move so damn fast, I don’t have a choice,” said Danny.
ONCE IN THE air and moving like a “regular” airplane, the F-35B was relatively easy to fly. She wasn’t one of the racehorses Turk was used to, but she wasn’t a dog either. She went where she was told to go, responding crisply to his inputs.
Turk climbed through 5,000 feet, moving into a gradual orbit around the airfield as he sorted himself out. His helmet was an extension of the plane’s display panels, providing critical information on the systems; it was similar enough to the systems he was used to that he had to keep reminding himself he couldn’t handle the controls with gestures or voice commands, but actually had to fly with his hands and feet.
Not that this was a bad thing. It forced his mind and body to work together in a familiar and reassuring way, one that chased away trivial cares and worries. It was both a release and an exhilaration, a combination he had felt the first time he slipped into a pilot’s seat, as if his DNA had been programmed exactly for such an environment.
But he was more than a pilot. He was a warrior as well, and as he climbed he started looking for a way to join the battle.
The experience in Iran had cemented that identity. Thrust into an environment that was completely foreign to him—one where control was quite frankly beyond his grasp, where there were no checklists and where logic had almost nothing to do with what happened—Turk had not simply survived, but thrived. Iran’s nuclear warheads and their secret stockpile of weapons grade uranium had been destroyed because of Turk Mako. Plenty of other people had helped, but at the very end it had been him, his actions, that completed the mission.
In another man that realization might have caused extreme conceit. But in Turk it had the opposite effect—it tempered him, made him realize he should be humble. If he was a great pilot and a great fighter, then he surely didn’t have to prove himself, much less boast about it; what he had to do was his job. Destiny had given him tools, like a kid born with special math skills who had to work twice as hard to put them to work in the best way.
And so as he saw the other planes mustering for attack, Turk brought his plane into the tail end of their formation, forming as wingman on Basher Three, flown by Cowboy. Greenstreet, in Basher One, immediately noticed.
“Four, what’s your sitrep?” said the squadron commander.
“Forming up. I have Three’s wing.”
“Negative. I want you to maintain orbit over the base. Stay out of the way.”
“I’m armed and ready to help.”
“You’re armed and dangerous,” snapped Greenstreet. “Just chill, Air Force. You’ve done a hell of lot already.”
Three months before, Turk might have responded angrily, interpreting the remark as a slam against his abilities. Now he just shook his head, shrugged, then acknowledged. He’d find another way to contribute.
DANNY COULD HEAR the trucks moving on the road as he and Mofitt finally reached the Malaysian captain.
“We have to fall back,” he told Captain Deris. “Come on. Pull back.”
“The enemy are going to
attack,” said Deris. His thick accent took Danny a moment to decipher. “We must fight.”
“The planes will get them,” said Danny. “Come on. It’s OK. We’re not giving up. Let the planes do their job, and then we’ll take over.”
The captain nodded, then began shouting to his men, ordering them to fall back. A few moments later a pair of mortar rounds exploded behind them. The Malaysians hit the dirt. Bullets began raining through the brush. The enemy had seen that they were falling back and misinterpreted it as a panicked retreat.
Danny got on the radio. “We’re taking fire,” he told the Marine captain. “Where are those jets?”
“They’ll be there in a few minutes. They’re going after the mortars first,” said Thomas. “We have the mortars zeroed in for them.”
“We’re pinned down here,” said Danny. “Looks like they have machine guns mounted on the pickups.”
“Copy that. The planes will be ASAP.”
ASAP wasn’t going to do it. A fresh volley of fifty-caliber machine-gun bullets sent Danny prone. The Malaysians began returning fire, but that only intensified the attack. Another set of mortar shells fell behind them, these closer.
Captain Deris came over to Danny. The battle had changed dramatically in the last few moments; the Malaysians not only were no longer on the attack, they were now cut off from any reasonable defensive position.
“I have men down,” Deris told him. “We are going to be overrun.”
“The planes are coming,” said Danny. “The mortars are hitting above the hill. You can’t go up there. You’ll be cut down.”
“We will have to move,” said Deris. “At least if we take our chances through the shells, some will make it. Here, all will be killed. We have only these thin trees for cover.”
“How many men do you have?”
“Ten now, and two of those are wounded.”
Mofitt rose next to him and peered through his sight.
“Bastards are coming fast,” he said, then squeezed off a three-round burst, plunking one of the rebels.
It was too late to try running for it, Danny realized. He clicked the radio to talk to the Marine ground commander. But Thomas beat him to it, transmitting before Danny could say a word.