Fleischer reached for the ram horn grips on either side of the targeting display. He thumbed on the laser rangefinder/designator and slewed the TADS toward the first target, the lead Huey heading toward the column. Using the Heads-Out Display mounted between the two multifunction displays on the console before him, he flicked on the laser. Light invisible to the human eye lanced out and struck the approaching Huey, and the TADS read the laser’s reflected light. Transferring that data back to the Apache’s fire control computer, the system was able to separate the target from its background, and feed that data to the main system bus.
At the same time, the Apache’s air data sensors—wand-like devices mounted on either side of the helicopter’s fuselage—took into account the current wind conditions. Those were added into the firing solution as well, and another piece was dropped into the tactical puzzle. That enabled the Apache to know what its target was, where it was in the overall picture, how fast it was traveling, and what likely conditions a Hellfire missile would have to fly through in order to reach the designated target.
As all of that was going on behind the scenes, Fleischer concentrated on keeping the laser focused on the rapidly approaching Huey. The Apache had been designed to destroy tanks and other land-based vehicles. Keeping the Huey in the sights was no easy task, though Smitty helped by easing the Apache into a slight drift to the right, keeping the two aircraft pretty much lined up nose to nose. Despite the complex dance between humans and electronics, Fleischer was ready to fire inside of two seconds. The UH-1 didn’t take any evasive action at all, which was unsurprising. Not only did the Klowns have a general disregard for personal safety, the National Guard aircraft was likely not equipped with laser warning receivers.
“Ready to shoot,” he said.
“Good to shoot,” Smitty said. “Hurry. He’s going to get too close—”
Fleischer launched the Hellfire, and it raced off the rail on the right side with a sharp hiss. “Shot!”
Fleischer kept the targeting laser focused on the approaching Huey, painting it with light that the semi-autonomous seeker in the Hellfire’s nose would home in on. As the aircraft drew nearer, he could make out more of the target’s details. It was armed only with door gunners, and the two pilots were staring through the big Plexiglas canopy and grinning like buffoons. The chopper’s big rotors ravaged the sky, and its blunt nose held a slightly low position as the Huey approached at full speed. The pilots were definitely keeping the turboshaft engine pegged in the red zone. Frying the expensive T53 power plant was of no concern, so long as they could close with their target and do whatever they were planning to do.
The Hellfire slammed right through the UH-1’s rotor disk and pierced its fuselage. The Klowns’ mission ended when the UH-1 disintegrated. Fleischer had wondered if the UH-1 had enough structural density to cause the weapon’s detonator to trigger. He would not have been surprised if the missile had simply traveled right through the Huey without exploding, but apparently, it hit something substantial enough to activate the explosives. The aircraft disappeared into an expanding ball of flame that belched out a cloud of whirling shrapnel. The remains of the tattered, fiery carcass corkscrewed to the right and descended rapidly, crashing into the parking lot of a building that sat just short of a small river.
Jesus, I actually scored an air-to-air kill. Fleischer grunted, and went to work trying to target the next Huey.
Smitty’s response was less contained. “Holy shit, that was awesome!” he crowed.
Presuming the second Apache had splashed another Huey, Smitty roared again, but Fleischer knew it was too late. The Huey was already too close for a Hellfire shot, and there was no way they could hit another aircraft with rockets. He briefly considered opening up with the thirty-millimeter cannon, but the M230 chain gun was just too imprecise for that kind of engagement. All he would do was spray high-explosive armor-piercing rounds across the landscape and possibly kill or maim helpless civilians.
The Apache suddenly wrenched to the left, and its twin engines roared as Smitty applied full power. Fleischer lost all hope of maintaining a target lock as the Apache leaped into a full-on climb, its rotors pounding as they coned upward, scraping as much lift as possible from the hot, heavy air surrounding the gunship.
Before Fleischer could ask what was going on, he had his answer. Several rounds struck the Apache’s belly, one of which traveled right through the aircraft’s outer skin and pancaked against the bottom of his armored seat with a loud thwack! that made him jump against his harness. Clearly, one of the Huey’s door gunners wasn’t interested in becoming Fleischer’s second air-to-air kill. Fleischer consulted the millimeter wave radar display and confirmed that two of the Hueys had indeed slipped past by flying beneath the climbing Apache.
