Razor's Edge

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the Yankees make it to the World Series. He wants Cleveland,” said the helo pilot.

“Hal doesn’t know shinola about baseball,” Da

“Cleveland? Ha!” A laugh loud enough to be heard two or three mountains over a

“Now, if you want to talk about a team—”

“Bill Buckner, Bill Buckner,” taunted the Marine, naming the first baseman whose error had cost Boston the World Series against the Mets several years before.

“Old news,” said Pressman.

“Yo, Merritt—we got a situation here,” yelled the other helicopter pilot from the front window.

Da

“AWACS says one of the Megafortresses has a line on a downed pilot. He’s just over the border. We’re the closest asset to him.”

“Shit—we’re not even refueled.”

“We are,” said Pressman. “Let’s go!” He started to run toward his aircraft. “Get me some guys.”

Da

“Liu, Powder—grab your gear, get your butts in the helo.

Now!”

“What’s up, Captain?” asked a short, puglike Marine sergeant a few yards away.

“Pilot down!” yelled the helo pilot. “We got a location.”

“We’re on it,” said the sergeant. Two other Marines ran up.

“Into the Osprey,” said Da

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Liu, Powder, and the three Marines barely got the rear of the Osprey closed before it began moving forward on the short runway.

“We got a location from the Marines!” shouted the copilot, appearing in the doorway to the flightdeck.

“Twelve minutes, fifteen tops, once we get the lead out.”

Aboard Quicksilver , over Iraq 1640

THOUGH DESIGNED PRIMARILY TO DECOY HEAT-SEEKING

missiles, the Flighthawks’ small flares were fairly conspicuous, even in the strong afternoon light. Zen shot off six, a third of his supply, then circled back.

He had a good feel for the layout now; the valley ran almost directly north-south, bordered on the east and west by steep mountainsides. A river ran in an exaggerated double Z down the middle; a small town sat along the apex of the second Z at the south end. There were two roads that he could see. One cut through the village and headed east into the rocks; it was dirt. The other was a hard-pavement highway that curved about five miles south of the village. It extended into an open plain and, from the altitude that he peered down at it, didn’t seem to co

The pilot was most likely in the foothills at the northern part of the valley; farther south, and the people in the village would have tripped over him by now.

“Anything?” he asked O’Brien.

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“Negative.”

“I’m going to take it down and ride along the river,”

said Zen. “See if I can find anything. Quicksilver?”

“We copy,” said Bree. “Be advised we have a helo en route. Captain Freah is aboard.”

Zen rolled the Flighthawk toward the earth, picking up speed as he plummeted. He’d take this pass very quickly, then have Je

It was also the sort of thing he could have done easily with Fentress on the other mission, though he’d balked.

What did he have against Fentress?

Rival?

Hardly. The guy seemed afraid of his own shadow sometimes.

Zen put the Flighthawk to the firewall, maxing the engines and tipping the airspeed over 500 knots. At about the size of a Miata sports car, the robot plane was not overwhelmingly fast, but she was responsive—he pulled back on the stick and shot upward, tucked his wings around and flashed back southward. The entire turn had been completed in seconds, and took perhaps a twentieth of the space even the ultra-agile F/A-18 would have needed at that speed. Zen galloped through the air with his aircraft, looking for something, anything.

Light glinted near the village. He throttled back and plowed into a turn, trying to give the camera as much of a view to check it out as possible.

“Makeshift airfield there,” said Je

“Hinds, I’ll bet,” Zen told her. “Get the location, we’ll have to pass that on—it’s a target.”

204

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Flare indicator—hey, I think I have our pilot!”

shouted O’Brien.

Zen continued northward along the valley about a mile and a half before spotting the flare’s contrail over a foothill on his right.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, pushing toward it. “Where’s his radio?”

“No radio,” said Habib.

“Our Osprey is ten minutes away,” reported Brea

“They’re holding for a definite location.”

“Those Hinds could be a problem,” said Ferris.

Zen cut lower, working the Flighthawk toward the rocks. Even at two thousand feet it was difficult to pick out objects. The river zigged away on the left side; a dirt trail paralleled it. Something was moving on the trail well to the north. The village lay behind him, roughly four miles away.

“I can’t see him,” said Zen. “I’m going to roll again and try my IR screen.”

He selected the IR sensors for his main view as he made another run over the hills. This side of the valley was still in the sun; finding the heat generated by a man’s body would not be easy.

“Got a radio—Iraqi,” said Habib. “Hey, he’s talking to someone, giving coordinates.”

“Must be a search party,” said O’Brien.

“Just necessary conversation,” snapped Brea

“Major, he’s giving a position five kilometers north of the village, a klick off the road. You see a road?”

Zen flicked back to his optical feed. “I see a dirt trail. I don’t have a vehicle.”

“He sees you,” said Habib. “You’re—he’s going to fire!”

“Missile in the air!” shouted O’Brien as Zen pulled RAZOR’S EDGE

205

up. “Shoulder-launched SAM. They’re gu

Aboard Dreamland Osprey , over Iraq 1650

DANNY FREAH CAUGHT HIS BALANCE AGAINST ONE OF THE

Osprey’s interior spars as it pitched violently to the right, hurtling southward as low to the ground as possible. The MV-22 had many assets, but it wasn’t particularly easy to fly fast at low altitude in high winds—a fact made clear by the grunts and curses emanating from the cockpit.

Not that anyone aboard was going to object.

The aircraft started to slow abruptly, a signal that it was getting ready to change from horizontal to vertical flight.

“Get ready!” yelled Da

Powder and Liu were crouched near the door. They had their smart helmets as well as their vests, M-4s, a medical sack, and grenades. The Marines were standing along the side behind them, one private holding an M-16, the sergeant and the other with Squad Automatic Weapons, light machine guns whose bullets could tear through an engine block at close range.

“I miss the Pave Low,” said Powder as they began stuttering toward the ground. “Cement mixer smoother than this.”