Wraith (28 page)

Nick picked himself up just in time to see Haven loft the five-thousand-pound bomb. He watched in awe as it continued to climb, almost keeping pace with the bomber, and then his eyes were drawn back to the B-2 itself. What he saw seemed ludicrous. Drake had the massive bomber completely inverted, and it took only a moment for Nick to realize why. On the surface, a cloud of smoke and dust erupted from the northern SAM system as a missile shot skyward.

“Haven, look out! Missile off the rail! Missile off the rail!” Nick shouted into the radio, but the effort was futile; the bomber was too close to the SAM to maneuver effectively.

The explosions came in rhythmic succession. The SAM detonated first, an oblong ball of fire and black smoke, just above and to the north of the bomber. A good portion of its destructive power was carried upward by its momentum, but not all. Nick watched in horror as the bomber that carried his friends made a strange movement downward and immediately caught fire. Then the second fireball filled the lower periphery of his vision. He quickly dropped to the ground and covered his ears. The air shook around him, and even at his distance, he could feel the heat.

As the last echo of the bunker buster faded, Nick crawled up to the top of Tango and stood up to look out over the aftermath. He followed the trail of smoke and saw Haven disappearing to the south. “Good work, guys. You got 'em,” he said into the radio, not knowing if they could even hear him.

He turned his attention to the north end of the convoy, where the cloud of smoke and debris was just beginning to settle. At first, he couldn't see the SAM vehicle at all, and then, through the swirling dust, he saw a burning black hulk. The bomb had fallen slightly long, but it had still blown the vehicle well west of the road.

“I guess that's close enough for government work,” Nick muttered. He panned south along the road. The damage was not limited to the SAM. Two of the less-armored transports lay scattered in charred pieces. There were no signs of life.

“Talk to me, Wraith.” Oso's voice crackled over the radio. “What do you see?”

“The northern SAM is destroyed,” answered Nick. “Haven crushed it like a bug. But the Iraqi got a shot off. The last I saw, they were heading south, trailing smoke. Their bomb also took out the two vehicles closest to the target SAM. Stand by for more.”

Farther down the road, things improved dramatically for the Iraqis. The vehicles that had continued south fared much better. Another transport was overturned and out of commission, but there were men climbing out of it. A fourth transport, a pair of Jeeps, and the lead SAM all appeared completely unharmed. Nick reported what he saw.

“Roger,” said Oso. “Sit tight for just a little longer. We'll take care of that SAM and you'll be home free.”

Nick was just thinking that Oso might be counting chickens a little early when a flash to his right caught his attention. He panned back along the road and saw an Iraqi soldier, holding a pair of binoculars up to his eyes. He wasn't panning back and forth, searching for aircraft. His lenses were fixed directly on Nick.

Nick dropped to his knees and crawled down behind the crest of the ridge. He had just committed the cardinal sin of evasion, standing exposed on the top of a ridgeline, silhouetted against the sky. He cursed his own stupidity and crawled forward, trying to remain hidden in the sand as he found the man with the binoculars again. His betrayer was now waving and shouting at the occupants of a Jeep. One of them produced a long metal tube with a bulbous protrusion at one end. Nick's heart sank. They had a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. The man stood atop his Jeep and turned the weapon toward Tango.

Nick needed no other prompting. He threw himself into a roll and tumbled down the west side of the ridge. Halfway down, he leapt to his feet and ran south, trying to gain plenty of separation from his last position. When he could no longer stand the feeling of impending doom, he dove back into the hill, covering his head. The blast quickly followed. A shower of sand pelted his body. He had to give them credit for aim. The RPG hit just east of the ridgetop, right where he had been standing.

Nick rolled onto his back and breathed hard, staving off a feeling of panic. If he wanted to survive he had to keep it together. He had to get back to the crest and keep his eye on the threat.

Lying prone, back at the top of the ridge, Nick scanned the Iraqi line. He had hoped they would continue to take potshots with RPGs. At this range, he could dodge their attacks as long as he saw the launches. But the soldiers were too smart for that. Eight men piled into the two Jeeps, each team armed with an RPG launcher and a vehicle-mounted fifty-caliber machine gun. They turned west and left the road.

