Maybe they weren’t part of the resistance force. After all, it was pretty normal to see people running away from the projected location of an air strike. Nothing wrong with that.
Except they were running the wrong way. People ran away from aircraft, not directly across the ingress path. And the pack—
He swerved slightly off course, just enough to bring them into line with his gun.
Hill 802
0932 local (GMT –2)
“Run!” Xerxes shoved her from behind then locked one arm under hers and dragged her along with him. She lost her balance but couldn’t fall, not with his arm locked under hers. He was carrying her, practically dislocating her shoulder in the process.
“They’re ours,” she screamed back as she moved her feet, trying to keep some of her weight off her shoulder. It was like a controlled fall. “They’re American.”
“They don’t know who you are,” he said, moving faster than she thought possible. “Those rocks — hurry, it’s our only chance.”
She saw them now, a dingy set of gray boulders cropping up along one edge of the field. She glanced up, saw the Hornet was now nose on to them. Xerxes was right — the Hornet had seen them and was not too pleased about it.
I’m only trying to help. Shit, the one time I try to do the right thing…
“Get down!” Xerxes tossed her over the boulder head first then followed her himself. He landed on top of her. She heard an odd, sickening snap and pain radiated through her rib cage.
Xerxes was still on top of her, holding her facedown in the small field of rocks and debris surrounding the boulders. He crossed his arms over the top of his head and tucked his chin in, digging it into her back.
There was a sound like a buzz saw, a moment’s pause, then another spate of sound. Rock chips flew up over them, arcing off from the side of the rock facing the aircraft. Pamela screamed, the noise muffled by the dirt being ground into her mouth.
Then the aircraft was almost directly overhead, the hard beat of its jets drowning out everything else in the world. The ground underneath her shook as it beat against her body, penetrating skin and muscle to resonate in her very bones. Xerxes’s weight, the pain in her side, all of it was insignificant compared to the overwhelming blast of sound energy. It went on for seconds, minutes, hours it seemed.
Then the sound down dopplered and dropped in volume. It was now mere noise, not the world-ending fury she’d felt before. She tried to move, but the Macedonian commander held her down. The pain returned, harder and more demanding now.
Finally, she felt him roll off of her. He laid on his back for a moment, breathing heavily, Then he levered himself up to his feet, dusted off the front of his uniform and said, “We have to go. He’ll be back, and then he’s going to have time to take another run on us. This time, we were lucky.”
Pamela started to stand, then let out a yell as the pain lanced through her. A hot knife, gleaming dull red, was turning in her chest. She tried to speak, then felt the world go dim gray around her.
“You cannot do this,” Xerxes said. He knelt down beside her and with no regard for any sort of personal privacy, ran his hands exploringly over her body, searching for the injury. He paused as his fingers skated over her ribs. Pamela let out a moan. He prodded her rib cage, sending new flashes of agony arcing up her spine. She tried to roll away, make him stop the torture, but his free hand held her firmly clamped in position.
“Cracked ribs,” he announced. “You’ll feel better once you stand up.” He grabbed her under the armpits and hauled her into a standing position. “Come on.”
Pamela put one hand on the boulder for support, now certain that she was near passing out. “I can’t walk.”
“Sure you can. I’ve had plenty of cracked ribs. As long as you’re not having trouble breathing, you’re okay for now. And you’re breathing just fine. So come on.”
“I can’t.”
He continued walking without turning around. “You said this was important. Or is that only when it’s convenient?”
Pamela bit back a harsh reply. If he could do it, then she could. “It’s important. Hold on, I’m coming.”
Devil Dog 220
0935 local (GMT –2)
Thor swore as he saw the bullets digging a deadly furrow in the rich earth. The rounds tracked into the rock, blasting off the front face of it. Maybe some of the shrapnel got them, but he didn’t think so. They’d found just the right angle behind it to shield themselves from the gunfire.
