The Marines quickly gave their rifles and gear the once-over as they silently lined up to board the helicopters. They’d been issued plain-Jane M-16A1 rifles that had been bought on the black market. Besides the Russian antitank gun, they were carrying two French machine guns—AA52’s, which were actually quite good, though they used odd-sized bullets. The Chinooks that were to carry the Marines ostensibly belonged to Zaire. Their uniforms, which had an Army puke-green tint to them, bore no insignias or markings.

In Gunny’s opinion, these and a dozen other elaborate precautions designed to camouflage the group’s identity weren’t going to fool anyone if the Marines were actually called on to do the job they were practicing to do. In Gunny’s opinion, they’d be better off admitting they were Americans and, hot damn, taking a real Marine Expeditionary Force—Cobras, Harriers, CH-53’s, SAWs, M240’s, the whole shebang—against the damn Somalian SAM site and blowing the living shit out of it, foreign politics be damned.

But of course, Gunnery Sergeant James Melfi had been in the Marines long enough to not have an opinion in these matters. If Madcap Magician wanted to pretend they were merely pissed-off mercenaries hired by a pissed-off and jealous African dictator who wanted to get back in power in Somalia, so be it.

“All right, girls, let’s move it out,” said Melfi, prodding his men to board the double-bladed Chinook transport. Captain Peter Gordon, who’d been conferring with the pilots, frowned at him—he’d already bawled Melfi out twice today for using “inappropriate language.”

“Sergeant?” snapped the captain.

“Pussies are all hot and wet for you, Captain,” said Gunny with as straight a face as he could manage.

“HELOS BEARING THREE-NINER.”

“Confirmed.” Mack Smith glanced at the way marker on his INS and put his plane into a bank away from the path the two helicopters were taking. “Poison Flight, prepare to break. Let’s do this the way we drew it up.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

The four F-16’s now split into two different flights, Mack and his wingman staying southeast of the helicopters while the others flew north. Mack scanned the glow of instruments in the Viper cockpit, then snapped his APG-68 radar into ground-attack mode. He was ahead of schedule, but had had trouble picking out the target during last night’s exercise and wanted to take no chances this time.

“Helicopters should be putting down now,” he told his wingman, Captain Kevin Sullivan. Sullivan acknowledged. Packing a pair of HARM missiles, Sullivan was to watch for any radar indication that would indicate SAM activity. The HARMs, or High-speed Anti-Radiation Missiles, were designed to home in on the powerful radar systems used by SAMs. In this particular scenario, they were looking for an SA-3 battery, a medium-altitude, medium-range missile system protecting an installation on the northern coast of Somalia.

The simulated coast of Somalia. They were actually flying over Ethiopia.

“Ground team inbound,” snapped the Chinook pilot on cue. The secure, coded KY-58 com system rendered the voice almost metallic. “Taking fire. LZ is hot.”

“Poison One riding in,” said Mack. He snapped the sidestick hard, rolling into a dive from 18,500 feet. Mack gave a quick glance toward his radar-warning receiver, making sure he was not being tracked. He mimed hitting his master arm switch, working through his routine as if he were actually carrying the four GBU-24 laser-guided bombs and six five-hundred-pound “dumb” or unguided bombs they planned to use on the mission.

“SA-3 site is up,” said Sullivan. “Dotted. HARM away. You’re clean.”

In theory, the most serious antiair site Mack would face had just been taken care of before it could launch missiles.

Knife, meanwhile, had put his Viper into a steep dive toward the target. His targeting system in the HUD projected a diamond smack on the long wall at the base below; the wall was simulating a tank.

“Bombs away,” he said, pretending to pickle the iron off his wings. He jostled the wings up and down, as if simulating the g forces as three thousand pounds fell off, beginning to recover and position himself to fire the laser-designated GBUs on the ground team’s cue.

* * *

GUNNY FELT HIS KNEE TWINGE AS HE TROTTED TOWARD his two-man SPG team. He tried to ignore it, grumbling as the F-16 banked above.

“All right, tank is wiped out,” he told the men. “Get the machine gun. Come on, let’s go, let’s go. This ain’t a pleasure cruise. Move it!”

“Bam,” said the loader after the gunner mimed the weapon firing.

“Good, okay, okay,” shouted Gunny. The men were leaping over the wall, firing live rounds at the empty warehouse.

A fresh flare rose in the distance. Captain Gordon trotted up, a nightscope in his hand. There were only three night-vision binoculars assigned to the entire thirty-member assault team.

“Looking good, Sergeant,” said Gordon.

“Uh-huh,” said Melfi. His knee was really screaming now, but there was no time to baby it. With the first and second ring of ground defenses now wiped out, the six men on his right were supposed to move in and take out the surface-to-ship batteries installed along the railhead. The Silkworm missile launchers were being simulated by a pair of old Land Rovers at the far end of the warehouse complex. Gunny half-trotted, half-walked behind the fire team as they scrambled forward. As they bolted over the wall that had played the role of the tank, they suddenly stopped.

“What’s going on?” he yelled at them over the wall.

“Supposed to be an armored car,” hissed one of the men, reminding him of the scenario. “We’re hitting it with the LANTIRN for the F-16.”

“Shit. Right. Sony,” said Gunny, taking advantage of the break to walk around to the edge of the wall rather than struggling over it. Meanwhile, the fire team leader illuminated the pretend target so the F-16 above could hit it with GBU-24’s.

“Destroyed!” yelped the team’s corn specialist, who was communicating with the plane.

Gunny followed along as the team proceeded to the parking area where the Silkworms were supposed to be. The Marines moved quickly—a little too quickly, of course, since there was no one actually in front of them. The two demolition specialists set their charges on the Land Rovers.

“Move out, move out!” called the team leader.

Gunny retreated with the others. He barely made it back to the wall before the cars blew up.

“Okay, into the helicopter!” Captain Gordon screamed.

Gunny permitted himself a moment’s worth of satisfaction, staring at the flaming trucks. They’d made sure the gas tanks were full—might as well have one big boom. Then he walked back toward the LZ, where the helicopter was winding its props.

“HELO OUTBOUND,” SMITH TOLD HIS FLIGHT.

The other pilots checked in as the four F-16’s proceeded to their postattack rendezvous point. In theory, two HARM missiles, six five-hundred-pound iron bombs, and a total of eight GBU-24’s had been fired at the ground installation on the coast of Somalia, all scoring hits. Destroyed were two SA-2 and four SA-3 ground-to-air launchers, along with their radar vans and specialized crews. More importantly, two batteries of Silkworm antiship missiles had also been wiped out. Not to mention one tank, one armored car, and an unspecified number of Somies.

Fantastic. Now if the Iranians and Somalians would cooperate, the operation could proceed.

Smith squirmed in the F-16 seat. Canted back at thirty degrees to make it more comfortable in high-g maneuvers, it felt awkward to him, almost as if he were sitting in a dentist’s chair. He knew that eventually he’d get used to it, but that didn’t soothe the kinks in his shoulders.

Mack checked the time. Four-forty. They had plenty of time to go again, as planned. But before he could signal the helicopter, their ground controller broke in.