Whiplash (45 page)

The MC-17 didn’t have that capability. But it did have the Ospreys.

“Greasy Hands, when you load the Ospreys into the bay, do they go in head first or tail first?” she asked, turning around to the chief.

“Tail first. Want to be able to take off right away. Truth of it, though, I don’t think it matters.”

“Do you think you could fire the cannon from inside the cargo hold?”

“Shit, I don’t know.”

“It’s either that or get used to Iranian food for quite a while.”

Greasy Hands unbuckled his seat belt. So did the loadmaster across from him.

Captain Frederick was breathing hard. His hand trembled on the yoke.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Breanna told him. “But maybe I should fly the plane through this. OK?”

“Colonel, that’s fine,” said Frederick.

“You’re doing all right. Just hang with me.”

One of the Iranian jets came up close to the side. The other remained behind them.

“You will comply or be shot down,” said the lead Iranian.

Breanna flipped on the cockpit lights, making sure he could see. Then she gave the Iranian a thumbs-up.

“I need to know the heading and the airport data,” she told
the Iranian. “And how long is the runway? Will I be able to land? How strong is the wind?”

“You will turn to ten degrees, northeast.”

“Which airport am I going to?”

“You will turn to ten degrees, northeast.”

“I have to tell my superiors where I am going,” she said. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

The plane behind her fired a short burst. One of the bullets grazed the bottom of the fuselage.

“All right, I’m turning,” said Breanna, slowing down.

G
REASY
H
ANDS WAS ALREADY OUT OF BREATH AS HE
reached the bottom of the ladder from the flight deck. He pushed himself toward the Ospreys, which were secured close to the ramp.

Danny Freah jumped up from his seat.

“Gotta get to the Osprey,” Greasy Hands told him, huffing toward the aircraft.

“What’s going on?” asked Danny, following.

“Iranians. Bree’s got something up her sleeve. Help me.”

Parsons slipped as the C-17 dipped. Danny caught him, holding him upright against the second Osprey.

“We need to get into number two,” said Greasy Hands. He pushed upright and ran to the aircraft nearest the tail. The chief twisted past the retaining strap and squeezed into the cockpit, pushing down into the pilot’s seat.

There were two problems with Breanna’s idea. The Ospreys were transported with their wings folded up over the body, extending toward and over the front of the aircraft. That made it difficult to see through the windscreen. But they wouldn’t have much room to aim anyway; the best strategy would be to fire straight back, hoping to catch the Iranian plane by surprise.

The second problem was more formidable. The computer initiated a systems lockdown when the aircraft was in transport mode. There was a software override, but Greasy Hands had no time to initiate it. Instead, he ducked under the panel and pulled
out the master power feed, killing the computer entirely.

“I gotta get power into this panel to get the gun working,” he told Danny. It was a shortcut they’d often used while checking the mechanical systems, but it would still take time to implement. “Tell Bree it’s gonna be a few minutes. She’s gonna have to move in front of the Sukhoi when she wants to fire. She’s aiming. And tell the loadmaster not to open the ramp until I say so.”

“You’re opening the ramp?” said Danny.

“Well I sure as hell ain’t gonna fire through the door,” said Greasy Hands, trying to picture the wiring diagram in his head.

B
REANNA TOOK THE TURN AS SLOWLY AS SHE COULD, LETTING
the MC-17 drift downward and to the west, edging closer to the border. The F-15s tried another hail but weren’t answered.

The Iranian on her right wing pulled a little closer. She used that as an excuse to duck off to the left.

“Whoa, don’t get so close!” she shouted over the open microphone. “You’re going to hit us!”

“Get back on course,” said the pilot behind her.

“Get that guy off my wing. I can’t fly! I can’t fly!” She put as much panic into her voice as possible.

“Calm down, Yankee.”

“Get him to move off. Please.
Please!
”

The Sukhoi started away. Breanna checked her watch. The Eagles were about five minutes away. She was a little more than three from the border.

She cut her power again.

“No games!” said the Iranian behind her. He punctuated his message with a few rounds from his cannon. They passed overhead and to her right.

“We’re ready!” said Danny over the interphone. He’d grabbed a headset downstairs.

“Open the hatch, and hang on. I have to dip low—you’ll have about two seconds to nail the son of a bitch.”

“Go for it!”

“Crew, hang on,” said Breanna.

A light on her panel came on, indicating the rear ramp was opening.

“One thousand one, one thousand two—now!” said Breanna. She shoved the aircraft downward, its tail directly in the nose of the Sukhoi.

“F
IRE
! F
IRE
! F
IRE!” YELLED
D
ANNY, WHO WAS STANDING ON
the skid on the right side of the Osprey, his arms clamped around the spar. He could see the nose of an Iranian plane less than fifty feet away.

Greasy Hands pressed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

“Fire!”

Greasy Hands cursed, then slammed his hand on the yoke button. Bullets sputtered from the chin of Osprey, streaming from the belly of the big cargo plane.

The pilot in the Sukhoi couldn’t understand what was happening as the plane swooped and its tail opened. He thought the American might be bailing out. As he started to correct to get back on the MC-17’s wing, tracers flew through the air at him. He pushed hard to his right, tumbling away.

“Flares!” yelled Breanna, slamming the throttle to military power. “Button up down there and hang on!”

She pushed the MC-17 hard left, sliding into a turn toward the Iraqi border. The aircraft fell through the sky, skidding in the air. It wasn’t designed for high g evasive maneuvers like a fighter was; it shuddered and creaked and complained, whining about the forces trying to tear its wings apart.

But it held together nonetheless.

The Iranian pilots circled around to follow. But the surprise gunfire from the rear of their aircraft had thrown them off, and they hesitated before pressing an attack.

