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  “Setting down.”

  Sand rushed up as Wolf strained to see the man they had come to meet. A desert animal the size of a rabbit jumped and Wolf had to check the instinct to fire. He wanted to be the one racing out to grab the man, but that task had been given to Cougar and Pup. The arrangement had been precise. The man would be at the well, alone.

  There!

  Cougar and Pup jumped out and took off at a sprint.

  It was an agonizing minute.

  “Do you have him?” The terse request from the pilot in the chopper above broke the silence and put into words the growing unease with sitting exposed. Come on. Come on. Wolf willed his partner back.

  Pup appeared from the whirling sand. Then their guest. Then Cougar.

  Wolf snagged the man’s arm as Cougar literally threw him aboard. He tugged Pup aboard and then grabbed his partner. “We’ve got him. Go!”

  The helicopter went airborne and a wall of sand rose to swallow them. They turned on a track to the north in order to exit the country along a different vector.

  Time began to crawl by. Twenty-two miles was a lifetime of flight.

  “We’ve got trouble coming,” Cougar said over the internal comm. “Fighters to the south are hearing orders. Push it to the border, gentlemen.”

  Their pilot didn’t wait to see radar tracks to confirm what Cougar was overhearing on the burgeoning radio traffic. He angled the blades to maximum tolerance.

  Wolf watched the night sky for moving points of light on the horizon. He could fight a man. He couldn’t fight a plane.

  OPERATION NORTHERN WATCH

  NORTHERN IRAQ, THIRTY-SIXTH PARALLEL

  “Viper 02, radar check.”

  Grace scanned the displays. Long-range radar showed the friendly signatures of their own strike fighters at twenty-eight miles west. She toggled a switch. Threat radar was seeking to the south and one far to the west was reflecting their direction. Syria was still quiet. “We’re clear.”

  She felt for the others in the strike package who were getting the brunt of the Iraqi reaction. In the distance the barrage of exploding AAA was bright in her nightscope.

  Flying two feet off Thunder’s wing in formation was an experience. Peter began the curl to reverse their track and smoothly took them to the lower altitude in the tasking orders. She matched his moves. So far this mission had ticked off like clockwork. Syria was now on her left. They were at the halfway point.

  Her radar showed a response from an IFF transponder far inside Syria. Gracie looked twice and went to a targeted search. “Sixteen miles, ten o’clock, low.”

  “Cowboys,” Peter replied after he took a look.

  The radar tracks were lifting out of the background clutter moving on a vector north. They were distinctive blips now. A Pave Hawk and a Pave Low III, the helicopters were flying close to the ground. Some sort of special op was underway deep inside Syria. It explained the change to their tasking orders.

  Wolf? It would fit a SEAL op.

  A bright flash lit up the skyline over Mosul. Gracie glanced at the time. The power station should have just been hit. It was the key node for Iraqi’s entire air defense grid. It was also the last strike point for the mission. The fighters should be racing back north to the Turkish border.

  Peter led them in a change of altitude again.

  Warning tones burst on around the cockpit.

  “Break!” Peter ordered.

  Gracie rolled hard right away from Peter as he broke high. A tracking radar had painted them. She flipped a switch with her thumb to change from air-to-air to air-to-ground.

  Warble tones sounded as a surface-to-air missile cone of energy searched the sky.

  She slammed the stick back to get altitude.

  A SAM raced up from the ground, a white heat trail blazing in the night.

  A low shot. The helicopters were being targeted. It was cold comfort. She had a reasonable probability of breaking lock whereas the helicopters were practically stationary targets for a missile.

  The helicopter pilots reacted and were already racing apart in ninety-degree angles, firing chaff as they jinked directions. The trailing helicopter didn’t have a chance. The SAM exploded in a bright fireball. The helicopter showed briefly on the other side of the fireball and then disappeared from view.

  Wolf.

  Lord, don’t let it be Wolf.

  “He’s down,” Peter said, his voice cold. He immediately passed the vectors to the circling AWACs.

