by Dale Brown
“Looks like they lost two planes about twenty miles apart,” Perse “Powder” Talcom told him. Powder was the team point man and intel specialist; he had gathered satellite maps and some briefing information before reporting to the hangar. “One to MiGs and the other to ground fire. Roughly, they went down here.”
Talcom pointed to large swatches of the Somalian coast.
“Got to figure they got SAR units out there already,” he added. “Navy task force coming up from this direction. Few days away, though.”
Freah nodded. Talcom had recently been promoted to tech sergeant—obviously because he had relatives in the Pentagon, according to the others, who were all staff sergeants.
“What you’re saying is, fun’s going to be over before we get there,” said Bison, coming in from his smoke.
“There’s a lot of other shit going down,” said Freah. “Libya’s getting involved. There’s talk of Saudi Arabia being declared a no-fly zone.”
“Good,” said Jack “Pretty Boy” Floyd, the team com specialist. “I’m getting bored around here.”
“What’s a no-fly zone mean to us?” asked Liu.
“It means you don’t fly there, Nurse,” said Powder.
“Nurse was thinking of strapping on a rocket pack and taking on the ragheads by himself,” said Bison. Liu had earned the nickname “Nurse” because he was the team medic.
“I’d like to try a rocket pack someday,” said Geraldo “Blow” Hernandez. Hernandez was the tail gunner and supply specialist, as well as the team’s jumpmaster.
“Yeah, Blow, I bet you would,” said Freddy “Egg” Reagan, adjusting the elastic that held his thick eyeglasses in place around his bald head. Reagan was the squad weapons specialist, and could handle everything from a Beretta to an M-1 tank. Rumor had it he was learning to fly an Apache helicopter on the side.
“All right, we may end up with something important to do, but at the moment our assignment is straightforward,” Freah told them. “There’s a Pave Low en route from Germany. We take over for the regular crew, yada-yada-yada. You guys know the drill.”
“Hey, Captain, we invented the drill,” said Blow.
“Is it a DeWalt or a Bosch?” said Powder.
“That’s supposed to be a joke, right?” asked Liu.
“If I have to explain it, it’s not,” said Powder.
“No shit, Sherlock,” said Egg.
“Captain, what are we really doing?” asked Blow.
“Whatever they tell us to do,” said Freah. “That good enough for you?”
“They wouldn’t call us out if they didn’t want us playing snake-eaters, right?”
“Maybe,” said Freah, who suspected that Madcap Magician did have some covert ground action—aka “snake eating”—in mind.
“Captain Freah?”
Freah turned to find Captain Breanna “Rap” Stockard standing in full flight gear behind him. She extended her hand and he took it.
She had her old man’s grip. “Looks like we have a problem here.”
“What would that be?”
“You have one man too many. I was told your team had six members.”
“It does.”
“I count seven.”
“Six and me.”
“We have only six seats in this aircraft, besides mine and my copilot’s,” she said. “And frankly, that’s not a particularly comfortable configuration, since it means I’m flying without a crew.”
“Major Cheshire said it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“I didn’t say it was a problem,” said Breanna. She had her old man’s snap as well. “I said it wasn’t comfortable. I’m traveling without a navigator or a weapons specialist a damn long way into a particularly difficult environment. What that means is—I’m in a pissy mood. Now, who’s staying behind?”
She was in a pissy mood, Freah thought, but there was no way he was backing down.
“Everyone’s coming,” he told her. “I’ll sit on the floor.”
“This isn’t a 707,” said Breanna.
“A plane this big can’t fit another person?”
“He could sit in the nav jump seat,” said one of the crewmen nearby.
Breanna shot him a drop-dead glance, then turned back to Freah.
He couldn’t resist smiling. “See?”
“If we were to set you up in a jump seat, there’d be no way to egress the plane,” she told him.
“You can’t just walk out the door?” asked Powder.