Just for a few seconds.

“Missiles in the air!” yelled Frederick, his voice drowning out the alarm from the launch warning indicator. “Heat seekers! Two! Three!”

“More flares,” said Breanna calmly.

The decoy flares shot out around the plane, sucking away the missiles as Breanna pitched the MC-17 into a half turn, feinting north again but pulling back toward Iraq.

“More missiles!”

“Flares.”

The big plane shook and started to drop as Breanna tried a hard jink to the right. The plane began to stall—it simply couldn’t do what she wanted and stay in the air.

Breanna eased back on the controls, dipping the nose slightly to gain a little more speed. The first missile sniffed the decoys and exploded behind them.

The second hit the outboard right engine.

The plane quaked. Breanna felt the shake run up through her hand and into her spine.

She knew exactly how this felt. She’d felt it before, over India, flying an EB-52.

That time, there had been multiple hits. She’d wrestled the plane out over the ocean where they could be rescued.

She’d also been in an EB-52, built to deal with serious abuse. Not a C-17, which generally didn’t encounter anything nastier than a bird strike.

“Going through two thousand feet!” said Frederick.

They were falling.

“Fifteen hundred feet!”

“Help me with the engines,” Breanna told him.

They shut down engine four, trying to compensate by trimming their controls and adjusting the other engines.

“We need more altitude,” warned Frederick.

The F-15s, meanwhile, were coming in range of their AMRAAMs. The Iranians changed course north, trying to get away.

“Globemaster, do you require assistance?” asked the lead F-15 pilot.

“Chase them away. We’ll take care of the rest,” said Breanna.

“Coming through fourteen hundred feet,” said Fredericks, “going to—going to fifteen hundred feet.”

They were climbing. They had it under control.

“Let’s bring it up to three thousand and hold it there,” said Breanna. “Until we catch our breath.”

Washington, D.C.
Three days later

S
ENATOR
J
EFFREY
“Z
EN
” S
TOCKARD ROLLED HIS WHEELCHAIR
forward as the C-20 taxied up the ramp, lights twinkling in the dim evening haze. The aircraft stopped less than ten yards away; a moment later the forward doorway opened and the stairs popped down.

“Mama, Mama!” cried Teri Stockard, running from her father’s side as Breanna appeared in the doorway.

Teri caught her at the foot of the steps, wrapping her in a bear hug.

“Hey, love, I’m so glad to see you,” Breanna said, returning the hug. “I missed you so much.”

“I’m sorry,” said Teri. Tears were falling from her eyes.

“What are you sorry about?”

“That I yelled at you.”

“It’s OK, baby.” Breanna pulled her closer. “I’m sorry I missed your show. But I promise I’ll be at the next one.”

“It’s OK if you’re not. I understand.”

“Hey there, little girl.”

“Uncle Danny!” Teri hugged him.

“I owe you some bedtime stories, huh?” he said.

“Yes.”

“All right. I’ll see you soon.”

The rest of the Whiplash team smiled as they passed by. None of them were married, and their closest family members lived many miles away.

“So we’re on for lunch Thursday,” Danny told Nuri, catching up to him. “Then we get back to work.”

“Sounds good.” Nuri stretched his back. He’d gotten a kink in the plane ride on the way home. “This place better be good.”

“It is. Or it was two weeks ago. Senator Stockard recommended it,” added Danny, pointing to Zen.

Zen had been hanging back to give his daughter and wife some space for their reunion. He pushed his wheelchair toward them.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Zen told the CIA officer. “I’m Bree’s husband.”

“Senator, it’s an honor.”

“Call me Zen.” Zen looked at Danny. “You guys have fun?”

“Always,” said Danny.

“Up for a baseball game next week? Dodgers are in town.”

“I should be able to work it out. If the boss doesn’t crack the whip too hard.”

“I hear she runs a tight ship,” said Zen.

Danny smiled, and turned back to look at Breanna. They’d given the team the next week off, but he and Nuri were heading back to work on Thursday. They’d already been debriefed by National Security and CIA staffers, but the President had asked for a personal report.

Nuri wanted to get it over with so he could join the team debriefing Tarid, who was currently at an Army base in Germany, bonding with a pair of CIA interrogators. How useful he’d be remained to be seen—with the collapse of the plot to build a secret bomb, the Iranian Revolutionary Guard was in disarray. Information about Bani Aberhadji coursed freely
through the Iranian media, which was enjoying a rare period of openness as the newly emboldened president flexed his political muscles. How long this would last was anyone’s guess, but at the moment relations between the U.S. and Iran were at an all-time high.

In fact, Iran was acting like a serious and responsible member of the world community for the first time since the Revolution. The country had not recognized Israel, but it had denounced a recent terror strike in the Gaza strip in unusually strong terms—an unprecedented gesture.

As for Whiplash, a great deal of work lay ahead. The team would have to be expanded. The lines of responsibility would have to be straightened out. They’d have to decide whether Hera was staying or not.

But that was in the future. Right now they’d all earned a rest. Danny was thinking baseball; Nuri was looking forward to catching up on his sleep. Flash had a few movies to catch up on. Hera was headed for a week on the sand and margaritas in Miami.

Even Breanna was going to take a few days off, as she promised her daughter when she finally released her from her hug.

“I thought we could do some girl things,” Breanna told her.

“Like save the world?” said Zen, rolling close.

“That
is
a girl thing,” she told him, leaning over to kiss him. “But that’s not what I had in mind.”

“Uh-oh,” laughed Zen. “Something tells me the next few days are going to cost me a small fortune.”

“Oh, no, Zen,” said Breanna. “It won’t be a
small
fortune at all.”

“A big one,” shouted Teri, hugging her father. “A real big one. Right, Mom?”