  Come on, lock on. Gracie listened to the HARM missile search for a lock on the radar that had directed that SAM. The seeker warbled in her ear but never pitched high. They’d fired point- blank and the radar was already off. “No lock.”

  “Close to half a mile.”

  She was relieved at the order. Whoever was down below was a friend. She moved closer to the Syrian border to tighten the air cover even while she tensed for another SAM to suddenly come up at them.

  “Bandits at 38 south, climbing,” Peter warned.

  She went to long radar. Syrian fighters were taking off.

  She prayed they stayed on their side of the border.

  SYRIA/IRAQ BORDER

  The ground exploded under them in an upshoot of sand. Wolf had crashed before but nothing like this. He saw the falling tail rudder hit the ground and explode. “Don’t,” he yelled at Cougar as he reached out and yanked his partner back inside. “We landed in a minefield!”

  He strained to look forward. The pilot was moving but the copilot was slumped. The noise was deafening as the pilot struggled to kill engines still turning. The hardened undercarriage had saved their lives but the probability of fire was high if the fuel tanks leaked.

  He shoved their guest back into the center seat. “Pup, cover him.” The youngest SEAL in the squadron already had his sidearm out. Defector or not, the man would turn them in to try to save his own hide.

  “Get on the door gun and hit anything that moves,” Wolf yelled to Cougar. He struggled forward to help with the copilot. Grace nagged at him about getting into trouble. This was beyond trouble.

  A minefield, but which side of the border? Syria or Iraq?

  A bullet slapped at the inside roof of the chopper. And Wolf started praying. A sniper had already found them.

  Ten

  * * *

  SYRIA/IRAQ BORDER

  A minefield. Striker braced against the restraint harness as the Pave Low helicopter raced south. He’d gone into tough places before, but this had him wishing he’d finished writing Grace a very special letter. One that began Dear Darling . . .

  He secured another clip for his weapon. There were times he appreciated being a soldier first. They would have to hover high and hoist the SEALs out so as not to set off more mines with the change in air pressure. The lead SEAL helicopter could provide cover but it couldn’t get to the men on the ground without help.

  Sand was swirling behind the Pave Low as Dasher hugged the ground. His friend was one of the best pilots in the 720th Special Tactics Group, but that didn’t eliminate the nerves tightening Striker’s gut. He hated being this distance from the ground. He preferred a height he could parachute from, not one that threatened to slam him into the ground if they breathed the wrong direction.

  Striker braced his hands on the crash bar as the helicopter flared and abruptly dropped speed. The gunship providing their escort continued at maximum speed to join up with the circling helicopter. His night vision goggles picked up the radiating heat of the shot-down helicopter in the distance. A surface-to-air missile had brought it down. Another one would likely be waiting with their name on it. Over his headset he could hear the SEALs talking about a sniper.

  “Air cover?”

  His partner Rich was searching for it. “There! Seven o’clock low.”

  Bruce found the blur in the sky and realized as the image clari-fied that the planes were racing directly at them. There were two of them but they looked like one dot in the sky they were hugging so close tog
ether. “Do they know we’re the good guys?”

  “AWACs is relaying.”

  “I bet they’re a little edgy right now.”

  “MiGs. SAMs. Downed men. I wouldn’t trade places,” Rich agreed.

  A burst of automated gunfire erupted, tracers sweeping out before the lead gunship. “Let’s hope that sniper decides to slink away.”

  “Don’t burn the leather off your gloves,” Rich warned. They had flipped to see who would go down. They both wanted it, but Bruce had won the toss.

  “A fast drop and an abrupt stop. The first man will be coming immediately up.”

  “The hoist will be ready to spin.”

  Bruce picked up the rope that was going out the door as soon as they hovered. They would buddy hug the injured copilot out rather than slow for the basket.

  The intercom crackled. “Twenty seconds.”

  OPERATION NORTHERN WATCH

  How did you not aggravate Syrian fighters? Gracie had no answer. The rescue flights were coming from the north, the Syrian fighters from the southwest. It was a standoff happening at blistering speeds over airspace divided by a thread.

