James Acton 03 - Broken Dove (21 page)

“Hornet’s Nest, Pegasus One. Confirmed, should be able to make it. Have rescue standing by, over.”

“Pegasus One, Hornet’s Nest. Rescue standing by inside Green Zone, moving to intercept, over.”

“Roger that, Hornet’s Nest, Pegasus One, out.”

The radio went silent, the entire room turning its attention back to the screen. The Gulf V was now only a dot on the horizon highlighted by a superimposed circle, as the rescue plane headed back to Iraqi airspace. Moments later the talking heads replaced the live feed, with replays of the rescue being analyzed and dissected by a flurry of ex-military commentators, and civilian reporters ignorant of how risky and incredible a rescue had just taken place, most likely disappointed it had succeeded, a spectacular failure probably a better ratings grabber.

Murmurs then chatter began to fill the room as the collected security and Papal staff, who had converged on one of the few rooms with a large screen, and initially the only room with the live feed, began to debate what would happen next.

Laura took a deep breath and looked at Giasson. “Where will they take the bodies?”

Reading let go of her shoulders and rounded the chair. “They’re not dead yet.”

Laura smiled at him, knowing he was just trying to comfort her. “I know. But we all know the chances of them surviving this are slim to none.” She turned back to Giasson. “Where would they take”—she paused—“
them
?”

Giasson shook his head. “I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”

“Very well.” Laura stood. “Have my plane readied, and we’ll go there to meet them.” She walked toward the exit. “I’ll be in my room, packing.”

“Don’t you want to wait—”

“I do not want to be witness to James’ death.” Her voice cracked. She stepped through the door, almost holding her breath, as if letting the air escape would allow that last piece, that last bit of control, to flee with it. She strode with purpose, with resolve, not making eye contact with anyone, navigating the winding corridors as if on automatic pilot, finally reaching her room. She closed the door behind her, pressed her back into the wall, and slid down it, her head buried in her hands as tears, long held back, gushed forth.

“Oh, James.”

48 Miles outside the Green Zone

Iran

Richards gripped the controls, the plane in a steep dive as he tried to rid himself of nearly twenty thousand feet of altitude while at the same time not trying to gain too much airspeed. An impossible task. For now, he decided getting rid of altitude first was the best bet, then he could worry about airspeed. He just needed to get low so he could start to hunt for the level area Command had referred to.

He wondered if anyone was even alive behind him. Had any of this been worth it? Was he going to die with a few already dead people behind him, or was he at least dying from a failed attempt at saving the Pope? He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing his parents, and how hard he knew they’d take the news.

His eyes shot open.
I wonder if they’re watching this at home.
He knew they were going to supply the feed to the news organizations so they would have some ass-covering material when the Iranians bellyached to the UN about their airspace being violated, but when he had volunteered for the mission, he hadn’t even thought of the fact his parents might watch his own death.

I’m sorry.

But he wasn’t dead yet. If he could just find this level area, without too many rocks, he might just be able to land her on her belly and slide to a halt. He wasn’t too worried about breaking up, he might survive that. It was burning alive that worried him more.

8000 feet.

He ripped his oxygen mask off and sucked in some fresh air. It was still a little thin, but breathable. If anyone were alive back there, they may just start to come to. Hopefully they’ll have the sense to stick to their seats.
Should I make an inflight announcement?

6000 feet.

He decided against it. Anyone with half a brain should realize they were in a steep dive, and it was an emergency situation. He looked at the horizon, and his heart leapt. The rocky terrain below him definitely appeared to level out in the distance.

4000 feet.

“Hornet’s Nest, Pegasus One. I think I have a visual on the level area, ETA three minutes, over.”

“Pegasus One, Hornet’s Nest. Roger that, rescue is already en route, ETA your location ten minutes, over.”

2000 feet.

He started to pull back slightly on the stick, leveling out his descent. Easing off on the power, he applied some flaps to lower their speed. He reached for the landing gear, then thought better of it. Last thing he needed was the nose gear collapsing and sending them head over heels. As the rock strewn terrain below him whipped by, he could clearly see the level stretch ahead, and it was huge. There would be no problem coming to a stop, but from this distance, he couldn’t tell if it was clear of rocks.