Nick shrank back from the crest and lifted the radio. “Sandy One, this is Wraith.”

“Go ahead.”

“They found me,” Nick said, too ashamed to admit that he had practically signaled the Republican Guard by standing on top of the ridge. “Two Jeeps armed with RPGs and fifty-cals. They left the road and they're headed this way.”

There was a short space of static and then Oso replied. “Roger that, Wraith. Don't worry. We'll get them.”

Oso's words sounded hollow in his own ears. It was as if the clock on a time bomb had just accelerated, spinning rapidly through its countdown. Under the protection of the SAM, the Jeeps could rush west with utter impunity, and he didn't know if he could take out the missile system before they reached Nick. He had to start another Irish Cross, and quickly, but he feared the result. The first attack had cost him all his weapons. This time, the final missile had to come from Sidearm.

“Sounds like Wraith is in trouble, Sandy One,” said Tank. “What's the plan?” He sounded impatient, just like Nick had sounded over France during Clean Hunter.

Oso felt a cold sweat forming on his forehead. His breath shortened and there was an insistent ringing in his ears, growing louder all the time. He shut his eyes tight and let out a guttural scream. He had told Torch—he had told
himself
—that he was over this.

“Come on, boss,” Tank pushed. “Wraith is living on borrowed time.”

Oso opened his eyes and focused on his wingman. Sidearm had performed admirably in the battle so far, so different from the struggling student he had been. He was confident, capable—a combat pilot in command of his own actions.

The ringing in Oso's ears began to diminish. He heard Torch's soft but firm voice as clearly as if the commander was sitting next to him.
In the end, it's their choice, not yours.

Oso's breathing came easier. His hands steadied. “Sandy Flight, listen up,” he commanded. “We've got to do this quick and we've got to do it right. We're going to take out that SAM first. Then we're going to wipe those Jeeps clean off the desert floor. The attack will be an Irish Cross. My element will be the shooters with Maverick and gun. Sandy Two will take the missile shot. Three, your element will provide cover—gun only. As soon as the threat is down, we'll move in on the Jeeps with everything we've got. Does everyone understand the plan?”

The flight responded in sequence with affirmatives.

“Good,” said Oso. “Sandy Flight, Irish Cross on my mark in three . . . two . . . one . . . mark!”

*   *   *

Once again, Nick felt a surge of emotion and adrenaline as he watched the four Hogs break past the ridge to his north and south. Four men, three of whom he'd never met, were placing their own lives as a barrier between him and the enemy. With a mix of grim determination and intense anger, he drew his weapon, unsure what he meant to do with it but desperate to be part of the attack. He brought the radio up as well, ready to provide more warnings of enemy blowback.

To the southwest of the SAM, Sandy Four began his climb to perform a whifferdill and get the operator's attention. He was safely out of the SAM's range, but the operator took the bait anyway, just as before. The SAM, which had been pointed directly west, now turned to the southwest in anticipation of an air attack, but Sandy Four simply faded back to the sand and raced away.

Directly to Nick's south, Sandy Three entered a shallow climb. At the far edge of the SAM's range, he rolled in, leveled his wings, and opened up with a barrage of fire from his GAU-8 cannon. Nick saw the ripple of sparks and then heard a glorious crackle as the volley of thirty-millimeter rounds pelted the SAM's armor. The missiles swiveled farther south to point at the threat but Three was already out of range.

“It's working,” Nick said cautiously, turning just in time to see Sandy Two roll in from the north. He turned back to the SAM, hoping that it would still be pointing to the south. But hope failed. The missile launcher was slowly rotating to meet the new threat. “He's on to you, Sandy Two,” Nick transmitted. “Get a move on!”

“I've got a good target,” the pilot replied with the intensity of a man who is utterly focused on his task. “I've almost got the lock.”

“Wraith's right,” Oso interjected. “He's tracking you. I'm rolling in to suppress.”