  She was tucked in tight beside Peter ready to act, but how to act was not at all clear. If the chopper was down in Iraq, they could be offensive to protect it; if it was down inside Syria, all they could do was argue over the airspace. No one had figured out that critical answer.

  “Warn them.”

  She lit up the oncoming Syrian fighters at Peter’s order and got hard tone in her ear signaling missile lock.

  SYRIA/IRAQ BORDER

  Sand stung everything it touched. Bruce could feel it finding ways into his clothing. The helicopter had pancaked, the side door tilted toward the ground. No entry was visible. He would have to swing in from the side as the hovering chopper struggled to hold stationary while the sniper shot at him. Lord, I’m trying to be brave. Give me Your courage.

  Bruce moved onto the skid and stepped off, falling, letting the rope race through his hands. The task was simple. Just get down before he got shot. Striker twisted his hands at the last moment and felt heat burn at the friction; the jerk tore into his muscles as he yanked himself to a stop. He swung like a pendulum into the black opening, hoping the SEALs had a place cleared for him to land inside.

  Hands grabbed him.

  He landed on his back on the sloped deck of the crashed chopper.

  He shook his head and cleared the disorientation. “Wolf, I rarely do house calls.”

  The black and green face looking down at him grinned. “Nice entrance.” Not Wolf. Cougar.

  Another sniper round slapped against metal, and Cougar swung around to grab the door gun and fire back. Bruce had a feeling there would be holes in his body armor before this mission was done. He pulled himself up and looked forward to see the pilot and Wolf moving the injured copilot toward him. “Let’s go, gentlemen.”

  “He goes first,” Wolf replied with a jerked nod to the guest Pup was guarding.

  The SEAL already had him in body armor and a harness. “Pup, you’ll have to buddy hug him up.” Bruce pulled the man toward the door and fought the jerking line from the hovering helicopter to get the clasps locked. In the same fashion two parachute jumpers would link together and jump under one canopy, Bruce securely locked the two men for the lift. The defector was smart enough not to try to help. “Are you worth this?” Bruce asked tersely.

  “I can stop a war.”

  Stop a war or start one. Striker wasn’t sure which was more likely. The last clamp clicked metal on metal. He slapped Pup’s shoulder. “Swing out as far as you can and keep your head down!”

  Cougar opened up a burst of fire from the door gun, he paused, and Pup swung out with the man. As soon as the men disappeared with a jerk upward, Cougar opened fire again.

  “Cougar, you and the pilot out next,” Bruce ordered as he moved to do what he could for the copilot. He dealt with men and war and bullets. A pulse meant something could be done. The man had a pulse. There was blood, a lot of it, and fixed eyes. He was deeply unconscious. Bruce knew the odds against the copilot making it, and he prayed for a miracle as he worked. He used duct tape to strap the man’s arms and hands against his chest.

  Cougar and the pilot hurried to secure the rope as soon as it came back down.

  “Tell Rich the injured man is coming next. I’ll need a slow winch.”

  “Got it.”

  The two men swung out.

  A sniper round hit and hydraulic fluid spewed like rain finding its way inside, making the floors slick. Wolf struggled to reach him.

  “How do we do this?”

  Bruce didn’t like either option. If Wolf went up with the injured man, he would be a sitting duck on a slow-rising line. If Bruce took the injured man up, it left Wolf coming last with no cover. Bruce owed Gracie, owed Jill. The situation reminded him too much of Ecuador. “I’ll go up with him. Give me all the suppression cover you can, no use leaving bullets behind. When the rope comes back for you, make sure you don’t signal a lift until you’re absolutely ready because Dasher will break hover and hoist as he flies.”

  “Piece of cake.”

  Striker smiled at the prompt reply; he had to give Wolf points for handling the pressure. He eased the injured man up. Wolf helped him as they fought the rope and the locking rings. He leaned back against the rope and found it taking his weight.

  “Don’t get shot.”

  “Now you tell me,” Striker yelled back. He pushed himself and the injured man out into the night.

  It was a thousand times worse than he had braced himself for.

