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“There’s probably two or three guys circling around to ambush us once they pin us down.”
Powder glanced toward the rear. Da
“We play along. You make like you’re going to the Pave Low, I’ll jog that way and nail them. Try not to get killed before I waste them.”
“Shit,” cursed Powder. He continued grumbling as Da
“Whiplash, hold your positions,” whispered Da
Egg acknowledged for the others.
As Da
Even if he hadn’t used all of his grenades earlier, he wouldn’t have now, because he didn’t want to risk damaging the helicopter. But that meant getting close and personal to flush them out.
He knew they’d have a guard at the crevice, watching the flank. Drop him, and the rest would be easy pickings.
Da
12
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
He could crawl to within ten yards of the spot from behind the rocks. But then he’d have to run over open terrain. He positioned his gun against his left hip, then began working his way forward. As he jumped to his feet he realized that even if he got to the crevice without being seen, he’d never be able to pirouette his arm up quickly enough to take the guard without firing. He ran anyway, all his momentum committed to the plan.
There was no guard.
He flopped back against the rocks, winded, temporarily confused. Had he miscalculated? Or was his enemy overconfident?
Overconfident.
Hopefully.
They were maybe twenty yards from him, fifteen, up along the crevice, waiting for the Whiplash team to come ru
“Powder—now,” he hissed.
Nothing.
Da
Once they started firing at Powder, he could run up and nail them.
“Powder!”
Nothing.
Maybe they were in the helo.
“Chee-ya!” shouted Powder from the other end of the slope. He fired a burst from his gun.
Two men rose from behind the rocks five feet from Da
RAZOR’S EDGE
13
“Chee-ya!” Powder shouted again, throwing himself down.
One of the enemy soldiers began firing. Da
Da
“Bang! Bang! Bang!” said Freah, pushing up his helmet. “You’re all dead.”
“They cheated!” shouted the Pave Low pilot, from his dead-man squat down by the helicopter. “They’re wearing Whiplash gear, the fucks.”
“Hey, you cheats!” yelled Powder, ru
“Hey, you’re dead,” said one of the “enemy” gu
“I got you.”
“Bullshit—check the computer. Read it and weep, my friend.”
“Egg, Pretty Boy, up. Four dead Delta troopers in those rocks beyond the helo,” said Da
“There’s no stragglers,” said the helo pilot. “They’re fucking cheaters.”
“Hey, you can’t talk to him,” said one of the men Da
Da
Counterfeit clothes. Not bad.
“We may be dead, but you lost this one, Da
said Peiler. “You can’t get out. Advantage Delta. You’re buyin’ tonight.”
14
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
“Saddle up in the chopper,” Da
“You can’t get out,” said Peiler.
“Why not? My aircraft is still here.”
“Your pilot’s dead.”
“That pilot’s dead,” said Da
“Yeah—you’re going to freakin’ fly it yourself?”
“Egg, you’re up,” shouted Da
“What the freakin’ hell are you doin’?” Peiler demanded.
“Egg’s go
“Like hell! Shit.”
Da
“Bullshit he can fly,” said Peiler.
“Well, you better hope so, because you’re going to be sitting in the back.”
“Hey, uh, Captain, I don’t know,” said the pilot.
“Relax. Egg used to fly Apaches. Ain’t that right, Egg?”
Egg, listening on his smart helmet com set, corrected him. “Uh, Captain, that was Cobras. Kind of a different thing.”
“Yeah, just give them the thumbs-up.”
Egg leaned out the cockpit window and did so. Peiler cursed.
Staff Sergeant Frederick K. “Egg” Reagan had, in fact, flown on the Army gunship, though as a gu
Nonetheless, the experience had encouraged him to obtain a helicopter pilot’s license, and he was indeed checked out on the MH-53J. Everyone on the Whiplash action team had a specialty; his was handling heavy equipment. Had there been an M1A1, he would have been equally at home.
The rotor started skipping around as the engine coughed and died.
RAZOR’S EDGE
15
“I don’t know about this,” said Peiler.
“Well, you can come or you can walk,” said Da
“It’s ten miles to the safe zone.”
Da
“Dead men, up and into the helicopter,” said Peiler as the twin turbos caught.
“Uh, Captain,” said the Pave Low pilot, pulling Da
“You should’ve thought about that before you got suckered by these bozos,” Da
Over Iraq
1930
ARMS CRAMPING, NECK STIFF, LEGS NUMB, ELECTRONIC
warfare officer Torbin Dolk pushed back against the ejection seat, a piece of furniture that would never be confused for an easy chair.
“How you holding out?” his pilot asked.
“Yeah,” said Torbin.
“Excuse me?” Fitzmorris asked.
“Fine. I’m fine.” He adjusted the volume on the radio, which was tuned to the emergency Guard band the downed flier should have been using. Standard procedure called for the pilot to broadcast at certain times, but the searchers monitored the radio constantly, hoping to hear something.
Fifty-five ante
16
DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND
Bastards were probably all out at a monster party, cele-brating, Torbin thought.
That or looking for the pilot.
“We’re going to have to go back,” said Fitzmorris.
“Yeah,” said Torbin. There were now four other planes scouring the peaks, waiting for any signal from the downed airman; they wouldn’t be leaving their comrade alone.
Still, Torbin didn’t want to go.
“Glory B, we’re wondering what your fuel situation is,” said the AWACS controller.