by Ian Slater
“No, sir,” Shirer began. “I mean yes. I’d be happy to go, sir.”
“Good. Your combat experience — just the thing we need. But you’ll have to get used to the Harrier in short order. That’s up to you, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, sir. What field?”
“They’re squadroned in Peshawar. You’ll join them there.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, Shirer saluted and Fowler-Jones was gone.
“Is it anywhere near Lakenheath?” Shirer asked Captain Moore.
“What?”
“Peshawar.”
“You’re joking! Other side of the world! You heard him— Hindu Kush and all that. Harrier squadron is based in Peshawar. At the moment Pakistan is in bed with Washington and London. You see, this way they don’t have to move fighters around where they’d be noticed by the Chinese.”
“Oh? How about moving nine B-52s around? They’d notice that, wouldn’t they?”
“Sure would, but we’ve been flying C-15 relief planes from the military’s air transport command during the spring floods, dropping urgent food relief. At least that’s one reason why planes have been flying back and forth from London to Pakistan for the last two weeks. So when the B-52s show up on Chinese radar they won’t know the difference. That is, until they start turning in toward the Turpan depression. That’s when they’re going to need you boys.”
“Oh,” Shirer said, “and what do you think the Chinese’ll do then?”
“Don’t worry, pal,” Moore cut in. “All their top-of-the-line fighters — Fulcrums especially — are in eastern China. Right now they’re trying to bottle up Manchuria and keeping one sharp eye on Taiwan. They can’t have their jets all over the place at the same time.”
“No, but when the B-52s start crossing that old Hindu Kush or thereabouts, buddy, they’ll move a few.”
“Sure they will, but by then the mission’ll be half over. You guys in the Harriers probably won’t see anything more exciting than an avalanche.”
“This is all assuming that the Chinese don’t figure we’re going to hit them.”
“Right. Where’s your faith in Intelligence? Look how we pulled me wool over old Saddam Insane’s eyes.”
“Maybe, Captain, but the Chinese aren’t the Iraqis. Besides, once bitten, twice shy. Anyway,” Shirer continued, “what the hell are British Harriers doing in Pakistan?”
“They aren’t British, they’re Pakistani. But don’t worry. By the time you go up there’ll be Old Glory on the tail.”
“Jesus,” Shirer said, “this is all politics.”
“So what’s new? All you need to know is you’d better get a handle on the fuckers in case you’re going in. Brits’ll make the decision yea or nay anytime now.”
“Yeah, well I hope the Chinese fall for your relief flight routines.”
“Don’t worry. They’re too busy trying to lock up Manchuria.” Then Moore hit him with the bombshell. He’d have ten days from the moment he reached Peshawar to train on the Harrier. To brighten him up, Moore told Shirer that the older single-seater went faster than the newer Harrier Two.
“How fast?” Shirer asked, the veteran of Mach 2.3 Tomcats.
“Around point nine,” Moore said.
“Point nine!” Shirer stopped in his tracks.
“Not all the time,” Moore assured him. “Sometimes it drops to Mach point eight.”
“Jesus Christ! Has it got enough power to take off?”
“Well, it hasn’t,” Moore said, adopting Shirer’s ironic tone. “You see there are these four guys, good runners, one under each wingtip, one under the nose, the other under the—”
“Up your ass!” Shirer said.
“Not if I can help it.”
Shirer couldn’t help laughing. Well hell, at least he’d be flying again — a lone eagle.
* * *
Pulling out the coil of strong ply nylon rope and the tight roll of twenty-three-foot-long polyethylene balloon, Aussie clipped on the first of the Thermos-size pressure tanks and pulled the safety pin, releasing a hiss of helium gas, the balloon inflating in an obscene condom shape until the second tank kicked in and filled the twenty-three-foot-high balloon that now, with its flanged tail also inflated, took on the shape of one of those tethered AA balloons used during the German air attacks over Britain.