Maybe he could go around, circle back behind them and keep hammering at them until he either got them or blew their rock to gravel. He considered that option for only a few moments before rejecting it. He might pull some crap with the Greeks over this RTB bullshit, but that Tomcat driver would never buy it.
He veered back into the formation, bringing up the rear. There was a chance they hadn’t even noticed his strafing run, although the plane captains certainly would when he brought the Hornet back in with rounds expended. Not that that mattered — his plane captains were Marines, and they’d understand.
On the way back there might be time. That is, if they were stupid or wounded. At least he hadn’t had to dodge a Stinger, if that’s what she’d been pulling out of that pack.
Now that he thought about it, the pack wasn’t really long enough to accommodate the bulk of a Stinger missile tube. But if that’s not what it had been, then why had they been running into the path of the oncoming strike.
Buddy. The thought rang icy cold in his mind.
They were after his wingman.
He started to turn back, but the strike wave was already descending for their final run in on the target. He divided his attention between the IP ahead and trying to crane his head around to see if he could still see them, then realized that was a hell of a good way to get killed. Who knew what else was around the IP? And not paying attention at this altitude was sheer insanity.
Like a good Marine, he made his choice. Dump ordnance, then break off and orbit over Buddy’s location. Ninety seconds from now he’d be headed back in, and to hell with any Tomcats who tried to force him to RTB. No way he was going anywhere, not until he saw a SAR helo taking off from an LZ with Buddy in it. One way or another.
Hard choices, harder answers. But with the decision made, he locked the question of his wingman out of his mind and concentrated on flying the aircraft.
Ninety seconds. Then he’d settle that score.
Hill 802
0936 local (GMT –2)
Pamela ran with her hands wrapped around her, trying to hold the shattered rib in place. Each breath was agony, piercing and hot. She bit the inside of her lip, determined not to make a sound. Now that the first shock of being injured was over, she was learning how quickly one could learn to live with pain.
“This way.” The Macedonian shoved aside some bushes, took a quick look, then put out one arm to hold her back. “No. They are always armed. If he doesn’t know who you are, he will shoot before you can explain.” He pulled her behind a tree. “Tell him now.”
She took a deep breath automatically in preparation for shouting at him, then let out a low moan as the pain intensified. She stifled it just as it started, shutting her eyes for a moment to paste her iron control back in place. When she opened her eyes, she saw a grudging respect in the Macedonian’s eyes.
“Hornet pilot, my name is Pamela Drake. The reporter on ACN. Can you hear me?” She waiting, holding her breath. There was no answer.
“He’s unconscious,” she said.
“Or pretending to be. I would. Wait until you come to check, then take a better shot.”
“Could you tell which way he was facing?” she asked.
He shook his head. “His feet were toward me. I could not tell if he was conscious or if his eyes were open.”
“Well, then, I’ll just have to find out.” She raised her voice and said, “You’ll recognize me as soon as you see me. I’m not armed. I’m going to step out so
that you can see me, okay?”
There was no answer. She started to move away from the bulk of the tree, but Xerxes stopped her. “You know that he was going to bomb my people. If he’s alive, he’s a prisoner of war.”
She nodded, oddly uneasy at having the point made clear to her. If she convinced the pilot to give up his side-arm, Xerxes would take him prisoner. So was she committing treason by not telling him that the Macedonian was hiding here behind the tree? The words from an old training film she’d watched one night while onboard Jefferson came back to her. Aid and comfort to the enemy, something like that?
But at least he’d be alive. They’d treated her injuries, hadn’t they? They’d probably treat him all right, maybe set up a prisoner exchange. It wasn’t like he’d be a POW in Vietnam. As soon as this all blew over — unless they needed to make a point to the United States. Then what better example than an American pilot held prisoner?
They’d be misjudging the American psyche if they thought that. The reaction to Americans shot down during Desert Storm had been overwhelmingly supportive of the military.
