Thunder in the Skies

Excerpt

October 2011, Southern Afghanistan

"C'mon… c'mon… you bitch."

Francois ground his jaw to the point where he feared there would be nothing left but the stubs of his molars. He forced himself to relax and sighed as the ache receded from his jaw, while he pulled the throttle back and dropped his F-16's nose a few degrees toward the ground. Beneath him, an endless sea of brown stretched. Rolling barren hills, devoid of life but for the goats and their herders who scratched out a way of life from the inhospitable landscape. Oh, and the insurgents determined to kill every last coalition member.

"All players, all players… this is Serpico on guard for emergency close air support, Any CAS-capable flights report to Serpico on echo nine… repeat—any CAS-capable flights report to Serpico on echo nine. Emergency CAS in progress. Serpico out."

François stared at the mission playbook strapped to his knee. Echo nine was not listed as being in play, and his comms card was supposed to have every radio frequency being used by troops in the air and on land.

Goddamn it. Fucking mission planning ass-monkeys who have nothing better to do than sit in their cushy leather chairs and sip coffee while generating enough paperwork to fill the National Archives, of which 90 percent is less useful than tits on a bull.

"Ozone, did you catch that?"

"Affirmative." He keyed his radio. "Serpico confirm echo nine?"

"Affirmative. Echo nine… emergency CAS. Say again emergency CAS."

"Ozone, I'm BINGO fuel. What's the play?"

Francois's heads-up display or HUD also flashed fuel, but there was no way he was going to leave a Marine unit without the air support that could mean the difference between life and death. Forget about the fact that he had been strapped in his cockpit for over eight hours and had already refueled five times. His back ached, and his eyes were dryer than the sands beneath his jet. He reset the minimum required fuel number to just shut up the warning signal. Of course, that didn't mean he was magically conjuring another pound of fuel in his tanks. He would most likely catch hell from his superiors, but when men and women on the ground called for emergency close air support, that meant they needed help, like, yesterday.

"Sudds, RTB. I'm going in."

"Negative, Ozone. You go, I go."

He would argue with Tristen, but the man was one of the most stubborn men François had ever met. Of course, any time he brought that up, Tristen would smirk, then say something about him being the pot to François's kettle. Two of the aircraft in their four-ship had already returned to base, so it was just him and Tristen who heard the call for help. He switched over to the specified frequency.

"Serpico, this is Maico four-two. I have two eagles looking for a midnight snack."

"Thank fuck! Our location is—"

Francois's radio crackled. Then there was the unmistakable rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons firing in the background. He scanned his display and adjusted a setting here and there, trying to figure out the most likely spot a unit of Marines might encounter trouble. Based on the operational details during the pre-mission briefing, he thought he might know where they were. God, he hoped he did. The Ring Road was a 3,200-kilometer loop that linked Afghanistan's four major cities. He knew there was a platoon of Marines and support personnel traveling from Kandahar to Kabul. Obama had committed to withdrawing thousands of U.S. troops by next summer, and the highway was a heavily utilized artery between the two major cities where extractions were taking place.

Francois keyed his mic. "Sudds, turn left to heading three-one-five. Let's see if we can find them and flank the attacking position."

"Roger."

"Maico four-two… Maico four-two… this is Serpico…"

Below him was the pitted and scarred earth of a country that had seen war and terror crush the souls of its people for eons. The U.S. had recently "celebrated" its tenth anniversary of involvement in the Afghan war. Francois had flown the not-so-friendly skies for a few months now. This being his second deployment, he was starting to recognize landmarks in the scarred terrain, but today there was just dirt. At least he didn't have to contend with a sandstorm and, being in the south, he didn't have to navigate the mountains and heavy snows of the Hindu Kush. A few months ago, Francois had to fly through one of those all-consuming brown waves where the sun became nothing more than a smear in the sky. Even though he'd been sealed in the cockpit of his Viper, he swore his lungs burned with the abrasion of sand each time he inhaled for weeks. He'd run out of water hours ago and cleared his throat, trying to get any kind of moisture to his suddenly parched body.

He and Tristen dropped their fighters down to 7,000 feet and scanned the ground, looking for any signs of the battle. The Marines' panicked voices came over the radio, pleading with François and his wingman to engage and kill the insurgents attacking the ground team. Francois desperately wanted to throttle up to Mach 1 and dive into the fray, but it wouldn't help the men and women on the ground if he went in there half-cocked and got everyone killed, including himself.

He keyed the mic. "Serpico… confirm no friendlies are on the road. Repeat… confirm no friendlies are on the road."

"Affirmative… friendlies… east… T-men… west."

Francois called up his weapons display and selected the AGM-65 Maverick, an air-to-ground missile. The 300-pound warhead could track a target once selected. He dropped to 4,000 feet. In his display, he saw Sudds had done the same and smiled. The others on the squad often said he and Tristen shared a brain, because they were so in sync with each other in the air. On the ground was another matter. Then the joke became that they only shared half a brain.

Francois was approximately five miles from the engagement zone. At 660 knots, he and Sudds would be on them in a matter of minutes. He trained the Maverick's targeting system on the west side of the highway. In his display, he saw what the missile saw, which was complete crap. The sun was sinking, creating no contrasts for the infrared, and the guidance system had a hard time distinguishing targets. It looked like someone had taken a photo, but the autofocus wasn't working.