1000 feet.

He activated the internal communications. “If anyone is alive back there, buckle up and assume crash positions. We’ll be landing inside of two minutes.” He thought about what he had just said.
Could have chosen something more formal.
He chuckled.
Kiss your asses goodbye, we’re goin’ in!

500 feet.

With the slight down angle, he still had a good view of the ground, and it was definitely level now for as far as the eye could see. In fact, if he didn’t know better, it looked like farmland. The morning sun, just rising behind him, cast long shadows across the landscape, shadows that indicated something he could hit. And they were everywhere.

250 feet.

He had no choice now. He was going in whether he liked it or not.
Please, God, if you ever chose a time to answer a prayer, now’s it.
He began to pull up slightly, his aim to land with the nose slightly more up than usual to try and use drag to slow them even further. He eased back on the throttle some more, and adjusted the flaps. He eyed his airspeed.
Fine for a traditional landing.

100 feet.

He took a deep breath and gripped the controls. “Hornet’s Nest, Pegasus One. I’m going in, over.”

“Roger that Pegasus One. Good luck.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.”

50 feet.

He pushed forward slightly, leveling the aircraft so the tail didn’t hit at too sharp an angle, and as he did the ground came into view on either side of him, but not in front.

25 feet.

He powered down and applied more flaps, killing his speed some more. He wasn’t concerned about stalling or proper procedure. He just needed to land as slowly and as gently as possible. The nose leveled and he could see ahead again.

Oh shit!

He pushed the stick forward and threw his engines into reverse, applying full flaps. The plane slammed into the ground, not as gently as he would have liked, but he didn’t care. All he was focusing on was the huge stone pillar, at least thirty feet high, standing directly in his path. He eased off on one of the engines, trying to steer the now skidding aircraft as it bounced at over one hundred miles per hour down his Mother Nature-made runway. He looked at his speed indicator and the numbers were rapidly ticking down, but not enough. His manipulations of the engines had his view changing slightly, but not his direction. Without landing gear he had no control. He slammed both engines back into full reverse.

There was an explosion and a fire indicator lit up on his panel as whatever crop he was gliding through was sucked into the engines, his left one finally having enough of the forced feeding. He cut the fuel and looked up as the huge stone whipped by his cockpit on the right. The plane jerked to the right as the wing smacked into the unyielding stone, shearing itself from the fuselage. He leaned over and looked back in time to see the wing burst into thousands of pieces, many of them sailing through the still roaring right engine.

It erupted in a fireball as the plane spun in circles.

Richards continued to grip the controls as the plane whipped around and came to a halt. He reached to unbuckle his shoulder belts when he heard a screeching sound, as if Hell had opened a door just for him. The entire plane started to vibrate and moments later flame whipped past the cockpit window, super heating the air and devouring any oxygen it could find.

Richards gasped, searing his lungs, and shut his eyes as the explosion blasted the cockpit door off its hinges, sending it through the window as it escaped the flames behind. He took a deep breath and ducked. Flames licked at his clothing, at his skin, but his fireproof flight suit did its job, keeping him alive.

Long enough to feel the pain.

He screamed in agony as the flames disappeared as fast as they had come, the small amount of fuel flaming out spectacularly, but quickly. He tried to open his eyes, but they were sealed shut. He reached up with his hands, every nerve at maximum, his pain receptors on overload. He touched his eyes, but could barely feel anything. He had almost no sense of touch. None in his fingers. Some on his face. He pulled his fingers away, but the skin felt tacky, as if it had been partially liquefied.

Oh God, kill me. Please kill me!

Fifteen Miles Outside Green Zone

Iran

“There!”

Captain Joshua Riggs looked to where Sergeant Kerrigan, ten years his senior, was pointing, and nodded. “Hornet’s Nest, Rescue One. We have a location on the target, over.”