“I’m coming out now. You’ll see me if you look over your feet, I think. Just take a look… you’ll know who I am.” She started out again, and this time Xerxes let her go.
Devil Dog 220
0938 local (GMT –2)
Thor could feel the briefed path stretching out before him like a yellow brick road leading him straight down to Oz. So far, there was no sign of antiair activity, not even of a Stinger squad, much less anything more sophisticated.
That worried him, but not too much. Maybe they’d only had the one truck-mounted site left and Arkady’s men had destroyed the rest.
But Stingers? Everyone had Stingers. Even the most impoverished rebel forces could find some larger power somewhere that would be glad to supply them in exchange for the opportunities created by internal turmoil in a country. Russia, China, even Italy — plenty of ways to get them if you wanted them.
The seconds were slipping by quickly now, along with the ground under him. The lead Tomcat was almost in position… there. The first aircraft in this wave jolted up as the bombs left his wings, then banked hard away from the IP. They continued on in, each one lofting the bombs in on target from slightly further away to avoid being blinded by the debris thrown up by the earlier aircraft.
It was his turn now. His internal clock was counting down the seconds. Maybe twenty seconds since he’d left the two stretched out on the ground behind the rock. He hadn’t seen them move — maybe he’d gotten lucky and nailed them, but he didn’t think so. Still, it was always better to be lucky than good.
Three, two, now. He pickled off the bombs and broke hard to the right as he accelerated away from the danger. The Hornet carried fewer bombs than each Tomcat did, but he’d made certain that his counted.
He reached out for the radio switch, then hesitated. No — not now. He’d see if he could locate Buddy and the two terrorists after him first. He wasn’t sure he could. The trees looked pretty thick back there, and Buddy could be hidden under any one of them. Hell, if he’d survived the ejection, he was probably in deep cover by now, waiting for the SAR helo.
But there was no chatter on the Military Air Distress, or MAD, frequency. No single tone locator beacon or mayday call from Buddy. The radio could have been broken in the ejection, or he could be unconscious. There was no way to tell from here.
He vectored back in over the rock he’d shot up and started expanding search pattern over the area.
Hill 802
0940 local (GMT –2)
Pamela stepped out into the open, holding her hands over her head. “Can you see me?” She waited for an answer, but there was none. She took a step closer to the body stretched out on the ground. “Look, you can see me now. I’m not going to hurt you.”
There was an odd stillness to the figure, and it took her a moment to quantify what she was seeing. When it finally hit her, she darted forward, ignoring her own pain, and knelt down next to the pilot. He wasn’t breathing.
Oh, god, how long has it been? Four minutes before there’s brain damage — maybe he was breathing when he hit and I can do CPR. Where the hell is the damned SAR extraction helo?
Xerxes was on the ground next to her now. He’d moved silently, simply appearing there.
Pamela ripped down the zipper on the front of the man’s flight suit, then bent over to press her head to his chest while her fingers sought out the pulse point in his neck. She thought she felt the vein flutter under her fingers. He still wasn’t breathing, though.
She tilted his head back, holding her ear close to his mouth. Still no breath sounds, but if his heart were still beating, he had a chance. A big if… she was finding it hard to distinguish between the shaking of her own hands and his pulse.
Shock. It’s starting to set in now from the ribs. I can’t afford it — this can’t happen now.
Xerxes was watching her, his face impassive. She glared at him. “Do something.”
He shook his head. “It won’t matter.” He pointed at the blood coming out of the pilot’s ears. “Even if he starts breathing, he’s too badly hurt. He’ll never survive.”
She swiped at the blood. “It’s just a slash on his ear. There’s still a chance.” She administered the first deep life-giving breath of artificial respiration, then another, inflating his lungs and saturating them with oxygen. She stopped, waiting to see if his own breathing reflex returned.
Suddenly, the aviator gasped. He sucked down a deep lungful of air, then started coughing. Pamela hovered over him, praying that he’d keep breathing.
