But that didn’t account for the surface-to-air missiles that had been fired, or pure bad luck. The SA-2’s were equipped with terminal guidance devices that allowed them to home in on an enemy even if their ground units were wiped out. Worse, as far as Knife was concerned, were the SA-6’s—nasty medium-range missiles that weren’t supposed to be here, but were now sending his warning gear into a high-pitched shriek.
And the SA-3. Not to mention triple-A, which erupted with a red cloud to the northeast.
Knife’s head swirled in a tempest of colors and sweat. The warning receiver was still bleating. He pulled the Fighting Falcon over, yanking the F-16 nearly backward in the air, altitude dropping abruptly as he fired off more chaff.
Pulling back on the sidestick at fifteen thousand feet, he found the target area in his windshield. Someone had even fired a flare to show him where everything was.
Thoughtful.
Knife forgot about the SAMs and the antiair and the RWR as he saw the muzzle flash of an ancient M47 tank foam red about three o’clock in his screen. The tank was his primary target if the ground team ran into trouble.
Which obviously it had.
“Poison One, targeting tank,” he said. His pipper slid over the dark shadow of the turret before he realized he hadn’t had any communication from the ground team at all since the helo had called with their time-to-landing.
It was too late to worry about that now. Red fingers jabbed out toward his eyes; he ignored the flak and pushed the trigger on his stick, pickling two five-hundred-pound bombs into the tank. As he started to pull out he saw another ground missile launch; he nudged his stick to the right and called the launch, at the same time riding forward to dump iron on the launcher. If Poison Two acknowledged, its broadcast was lost in the blur of gravity and the roar of his F-16A’s GE F-110 turbofan as he pickled, then jerked hard to get away from the new missiles.
THEY HAD JUST TARGETED THE TANK WHEN A LOUD whistle sounded above them. Before Gunny could shield his eyes, the night flashed white. The tank erupted in a two-fisted swirl of fire, dirt, and metal sailing in every direction.
“About fucking time,” growled Melfi, picking himself up. “Forward, forward! Tank’s history. Go, girls!”
One of his men began screaming on his right. Gunny ran up and found Lance Corporal Gaston curled over a large splash of tangled uniform, half his side blown open by bomb fragments. The medic reached him in the next second; Gunny saw him wince and realized Gaston wasn’t going to make it. He straightened, saw that half the kid’s arm was lying on the ground.
“Get those fucking ship missiles,” Melfi yelled, pulling his M-16 to his side. He ignored the complaint from his knee and began to run toward the heaviest gunfire.
SMITH WHIPPED BACK TOWARD THE TARGET AREA, finally satisfied that he had ducked the SAMs. A wall of tracers illuminated the coastline, thrown up by four or five Russian-built ZSU-23 antiaircraft guns. It occurred to him that he was only seeing a fourth or a fifth of the actual bullets being fired, since only the tracers showed in the dark. A shitload of lead was being propelled into the sky.
Fired blindly, but dangerous nonetheless. Knife clicked his radio, asking Poison Two for his position.
No answer.
“Two, this is Poison Leader, posit?”
Nothing.
“Two? Give me your position. Two? Posit?”
“Poison Two blind,” his wingman finally replied. “Two-one-one for one-three off egress.”
Smith blew a long sigh into his mask before plotting his wingman’s position with the bearings he’d broadcast. He thought he’d gone down.
“All right, you’re five, six miles south of me, due south,” Knife told him.
“Poison One, copy. I have you on radar. I’m Angels twenty-five. Out of arrows, Knife. I took some flak but I’m okay. Engine’s fine. Controls responding.”
“You’re hit?”
“Roger. Fuel’s fine. Nothing bad, but I can see burn marks on the wing and I felt it.”
Knife glanced at his own fuel gauge, calculating that he had enough for perhaps five more minutes’ worth of action before hitting bingo, the theoretical turnaround point. He was still carrying four GBUs under his wings.
They were intended for the Silkworms. But the ground team still hadn’t checked in, which meant that they weren’t in position to illuminate the targets with their laser designators.
He’d have to do it himself. No big deal, as long as he could find the targets beyond the wall of flak.
Assuming his wingman was okay.
“Two, if you can hold an orbit, I’m going to mop up.”
“Copy. Go for it, Knife. I’m fine.”
Smith tried hailing the ground team as he plotted a course toward the Silkworms. He climbed to just over twenty thousand feet, well out of reach of the flak. But the air seemed to percolate with it, his Viper shuddering as he came up on the dirt landing strip that marked the western end of the target zone.
The radio static cleared as he eyeballed the master arm panel.
“Poison One, we are sparking the target. Repeat, sparking your target.”
About fucking time, he thought, acknowledging and leaning slightly on his right wing. He was ten miles from the site. Eyes pasted on the video screen, he hunted for his target. There were vague blurs, but no cues, no nothing. The LANTIRN targeting gear was having a hell of a time sorting through the battlefield smoke. In the meantime, the cloud of flak had moved in his direction.
“Poison One, have you acquired?”
“Negative,” he groused. “Just make sure you got it on.”
“We’re taking fire.”
Yeah, no shit. Join the party.
He was less than five miles from the target and running over a minefield of antiaircraft fire before the target finally crystallized in his monitor. The sparkle had a big, fat Chinese-made SS-N-2 missile dead on; he goosed off one GBU, then released another, just to be sure.
“Find me another target,” he barked.
The magic flashlight moved to a new target. As he was about to launch he realized he was about to overfly his target. He pickled anyway, got messed up, confused, lost himself for a second pulling around to retarget. His RWR screamed a fresh warning and for a half second Mack Smith fell completely apart, lost his concentration and the plane, fell behind himself in a whirl of gravity-fed vertigo, the F-16 responding to his sharp jerk on its fly-by-wire stick.
Jesus, he thought. Oh, God, I’m screwed.
THE ANTISHIP MISSILE SITE ERUPTED WITH A CASCADE of secondary explosions, each bigger than the last, as if a series of larger and larger gas cans had been ignited with a pack of firecrackers.
“That’s it, let’s go, let’s go!” Gunny shouted. The explosions were so intense he could feel their heat on his face, and he was nearly a half mile away.
“The pilot wants more targets!” shouted the corn specialist.
“Tell him he’s blown everything to hell,” shouted Gunny, grabbing the man with the target designator and yanking him backward. “We’re going while the going is good! Come on, girls! Come the fuck on!”
His men finally snapped to behind him as he trotted back toward the LZ. The explosions at the missile-launching pad had shocked the defenders silent, but Gunny knew that wasn’t going to last. He fanned his arms through the air, urging his men back toward the waiting Chinook.
He found himself standing at the spot where Gaston had been hit.
He glanced down, looking for the remains of the poor kid’s lost arm, thinking to give it a decent burial.
Wasn’t there.
A fresh explosion snapped him back to life. He whirled around, saw his point man trotting toward him, a grin on his face. Jerry Jackson was first in and last out.
“Hey, Sarge.”
“Jackson, knock that fucking watermelon grin off your face and get moving,” Gunny yelled.