“Wizard, this is Tomcat Six. You have two Hueys inside the wire!”
TEN.
Muldoon looked up when he heard the thumping rotor beats of the approaching Hueys. Like most of the troops in the now-scored truck, he’d had no idea what was going on beyond the aborted attack against the column. They’d just finished putting out the fire and were trying to decide what to do—the truck needed to be looked at, and the Rawlings girl was already looking over the side to get an idea of what was up with the left rear tires—so the troops had been unaware there was a helicopter fight going on. But the slapping rotor beat of the UH-1s was a definite environmental change that the big lightfighter gave his attention to.
Two helicopters charged toward the column, big rotors flashing, noses lowered as they powered through the summer day. Behind them, several Apaches banked hard, as if to give chase. Farther downrange, another two Apaches pivoted in their hovers. And beyond them, two columns of smoke rose from flaming wreckage lying in the middle of a distant field.
Muldoon stood up and grabbed truck railing. There was no way to tell what was on fire out there.
But they could be helicopters.
He turned to shout to Lieutenant Crais, but then two Kiowa Warriors came screaming in from the southwest. The modified M2 fifty cals mounted on their left hard points chattered as they raced past, and hot cartridges rained down on the truck as it limped along the highway, still trailing smoke from the burn damage done by the Molotov cocktails. Muldoon noticed the Kiowas weren’t strafing.
They were trying to hit the Hueys with their fixed guns.
Then, he heard the distant pop-pop-pop-pop of an M240 as one of the Huey door gunners returned the favor.
“Hey, what the fuck is going on here?” Nutter shouted.
“Lieutenant!” Muldoon yelled. “Hey, Crais!”
Lieutenant Crais turned, his perennially harried expression morphing into full-on pissed off when he realized Muldoon was the one calling him, and by his last name, at that. Lieutenant Crais was an officer who didn’t like hearing anything but honorifics directed his way, which was a shame, because it meant he and Muldoon would never be buddies. Muldoon spent at least three nanoseconds crying over that one night.
“Muldoon, sit the fuck down!” Crais called back. “The truck’s moving!”
Muldoon pointed at the Hueys. “Incoming!”
His response got the attention of the rest of the soldiers, even Rawlings, who snatched up her M4. About thirty pairs of eyes swiveled toward the approaching helicopters. Muldoon saw that the Kiowas had broken off, their attack ineffective.
“So what? Sit down!” Crais shouted.
“Lieutenant! Those are Guard choppers, not ours!”
“Sit down!” Crais repeated, his face coloring with fury. “I know who’s—”
Muldoon turned to look up at the soldier manning the M240B mounted on the truck’s cab. He stared at the approaching Hueys, but he hadn’t lined up on them.
“Shoot ’em!” Muldoon shouted.
“Like, for real?” the soldier asked. Like Muldoon, he wore sunglasses, and his eyes were unreadable behind them.
“Shoot ’em!” Muldoon repeated. He turned back to Crais as the gu
nner swung the machinegun around. “Lieutenant, stop the truck!”
The machinegun opened up, hurling 7.62-millimeter rounds at the closest Huey, now just over eight hundred meters away. The chances of it being hit at that range from a moving truck were damned low, but Muldoon didn’t care.
Crais leapt to his feet. “What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted at the gunner. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
The gunner ignored him. If anything, he tightened up on the M240 and tried to get the lead just right. Crais barreled up the small aisle in the center of the truck’s bed. He shoved Rawlings out of his way, yelling at the top of his lungs.
“Cease fire! That’s a direct order! I’m in charge here!”
Muldoon grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders. “Lieutenant! Shut the fuck up for a second!”
Crais gaped up at him. Muldoon was a good seven inches taller. “What did you say?”
“Stop. The. Truck,” Muldoon said.
“Why the fuck would we want to do that?” Crais tried to look past Muldoon as the M240 opened up again. “God damn it, Christensen! Cease fire!”