“Rescue One, Hornet’s Nest. Roger that. Be advised we have hostiles closing on the area. Consider your LZ hot, over.”

“Hornet’s Nest, Rescue One. Roger that, our LZ is hot, over.”

Riggs turned to the Lieutenant in the back who would be leading the rescue. “Did you copy that?”

Lieutenant Hornby nodded. “Yes, sir, hot LZ. Got it.”

Riggs returned his attention to flying his UH-60 Black Hawk, banking slightly toward the plume of smoke just ahead. He looked up as four Super Hornets roared past to take up position around the crash site, they or a Predator drone most likely having spotted the Iranians on their way. He glanced back at Hornby. He was young, but his face had experience written all over it. And so did the Sergeant’s. Most likely they were both battle hardened from Iraq and Afghanistan. Sometimes it was hard to remember that America had been at war longer than in World War II. Our tough veterans that had returned from the wars of old commanded respect now due to their advanced years, but they were no different than our boys and girls now fighting, fighting because their country asked them to, some dying, more wounded, and yet more scarred psychologically for life. These soldiers, these brave men and women, had seen more than most could ever imagine, whether twenty-five, or forty-five.

Why don’t we just buy our oil from Canada instead of this Godforsaken place?

Something pinged off the skin of the Black Hawk.

“We’re taking small arms fire,” said Kerrigan.

He nodded as they flew over a small convoy of military vehicles rushing toward their LZ.

“Hornet’s Nest, Rescue One. Be advised, we’re taking small arms fire from a convoy of hostiles just west of our position, over.”

“Rescue One, Hornet’s Nest. Acknowledged, dispatching cover, over.”

Ahead he saw two of the Super Hornets bank sharply and race toward him, dropping to the deck. They roared under him, he only being a few hundred feet above the ground himself, the turbulence they caused buffeting the Black Hawk slightly.

“Did they get them?” he called to the crew in the back, most of whom he could see were hanging out the open side door.

“And did they!” yelled Kerrigan. High fives were exchanged in the rear, then Kerrigan leaned forward. “Tore the shit out of the convoy and the road.”

Riggs smiled then as soon as the muscles in his face had completed the move, he frowned. He had his first view of the crash site, and it didn’t look good. The field it had landed in was scarred from the fuselage ripping across the surface, revealing the rich, dark soil underneath, contrasting sharply with the golden brown of the crops now felled. The right wing had disintegrated, along with most of the tail section. The plane itself had been turned around, most likely from the wing impacting a large, impassive stone, and lay slightly on its side, resting on the one remaining wing.

And the entire thing smoldered.

A thick black smoke still rose from the fuselage, evidence of any large fires now gone.

“Sixty seconds!” he yelled as he slowed the mighty craft down, clearing the final knoll. Killing his airspeed, he descended rapidly. Ahead he could see the two Apaches take up covering positions, and to either side of him, the other rescue choppers descending toward what may turn out to be a recovery mission, rather than a rescue mission, judging from the view he was getting. The wheels touched the ground and he cut the power to reduce the wind whipped up by the 53 foot long rotors. He looked back and the team was already out, racing past his cockpit toward the smoldering wreckage. “Hornet’s Nest, Rescue One. We are on the ground, I repeat, we are on the ground, over.”

From his vantage point he had a clear view of the operation. A platoon of Marines were spread out, providing cover, two Apaches were in the air to provide close ground support, and at least half a dozen Super Hornets were circling overhead at varying altitudes. If the Iranians tried anything, they’d be wiped out instantly.

Suddenly small puffs of dirt burst from the ground in front of him, followed by the distinct sound of a fifty caliber machine gun belching rounds. He couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from, but one of the Apaches tilted forward and raced to his left. Leaning for a better view, he watched the Apache race across the landscape, belching fire from its 30mm M230 chain gun, and about half a mile out, a vehicle with a rear mounted machine gun erupted in flames. Several more crested the same hill, along with two troop carriers, their men jumping from the rear and spreading out, diving to the ground as the Apache tore into them. A quick glance at the Marines showed those covering that side were also peppering the new arrivals with rounds.