“If there’s an emergency, there’s no way to eject,” Breanna told the sergeant. She had her father’s anger, all right—it was barely under control. “Captain, come here a minute.”
Freah followed her outside the hangar.
“Look, I’m not trying to give you a hard time,” she said. “Just pick one of your men to stay behind.”
“Major Cheshire said it was doable.”
“I’m sure Major Cheshire thought six meant six, not seven.”
“Look, I’ll take the jump seat,” said Freah. “The nav thing. I can bail out if there’s a problem.”
Breanna rolled her eyes. “You’re talking about a folding seat in the bottom of the plane. If there’s a problem, you’re going out a tiny hatch—or the bomb bay. And that’s if I can slow the plane to 275 knots. You know how fast that is?”
“It’s slower than I’ve done HALO jumps,” said Danny.
Breanna looked at him. HALO stood for High Altitude, Low Opening; it was typically done from C-141 ‘s. He’d actually only done it three or four times, but at this point he wasn’t admitting anything that might argue against him.
“Good fucking luck,” she said.
“I’m willing to take the risk, Captain.”
“It’s a hell of a lot simpler to leave one of your men on the ground. He can come later with Raven or find another ride.”
“We get there with five men, I may not be able to do my job,” Freah said. “That may mean Smith doesn’t come back. You want to take that responsibility?”
Breanna’s face turned red.
“Hey, listen,” said Freah, “your dad approved this.”
“Fuck my dad,” said Breanna, spinning away.
“Lady is pissed,” said Blow when Freah returned to the group.
“Let’s get going, no screwin’ around,” Danny told them, ignoring the titters. “We’re not flying fuckin’ TWA.”
Somalia
22 October 1996, 0620 local
MACK BIT HIS SLEEVE AGAINST THE THROB IN HIS RIBS as he slid to his knees. His heart pounded in his ears and his chest throbbed. He barely managed to stifle a cough.
They were in scrubland on the side of a hill, maybe a mile or two south of where he had landed. Where exactly that placed them in the larger world Knife had no idea. There were people nearby, though it wasn’t clear whether they were soldiers or even exactly where they were. Sergeant Melfi had just hit the dirt a few yards ahead and lay motionless, studying something nearby.
Knife reached his right hand to his holster. Something moved behind him and he realized it must be Jackson, catching up.
At least, he hoped it was Jackson. He managed not to jump as the Marine touched his shoulder.
“What’s up?”
“He just stopped,” Smith said, nodding toward Melfi. “He’s not too bad at point,” said the Marine. Then he added, “You want that morphine?”
Smith shook his head as vigorously as he could without jostling his ribs.
“You look pretty bad.”
“Drugs’ll put me out,” Knife told him. “You’ll have to carry me.”
Mack wasn’t even tempted. The pain told him he was alive.
They watched Gunny crane his neck upward, then duck back down. Finally, the sergeant came back to them.
“Village maybe twenty yards away from where I was,” hissed Melfi when he returned. “Damn shacks are built out of old trucks and steel signs mostly. Damn. People live like that?”
Neither Smith
nor Jackson spoke.
“Ground’s nice and flat,” added Gunny. “I think there’s a road beyond it.”
“Helicopter could use the village as a locator,” Smith told them. “If there is a road, it could land there.”
“Yeah.” Gunny, balanced on his haunches, considered it. “Let’s move that way, try and flank it,” he said finally. He threw his head around suddenly. Jackson quickly brought his gun up.
“Getting paranoid,” said Gunny when nothing appeared. “How much time until the next transmission, Major?”
Smith looked at his watch. “Five minutes.”
“All right. Let’s get a little further back, make it harder for them to see or hear us, then we’ll move around that way. See where I’m pointing to?”
Knife nodded.
“You know what? Let’s get behind those trees and you make your radio call now,” said Gunny. “Yeah. We can all take a break. For one thing, I got to pee. Getting too old for this shit. Go for it, Jackson. You got the point again.”
