Authors: J.B. Hadley
“Is everyone all right?” Campbell asked anxiously.
“So far, Mike. Please keep your eye on what you’re doing. Why is the ground rising up at us so quick?”
As they passed south of Teheran and north of Qom, only two hundred feet above the rolling, sandy wastes, two Tomcats searched
for them above.
“Last time I was in a Tomcat was with a crazy bastard called Glasseyes, and he practiced a night landing on the U.S.S.
Constellation
off San Diego. Now we have the same planes up there looking to destroy us. I guess we sold some to the Shah.”
The Iranian pilots did not pick out the camouflaged helicopter against the sandy wastes, and the chopper was either flying
too low for the aircraft radar to pick it up or the radar was defective, as so much Iranian-owned American-made equipment
was these days because of America’s refusal to sell Iran spare parts.
They knew they had it made when an F-14 Phantom jet also failed to spot them. They saw a river ahead, and beneath them they
saw shelters constructed of corrugated zinc, sandbags, and metal ammo cases. Clothes hung out to dry, people went here and
there on motorcycles, and no one on the ground paid any attention to them.
This changed fast when they crossed the river. Antiair-
craft shells exploded around them, and flak tore the metal skin of the fuselage. They had no chance to establish radio communication
because of the suddenness with which they crossed the battle lines from one side to another. All the Iraqis could see was
an invading Iranian helicopter. It would be only a matter of seconds before they took a direct hit.
Mike switched off the twin turbines and yelled, “Autorotation!”
He remembered to push down the collective stick as far as it would go.
The Iraqi officer had a clipped mustache, freshly pressed fatigues, and a British manner.
“Certainly I was surprised to see Afghans emerge from an Iranian helicopter,” he said as they watched a medical evacuation
chopper move Baker to a field hospital, “although you have to be the most unconvincing Afghans I’ve ever seen. When I heard
your American accents, I thought, ‘My God, this is publicity for some film these people are making.9 That fellow we evacuated
seemed a bit upset at you.”
“He was disappointed at not having met the Ayatollah Khomeini,” Mike said.
“I don’t think he missed much.” The officer took them aboard a chopper for the ride to Baghdad. When they were seated, he
looked over their Afghan garb. “Appalling,” he said with a smile. “I take it you have been in Afghanistan.”
Mike nodded.
The officer laughed. “You know, we don’t much like Americans here in Iraq. But now I think we’re slowly coming round to the
opinion that anyone who is hated as much as you are by the Russians and Iranians must have some good in them.”
“Nice to know,” Mike said, and dozed off.
A deadly error by some high-level decision-makers leaves three American defense experts trapped in Afghanistan. The Soviets
are crawling all over the war-torn country looking for them. And any U.S. rescue attempt—any aggressive act of interference—would
be crazy.
It's the kind of job the Point Team is looking for Dangerous. Nearly impossible Up against the tanks, missiles and fully equipped
troops of the Russian army, Special Forces vet Mike Campbell and his band of six specially trained mercs must battle their
way across a land—and controlled—by the Soviets and their Afghan hit men. But the combat-hardened squad is armed and ready
to play the deadliest game of their careers. A game where the odds are low, the stakes are high—and a million dollar payoff
is waiting at the finish line…
They live to fight
And fight to win…
THE
POINT TEAM