Within five minutes the white balloon, trailing its white nylon rope like some gigantic tadpole tail, rose to five hundred feet, the end of the rope trailing earthward, already attached by means of a ring bolt to a wide strip of canvas harness that was now clamped tightly against Salvini’s midriff. The Combat Talon’s dull rumble could be heard before the sudden scream and sonic boom of the F-15 fighters that were well ahead of the Talon passing over them.
Even though the dust had settled, it was still difficult for Aussie to see the horizontal V that extended from the Talon’s nose like a pair of scissors, one blade projecting left, the other right, the idea being that the Talon, using the balloon as a fix above it, would fly its V into the nylon rope like someone extending two index fingers in front of him, snaring the line, which would then jerk the man off the ground as the Talon kept going, winching him up.
Should the Talon miss catching the cable with its nose V, the cable, instead of endangering the props, would slide off the V against a taut protective wire strung from wingtip to the forward fuselage, thus buffeting the balloon rope along the protective wire away from the props. At least that was the theory. It was tough enough to do without interference, but with the knowledge of Siberian MiGs now scrambling aloft to meet the F-15s, everything, as Aussie said while checking Choir’s harness, was “a tad tight!” Next Aussie made sure that Choir’s chute was firmly attached in front of him and head held up.
“You ready, Mr. Williams?”
“No — Mother of God,” Choir replied.
“Ah! You’ll be laughin’ in a few minutes. Here she comes. Come on, Choir, legs straight out, hands palm down, head up — atta boy.”
The rope looked like a thread of curving cotton stretching between him and the four-tailed balloon. There was a line of orange tracer arcing from the east and then two orange streaks: Sidewinders from the F-15s. Aussie could see the slack taken up as the Talon’s V snared the line, then suddenly Choir was jerked violently aloft. It was the most dangerous moment, for if the Talon hit a wind shear or lost altitude for any reason, Choir would smash into the ground at over 130 m.p.h. But the Talon kept climbing, and slowly they could see the arc that was the balloon’s line with Choir at its end reducing in angle as the Talon crew continued winching him up, the line growing tauter. Salvini was the next to go, his balloon already hissing loudly, inflating with the helium and rising heavenward.
Aussie glanced at his watch. It was 1005. Smacking Salvini’s boots together, making sure he was in the correct position, Aussie joshed him. “Bet you ten bucks they winch me aboard faster than you.”
“What?” Salvini asked, his anxiety, for all his SAS/D training, suddenly betraying itself.
“Bet you ten bucks,” Aussie repeated, “that they take longer to winch you in than me.”
“Oh yeah? And how do you figure that?”
“Easy,” Aussie retorted. They could hear the tracer getting closer. “You’re heavier than I am.”
“I’m as fit as you are.”
“Course you are. But you’re heavier. Come on, pay up or shut up.”
“You’re sick,” Salvini said, his anxiety written all over his face.
“All right, five bucks. I can’t do better than that. Right?”
Salvini nodded, thinking that the Australian was now asking him if he was in the proper position for the jerk. He was, but Aussie always liked to make sure of a bet. “Five bucks, okay?”
“Yeah — five bucks, all right, all right. Where’s the Talon?”
“She’s making the turn,” Aussie said. Just then a small sandstorm broke locally and they could see nothing.
“Damn i
t!” Salvini said.
“Don’t sweat it, sport,” Aussie encouraged. “The Talon’ll pick it up. We can’t see them, but they can see the rope up higher. Just you get ready for the—” Before he finished, Salvini simply disappeared into the dust, Aussie barely glimpsing his boots as he was jerked aloft.
“Two up, two to go,” Aussie said cheerfully. David Brentwood was thanking the Mongolian herdsman who had risked his life and family to help them. Already the herdsmen were gathering up their ghers and packing, ready to move, to avoid any punishment patrols that might be sent out from Ulan Bator.
“Come on, Dave!” Aussie yelled. “Or you’ll miss the friggin’ bus.”
Within two minutes Brentwood was in his harness, Aussie having already released the balloon from its small bedroll-type wrapping. As it expanded, disappearing into the dust, it looked like some fantastic ghost in a mustard cloak.
