Contents ( 55)
- In Memoriam
- Epigraph
- Cast of Characters
- Americans
- Russians
- Canadian
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Weapons and Acronyms
- Weapons
- Acronyms
- About the Author
- Also by Dale Brown
- Copyright
- About the Publisher
“Not a doggone thing, FX,” Flynn said truthfully. His hands moved to the quick-release buckle on his seat straps. A rotor-whipped cloud of swirling sand and dust billowed up as the HH-60 flared in and then settled lightly on its main landing gear. His eyes narrowed in concentration. “But I can promise you that’s about to change.”
Two
At the C-130J Super Hercules Crash Site, Southern Libya
An Hour Later
All three U.S. Air Force crewmen aboard the downed aircraft were dead. Confirming that had required Zalewski and Camarillo to painstakingly work their way into the half-buried nose of the big cargo turboprop, first digging through compacted sand and then carefully cutting through jagged layers of impact-crushed metal. Once they’d gotten close to what was left of the C-130’s cockpit, they’d spotted the broken remains of its two pilots and loadmaster wedged in amid the twisted wreckage of instrument panels, wiring, consoles, and seats.
“How’s it look, Zee?” Flynn asked when Zalewski wriggled back outside to report.
Stretching cramped shoulders, the big pararescueman shook his head gravely. “Bad, sir. A real mess. It’s gonna take a hell of an effort to get the bodies out.” He stripped off his helmet and gloves, then rubbed a weary hand through his short-cropped, sweat-drenched hair before taking a long swallow through the tube of his hydration pack. Under the late afternoon sun, it was well over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and it was even hotter inside the C-130 wreck’s tight, confined spaces.
Flynn nodded. He lowered his voice. “So what do you think? Was this crash an accident? Or enemy action?”
Zalewski’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “If I was a betting man, sir, I’d put my money on bad guys,” he said at length. “The Herc’s forward section is all torn up. Even more than I’d expect from the impact when it smacked into this sand dune.”
Flynn frowned. “Like maybe the plane was hit by a missile?”
“Either that, or else somebody set off a bomb right behind the cockpit,” Zalewski suggested. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the C-130’s tail section. “Once we get ’em back to the tech experts, info from the flight data and cockpit voice recorders should pin down exactly what happened.”
“Yeah.” Flynn glanced away along the top of the massive, miles-long dune, which rose a couple of hundred feet above the crash site. His jaw tightened. About a hundred yards away, a handful of figures in white robes and head coverings crouched on the crest, watching all the activity around the wrecked airplane with undisguised curiosity. The first locals from the nearby oasis had appeared while Camarillo and Zalewski were cutting their way into the cockpit. More seemed to be arriving with every passing minute. He turned back to the big PJ. “You know, I think it’d be a good idea if you and Camarillo got those black boxes out soonest. Before this place turns into Grand Central Station at rush hour.”
“That will not be necessary, Captain,” someone said from close behind him.