Sand and Fire (9780698137844) Read online

  Not the kind of airlifter turn Parson was used to: acknowledge the controller’s vector, dial in the heading on the horizontal situation indicator, press a button on the autopilot, sit back and watch it happen. Instead, Chartier slammed into nearly a ninety-degree bank, stood the Mirage on its wingtip. The horizon tilted, and when Parson turned his head to the left he looked straight down at the sea. The second Mirage followed close behind.

  “Rock. And. Roll,” Parson said.

  “Quite a little vixen, is she not?”

  “Damn straight.”

  Chartier leveled the wings and set a course for a designated practice area over the desert. South of Tripoli, the sands flowed beneath the aircraft like a butterscotch ocean. The jet’s speed imparted motion to the dunes, transformed them to waves. Parson thought of his fellow aviator Saint-Ex, and he began to understand how a pilot might come to admire the Sahara’s terrible beauty. And oh, how Saint-Ex would have admired this airplane. If he’d lived a little longer he might have flown jets, commanded machines that outraced sound.

  “We are in the practice area,” Chartier announced, “so let’s practice.” Then he spoke on the radio in French. The pilot of the second Mirage answered, chuckling. Parson could not understand the words, but he still knew what they were talking about. Uh-oh, he thought. They’re going to show off.

  “All right, Frenchie, bring it,” Parson said. “Let’s see what you got.”

  “Here comes a roll,” Chartier said.

  Sunlight glinted across the canopy as Chartier raised the nose several degrees. Then the horizon rotated, and Parson found himself looking up at the expanse of dust. Chartier continued the roll until the Mirage flew straight and level again, right back on its initial heading. Sun and blue sky above, ground below, in their normal positions once more.

  “Now you try one,” Chartier said.

  Parson placed his fingers around the stick, tried to remember how he’d last done this years ago during pilot training at Columbus Air Force Base, Mississippi. The muscle memory had left him; he needed to think his way through: Start with back pressure. Elevators neutral. Full aileron deflection. This delta-winged jet had elevons instead of the standard flight controls, Parson knew, but the pilot inputs would remain the same. He took a breath of oxygen: Here goes nothing.

  Again the world turned about the aircraft. Parson glanced at the attitude indicator, watched the horizon tilt. Earth up, sky down. He kept the stick pushed to the right, added a little back pressure. The Mirage’s fly-by-wire control system felt as natural as the stick in a Piper Cub. Sky above, now, level it out. Parson completed the maneuver slightly nose-high and about five degrees off heading. A little sloppy, but competent.

  “Not bad for a trash-hauler,” Chartier said.

  Parson laughed. Damned fighter jocks were all alike.

  “Hey, Frenchie,” Parson said. “How many fighter pilots does it take to change a lightbulb?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “One. The fighter pilot holds the bulb, and the world revolves around him.”

  “Ah, very funny. Shall we try a loop?”

  Oh, hell, Parson thought. This would be harder. All right, he decided. No way I’ll let him see me wimp out. A loop inflicted strong G-forces and required more delicate flying than a roll. The jet would trace a giant circle in the air, with flight controls and engine power needing adjustments all the way around.

  “Go for it.”

  Without hesitation Chartier pulled up hard. Parson felt G-forces close in, tripling his weight against the seat. The G suit squeezed his legs to help keep blood from rushing out of his brain. The force of the loop caused Parson’s oxygen mask to slip down just a bit on his sweat-slickened face. His vision remained clear, though, and he watched the horizon rock up and over him. Near the top of the loop the G-forces vanished, and he floated weightlessly. Parson looked up at the earth. Then the jet scorched through the vertical and the world returned to its accustomed place beneath the sky. Chartier pulled out of the dive and leveled the Mirage back on its initial altitude as if he’d flown the loop on rails.

  “Your turn,” Chartier said.

  “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Parson put his hands on the stick and throttle, thought for a moment. Damn, how did I used to do this? Pull up; judge your attitude by the horizon. Ease off the back pressure past the vertical, go over the top and pull again. Simple, just fly in a circle. Yeah, right.

