Sweat stung his eyes, as well.
So much for central air, he told himself. Then he saw the glittering sea ahead.
Monk Morris wondered if he’d been a fool. Too macho. Too damned pigheaded to be trusted with the lives of United States Marines. Green-lighting those air attacks. Maybe the Air Force knew what it was doing, after all.
He ached for news. He knew that, in the great scheme of the war, seven aircraft didn’t amount to much. But two Marines who counted on him flew inside each one of them. And Dawg Daniels would’ve put his best men in the seats.
Dawg was a can-do Marine. Monk Morris saw himself the same way. Maybe it was a poor combination, he thought. Maybe, at this level, you needed somebody sensible enough to put on the brakes.
He stepped back inside his forward command post and asked, in a voice not quite so firm as he wanted it to be, “Any word on those air missions?”
Dawg Daniels left the nuclear ruins of Haifa behind, burning sky through the gap and bursting into the Jezreel Valley. So green it hurt the eyes. With clouds of artillery smoke thinning as they rose and spread into the atmosphere.
Big sky, little bullet. He hoped. He’d insisted that the artillery missions continue during his run, figuring that a cessation would alert the Jihadis that something was up. Only the defenses around Afula would be spared. Long enough for him to get clean imagery.
More rounds impacting at two o’clock. Somebody was getting a serious clobbering. Dawg didn’t like the idea of taking shrapnel from a Marine 155.
Well, you pays your money, and you takes your chance, he told himself.
He gave the old aircraft every last bit of juice, popping to 4,800 feet AGL. If the bad guys were going to get him, it was going to be now. While he was riding high enough to get the panoramic imagery that corps wanted.
In planning the mission, he’d rationalized the risk in terms of how many lives good intelligence could save in the coming assault on Afula; he figured an attack on the crossroads town was inevitable. But now he was flying on nerves, not reason, and living second to second. Hoping the pod cameras worked. And that the downlink functioned. And that his WSO wasn’t asleep at the wheel.
The aircraft roared over Afula and banked north. That quick. Pulling so many G’s that Dawg imagined rivets flying off the fuselage like popcorn. He dropped to 500 feet, as low as he could go in the broken terrain. With hills coming up fast, he pulled the aircraft up to 800, then 900.
Getting too old for this, he told himself. But in truth, he felt magnificently alive.
The plan was to leave the downlink—an uplink, really—turned on until they’d cleared Nazareth on the way out. Then no more emissions until they were wheels-down.
Mount Tabor on the right. Gotcha. Here we go. Hold on, ladies and gentlemen.
“One more flyboy visits Nazareth,” Dawg told an invisible audience.
The city sprawled out of a deep bowl, covering the surrounding hillsides with shabby high-rises and haphazard slums.
Every caution light in the cockpit seemed to go off at once. Dawg punched out the flares and switched on the active countermeasures. Nothing else to be done. They had him. It was going to be allemissions, all-the-time now. And some wicked metal.
An explosion rocked the aircraft.
They were still flying.
Come on, baby. Gimme some juice. Let’s go, sweetheart.
Whoomf.
The aircraft shook as if a furious giant had crunched it in his fist and meant to shake out any loose change.
His helmet display died.
Just fly, he told himself.
Just fly.
Had to get more altitude. Take that risk. Or he was going to plow a field for Farmer John. Dawg could see the Haifa Gap and, as he climbed, he glimpsed the sea beyond. But he was speeding down a broken road on four flat tires.
The aircraft began to go to bits around him.
Not going to make it, ladies and gents.
He pulled back on the stick until it refused to go any further,
So much for central air, he told himself. Then he saw the glittering sea ahead.
Monk Morris wondered if he’d been a fool. Too macho. Too damned pigheaded to be trusted with the lives of United States Marines. Green-lighting those air attacks. Maybe the Air Force knew what it was doing, after all.
He ached for news. He knew that, in the great scheme of the war, seven aircraft didn’t amount to much. But two Marines who counted on him flew inside each one of them. And Dawg Daniels would’ve put his best men in the seats.
Dawg was a can-do Marine. Monk Morris saw himself the same way. Maybe it was a poor combination, he thought. Maybe, at this level, you needed somebody sensible enough to put on the brakes.
He stepped back inside his forward command post and asked, in a voice not quite so firm as he wanted it to be, “Any word on those air missions?”
Dawg Daniels left the nuclear ruins of Haifa behind, burning sky through the gap and bursting into the Jezreel Valley. So green it hurt the eyes. With clouds of artillery smoke thinning as they rose and spread into the atmosphere.
Big sky, little bullet. He hoped. He’d insisted that the artillery missions continue during his run, figuring that a cessation would alert the Jihadis that something was up. Only the defenses around Afula would be spared. Long enough for him to get clean imagery.
More rounds impacting at two o’clock. Somebody was getting a serious clobbering. Dawg didn’t like the idea of taking shrapnel from a Marine 155.
Well, you pays your money, and you takes your chance, he told himself.
He gave the old aircraft every last bit of juice, popping to 4,800 feet AGL. If the bad guys were going to get him, it was going to be now. While he was riding high enough to get the panoramic imagery that corps wanted.
In planning the mission, he’d rationalized the risk in terms of how many lives good intelligence could save in the coming assault on Afula; he figured an attack on the crossroads town was inevitable. But now he was flying on nerves, not reason, and living second to second. Hoping the pod cameras worked. And that the downlink functioned. And that his WSO wasn’t asleep at the wheel.
The aircraft roared over Afula and banked north. That quick. Pulling so many G’s that Dawg imagined rivets flying off the fuselage like popcorn. He dropped to 500 feet, as low as he could go in the broken terrain. With hills coming up fast, he pulled the aircraft up to 800, then 900.
Getting too old for this, he told himself. But in truth, he felt magnificently alive.
The plan was to leave the downlink—an uplink, really—turned on until they’d cleared Nazareth on the way out. Then no more emissions until they were wheels-down.
Mount Tabor on the right. Gotcha. Here we go. Hold on, ladies and gentlemen.
“One more flyboy visits Nazareth,” Dawg told an invisible audience.
The city sprawled out of a deep bowl, covering the surrounding hillsides with shabby high-rises and haphazard slums.
Every caution light in the cockpit seemed to go off at once. Dawg punched out the flares and switched on the active countermeasures. Nothing else to be done. They had him. It was going to be allemissions, all-the-time now. And some wicked metal.
An explosion rocked the aircraft.
They were still flying.
Come on, baby. Gimme some juice. Let’s go, sweetheart.
Whoomf.
The aircraft shook as if a furious giant had crunched it in his fist and meant to shake out any loose change.
His helmet display died.
Just fly, he told himself.
Just fly.
Had to get more altitude. Take that risk. Or he was going to plow a field for Farmer John. Dawg could see the Haifa Gap and, as he climbed, he glimpsed the sea beyond. But he was speeding down a broken road on four flat tires.
The aircraft began to go to bits around him.
Not going to make it, ladies and gents.
He pulled back on the stick until it refused to go any further,
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