Razor's Edge

“He’ll also be a sitting duck,” said Elliott. The Combat Talon was a specially modified MC-130E Hercules, a four-engine aircraft designed to fly over hostile territory.

Despite its many improvements, it was unarmed, relatively slow, and would be exceedingly vulnerable, especially during the day.

“I need ears,” said Hashek. “And that old Herk has to be very close. Now the plane you came in—”

“It’s not my plane, so it’s not my call,” said Elliott.

“But frankly, it’s not worth the risk.”

Mack had been thinking along the same lines as the colonel, and was nearly as surprised as Hashek at Elliott’s response. Granted, the converted 707 carried a wide range of highly sensitive electronic spy equipment, most RAZOR’S EDGE

41

of which wouldn’t be much help in locating the pilot. But the damn thing could pick up all ma

Mack looked at Elliott. Was this the same general who’d defied Washington and half the Air Force to get DreamStar back? The general who’d personally flown a suicide mission to Russia to prevent World War III?

The General Brad Elliott?

He looked tired, face white, pockmarked with age and fatigue, maybe even fear.

“I want to fly one of the F-16s,” Mack told Hashek. “I want to be in on this.”

Hashek turned toward him. “Thanks, Major, but we’re full up.”

“No offense to your guys, but I can fly circles around them. I can.”

“Sorry,” said Hashek. Two other men entered the office, both in flight suits. The colonel nodded at them. “I’m sorry, General, I have some business to attend to.”

“I want to be on the mission,” insisted Mack. “I don’t really feel like twiddling my thumbs back here. Hey, Colonel.” Mack caught Hashek’s arm as the colonel started to leave with the other men. “Give me a break, huh? Anything. I’ll go on the Herk even.”

“Mack, you will be in the middle of things,” said Elliott. “I want you on a Pave Low.”

“A Pave Low?”

Mack let go of Hashek’s arm. The colonel looked at him like he was an ant before stalking out, his pilots in tow.

“I’ve never flown an MH-53, General,” said Mack, who in all honesty had never even sat in the front seat of a helicopter. “But I’ll figure it out. Hell, I can fly anything.”

“I don’t want you to fly it,” said Elliott. “I’m assuming they didn’t send you to Brussels to give that seminar on 42

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

missile damage just because they wanted to get rid of you.”

“Um, well, no,” said Mack, not quite sure what the point of the general’s sarcasm was.

“There should be a Huey waiting to take you to the helicopters. Find a camera and anything else you need, then get there.”

Over Iraq

0701

TORBIN HUNKERED OVER THE RADAR DISPLAY IN THE BACKseat of the Phantom, every cell in his body sensitive to its flicker. Traditional Weasel missions contained a fairly short stay over hostile territory, generally organized around a ten-minute spiral to low altitude as the pitter tracked radars and then launched missiles against well-briefed targets. Today’s mission was far more open-ended and demanding, even compared to the freelancing gigs they’d been doing for the past few weeks. Overflying the area where Falcon Two had gone down, they would fire on anything that turned on during the hunt. They’d stay in the air for as long as it took to find the pilot and drag him back to safety. That meant three or more hours of staring at the small tube in front of him.

Four Iraqi SAM sites had been targeted for attack in strikes set to be made at the moment Glory B crossed the border. In theory, those attacks would remove the major threats the searchers faced. But reality had a way of differing from the nice crisp lines and lists of call numbers drawn on maps. Those attacks might simply stir the hor-nets’ nest.

“We’re on track,” said Fitzmorris. “Zero-three to Box able-able-two.”

RAZOR’S EDGE

43

“Zero-three,” acknowledged Torbin. They’d been like that the whole flight, nothing but business.

Fitzmorris obviously thought he’d fucked up somehow.

Probably because he was a pilot—they stuck together.

“Scope clean,” Torbin said as they reached the grid area where the Falcon had gone down. The blue-gold tint of dawn would shade the mountains a beautiful purple, but he kept his eyes on his radar screen.

The other planes in the flight checked in, the Herky bird driver nonchalantly trading jibes with one of the F-16s escorting him. The transport plane was a spec ops version equipped for deep penetration of enemy lines, but that usually occurred at night and at low altitude. He was now at roughly twenty thousand feet, above flak but an easy target for a SAM.

Not today. Not with Torbin on the job, he thought. He blew a wad of air into his mask, then pushed his neck down, trying to work out a kink. He tracked through his instruments quickly, then glanced to his right console, double-checking his key settings out of habit. His eyes strayed briefly to the small toggle beyond the telephone-style keypad. Long ago the thin thumb had safed—or unsafed—nuclear stores.

We ought to just fry the sons of bitches and be done with it once and for all, he thought.

He jerked his eyes back to his job, pushing his face down toward the blank radar scope.

“What?” asked Fitzmorris.

“Scope’s clean.”

“Copy that.”

The static-laced silence returned. Torbin pushed himself up against his restraints. Inevitably his attention began to drift; inevitably he thought of the construction job that waited if he quit the Air Force.

Or if they forced him out as a scapegoat.

44

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

It’s what he got for wanting to be where the action was.

Should have stayed in the Pentagon, or used his stinking engineering degree at NASA like they suggested.

Screw that. And screw getting out. He didn’t want to build houses.

“Falcon Two to any allied aircraft.”

The transmission sounded like a snippet of dialogue from a TV in another room.

“Glory B to Falcon Two,” said Torbin. “Falcon Two?

I’m reading you, boy. Acknowledge.”

As Torbin clicked off, the frequency overran with six or seven other voices, all trying to make contact with their downed comrade.

“Radio silence! Radio silence!” shouted Fitzmorris.

“Falcon Two, identify yourself.”

“Captain Terry McRae,” came the answer. “I’m sure glad to hear you guys.”

“We’re glad to hear you,” said Torbin. “Give us a flare.”

“Slow down—we have to go through authentication first,” said Fitzmorris.

“Copy that,” said McRae from the ground. “But let’s move, okay? I am freezing my butt off down here.”

Torbin knew no Iraqi would have said that, but Fitzmorris dutifully checked with the AWACS controller and began relaying personal questions designed to make sure McRae really was McRae.

“I can see you and your smoky tailpipe, Glory B,” the pilot told them as they finished. “And by the way, you guys must have missed an SA-2 or something yesterday.

Smoked the shit out of me. I never saw the damn thing.”

“We’re sorry for that,” said Fitzmorris.

“Why do you think it was an SA-2 if you didn’t see it?”

asked Torbin, his voice sharper than he wanted.

“What else could it have been?”

RAZOR’S EDGE

45

Torbin bit his lip to keep from answering. The pilot had enough to worry about for the time being.

Over Iraq

0750

MACK SMITH TRIED TO STEADY HIMSELF ON THE SEAT

across from the minigun station as the big Pave Low whipped through a pass in the mountains, rushing toward the spot where the pilot had been sighted. The big helicopter tucked sharply left, the tip of its rotors about ten feet from a sheer wall as it hunkered through a pass. The low altitude tactics made it nearly impossible for an enemy radar to detect them, but at this point Mack would have traded a little safety for a smoother ride. It was one thing to jink and jive when you had the stick yourself, and quite another to be gripping the bottom of a metal ledge in the back of a flying pickup truck.