“Everyone open up!” Christensen called. “They’re closing!”
Muldoon pushed Crais away, and the lieutenant stumbled across another soldier’s boots and fell on his bony ass just as the first Huey raked the truck with return fire. Men cried out as they were struck by rounds that defeated their body armor and tore through their bodies.
Muldoon heard a crack! as a 7.62 round ripped right past his head, and he ducked instinctively. It was a good call. The next burst from the approaching Huey zoomed right through the space he’d been occupying. Several rounds tore through Christensen and the M240, continuing on through the cab of the M925A1. Not all of the Bigfoots were uparmored, which meant the soldiers up front were about as well protected from machinegun fire as a scrumptious bagel might have been in a clear plastic bag after it had been spied by a famished Orson Wells.
The truck suddenly lurched to the right then plowed through the guardrail on the edge of the two lane highway. It bumped across an overgrown field for a few dozen yards before jerking to a halt. Soldiers shouted as they flew in all directions. Muldoon bounced right over the side of the truck. He crashed to the ground on the other side, and his wind left him in a rush.
All he could see was blue sky, scattered clouds, and the waving tops of tall trumpet weeds. A peculiar sense of déjà vu descended. For an instant, he was a young boy again, lying in the tall weeds in a field outside his house in Pennsylvania, playing soldier with his friends. Only he wasn’t playing. It was for real.
The weeds parted suddenly, and Nutter’s goggle-eyed face appeared as he bent over Muldoon.
“Duke, you all right?” He had to shout to be heard over the Huey thumping nearby, its machineguns rattling against what Muldoon could tell was only sporadic fire from his troops.
“Just fucking fine,” Muldoon gasped.
“Well, hey, it’s not a bad day.” Nutter grabbed Muldoon’s harness and tried to haul him to his feet. “At least you got the truck to stop.”
ELEVEN.
Major Walker watched the truck that had survived the ambush suddenly swerve out of the formation. He knew that the incoming Hueys were hostile, but Wizard Six hadn’t yet responded to the threat after the Apaches had handed off the engagement mere seconds ago. Soldiers went flying through the air when the truck slammed through the guardrail then bounced across the uneven terrain of a field overrun with tall weeds.
“Shit, those guys are taking fire!” said the driver, an older NCO wearing the stripes of a staff sergeant.
“Fire on the Hueys!” Walker ordered.
“With what, sir?” one of the soldiers behind him asked.
Walker groaned. His Humvee was unarmed.
The radio came alive. “Wizard Six to all commands—Hueys are red air, fire at will! Red air, red air, red air! Over!”
“Blaster One, this is Wizard Seven. Fall out of the column for engagement. We’ll form up on you for security. Over.” That came from Command Sergeant Major Turner, who was in a vehicle several spaces ahead of Walker’s.
For a moment, he couldn’t recall who the hell was designated Blaster, and then it came to him. A Stinger platoon had been assigned to the battalion, sourced from 60th Air Defense Artillery Regiment. It was an odd posting, and Walker couldn’t really remember a time he had seen troops slinging MANPADS around the battalion since Iraq in 2004. He was happy to learn that Turner had remained aware of their presence.
Walker picked up the radio microphone. “Wizard Six, this is Wizard Five. Over.”
“Five, go for Six. Over.”
“Six, we have a truck that’s been hit, probably disabled. I’m falling out of the column as well to check them out. Over.”
“Five, this is Six. Don’t stay for long. Get them some help, then get back in formation. Can’t have you and Seven dismounted at the same time. Over.”
“Roger, Six. Five, out.” Walker replaced the handset.
“We’re pulling over now?” the driver asked.
Walker checked his M4 to ensure the weapon was ready as the driver slowed the Humvee. His mouth felt dry, and his hands and feet tingled. He was about to expose himself to a combat situation for the first time in years. He thought he’d left the dirty business behind him once he’d been promoted to O-4, but the world had changed in the past few weeks. Combat had never suited him. Walker had always been more interested in the political regime of command, not in proving he was a war god. The Army was full of combat leaders, and Walker didn’t have much of what it took to excel at warcraft in its purest form. He’d traded his rightful place as battalion commander with Harry Lee just to keep his distance from the bloody work of running the unit. He had wanted to stay in the background and influence circumstances by whispering into Lee’s ear when the time was right.