Visions of the fiasco in France filled Nick's mind as he watched Oso bank toward the SAM and accelerate. He feared both pilots would be lost. “You're too far away. You'll never make it!” he shouted. But Oso did not wait to reach normal strafing range. Instead, he entered a climb and drew a line of gun smoke across the sky, lofting a hail of bullets at the SAM. He had solved his distance problem by elevating his gun, a basic tenet of artillery fire. As the roar of the cannon echoed across the sand, Nick prayed that the long-range tactic would be enough to save the wingman, to save them all.

Drake struggled to keep his failing bird in the air as they left Iraqi airspace and headed out over the gulf. “How's it coming over there?” he asked Danny.

“I think I'm beginning to win the battle,” Danny replied. “I recovered most of our electrical components by rerouting the circuits from the failed engines to the good ones. I've also isolated the bleeding hydraulic system, so you shouldn't lose any more of the flight controls. Work your way to a westerly heading and let's make for Kuwait. We might not have to eject. We might make the runway.”

“Great,” Drake grunted as he struggled to turn the aircraft, coaxing it higher to increase their chances. “I'm starting a climb. I don't feel like going for a swim today.”

“Me, either; I hear the water out here smells like gas.” Danny began to pull out the charts for Kuwait, but then he stopped and abruptly turned to Drake. “What about the danger of exposing the op?”

“We'll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, your only other option is a nice swim in the oily waters of the gulf.”

“No, thanks. I'm good.”

After several tense minutes, Drake could see the coastline approaching. Maybe he had been too pessimistic. Their chances of making a successful landing improved with every passing moment. “Get Lighthouse on the SATCOM,” he said. “Request permission to—”

A loud
bang
and a shudder cut Drake off in midsentence. A hideous grinding noise followed and the stealth yawed violently to the left. Within milliseconds, the fire bell rang again and the number four engine warning light flashed red.

“What did you do?” asked Danny.

“Nothing!” Drake punched off the fire light to silence the alarm. “I didn't do anything!”

Danny brought up the engine display on his screen. “It looks like something came loose in number four, probably a leftover chunk of the missile. The engine is burning.”

“And we've got nothing left to fight the fire,” said Drake. The bomber's airspeed began to drop. He had to let the nose fall in order to keep control. “I'm losing altitude.”

“Do you want me to shut it down?”

Drake fought the bomber back to a southerly heading, back out to sea. “No, let it burn. We need whatever thrust it's still giving us to maintain control. We've got to get to deeper water.”

“For the ejection?” asked Danny.

Drake didn't get the chance to respond. Somewhere on the right side of the plane there was a muffled explosion as the fire found a fuel cell. The wing burst into flames. The B-2 streaked over the gulf, trailing thick black smoke while the choppy water below grew ever nearer.

“Keep your hands and arms inside the vehicle at all times,” said Drake, forcing a cheery tone. “This is going to be one wild ride.”

The SAM operator was just about to launch his missile at the northern A-10 when he saw another aircraft driving in from the northeast. He hesitated, unsure which target posed the greater threat. Then his cab erupted in a cacophony of metallic impacts and he instinctively covered his head. Seconds later, a barrage of Arabic curses from the driver told him they had both survived.

The operator sat up. “Ridiculous American fighter jocks,” he spat out. It was the third time that day they had pelted his vehicle with bullets and still they could not penetrate his armor. He decided to launch against the closest target and turned back to his radar screen, but it was too late. Both targets were receding. He'd missed his chance again. Then he froze in fear as he saw a third blip. Experience told him that it was too small and too fast to be an aircraft.

*   *   *

Nick watched with morbid fascination as the Maverick cut a fiery swath through the dusty sky. Despite his enmity for the Iraqi troops, he felt an undeniable sense of dread that came from watching the lives of fellow human beings about to be violently snuffed out.

