Razor's Edge

“Hey, Cap, happy Memorial Day,” said Powder, walking over.

“Uh-huh.”

“Chinook’s comin’ to evac the wounded over to Incirlik. That means you, Cap,” added Powder.

“Where?” asked Da

“Incirlik.”

“The helicopter, I mean. Where is it?”

“Inbound,” said Nurse. “You gotta go, Cap. That leg’s for shit and I bet you got internal bleeding in your chest there. Head’s banged too. You look woozy.”

“E-ternal bleeding,” said Powder.

“Corporal’s lost a lot of blood. I’d give him better than fifty-fifty,” added Liu. “Gu

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

there on the litter—you hear him? Took some hits in the chest and leg.”

Da

“Hey, don’t shove me,” Da

“We’ll take care of stuff here,” said Liu. “Major Alou says we’re going home soon—Marines taking over the base.”

“What happened to the laser parts?” Da

“Waiting for FedEx,” said Powder. “That or the Marines, whoever gets here first. Bison and the boys got them all aboard the Blackhawk before it took off.”

Da

He tried turning in its direction, then gave up. Nurse was right—he ought to take it slow.

“Hey, Captain, next time can I drive the helicopter?”

asked Powder.

“Sure thing,” said Da

Dreamland Command Center

1700

THE TIME HAD COME FOR THE SHIT TO HIT THE FAN. DOG

stood in the middle of the room, waiting for the co

“Colonel.”

“General.”

“Your men?”

“As far as I know, they’re all okay.” Dog held his head erect, shoulders stiff. “The missile that hit the Hind struck the top of the aircraft when they were about ten feet off RAZOR’S EDGE

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the ground. It carried through the engine housing before exploding. They crashed, but they were very lucky.”

“Any friendly fire incident needs a full investigation,”

said Magnus.

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“I heard a rumor that your people carried this out on their own initiative,” said Magnus. “That they were responding to a fluid situation, and reacted. Properly, with justification, but without a full plan in place. That would account for CentCom not getting the proper notification.”

Something jumped inside Dog’s chest. Was Magnus suggesting he lie to avert what might be a politically embarrassing investigation?

Maybe. It might avoid problems, short-circuit months of hand-wringing that wouldn’t benefit anyone—including him, Dog knew.

But it was a lie.

“I ordered that mission, sir. I felt the Whiplash directive was sufficient authorization. I stand by my decision.”

Magnus nodded. “Colonel, if I told you that you were relieved of command, would that be an order you were prepared to follow?”

“Of course.”

Magnus pushed his lips together. Dog felt his neck muscles stiffen; the room turned cold. “Is that what is happening here?”

“No,” said Magnus. “Not at all.”

“Sir?”

“It’s no secret that I and the administration don’t see eye-to-eye,” said the general, his tone changing.

“If I’ve done anything—”

Magnus’s stern expression broke for just a moment.

“You’re about the only thing we agree on,” said Magnus.

“You’re a good man, Colonel. You made the right call and 414

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you stood behind it.” The general paused, but before Dog could say anything else, he went on, his tone even softer than before. “Dreamland is going to be—excuse me, the command structure involving Dreamland is going to be changed.”

“In what way?”

“Good question,” said Magnus. “All I know at the moment is that you are no longer my concern. Dreamland is no longer part of my command.”

Flustered, Dog tried to think of what to say. “JSOC?”

he said finally. “Are we under the Special Forces Command?”

“No,” said Magnus. “I’m late for a meeting right now, I’m sorry,” he added. “Orders will be cut soon. I’m not privy to them.”

“Who do we answer to—I mean, who’s our commander?”

“The President,” said Magnus.

“Of course,” said Dog, “but I mean—”

The screen flashed white, the co

In Iraq

31 May 1997

0607

JED BARCLAY SETTLED HIS HANDS ONTO HIS THIGHS, FINgers rapping to the beat of the rotor as the MH-60 Special Forces Blackhawk whipped toward the agreed exchange site near Kirkuk in northern Iraq. The Iraqi radar operator sat next to him on the shallow and uncomfortable jump seat, as much of a mystery to Jed as when they first met.

The Iraqis had agreed to exchange the remains of the two American pilots who had died for the live prisoner. Jed RAZOR’S EDGE

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had objected—though he hadn’t told them anything, the man clearly knew a great deal about the state of Iraqi defenses and their tactics. Having gone to RPI, he might be an engineer or some sort of scientist, not merely a technician. But everyone else had dismissed his objections—

Americans, even dead ones, were worth more than any information the Iraqi could possibly give.

They had a point. The barrage tactics hadn’t been effective; it was clear now that the Iranian laser had shot down most if not all the aircraft lost in the last few days.

Part of their Greater Islamic Glory campaign? Jed had his doubts. They had made overtures to the U.S., acted as if they wanted to help in the war against Saddam, even made noises about getting rid of the Chinese. Perhaps they’d found the communist yoke a little too much to bear, even in the name of Allah.

Jed hadn’t even tried to sort it out yet. The NSA intercepts would make interesting reading once he got home.

So would the reports on the laser. It was unlikely that they’d killed everyone associated with the weapon.

Would it turn up again? If so, where? Iran? China? Something to ponder back home.

The helicopter began banking for a turn. Jed glanced at the Iraqi. His eyes gave nothing away. Maybe he was thinking of the hero’s welcome that awaited him on the ground.

MUSAH TAHIR SAT PATIENTLY UNTIL THE AMERICANS LIFTED

him from the bench toward the exit of the helicopter. His hands were unbound at the top of the ramp, then his guards gave him a slight push; they seemed almost anxious to be rid of him.

The light of the Iraqi afternoon blinded him. A row of soldiers stood at attention a few feet away. A pair of pickup trucks sat behind them.

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Tahir took a few steps, then turned and watched as the pickup trucks backed toward the helicopter. A metal coffin sat in each. Two Americans from the helicopter nodded grimly at the Iraqis in the back of the trucks; they shouldered the coffins and slid them into the helicopters, arranging them awkwardly in the interior. Tahir seemed to have been forgotten.

He had wanted to say good-bye to Barclay. The American struck him as a decent man. But Barclay signed some papers for an Iraqi Air Force colonel Tahir didn’t know, then got on the helicopter without looking back at him.

It lifted with a roar. Tahir looked toward the colonel but he had disappeared. Turning, he nearly fell over General Hadas, the man who had first given him his mission.

“General,” he said, snapping a salute. “I told them nothing.”

Hadas frowned and raised his hand. There was a pistol in it. By the time Tahir realized what would happen, the gun was level with his forehead. He had time only to close his eyes before it fired.