Melfi gently rested his hand on Smith’s shoulder, holding him back as Jackson moved out. The two Marines had emphasized battle separation several times, but while Knife wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with the concept—fighter aircraft practiced it, after all—something innate wanted him to keep close to the two men and their M-16’s.
When Gunny finally released him, Mack heaved himself forward. He waddled low at first, moving sideways and then finding a stride that kept him balanced as well as close to the ground. The point man was moving a bit quicker, the distance between them gradually spreading from five to ten and then fifteen yards. All things considered, Smith was pretty damn lucky—not only had he managed to avoid capture after bailing out, but he had a Marine escort to help lead him to safety.
Going to take a hell of a lot of ribbing about that.
Jackson had almost reached the copse ahead when Knife caught the sound of a prop-driven plane approaching from the south. He grabbed the Prick ninety, cursing himself as he realized he’d neglected to turn the radio’s dial back to off after his last transmission. There was no time to worry if that might have hurt the battery or not—he held it up and began broadcasting, starting with the call sign he had used while flying.
“Poison One to Project Command, to any allied aircraft. Do you read me?”
He snapped off the transmit button, looking upward. The plane he had heard was nearly overhead, relatively low, though he couldn’t see it yet. From the sound, it was driven by a prop. That could mean it was a Bronco-type observation craft—Madcap Magician had at least one of the ancient but dependable OV-10’s in its stable.
On the other hand, it could be nearly anything else. “Poison One to all aircraft, do you read me?”
He flipped over to the second rescue band and retransmitted. There was no response.
The airplane above passed without him being able to see it. He guessed it was between one and two thousand feet. But it seemed to be flying in a straight line.
“What do you think?” Jackson asked, crawling next to him.
“If it’s one of ours, it should have heard us,” said Smith. He pressed the radio to his ear. It was also equipped with a small earphone, but he thought he got more volume without it. Smith tried broadcasting again, this time pointing the antenna in the direction of the plane. “Nothing?” asked Gunny when he came back.
Knife shook his head.
“I didn’t see it,” said the sergeant.
“Me neither,” said Jackson. Knife shook his head too.
“Maybe they’re not on our side,” suggested Melfi.
“Somalians don’t have much of an air force,” said Smith. “And the Iranians would be running a MiG down here. But you’re right. There’s no way of knowing. Could be a civilian they pressed into duty. It didn’t seem like it was moving in a search pattern, but it’s hard to tell. I mean, I’ve never been on this end of one.” He meant it as a joke, but the others didn’t laugh. “How far are we from the coast?”
“Maybe another half mile this way,” said Gunny.
“I think we should go back to our plan then,” said Knife. “We go out to the ocean and broadcast from there. If that was the Somalians, then they’d have an easier time with us near the village.”
Gunny ran his finger back and forth across his chin, thinking. “See, if I’m a soldier, I come here, ask these villagers if they saw anything. They say no, I move on. I don’t waste my time searching around here, not unless these folks have seen or heard something. Besides, the ocean’s a good hike back that way, and that’s where they’ll be looking, I’d guess.”
“Hey, Gunny,” hissed Jackson.
Smith and Knife turned. Jackson crouched down, pointing his gun back in the direction of the village.
“Something big moved.”
“Another pig, I hope,” said Smith.
“Wasn’t a pig before,” said Gunny, pushing away toward a low ridge to their right.
Knife returned his radio to his pocket, making sure it was off this time. He took out his gun.
Melfi and Jackson froze. So did he.
He couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t see anything, either. He blew a long, slow, deep breath from his mouth, waiting.
Gunny put his hand up, then began waving it, as if he wanted Knife to move backward. Mack took a long step backward, then another. The trees they’d been aiming for were less than ten yards away. Just beyond them were some low bushes and what seemed to be another clearing of tall grass.
Jackson was sprawled on the ground, crawling forward.
