A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [62]
“Novinski, this is Cherokee, how is your terrain following?”
“We’re in a tight-ass valley. The cross winds are too crazy. We may not be getting accurate readings,” Novinski said.
“I’m going visual. You stay on the multifunction radar,” Cherokee said.
“Yo,” IV said.
Cherokee put on his nightvision goggles, whispered an “Oh, Jesus.” “I’m going up a thousand feet and clear that ridge.”
That ridge didn’t want to be cleared, hurtling wind into chainsaw mountaintops. Debris spewed up, some of it pelting the SCARAB.
“Shit!” Novinski noted as the bottom fell out on the far side of the ridge. Another roller-coaster wadi compelled Cherokee and IV to fly by the seat of their pants.
During the violent weather and turbulence, Dogbreath kept his mind on his display panels, unaware of the tension about him.
Should I have taken a spare pilot from El Toro? Damned, how could I? We only have a total of twenty men with arms. Marginal, marginal, well, hell, can’t do anything about it now. What’s that? he asked himself as perspiration beaded over his forehead. Goddammit, I should have taken an airsick pill. I cannot puke in front of these people!
“Quinn, this is Dogbreath.”
“Yo.”
“We’ve scratched the mosque as a target, so let’s examine your frontal assault plan.”
SCARAB dropped into a long, flat valley, and the air became dirty, woefully dirty. Quinn looked back and saw RAM tossed up and down, like a film with broken threads. Yelps!
“Congratulations, men,” Cherokee said, switching on the loudspeaker system, “we made it again.”
Quinn gave a fuel reading to IV. The bitch was drinking up too many calories. IV fine-tuned the angle of the prop blades.
“Quinn to front cabin. We’re cleared of Teheran radar.”
“Dogbreath to Cherokee.”
“Yo.”
“We’re using up too much fuel. It is touch and go if we can reach the tanker plane or not. Since we’re cleared of major radar and there are no patrols in the area, shut down the terrain follower and take her up to twenty thousand and look for some smooth air.”
“I’ll see if I can run into a tailwind going our way,” Cherokee said.
“Attention, all hands,” Dogbreath said. “We will be climbing, looking for better air. Prepare your oxygen masks for deployment over your ugly faces.”
Bad time for humor. The rear cabin looked like carcasses hanging from hooks in a butcher’s freezer.
SCARAB climbed happily.
“Satellite report coming in,” Quinn said. “A few commercial flights to and from Teheran.”
“Time?”
“We are sixteen minutes behind.”
“Here we go,” Cherokee sang as his engine mellowed, caught a tailwind, and lifted her speed to a respectable five hundred subsonic knots per hour.
…Dogbreath’s head nodded as he joined his men snapping out a thirty-second nap.
“Novinski, this is Dogbreath.”
“Yo.”
“What will the wind be doing at twelve thousand?”
“One-forty at twenty-three knots, but definitely swirling over Urbakkan.”
He clicked on the SCARAB’s loudspeaker. “This is Dogbreath. The wind doth bloweth, too strong and from iffy directions. I’d like your input. We scratched napalm as one of our ordnance and replaced it with phosphorous. We are now considering the idea of a direct courtyard landing after dispensing missiles and bombs. If we drop a phosphorous curtain, as we have practiced, we will have to fly out and circle the fort. I likewise fear that the courtyard mud might be flammable, and a fuck-up wind shift send the fire right back at us. Of course, the phosphorous could well insure our success…if it goes perfectly.”
“This is Grubb. I don’t like working with fire, it doesn’t cooperate.”
“Novinski here. How about something like this: ditch the phosphorous about ten miles downwind from the fort. It will save us nearly seven hundred pounds.”
“This is Quinn. Can’t ditch it all. We need some to have flare capacity when we rendezvous with the tanker plane.”
“IV.”
“Yo.”
“No phosphorous drop. If we light up the fort too soon, it could give the Irans several minutes to organize. We may need the flares on the way home.”
“Yo” confirmations. Dogbreath pulled down his night-vision goggles and peered