  The earth rolled away as Parson brought the stick back and added thrust. Parson glanced to his left side and saw the horizon go perpendicular to the wings. He relaxed pressure on the stick too early. The Mirage wallowed into the top of the loop, and airspeed began to bleed off. With his hands full of an unfamiliar airplane and the fluids of his inner ear sloshing in strange directions, Parson suffered a touch of vertigo. Disoriented, he failed to notice the drop in speed until he heard the whooping tones of the stall warning system.

  Air no longer rushed over the wings fast enough for the jet to fly. Parson shoved the throttle farther, pulled back on the stick to complete the loop. Too late.

  The Mirage rolled to the left, broke from controlled flight. Parson felt himself tumbling through space, then it seemed the whole universe began to twist. More beeps and tones sounded, perhaps warning of an engine compressor not getting enough air, an unflyable angle of attack, or an excessive rate of descent. What started as an inverted stall developed into a spin. The desert floor rotated in the windscreen. The altimeter began unwinding as the fighter corkscrewed toward the ground. Parson couldn’t believe he’d let an airplane get away from him like that. Before Parson could start the spin recovery, Chartier took over.

  “I have the airplane,” the Frenchman said. Calm voice of an instructor.

  Parson fumbled for the interphone switch. “You have the aircraft,” he said. Sweat ran into his eyes. His heart pounded.

  Chartier kicked full right rudder, pushed the stick forward, brought the thrust back to flight idle. The earth quit spinning. The Mirage dived toward the sand. Chartier pulled up, added power. Parson felt the Gs press on him again, then ease off as the jet leveled and flew straight.

  “Shit, I thought I was better than that,” Parson muttered under his breath. He pressed his talk switch. “Damn, Frenchie. Sorry about that. Rookie mistake.”

  “No problem, sir,” Chartier said. “My fault for throwing a loop at you. You need more time in this vixen before you max-perform her.”

  Still, Parson continued to curse himself. That’s what I get for thinking with testosterone instead of brain cells, he thought. Should have had sense enough to say no thanks. This is a war machine, not a damned toy.

  “Would you like to see a split-S?” Chartier asked.

  Would I like another hit of crack? “Uh,” Parson said, “you fly it. I’ll watch.”

  “Bon.”

  Chartier flew a few more aerobatic maneuvers, all flawlessly. A natural aviator, Parson judged. Frenchie carried on the heritage of his countrymen who’d made important advances in aviation.

  Parson knew the old joke about European heaven and European hell. In heaven, the Brits were the cops, the French were the cooks, and the Germans were the engineers. In hell, the Brits were the cooks, the Germans were the cops, and the French were the engineers.

  But in truth the French had improved early aircraft design enough to lend their own words to important parts: aileron, empennage, fuselage. Veev luh France.

  On the way back toward Tripoli, Chartier swung out over the Gulf of Sidra, his wingman just behind and to his right. The two jets turned west, and Parson watched the coastline scroll by the left wing. A little past the town of Misrata, a strange sight appeared. A forest of stone columns rose up from the rocky earth. Whatever roofs they once supported had long since crumbled. The half circle of an amphitheater dominated the site, concentric arcs of seats wait
ing for patrons. Rock walls enclosed an ancient market. A tiled street led to the sea.

  “What’s that ruin down there?” Parson asked.

  “If memory serves,” Chartier said, “that is the Roman city of Leptis Magna. The emperor Septimius Severus was born there.”

  Gold would love this, Parson thought. Not the aerobatics but the aerial history lesson. Too bad this plane doesn’t have three seats.

  Leptis Magna receded behind the tail, and Chartier began his descent.

  Back at Mitiga International, the French pilots flew a couple of instrument approaches, just to get familiar with local procedures. When Chartier came in to land, Parson thought the descent rate felt too steep. Chartier caught it by adding a little thrust. Then he pulled up the nose to flare, settled to the runway with hardly a bump. The jet rolled along on its main wheels, and Chartier kept the nose high for aerodynamic braking until gravity took over. After a few seconds, the nosewheel dropped to the pavement, and the aircraft slowed to walking speed. The second Mirage landed after Chartier turned onto the taxiway.

