Razor's Edge

“Leg’s busted,” said Nurse. “Compound fracture.” He checked for a concussion by looking for pupil reaction, then listened to make sure the pilot’s lungs were clear.

“Cut by something, but if it was a bullet, it just grazed him. Looks like that’s the worst of it. Not too much blood lost. Cold, maybe hypothermia. He’ll make it.”

Powder jumped up and trotted a few feet away, scooping something up from the rocks. “Pencil flares. Musta meant to shoot ’em, then the bad guys came.”

“Grab the radio and let’s get,” Da

Nurse secured the pilot with a series of balloon restraints, as much for cushioning as a precaution against back and spinal injuries. Da

The Marine sergeant met them about halfway.

“Let’s go, ladies!” he shouted. “Uh, you too, Captain.

RAZOR’S EDGE

211

Something big’s kicking up some dirt up the road. Your pilot’s starting to get some twists in his underwear.”

Aboard Quicksilver , over Iraq 1655

ZEN PITCHED THE FLIGHTHAWK BACK SOUTH WHEN HE NOticed the three vehicles leaving the village on the dirt road. He was moving too fast to target them.

“Vehicles on the highway, coming out of the village,”

Zen told Brea

“You sure they’re not civilians?” asked Brea

“What do you want me to do, ask for license and registration?”

“I don’t want you to splash civilians,” said Brea

“Hawk leader,” he said.

Zen didn’t want to kill civilians either, but he wasn’t about to take any chances with his people on the ground.

The rules of engagement allowed him to attack anything that appeared to be a threat. He tucked Hawk One into a shallow dive, angling toward the lead truck. When it came up fat in the crosshairs, he fired.

One of the most difficult things to get used to about flying the robot plane in combat was the fact that the ca

212

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

tary troop carrier; a long burst caught the back end but failed to stop it. Zen broke right, regrouping; as he circled west he saw the Osprey on the ground two or three miles away.

It had been hit. Black smoke curled from one of the engines. Zen tore his eyes away, looked for a target.

The third vehicle, another pickup, left the roadway, spitting along the riverbank. Zen swooped in on it from behind, lighting his ca

“Osprey is away,” Brea

“Hawk leader acknowledges. Osprey is away. They okay?”

“Pressman says he lost an engine but he’ll get back before Boston wins the Series.”

“Yeah, well, that could be a century from now at least.”

Zen continued to climb, flying east of the mountains, well out of range of anything on the ground, before easing back on the throttle and looking for Quicksilver.

“Fuel on ten minute reserve,” warned the computer.

RAZOR’S EDGE

213

“Hawk leader to Quicksilver,” said Zen. “Bree, I need to tank.”

WHILE ZEN BROUGHT THE FLIGHTHAWK UP TO TWENTY

thousand feet for refueling, Brea

Zen was all for continuing. He’d fly the Flighthawks down closer to the ground, using the video input to check on any radio sources, and look for buildings big enough to house a laser. Je

The normal procedure for the Flighthawk refuel called for the Megafortress to be turned over to the computer, which would fly it in an utterly predictable fashion for the U/MF. Six months ago the refuel had been considered next to impossible; now it was so routine that Brea

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DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Zen had blown off her question about the trucks, but it was a real one. They were here to kill soldiers, not civilians.

True, you couldn’t ask for IDs in the middle of a fight.

And their rules of engagement allowed them to target anyone or anything that seemed to be a threat. But if they didn’t draw a distinction, they were no better than Saddam, or terrorists.

Was that a distinction God drew? Did it matter to Him that only soldiers were in the crosshairs?

Did it matter to the dead?

“Refuel complete,” said Chris as she slipped back into her seat. “Computer has course to search grids. I’ve downloaded the course to Zen. He wants to launch the second Flighthawk about five minutes from the grid.”

“Thanks.”

Brea

“Fine. Yourself?”

“I wasn’t trying to be testy about the civilian trucks.”

“I know that. They were army or militia or whatever.”

“The Kurds use a lot of pickups.”

“Yup.”

“You okay, Jeff? Do we have a problem?”

Brea

“Major Stockard?”

“Not a problem on my end, Captain,” answered her husband.

“Thank you much. Computer says we’re on course and ten minutes from your drop zone,” she said, trying to make her voice sound light.