Knife took a half step toward the copse, watching as the Marine worked toward a trio of bushes no more than a foot high. He had reached into his pants pocket for something.
Gunny stood straight up. Relieved, Knife let his pistol hand drop to his side.
As he did, Jackson whipped something from his hand, a baseball or a rock.
A grenade.
Smith threw himself to the ground as Gunny opened fire. Bullets ripped overhead and there was an explosion, then another, then something acrid burned his nose.
Smoke. A smoke grenade, meant to confuse the enemy.
Real grenades as well.
There were shouts and more gunfire. Knife ignored the pain in his ribs as he pushed himself back to his feet and began to run, heading for the trees, unsure exactly what he was supposed to do next. He glanced at the Beretta in his hand, then nearly tripped as he reached the first tree. He flew behind the narrow trunk, gun-first, reminding himself that the first figure he saw emerging from the thick fog of smoke would be one of his own men.
He waited, saw nothing. He heard nothing.
The best thing to do, he thought, was to transmit their position. He reached his left hand to take out the radio, felt the pull in his ribs. Somehow he managed to ignore it, taking out the PRC-90 and dialing it to beacon, not wanting to take his attention from the ground in front of him. Smoke curled around the trees and branches, as if a massive cloud bank had descended to earth.
Nothing.
Knife shifted behind the tree, then turned his attention to the radio.
“Poison One to allied command,” he said. “Team is under attack. Repeat, we are taking fire.”
He stopped, listening for a response.
The airplane again, in the distance, coming from the north.
Maybe it could hear him but not the other way around. Or maybe it was directing ground forces against them. At this point, that didn’t matter. They knew where they were.
Allied command. Shit. Like he was in the Gulf or something?
“Smith to whoever,” he said, his heart pounding wildly. It felt as if it were smashing itself against his injured rib bones. “We are two and a half miles from the coast, maybe more. We’re southwest of the Silkworm site.”
There was a scream and more gunfire. Knife dialed the radio back to beacon, then spun around.
Nothing to shoot at.
The airplane roared overhe
ad, barely at treetop level.
He’d have to gamble that it was on his side. Mack began to run toward the open field. With his first step the ground behind him erupted with a massive shell burst. Thrown off his feet, he dropped both the radio and his pistol, but somehow managed to land on his good side. Tumbling head over heels, he crashed into a bush and got up. He could see, or thought he could see, the shadow of a plane passing at the edge of the yellow grass just ahead. He threw himself toward it, running and breathing and feeling his ribs like a sharp ax ripping through his skin. He began waving his arms, then felt some force pulling him around, lassoing him like a steer. He swung sideways and found himself on the ground, tackled. A Somalian soldier pushed an AK-47 into his face and said something he couldn’t hear, though his meaning was pretty damn plain.
Dreamland
21 October, 2130 local
BREE FOUGHT THE BILE BACK AS SHE COMPLETED THE last-second checks before heading off the Dreamland runway. There were any number of reasons for her to be angry, starting with the Spec Ops captain’s in-her-face attitude. The jerkoff thought it was macho to sit on the floor.
Jump seat, whatever. Asshole.
“Good to go, Rap,” said Chris.
“Yeah,” she grunted.
It was Jeff she was mad at, though. This was just a milk run—admittedly a long, long, long one, but still just a milk run. Assuming she made the refuels without any problem.
Piece of cake. Even with a mix of missiles in the belly.
Jackass Spec Ops captain. Just because he was her father’s friend didn’t mean shit. She was in charge of the plane—she had a good mind to march downstairs and tell the fucker to strap himself onto the rotating missile launcher in the bomb bay.
See how macho he thought that was.
She had debated going to Cheshire and demanding that Freah delete someone from his team. She had every right to do that—she probably should have done that.
But she hadn’t. In her mind, and maybe only in her mind, it was the sort of thing a woman couldn’t do. A woman couldn’t afford to be less brave, less macho, than a guy.