So what are you doing now? Stay in the Humvee and move on, his sense of self-preservation murmured. These are extraordinary times, and you’re not an extraordinary soldier.
Walker frowned. The temptation to move on was momentarily overwhelming, but he felt a keen desire to fight his caution. No, not caution.
Cowardice.
Walker couldn’t be seen as a coward in front of the men. He was the battalion executive officer, and he’d already indulged his survival instincts by getting Harry Lee to take all the hard knocks on the chin. The chances of Walker getting out of the current fray without having to suffer some body shots was out of the question, so he figured he might as well suck it up and get it done.
The driver pulled the Humvee out of the convoy and onto the shoulder. Behind Walker, the two soldiers in the rear of the Humvee—both battle-hardened NCOs that Walker had pulled from the operations pool to ride with him—got ready for contact.
“Sir, we should go MOPP,” Weide Zhu said.
The hard-faced Chinese master sergeant didn’t much care for him, but Walker had specifically chosen Zhu to ride along because he was one of Doug Turner’s favored troops, a twenty-five year veteran who had served in every theater of operations since JUST CAUSE in 1989. It had been another choice in the name of self-preservation. With the battalion on the move, the danger meter was pegged at 10.5, and Walker wanted to ensure the troops around him were the best.
“Roger that,” Walker said, removing his helmet. He struggled into his overgarment and hood. It took him almost a minute, and by the time he was done, the other soldiers were already manned up and waiting for him, even the driver. Walker felt a flush of embarrassment, a weird counterpoint to the fear that thrilled the edges of his consciousness.
“We all ready now, sir?” Zhu asked, his voice muffled slightly by his mask.
“Ready. Let’s dismount,” Walker said.
Outside, gunfire roared as the UH-1 made another pass. Walker opened the Humvee’s door and gingerly pushed it open, but he found the Humvee wasn’t the helicopter’s target. The chopper was thumping over the wounded truck, heeling ov
er in a hard bank.
Something shaped like a pie wedge fell from the aircraft and tumbled through the air. Walker realized it was a fuel bladder, a flexible construct normally mounted to the rear of the UH-1’s troop compartment in the hell hole, where the gunners sat. As the bladder arced toward the truck, it trailed liquid. Clearly, its self-sealing properties had been compromised, and Walker wondered if the bladder might explode, like a bomb.
What happened was much worse than that.
TWELVE.
Muldoon clambered to his feet, shrugging off Nutter’s attempts to help him. The Huey had finished its first strafing run and was banking around for another pass. One of the Kiowas seemed to stagger in the air, its nose swerving left then right as it moved downrange, descending. The aircraft looked fine, but something was definitely wrong with the pilots, and Muldoon wondered if they had been hit by one of the Huey gunners.
The Kiowa rolled to the left, sideslipped, and crashed into the trees on the other side of Massachusetts 2. Its four-bladed main rotor slashed through the leafy canopy, ripping it asunder with a great tearing noise as the small armed reconnaissance aircraft disappeared from view.
“Whoa! You see that shit?” Nutter asked, awe in his voice.
“Shoot the fucking Huey!” Muldoon bellowed. He grabbed his M4, tucked it in tight against his shoulder, and peered through the scope on its top rail.
Muldoon sighted on the Huey as it came around again. The gunner on the left side of the aircraft was leaning out of the aircraft, supported only by his safety belt as he manhandled an M240 machinegun. Muldoon was momentarily torn. He knew he should try to kill the pilots—that would end the run right then and there—but the machinegun would inflict a lot of harm before he could do that. He heard a chorus of popping noises, like dozens of firecrackers going off all around him. The troops were opening up, finally getting organized. A shrill voice rallied the men into action. It wasn’t Lieutenant “I’m in Charge” Crais. It was the woman, Rawlings.
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