  “Swing low chariot, come down easy,” Parson said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing. Old American song. Nice landing.”

  “Merci.”

  When Chartier opened the canopies and shut down the Mirage, Parson climbed from the aircraft. He felt chastened after stalling the airplane; the tools of war were serious business, not carnival rides. But he also felt flush with exhilaration, and he hated for the flight to end. He needed to get back to his real work, though. He removed the borrowed helmet, peeled off the G suit, and thanked Frenchie for the ride.

  After Parson walked across the tarmac in a sweaty flight suit, the air-conditioned ops center felt like a refrigerator. At his desk, he found the comm people had set up his classified computer for receiving secure e-mail and taskings from AFRICOM.

  He had received three classified e-mails. The first of the messages informed him that Marines on a ship in the Med had been placed on alert. Human intelligence, which meant somebody’s eyes and ears on the ground, indicated the likely location of an HVT. High-value target. Intel from Gold’s interview, perhaps?

  The second message, time-stamped an hour later, described an assault on the HVT that would involve members of the 22nd Marine Expeditionary Unit and elements of the French Foreign Legion. The Marines would arrive by helicopter and the Legionnaires would parachute to a location known as Objective Thomas Jefferson—a Libyan village on the edge of the Ubari Sand Sea. Parson didn’t know much about Marine Corps doctrine and procedure, but he did know this mission could get ugly. The assault force would fly straight into a fight with an enemy that had demonstrated more than once its ability to use chemical weapons. Presumably the Marines and Legionnaires would at least have the advantage of surprise.

  When Parson read the third message, the exhilaration he’d felt since his Mirage ride drained away. Though the local-area familiarization flight had legitimate military purposes, he felt guilty for having enjoyed himself when matters of life and death loomed so close. The e-mail copied him in on a two-word order to the Marines:

  EXECUTE TONIGHT.

  CHAPTER 12

  Aboard the USS Tarawa, the order Blount had waited to hear came over the 1 Main Circuit speakers:

  “Call away, call away.”

  The signal for Marines to board helicopters.

  Two CH-53 Super Stallions sat ready to launch. Exhaust fumes rolled from their turbines and got snatched away by rotor wash rolling in gales across the flight deck. Dull gray paint coated the helos, and lettering on the sides in only slightly darker shades read MARINES. Refueling probes jutted from the noses of the CH-53s. The flight crews sat at their stations, running last-minute checks, communicating via the boom microphones on their helmets. Beyond the helicopters, the Mediterranean heaved in waves the color of iron. Blount carried his M16 as he led twenty other Marines to the rear of the second aircraft, and they walked up the helo’s open ramp. He noticed the crew chief’s helmet bore a sticker that read NO FEAR.

  Good attitude, Blount thought, but not good advice. If you didn’t feel fear, you were stupid and dangerous. But you pushed through that fear like a runner pushes through pain to finish a marathon.

  Blount took his place on a seat made of nylon webbing, one up front near the pilots. As stick leader for this flight, he needed access to the cockpit, so he strapped on a gunner’s belt. The gunner’s belt connected to a tether that would let him move around and still have fall protection. He also needed to hear the pilots’ interphone and radio traffic. For that, he took a headset from the crew chief and plugged it into an interphone jack. Blount removed his ballistic helmet, which bore a bracket that held his night vision goggles, and donned the headset.

  Weird beeps and tones sounded in the headset. The copilot was running some sort of test, and he didn’t seem to like what he saw.

  “I’m getting a fail on MWS,” he said.

  “We need that,” the pilot said.

  “Lemme try it again.”

  The copilot flipped through a checklist binder, ran his finger down a page sleeved in clear plastic. With two fingers, he pressed a pair of buttons on the panel in front of him.

  Lights on the panel winked and cycled, and most of them flashed off. One of the lights remained illuminated.

  “Shit.”

  “Try turning it off and back on.”

  “Rog.”

