A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [63]
“Attention, all hands, this is Dogbreath. We are making a variation of the landing. We will not make passes over the fort but fire our artillery from the hover position, then drop right into the courtyard. Marsh, Ropo,” he said, calling the squad leaders.
“Yo.”
“Yo.”
“This is Dogbreath. We will pick up twenty minutes, and Cherokee will reduce speed so that we hit our target precisely on the minute.”
H-hour minus twelve minutes…eleven minutes.
“All hands, check your weapons, ammo clips, and gear. Do not carry anything out of the SCARAB you can’t shoot or eat or wipe your ass with. Keep your oxygen masks on until you debark.”
H-hour minus seven minutes.
The front cabin people were all wearing nightvision goggles, and the FLIR gave a pretty picture of what was passing beneath them.
“Jesus!” Dogbreath thought. “What if we just put the SCARAB down in the courtyard and loudspeaker to the Iranians that we are an Iranian plane dispatched to take Barakat away to Teheran! No…if we landed and set up a perimeter, we’d get into a nasty fire fight when they caught on. No, we’ve got to knock out our targets. But what an idea! Never will get a chance at it…Okay, Dogbreath, scratch that one…”
H-hour minus three minutes.
Holy shit, Mother McGee! IV saw it first in the sallow green, grainy glow that lit up their screen. Further glows flashed on the display panels.
“The minaret is sticking up like the hard-on I had this morning,” Cherokee said. “IV, start lifting the nacelles.”
“Forty-five…fifty…sixty…seventy-five…”
“Nothing moving down there, Dogbreath,” Novinski said.
A slight engine and propeller thump was smoothed by Cherokee’s hand.
“We are in helicopter mode,” IV said.
“This is Dogbreath. Quinn?”
Quinn O’Connell took a reading from his display screen, then locked on to the far end of the courtyard with a laser beam. Its light could not be seen by the Iranians. There it is! The communications tower. The beam further lit up the installation buildings.
“I am locked on the headquarters building and need minimal adjustments to target officers billet and enlisted barracks. Give me ten seconds between racks.”
“Jesus,” Dogbreath said softly, “they’re all asleep down there.”
“Cherokee, this is Quinn. Take her up another few hundred feet so I can get a better visual.”
“Rotors at eighty-five degrees. We are in helicopter mode.”
As the SCARAB drifted over the fort wall, Quinn’s fingers unlocked the bomb-rack releases. If Dogbreath’s bombs were working, they’d follow the laser beam into the target.
Quinn squeezed the bomb release. “God forgive me,” he whispered. Even as the missiles hurled down on the first sleeping target, he had lined up his second target.
Everything turned into slow motion, as if moving in a dream—clouds billowed, thunder, blinding light, and madly careening air.
The pulsating waves of air billowed before a stiff wind.
“Quinn, this is Cherokee. Hold your second rack. I’m taking her up some or we’ll start shaking like a dog shitting peach seeds.”
“Yo.”
The SCARAB caught the tail end of the blast, and it shook her. Little bits of the mud buildings sent up a shower of debris, pelting the craft.
“This is Quinn. I’m locked on the arsenal.”
“This is Cherokee. I need another minute and a half—”
“Novinski, this is Dogbreath. Can you confirm that there is only a little panic activity near the installations?”
“Novinski to Dogbreath. They’re running around in circles, not even armed.”
“Cherokee to Quinn. You are free to release the balance of your racks.”
“Two fired…three fired…four fired.”
Fort Urbakkan jumped and rocked and broke apart, leveled to the ground, a deep hole gouged from the site of the arsenal.
One end of the courtyard filled up with pajamaclad, screaming,