  The wind started them spinning. He was going to get shot. He knew it as the hoist began to pull them to the black hovering beast. Jesus, please. Get us safely up. For the moment, he was totally helpless. The noise became deafening as they drew near the helicopter. The wind spun them underneath, threatening to slam them into its belly. The winch slowed even more until they were clear and could come up the last few feet.

  Rich grabbed the back of his flight suit, and Striker forced himself not to try to help but to let his partner pull them back into safety. Pup and Cougar reached for the injured man. Once freed they eased him onto a stretcher. The waiting medics started stabilizing his breathing. Bruce fought with his gloves to free the locks and get the rope back down to Wolf. Rich was a step ahead of him. The rope came free and Rich locked on the counterweight. “Let it down!”

  The rope dropped with a fast whine.

  They waited.

  “Come on, come on.”

  Striker tightened his hand on Cougar’s shoulder, understanding perfectly. Rich was leaning out the door on his belly, night vision goggles peering down.

  “Bring him up.” The winch began to turn. “Dasher, go!”

  They began a runaway from the danger, Wolf swinging out on the rope behind the moving helicopter.

  It took forever.

  Striker locked his safety harness to the doorframe, ignored common sense, and reached out and down. “Get up here.” He hauled Wolf aboard.

  Wolf landed on his back, hands grabbing the safety bar to keep from pitching back out.

  “Wow. Was that ever an interesting ride.”

  Striker searched for holes in the man and blood, then slapped his chest. Wolf had used up a life or two but he was in one piece. “Stay out of minefields! You’re giving me gray hair.”

  “Once was more than enough.” Wolf raised his hand to wipe away the bath of hydraulic fluid he’d taken and in doing so smeared his face paint. He leaned his head back against the metal floor, trying to get his breath back. “Don’t you dare tell Grace. She’ll never let me live it down.”

  “Remember that next time.” Striker looked at the man who was responsible for this close call, then forward into the cockpit. “Incirlik, Dasher, and don’t stop to admire the scenery. Our guest has a direct flight to Washington waiting for him.”

  Eleven

  * * *

  OPERATION NORTHER
N WATCH

  IRAQ/SYRIAN BORDER

  Providing cover for helicopters was difficult given the disparate speed. Grace watched the two rescue helicopters and the one that had been circling form a V and head north.

  What had they gone into Syria to do?

  Was Bruce part of that rescue flight?

  An aircap of eight Tomcats had formed to the east, and the Syrian MiGs had turned parallel to the border. Neither side wanted to stand down from the fight. The crash was four hundred yards inside Iraq, and this had become an aggressive show of force as they jockeyed for airspace.

  Grace scanned radar, altitude, and fuel, all three generating equal concern. Getting shot out of the sky or crashing from lack of gas had the same end point. She had already crossed bingo level for the return flight and would have to tank on the way back. Her worst-case scenario was going bingo fuel for Incirlik and it was now at least a theoretical problem.

  “Viper flight, Birddog. Vector rainbow plus 10, angels 9. Sharpshooters lead, Birddog. Four bandits at rainbow plus 60, vector 40, angels 15. Hold Boxer,” the AWACs controller ordered with terse dispatch.

  “Birddog, Vipers flight. Roger,” Thunder acknowledged for them. Grace closed formation with his Hornet, moving to just feet off his right wing. Their flight had just been vectored to a route that would pass over the helicopters and send them ahead to clear the egress route. The Tomcats had the more interesting orders that put them on direct vector to the MiGs with orders to set up a box rotation at the border.

  Grace would leave the MiGs for the Tomcats. She wanted to see those helicopters back on friendly territory and get herself to a tanker.

  Peter led them down to nine thousand feet. Within moments their flight crossed over the helicopters and raced ahead.

  Antiaircraft artillery started to come up ahead of them. There was no radar to guide it onto the planes; that had been knocked out earlier in the evening. It was cold comfort. Without direction for the guns the Iraqis were sending up the AAA in a blanket. It began exploding in white flashes between eight and twelve thousand feet, the concussions hollow, sharp echoes heard through the cockpit canopy and helmet.