“Palms down,” Aussie instructed him. “Davey, you want to make a wager?”
“No.”
“Ten bucks they winch me in faster than you?”
“No. You’ve got some scheme to help pull yourself up a few feet on the cable and beat us all, is that it?”
“No way,” Aussie said. “Look, I’ve never been on one of these things either. I just figure my luck’s in. What do you say — ten bucks.”
“All right — anything to shut you up.”
“That’s my man.”
“Where’s that damn Talon?” Before Aussie could answer him, there was a loud explosion, followed by another.
“I hope to hell that’s one of theirs,” David said.
“We’ll soon know if the Talon doesn’t reappear.”
“How will we know in this dust storm? Lord, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Huh,” Aussie said, “locals tell me this is only a bit of a whirly. In the Gobi they say you can’t see your hand in front of your face during a dust storm.”
“All very educational, Aussie, but how the hell can we tell where the Talon is?”
“Keep your bloody head in position. Don’t want a case of whiplash on top of—”
Suddenly Brentwood was being dragged along the ground, swearing, bumping on pebbles, then he too suddenly disappeared into the whirling dust storm.
Next Aussie, already in harness, pulled two helium tanks to fill the balloon, and within minutes could hear the Talon off to the north, making its circle, his balloon now ascending. The old herdsman shook his hand, and around them, like shadows in the darkness of the dust, he could see the various odds and ends of the herdsmen’s life, as the canvas-and-felt homes came down to be loaded onto a wagon, a small TV being wrapped carefully in a carpet, and camels laden with bedding and harness, the Mongolians wishing him well with their Eskimo-like smiles and golden teeth.
There was a crash like thunder, either a Siberian or American jet hitting the desert floor, then in less than a second, Aussie, his arms now crossed tightly in against his chest, was airborne, the spring in the nylon cord making the initial ascent smoother, faster than he’d anticipated. But then the spring was at its end, and this was followed by a sudden jolt, so fierce that Aussie felt his head was about to come off.
Once above the two-hundred-foot-high dust storm that had invaded the ghers, Aussie could see far above him the three, now small, balloons that had been severed free once the V-shaped scissor clamp had got hold of the previous three lines. Now from the tail of the aircraft another vertical line descended that would hook onto the rescue line and haul it up and into the belly of the plane. The Talon was flying higher than usual because of the loss of visibility due to the dust storm. They liked to see their man as quickly as possible before engaging the winch.
With wind and dust screaming about his ears, Aussie could hear the staccato of machine gun fire off to the west where the American and Siberian fighters were engaging, and now and then he caught a glimpse of tracer as one of the Siberian fighters would try to break out of the American fighter’s box to try to bring down the Talon. A Fishbed-J MiG-21 was visible for a moment when Aussie, dangling like a toy at the end of the enormous rope, was six hundred feet above ground, but as soon as he’d seen the Fishbed-J with its green khaki camouflage pattern he saw an F-15 Eagle on its tail and the spitting of fire from its 20mm, six-barrel rotary cannon. The Fishbed immediately started making smoke, rolling into evasive action, its twin barrel GSh 23mm cannon firing from its belly pack. Suddenly Aussie knew he was in free fall, the line severed.
He had less than a second to make the decision that was no decision at all: either pull the key ring release on his chute or smash into the ground. His right hand grabbed the key ring and jerked hard. There was a flurry of air about him like a hundred pigeons being released, and suddenly his downward thrust was slowed as the chute filled and he descended back into the dust storm. The Talon, already having overstayed its welcome, was forced to turn back northeastward across the Mongolian border into Second Army territory before the Siberian MiGs got lucky again.
Aussie used swearwords on the way down he thought he’d forgotten. Whether the line had somehow fouled in one of the props despite the safety wire rigged in front of them or whether it had been a lucky tracer bullet didn’t really matter. Whatever severed the line, he wasn’t going back with his three buddies. But, like all members of the elite SAS and Delta Force commandos, he was trained in how to turn a losing situation into a winning one.
