China Sea (55 page)

Like he had at Khafji. When the Iraqi armor had come through, and they were surrounded in the deserted town.

The colonel had climbed out of the tank in his natty greens and black beret like Saddam himself. And from atop a building overlooking a shabby square the sniper had put the crosshairs down on him. He'd taken one more click for the wind, taken a slow breath and half let it out, and then slowly squeezed the trigger and shot him and then shot the three other officers who sat frozen in the staff car, a moment before talking to the man whose skull had suddenly opened like a grisly tulip in front of them, the enlisted boys recovering and diving for cover but the staffies just sitting there with their seat belts still buckled, looking around in alarm as he killed them one after the other, a downhill shot so he held a little high, just above their heads, and when they were crossed off he'd gone back to the tank and shot the colonel again just to make sure till he rolled off his still-seated perch on the frontal armor and fell facedown into a long sky-streaked puddle-rut filled with the rain that had fallen all that day.

He hadn't felt much about it. The man was a soldier. If he didn't want to get his ass shot, he shouldn't have put on the uniform and invaded somebody else's country.

Rifle tucked protectively along his side, he stared out into the passing night.

*   *   *

At 0150, the whole desert ahead suddenly turned to white fire. It outlined the lead helicopter with a rapidly growing halo of brilliant light. The pilot could see its rotors going around.

He hauled into a hard bank, his goggles flaring into a solid blinding brilliance as the light kept increasing. He pushed them up, close to panic, and saw the light pouring down across the desert as the fire climbed toward the sky. For a moment he couldn't tell what it was.

“It's a fucking SCUD,” breathed his copilot.

“Tag the waypoint, god damn it, tag it now. Intel officers love that shit.”

A wall of tracers rose suddenly and all at once out of the black desert, blazing toward and then over them. They were huge, brilliant, but the pilot could barely see them. Dazzling afterimages chased themselves across his blinded retinas, fear chased itself through his hands. They were ZSU-23s. A four-barreled, twenty-three-millimeter son of a bitch with a dish radar on a tank chassis, and for every one of those huge balls of tracer there were three in between that weren't. If they got him locked up on radar, he was dead. He popped chaff but knew it might not help.

Out of control, the helicopter lurched to starboard, rotor tips clawing toward the sand.

*   *   *

The National Guard major lay with her eyes fixed on the overhead, trying not to throw up. She'd felt sick since they took off. She hated helicopters. She didn't think this was going to work. She'd said so over and over. A squad of grunts, on foot, trying to stop what a mad dictator had had years and billions to prepare? What the CIA said it couldn't find, and the Air Force said it couldn't attack? It was ludicrous. It wasn't the way the Army she knew operated. These people were insane. Totally unconnected to reality.

But they wouldn't listen to her. Oh, she knew why. When four stars gave an order, that was the burning bush. All the regulars had to salaam. But it wasn't just that. Even she had to admit that.

For just a moment she wondered if it could be true. She knew Doctor Rihab Taha. She was smart and she was cold. But could she do something like this? Could any physician? No, it was bullshit. It had to be bullshit.

But with a million innocent lives at stake—men, women, and children—you couldn't take a chance. Not with something like that.

When they asked her, she had to say she'd try.

And horrible though it had been so far, it was getting worse now. Something was going on outside. A terrifying roar came through the tortured howl of the engine. Light played through the canted windows, throwing flickering shadows across the greasepainted faces around her. She flung her arms out instinctively as the nose pitched up, as gay bright Independence Day sparklers she recognized after a horrified instant as tracers burned past the door gunner. Then the flame was in with them, a jolt and a deafening bang cracked through the metal around her. And God help her, she hadn't meant to, but that was her screaming as they went down.

*   *   *

The team leader reached out and grabbed the two people closest to him. They weren't restrained. If the helo went in they'd all ballistic through the cockpit windshield a fraction of a second after the pilots. But that was what you did, held on to those closest to you. Because that was all there was to do.

The M60 gunner was firing, not bursts like you were trained to, just a steady clatter. The muzzle was outboard the aircraft and it sounded distant, like it was in a far room. Another round came through the fuselage, blinding bright and loud as a stun grenade in a close room. Blinded, deafened, he braced for the impact. So this was the end. They were right, the ones who'd said it was too risky. He'd pulled the team together in haste, and only half-trained it. He'd told the CO he didn't think it would work. If what they wanted him to find even existed. But the boss had said do it, and Semper Fi. Hey diddle diddle, right up the middle.

And now they were heading for the desert floor, and bodies were sliding toward him and then lifting off the deck as the aircraft nosed over and headed down again.

Clamping his teeth together, holding tight to the men he'd hoped to lead, he closed his eyes and waited for the end.

ST. MARTIN'S PAPERBACKS YITLES BY
DAVID POYER

THE THREAT

THE COMMAND

BLACK STORM

CHINA SEA

TOMAHAWK

THE PASSAGE

THE CIRCLE

THE GULF

THE MED

BLOCKBUSTER PRAISE FOR DAVID POYER AND CHINA SEA

“Poyer's characters are as good as ever, and the action scenes lively.”

—Library Journal

“The battle scenes are scintillating and satisfying … Poyer displays a fine sense of pace and plot.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Action, realism, and exotic locales … an absorbing, exciting, and thought-provoking experience.”

—Chesapeake Life

“An exciting story … The author's vivid descriptions of life on a ship show us not only the ‘Anchors Aweigh' honor and dedication, but also the boiler-room sweat and frustrations of naval life.”

—Virginia Times

“Poyer springs plenty of action on us … his narration and dialogue ring true.”

—Jacksonville Times-Union

“Poyer brings the courage, honor, and commitment of sea duty to life in this vivid portrayal of life aboard a Knox-class frigate … the details describing life at sea are captivating as the action is continually rolling along, and each page pulls a new twist into the architecture of the story. In the end, the reader is treated to a fantastic battle that pulls each of the story threads together as a tightly woven yarn … the scales of intrigue, from murder, piracy, and battle to international diplomacy, capture the imagination with lifelike characters of heroes and villains most naval readers can link to real people met during their own world travels …
China Sea
belongs in the library of avid fiction readers.”

—Shipmate

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

CHINA SEA

Copyright © 2000 by David Poyer.

Excerpt from
Black Storm
copyright © 2001 by David Poyer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-055067

ISBN: 0-312-97450-7

EAN: 978-0-312-974503

St. Martin's Press hardcover edition / March 2000

St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / May 2001

St. Martin's Paperbacks are published by St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

eISBN 9781466848245

First eBook edition: June 2013