Razor's Edge

“good cop” in the old interrogation routine.

Jed took another sip from his soda. The Turk would go down the hall and watch the surveillance feed from the wide-angle pinhead video cam in the top corner of the room. He was as much a spy as a translator, but Clearwater had already made that argument to the State Department, which insisted that he be allowed to meet the prisoner.

“So when you were in America,” said Jed after a few minutes of silence, “where did you go to school?”

“RPI,” said the prisoner—in English.

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365

“That’s in upstate New York?” said Jed, trying to act as if he’d expected the man to answer his question.

“Troy. An ugly city.”

“Never been there,” said Jed. He scratched the back of his neck, slid his elbow on the table—he could be talking to a guy sitting next to him in a bar after work, except that he never went to bars after work. “That near Albany?”

“Very close.”

“What did you think of New York City?”

“A wondrous place,” said the Iraqi. “But a place of temptation.”

“I’ve been in the Empire State Building three times,”

said Jed.

The Iraqi didn’t reply.

“Why did you decide to join the army?” asked Jed, trying to keep the rapport up.

Nothing.

“But you’re not from Iraq, right? You come from—

Egypt?”

Jed waited for an answer. He was still waiting when an aide came to tell him the general wanted to talk to him.

MUSAH TAHIR WATCHED THE AMERICAN LEAVE THE ROOM.

He felt a twinge at being left alone—he suspected the Turk would now return and begin to threaten him.

He told himself he must be strong. He must remember that he was doing his duty. He would persevere. He would be rewarded.

The wealth and power of America seemed overwhelming, but it was corrupt power, the reward of the devil for a man’s soul. Millions and millions of souls.

He would not surrender his.

The door to the small room opened. He pulled himself 366

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

upright, braced himself for the assault. But it wasn’t the Turk; it was Barclay, the American.

“I’ve got good news for you,” he said. “You’re going home. The Red Cross has arranged an exchange.”

A trick.

“You can stay if you choose, you know. Stay with us,”

said the American.

Tahir smiled. Protect me, God, he thought.

Aboard Raven , over Iran 1918

HE KNEW IT WAS A DREAM, BECAUSE HE COULD FEEL HIS

legs.

He was playing football, wide receiver, like high school. Zen ran down the field, looking back toward the quarterback—Kevin Fentress. The kid had faded back under the heavy rush of Zen’s cousin Jed Barclay and a few of his other old friends.

Zen was wide open. “Throw me the ball!” he yelled.

“Throw me the ball!”

The brown pigskin darted upward just as Fentress was swamped. The ball sailed high, but it wasn’t far enough to reach him. Zen began ru

Ru

What he didn’t know was where he was having it. He thought he was in bed, pushed to feel Brea

A cold hiss of air shot into his face. Something wet dropped down the side of his temple. He shook his head, felt pain shooting up the side of his neck.

“Zen! Zen!”

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367

“Fentress?” Zen pushed to the right, felt his arm fly in front of him.

Raven. They were in Raven. His helmet was off.

The Flighthawk! She was nearly out of fuel.

“We have to refuel!” said Zen. He went to grab the control stick. His hand seemed to move in slow motion for a second, then caught up so quickly he couldn’t keep it from smashing into the bottom of the console. He cursed with the pain then stared at his limp hand.

His hand wasn’t what hurt him. It was his legs.

His legs? He hadn’t felt them for more than a year and a half.

But they hurt like hell. He must still be dreaming.

Aboard Quicksilver , approaching Iran 1925

EVEN THE SOPHISTICATED GEAR IN QUICKSILVER HAD TROUble sorting everything out. Iraq had launched helicopters and MiGs against Kurdish positions north of Kirkuk; two F-16s had moved to engage them. Farther east two Iraqi helicopters were flying either a supply or an attack mission on a vector almost exactly due north. Beyond that, the Iranians had at least a dozen aircraft in the sky over or at the border with Iraq. Raven, struck but not disabled by an Iranian missile, was just coming over the border now.

Whiplash Hind was flying so low not even Quicksilver could see her, but she was somewhere ahead of Raven.

“Border in ten minutes,” Chris Ferris told Brea

“What are we doing?”

“We’ll escort anyone who needs escorting,” she said.

“Hang on,” said Ferris. “F-15s are engaging the Iraqi helicopter.”

368

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Which one? Tell them to stop,” she said without waiting for an answer. “That’s ours. That’s ours!”

Aboard Raven , over Iran 1930

FENTRESS GAVE UP TRYING TO REVIVE ZEN AND JUMPED

back into his seat, taking the Flighthawk from C3 just as it finished refueling. He dropped down and began scouting ahead. The Iranian MiGs began to retreat as a flight of F-15s approached.

They’d lost contact with Whiplash Hind, though by now it would be between twenty and thirty miles ahead, undoubtedly skimming the snowcapped mountains. Fentress popped the Flighthawk’s nose skyward, accelerating to find the helicopter.

Those guys had kicked ass on this, big-time, he thought. Go

Some for him too. He’d done okay. He was doing okay.

He hoped Zen was okay. Blood had curled from his ear. One of his straps seemed to have broken; his head had probably slammed against the panel, and Fentress guessed he had a concussion. But he was breathing, at least.

The U/MF picked up the powerful radars of a pair of F-15s, screaming over from Turkey.

“Eagle Flight, this is Dreamland Hawk One,” he said.

“Hawk, we need radio silence. We are engaging an enemy aircraft,” replied one of the planes.

Where?

“No!” he shouted. “No! No! No!”

“Fox One!” said the lead pilot.

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Aboard Whiplash Hind , over Iraq 1942

DANNY PULLED HIS MP-5 NEXT TO HIM ON THE BENCH. HE

could see white through the helicopter window across from him—snow from the mountains.

Home, almost home. It’d be warm there now, almost spring.

Egg was flying low enough to stop for traffic signals.

Hopefully he didn’t kick into a goat or something—the CentCom lawyers would be peeved.

Lawyers. Holy shit. What would Major Pee-liar say about stealing a laser from the Iranians? Give it back.

The Iranians had probably stolen it from the U.S.

somehow. He had merely returned the favor, Da

His guys were sharing some MREs with the Marines.

They must be really, really hungry.

He started to laugh. His leg twinged.

Then it pounded.

“Hey, Nurse, maybe I will have that morphine,” he said, pushing upright again. He twisted toward Liu, but his view was blocked by a flash of bright red and yellow flames. He felt himself falling backward and realized home was even farther away than he’d thought.

VI

Friendly Fire

High Top

30 May 1997

1942

AS MACK PROCEEDED THROUGH HIS INSPECTION OF THE