  The copilot pressed another button, and all the lights on the box he was testing went out. What the heck was MWS, anyway? All the military loved acronyms, but aviators took it to a crazy level. Blount tried to think. MWS? Missile warning system. Yeah, we do need that.

  When the copilot powered up the system again, he pressed the test buttons once more. The beeps and flashes started anew, and this time the man looked satisfied.

  “Good check.”

  “Cool beans.”

  Blount turned his attention to settling into his seat, if his equipment would allow. He wore a full charcoal-impregnated MOPP suit. Over the MOPP suit, he’d donned a Kevlar vest. His bayonet and IFAK—Individual First-Aid Kit—dangled from the left side of the vest. The IFAK contained the usual combat gauze and pressure bandages, plus a few additional things Blount liked to add. A gas mask carrier hung at his hip. Other pouches contained ammunition for his M16, pen gun flares, nerve gas antidote, a radio, butyl gloves, and M8 test paper for detecting the presence of chemical agents.

  A Velcro strap secured the sheath of his grandfather’s KA-BAR. On top of everything else, the odd lumps of an inflatable life preserver bulged in uncomfortable places. If the chopper ditched at sea, he could pull tabs to fire CO2 cartridges that would inflate the life preserver’s cells.

  Over the troop seats, Blount noticed a placard that made him smile. The placard read WARNING—DO NOT STOW FEET OR EQUIPMENT UNDER SEAT. No problem. He carried everything on his back and shoulders, more than sixty pounds worth of gear. He kept his feet right in front of him, a dog tag laced into the left boot. An aircraft crash or IED explosion might blow dog tags from around your neck and make identification that much harder. But boots tended to stay intact—even if nothing remained of their owner but the feet inside.

  The pilots called the ship’s Primary Flight Control for their takeoff clearance.

  “Musket flight cleared for takeoff,” came the answer.

  The Super Stallion swayed into the air. Blount felt a rolling motion as the gusting Mediterranean wind rocked the helicopter. The Marines around him began a war chant that sounded more like barks than words—devil dogs primed for a fight. “Oo-rah, oo-rah, oo-rah!”

  Corporal Fender gave a thumbs-up. The kid looked a little nervous, but he kept pursing his lips and looking around at his buddies. Blount took that as a good sign: Resolute. Feeling trust in the others and from the others.

  Blount wondered what B
ernadette, Ruthie, and Priscilla were up to at this moment. Maybe having lunch; it was the middle of the day back home. For just an instant, the scent of Bernadette’s lavender shampoo came back to him as if she were right there. That memory would have to do; he carried no pictures of his family, no memento like a scarf from his wife.

  He had two reasons for that. One: If he were captured, God forbid, he wanted his enemy to know nothing about Bernadette and the girls. Two: Unlike a lot of servicemen, he’d never pocketed a challenge coin, a rabbit’s foot, or any other good-luck charm during missions. He’d made it through his first deployment years ago without any sort of talisman, and after that he hadn’t wanted to change anything. He admitted to himself he’d become superstitious about not being superstitious.

  Though he didn’t believe in trinkets, he did believe in prayer. Please let me get back home to them, he thought. And in the meantime, please help me do right.

  The Super Stallion climbed and turned onto a southerly heading. Out the cockpit windows, Blount could see where sun, sea, and sky met at the horizon. Ragged clouds scudded along, growing pink with the dying day. Only a thin rind of sunfire remained above the water, and even that shrank by the second. Mission planners had timed this flight to arrive at the objective just at EENT—the end of evening nautical twilight. In other words, full dark.

  On course and on speed, the helo hummed along, fairly pulsing with power. At this moment, the machine and the men inside it seemed invincible, but Blount knew how quickly fortunes could change in combat. Waves flashed by below, dark and undulating. The Marines grew quiet now. The Stallion flew with all exterior and most interior lights off, so the gloom deepened inside the aircraft as night closed in. The dull-green glow of NVG-compatible instrument lighting emanated from the cockpit. On the radio, Blount heard the lead helo check in with an Air Force AWACS bird orbiting overhead.

  “Monticello, Musket flight is off the deck and en route.”