At the very last moment, the driver attempted to leap from the vehicle. Part of Nick's soul rooted for him, but the man did not stand a chance. The missile entered the SAM launcher like a baseball through a paper target. A millisecond later the warhead detonated, throwing burning debris in all directions. When the smoke cleared, the driver was nowhere to be seen.

Nick heard a crackle and rolled left just in time to dodge a line of fifty-caliber rounds. The Jeeps had closed to gun range. He jumped up and ran south across the west side of the hill, trying to get well out of the way of the explosive round he knew would follow. Just as he dove to the sand, the RPG fell right on top of his last position with an earsplitting blast.

“Sandy, this is Wraith. I need a little help, here!”

*   *   *

Oso saw the explosion on the ridge as he crossed over the convoy, headed back to the west. Small-arms fire from below pelted his aircraft, but he ignored it, a nuisance unworthy of the Warthog's attention. Out ahead, he could see the Jeeps, less than two miles from Nick's position and closing. Tracer rounds streamed out of the lead Jeep's fifty-cal.

He banged the canopy with the side of his fist. They were too far apart. The lead Jeep had enough separation from the other that killing both in a single burst of thirty-millimeter was out of the question. He needed help. “Sandy Three, say posit.”

“Pulling up about a mile to your six, boss,” said Tank. “Are we gonna do something about those guys closing in on your buddy?”

“I guess we'd better,” Oso replied. “I'll lead with gun, but I need your Maverick on one of those Jeeps.”

“Consider it done.”

“Good. The distance between the enemy and our boy is reaching danger close. I'll attack from the north to keep my bullets from ricocheting into Wraith. You come in from the same direction. Two and Four, I need you to stay focused on the convoy and suppress any surprise threats like a man-portable SAM.”

“Which Jeep is mine?” asked Tank.

“I'll take the leader. You take the trailer.”

The action on the ridge looked like a twisted game of Whac-A-Mole. Nick ran, dropped just before an explosion, and then got up and ran again. The Iraqis were now launching their grenades over Tango, and Oso realized they were trying to push Nick back to the east side. If they forced him over the crest of the hill, he would be an easy target for the fifty-cals.

“Jump in anytime, guys!” said Nick, his urgent call underscored by the sound of another grenade exploding in the background.

“Almost there, Wraith.” The lead Jeep was forty-five degrees off Oso's nose and inside of a mile. He pulled the A-10 above the haze and then banked down toward the vehicle, rolling out with his gun pointed twenty yards ahead of it. He carefully depressed his trigger to the first detent, commanding the stabilizer system to steady the aircraft so that he could refine the aim. Then he hammered down, releasing a deadly blend of depleted uranium and high-explosive bullets.

The Iraqis were so focused on their objective that they never saw it coming. Sand exploded all around the Jeep and sparks flew as armor-piercing rounds passed through the metal like so many knives through butter. One round found its way into the gas tank, bringing with it all the heat of a molten uranium slug passing through steel at more than three thousand feet per second. The Jeep burst into flames.

The occupants made no attempt to escape. They couldn't. They were cut to pieces by the rest of the massive bullets well before there was time to react.

“Sandy One, off hot. The lead Jeep is toast!” Oso pulled off the target and began his turn back to the north, looking over his shoulder in time to see Tank bring the nose of his jet around to point at the second Jeep. There was a long pause. Something was wrong. Tank was taking too long to refine his aim. The Jeep was in perfect position and generating plenty of heat; the Maverick seeker should have locked on to its signature almost immediately.

The men in the second Jeep seemed undaunted by the violent death of their comrades. They ignored the carnage before them and shot past in desperate pursuit of the downed American pilot. The gunner fired wildly with the fifty-cal, while the man beside him positioned an RPG in the launcher and shouldered it for another shot over the ridge.

“Take the shot, Three!” Oso shouted, but Tank was already pulling away from the target, his Maverick still fixed to his wing.

“Sandy Three is off dry. I've got a misfire!” Tank responded in disgust.

With fear in his eyes, Oso turned his gaze back toward the Iraqi Jeep. It was too close to Nick. There was no time to make another pass. The man with the RPG raised it to his shoulder and fired.