Spluttering and hacking, he did. The breaths were irregular for a few moments, then finally settled down into a steady rhythm. After another minute, he opened his eyes and stared up squinting and trying to focus on her face.
“What happened?” His voice was a harsh croak.
“You punched out,” she said. “Your parachute got fouled and you came down hard.”
“Where am I? Where’s the bird?” Murphy, or so the name patch on his uniform said, was regaining situational awareness at an astounding rate.
“The helo is on its way,” Pamela said reassuringly, not knowing whether it was true or not. Even if it had been nearly on top of them, she wouldn’t have heard it. Not too far away, the strike was pummeling the ground with hard iron bombs. The noise this distance from the strike still made it hard to even be heard.
That seemed to satisfy him. His eyes fluttered, then started to close.
“Keep him awake,” Xerxes said. “If he has a concussion, he must not sleep.”
She touched the pilot gently, not wanting to risk injuring him further. “Murphy — Murphy, wake up. You’ve got to stay awake.”
His eyes opened but his gaze was unfocused. “I’m so tired.”
“I know, but you can’t go to sleep. Not now.” Pamela looked over at the Macedonian. “We can’t move him.”
“We have no choice.”
“I do. Have a choice, I mean.”
“No. You don’t. You’re going back to the alternate camp. Whether or not you wish to bring this man with you is irrelevant. You knew the price from the beginning. Now he must be moved.”
“We went through all that to get here and now you’re going to risk killing him?” she asked incredulously.
“If the helo shows up, they will try to kill me. It is a simple choice.” He leaned over and slapped the pilot hard. “Stay awake. You must stand up now.”
The pilot moaned, then tried to move. His arms and legs seemed uncoordinated at first, but he quickly gained control of his limbs. A few moments later, with Pamela’s help, he was on his feet.
“Come, now — quickly.” Xerxes prodded her from behind and pointed to the north. “I’ve got responsibilities to attend to. There’s another detachment there, and I do not see any flames. We will go there.”
Pamela draped Murphy’s arm over her shoulders and let him lean his weight on her. “Can
you walk?” she asked, already aware of a deepening pain in her own body. “It’s not too far.”
Murphy nodded. He moved mechanically. He’d evidently recognized her and decided to rely on her. She felt another twinge of conscience as she realized that.
They skirted the edge of the cleared field, edging through the trees and occasional rocks to try to keep to a northerly course. But the field ran northeast, and it became clear to her that they’d have to cross in the open soon.
The noise from the air strike was louder now, especially the sound of the aircrafts’ engines. They were returning, she realized, and felt a frisson of fear. That Hornet pilot — he’d be looking for his wingman. It didn’t matter who it actually was, she knew with a deep certainty that he’d be back.
“We wait,” Xerxes said, and drew them further into the cover. “They will be gone shortly, then we will assess the damage.”
At that, Murphy stiffened. Pamela had the distinct impression that he was far less disoriented and groggy than he’d let on. She started to speak, to reassure him once again, but realized that anything she said now would just make her own situation worse.
The sound like thunder grew stronger now, the distinctive howl of the Tomcats mixed with the slightly lighter whine of the Hornets. Murphy was fully alert now, though masking it for the benefit of the Macedonian. She felt him tense up, his muscles shaking under the effort. Then without warning, he broke free from her supporting grasp and started staggering toward the open field, arms waving and shouting as he stared up at the aircraft.
Pamela caught up with him twenty yards later. By that time he’d expended his reserve of energy and was moving slowly, still headed directly into the path of the oncoming aircraft. She joined him in waving her arms, signaling to the other pilots. The sole Hornet in the group peeled off and headed directly for them.
Devil Dog 202
0942 local (GMT –2)
“Murphy,” Thor shouted. He flipped back on the radio and said over the common circuit, “It’s a friendly. That’s my wingman.”
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