Razor's Edge

Good, thought Zen. Get me, not Raven.

“Scan broken. Thirty seconds to intercept.”

“We’re spiked!” warned the copilot. “Shit.”

“Fire missiles,” said Alou. “Brace for evasive maneuvers.”

Zen leaned forward into the attack as his cue flashed red. The Iranian MiG pitched downward as Zen began to fire; he followed through a curving arc, aiming ahead of the enemy’s nose, in effect firing his bullets so they and the MiG would arrive at the same point at the same time.

The copilot and radar operator were screaming about 360

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

missiles in the air, Fentress told him the other MiG was trying to get on his tail, and Alou ordered chaff as Zen fought to keep his attention on the glowing pipper in the middle of his head, the bright red triangle that doomed the MiG to destruction. The Iranian squirmed and flailed, now left, now right, up then down. And then its nose fell away and the wings shot upward, the Flighthawk’s bullets sawing it in half.

“On your butt!” warned Fentress. “Missiles!”

Zen tucked left. A large shadow zipped past his windscreen cam—a missile. He turned right, couldn’t find his prey, kept coming, finally saw the large-nosed bird tilting its wing over in an evasive maneuver. Something seemed to pop from the right wing—one of Raven’s AMRAAMs hitting home.

“Yeah,” said the copilot.

Alou’s congratulations were cut short by a thunderclap and the shudder of a volcano releasing its steam. Zen felt himself weightless and then thrown against his restraints so hard one of the belts sheered from its bolt at the base, leaving him hanging off the side as Raven rolled into an invert, then plunged into a fifty-degree dive toward the earth.

Aboard Quicksilver , over Iraq 1910

BREANNA HEARD THE AWACS ALERT AND KNEW IMMEDIately what had happened.

“Chris, get us a course to the Iranian border.” She didn’t bother to wait, turning the plane immediately to the east.

“We’re almost twenty-five minutes away,” said the copilot.

RAZOR’S EDGE

361

“Understood.” The throttles were already at max, but she tapped them nonetheless.

“Whiplash Hind is about zero-two from the border,”

said Chris, plotting their position. “Raven is engaging MiGs and F-5Es.”

“Okay.”

“They’ll make it, Bree.”

“I know that. What’s our ETA now?”

Aboard Raven , over Iran 1910

FENTRESS FELT THE AIR PUNCH OUT OF HIS LUNGS AS THE

big plane flipped through an invert. A fist welled in his diaphragm, pounding up into his throat.

They’d been hit by one of the missiles. The pilot and copilot were yelling at each other, trying to pull the big plane level.

His job was to help Zen with the Flighthawk. He put his right arm down on the control panel, pulling himself upright, getting back in the game. The main video panel display had a warning across the top portion of the screen declaring a fuel emergency. The aircraft had under five minutes of gas in the tanks.

“Zen?”

Fentress turned. Zen sagged off the side of his seat against his restraint straps. Fentress reached to undo his own seat belt, then stopped. He had to take care of the Flighthawk first or it would go down. He reached to the manual override; the computer listened as he recited his name and the command codes to take over. The fuel emergency shortened the protocol—he only had to give two different commands to take the helm.

By the time the transfer was complete, the Mega-

362

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

fortress had stuttered into level flight. Fentress, flying behind it, could see damage to the right tail surface and some rips and dents in the fuselage; one of the engines seemed to be out.

“Hawk leader to Raven. I need to refuel,” he said.

“We’re still assessing damage,” said Alou.

“Raven, I need to refuel now,” said Fentress.

“You’ll have to wait.”

“Fuck you,” said Fentress. “I’m coming in now.”

The computer calculation showed he had exactly three minutes and thirty-two seconds before going dry. He’d never completed the tricky refuel in less than seven, and even the automated routine took five.

“All right. Don’t panic,” said Alou.

“I’m not panicking,” he said, his voice level.

He’d never spoken to a commanding officer—hell, to practically anyone—this way. But the shit was on the line. He needed fuel now. And he’d have to gas manually.

Zen could. He could.

“I’ll climb,” said Alou.

“Just get the boom out,” he said.

“Raven.”

Fentress pushed in as the straw emerged from the rear of the plane. The director lights flashed red; he was too fast and too far right. He knocked his speed down, felt his diaphragm cramping big-time.

“Zen, come on, come on,” he muttered to himself.

“Tell me I can do it.”

Zen said nothing. The Flighthawk chuttered in the harsh vortices of the Megafortress. The computer struggled to help Fentress hold it steady.

Zen would tell me to relax it all the way home, Fentress told himself. He resisted the urge to push the small plane onto the nozzle.

As the last gallon of fuel slid from the Flighthawk’s RAZOR’S EDGE

363

tanks through its lines to the engine, the nozzle clicked into the wide mouth of the receptacle at the top of the plane. He was in.

Fuel began flowing.

“Computer, fly. Complete refuel,” he said. As C3

grabbed the plane, he tossed off his belt and went to help Zen.

Aboard Whiplash Hind , over Iran 1912

DANNY PUSHED HIS LEG FLAT ON THE FLOOR OF THE HELIcopter, looking up at Nurse as the medic worked over his knee. They had just crossed back into Iraqi airspace; another half hour and they’d be home.

Home, home, home.

“You want some morphine?” said Nurse.

Da

“I’ve hurt my knee before.”

“It’s not your knee. Your shin’s busted,” said Nurse.

“Something hard slammed the body armor. Would’ve sliced right through your leg except for the boron inserts.

You didn’t feel it?”

“I don’t think I did.” Da

“I really think you should take some painkiller, Cap.”

“Yeah, when we’re on the ground,” said Da

“Sure will feel good to be home.”

364

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

Incirlik

1915

JED SIPPED FROM HIS COLA, LISTENING WHILE THE TRANSlator the Turks had supplied repeated the stock questions about the prisoner’s unit and deployment. The prisoner glared. His attitude seemed infinitely more hostile toward the Turk than toward Jed—though the results were exactly the same.

Two CIA agents had seen the man. They thought but could not confirm that he wasn’t a native Iraqi. What significance that had, if any, wasn’t clear.

Jed watched the Turk’s frustration grow. Outside, the interrogator had assured Jed that he had conducted many interviews; Jed suspected torture was among his regular techniques, and he made it clear he would not be permit-ted to employ them.

After a few more minutes of questions met only by stares, the Turk slammed his hands on the table. He said something that sounded like a threat involving the prisoner’s mother and sisters—Jed’s Arabic still wasn’t fast enough to decipher it all—then made a show of leaving in a huff, probably thinking he was setting Jed up as the