Cold reason also told him, though, as he entered the gritty dust storm and hit the ground harder than he had wanted, that the Spets helicopters and patrols would soon head out from Nalayh and possibly Ulan Bator looking for him. And right now he had four hundred miles of grassland and desert between him and the safety of Second Army. It seemed impossible, yet the only thing he could think of was the motto of his unit: “Who dares wins,” or, as General Freeman, echoing Frederick the Great, would have said, “L’audace, I’audace, toujours l’audace!” But meantime Aussie was stunned by another realization: that he had just lost fifteen bucks cold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Next afternoon, a Friday, when Mike Ricardo walked into Con Ed’s eight-story-high fossil-fuel Astoria Station for his four-to-midnight shift, he paused for a moment to look up at the five sets of high twin stacks belching their white smoke, in sharply etched columns, against the cerulean blue. He’d been working at the Astoria fourteen years, his job a member of one of the maintenance crews for the six giant white log-cake-shaped turbines that sat on an immaculately kept rust-red-painted boiler-room floor over a hundred and twenty feet below the 217 miles of piping that bent and curved like the exposed innards of some enormous refrigerator. But here it was far from cold, temperatures soaring to 120 degrees Fahrenheit as the fossil fuels, coal mainly, burned twenty-four hours a day to drive the turbines that helped feed the enormous appetite of the New York grid.
At the same time that Mike was beginning his shift, at Indian Point in upstate New York, thirty miles north of Central Park, Stefan, the third member of the cell, was donning a blue surgical cap. Slipping his ID/lock card into the slot, he passed first through the turnstile and the blue-green protective door, on through the second shielding door, and into what the men at the two plants at Indian Point called the “blue room.” Here the fuel rods lay in an innocuous honeycomb arrangement twenty-five feet beneath the blue water shield.
In Albany the computer monitoring the flow of electricity was showing above average power being consumed in Manhattan and Queens, so that up to half of it had to be drawn from the grid fed by the enormous hydropower complex at La Grande in Quebec, the “juice” coming down on the 345,000-volt lines from the roaring spillways of La Grande One and Two. Manhattan’s eight substations’ transformers, like those throughout the rest of the city, downstepped the voltage so that David’s father, Admiral John Brentwood, in the World Trade Center’s offices of the New York Port Authority, could keep track of the highly complex business of coordinating convoy loading, departure, and arrivals, and
, when he had time, brew the coffee that kept him and millions of other New Yorkers, from brokerage houses to subway drivers, working the extended war hours.
Northeast of the Bronx, on the calm waters of Croton Reservoir, the water-police helicopter was carrying out its normal patrol to insure that no powerboats were churning up the bottom. If left undisturbed, the water would be aerated through the action of the sun’s ultraviolet light, and, once rid of impurities, would pass through the aqueducts and tunnels built a hundred years before and become part of those one-and-a-half billion gallons of water that New Yorkers consumed every day. The chopper came down as it spotted the quality-control men on the only powerboat allowed in the lake lowering the seki disk — which they saw was visible down about three and a quarter meters, much deeper than the two meters required by law.
In New York, the fourth Spets who was replacing the “floater” Gregory walked as casually as he had for the past ten years into Con Ed’s orange-carpeted ECC — energy control center. The controller glanced about at the twelve-foot-high, half-moon-shaped wall beaded by quarter-size lights that traced the lines on the hundreds of flowcharts, making it all look like the massive circuit board of a railway network rather than that of New York’s electric flow.
The weather report was now predicting variable overcast conditions preceding the storm moving up from Virginia. The overcast was responsible for more afternoon lights than usual being turned on in Manhattan. The operator, pushing himself back in the high, gray, luxurious chair at the center of the control room, glided quickly and deftly to the tracking ball control, his palm moving over it as blue and amber readouts on the computer screens told him backup alarms were about to ring. The indicator for the substation at West Forty-ninth and Vernon was flashing, overloaded at nine hundred megawatts, about to trip and set in motion a “brownout.” This was averted by the controller siphoning off extra power from feeder line eighty — the line which brought the hydro-power down from Canada. Still, overload threatened.