"Ozone, Maverick's ineffective. I'm switching to cannons."

Tristen's voice through the radio confirmed he had the same issue. They were going to have to get very low and very close. If the insurgents possessed any SAMs, François and Tristen were on the verge of becoming stains on the desert floor. He strained forward against his harness and pointed his nose down. 3,000 feet and he slowed down to 480 knots, his eyes glued to his altimeter to make sure he knew exactly where his plane was in relation to the ground. The roar of the turbines mimicked the thundering in his ears.

"Maico four-two! They're … on the road… advance to our position…"

If the insurgents had crossed the road and were closing in on the Marine unit, they were in deep shit! François fanned his speed brakes as he dropped below 2,000 feet. He blinked, and suddenly… there they were! He leveled out. The ground was now just a little more than a thousand feet below him, and he pushed just enough throttle to hold steady, the fuel lights in the HUD flashing like the Fourth of July. He'd used up precious resources getting to the location and only had one shot at this.

"Maico! Road… kill… hill."

Damn it, the Marines' transmission was breaking apart. Francois didn't know if they'd moved and were now on the road, or they were trying to tell him to kill anything on the road and they'd taken position behind a hill.

Please God, don't let me fuck this up.

He glanced at his radar warning receiver that detected any signals from radar-guided missiles or antiaircraft artillery. No warning flashed. That was good. Except the system wouldn't be able to pick up any infrared missiles or the few hundred automatic weapons that were inevitably about to be aimed directly at him.

"Maico… for the love of Christ, kill anything that moves on that fucking road!"

"Maico, seven-five copies. Approaching from northeast."

Tristen's voice through their communication radio made it seem like the man was sitting beside him. Not strapped to a 25,000-pound bomb, streaking toward Francois through the air at 400 knots. The timing of their attack needed to be precise. Francois raised his eyes off the instruments and peered through the canopy. He wanted to visualize both Sudds and the Taliban column before issuing the command to drop their payload.

"Maico, four-two copies. Approaching from the southwest."

With the clear transmission from Marines on the ground, he and Tristen had a license to kill. In front of him, a massive hill rose from the terrain. His altimeter read out at 500 feet. Below him, a column of dirt lifted into the air with the force and proximity of his Viper to the ground. He was sure the sound of their jets had reached the ears of all battling it out. They wouldn't have the element of surprise, but maybe he and Tristen could still pull off a rescue. He crested the hill, and suddenly, the column of Taliban insurgents appeared on the road. Francois instantly flicked his weapons selection switch. He pulled up the cannon, but the proximity of the insurgents to the hillside was too close. He saw enemy and U.S. vehicles scattered around the highway like the carnage of a child's tantrum with their toys. Tiny figures dashed around as he flashed overhead, but the entire scene disappeared behind him in about four seconds.

He stabbed the button on his keyboard to mark the location and quickly banked south. "Serpico… Maico four-two is off south. Repositioning for attack in ninety seconds."

"Serpico… Maico seven-five still on approach."

Tristen's transmission indicated he was still in an excellent position for the attack. That side of the road didn't have visual obstacles like Francois's had. Maybe his wingman could save the day? But fuck, he was pissed off! He saw a molehill of higher ground and some movement where the Marines and other U.S. troops must be hunkered down.

Hang on. I'm coming.

Three miles from his marked location, François pulled up to 2,000 feet and swept south. He'd arc around until he reached the highway and fly right up the Taliban's ass with his cannons. They'd see him coming, but there was nothing he could do about that. He pulled a hard, quick, 5 G turn and came around to the south. The force of the turn pinned him to the seat, and he breathed, tightening all his muscles to force the blood to flow up to his brain. 5 Gs wasn't enough to put him in danger of passing out, but it crushed your insides sufficiently.

"Maico four-two. Seven-five is engaged. Call for a tanker as far south as possible. I'll clean up this mess and RTB behind you."

"Negative seven-five." Francois glanced down at his fuel levels. He was dangerously low, but there was no way in hell he was going to peel off and leave Tristen and those troops fighting behind him. Besides, who did that little fuck think he was? Although he and Tristen shared the same rank of lieutenant, Francois was technically the more senior.

He completed his turn and lined up with the highway. He dropped his sweat-soaked mask for a moment and took several deep breaths.

"Maico. This is Serpico. Enemy vehicles armed with SAM. I repeat… SAM is in play!"

Son of a bitch! If the Taliban had surface-to-air missiles on those trucks, Tristen was fucked. There was no way he'd be able to fire his cannons and dodge a Taliban missile simultaneously. Francois needed to get his ass back and support his wingman. He throttled up to 500 knots. He was getting bounced around a bit since he kept his altitude close enough to kiss the ground.

"Maico, Seven-Five. We need to pull a Weasel. You still have those 88s on board?"

"Affirmative, four-two."

The AGM-88 was an air-to-surface anti-radiation missile designed to home in on electronic transmissions coming from surface-to-air radar systems. It was the perfect tool to take out the SAM.

"Then here's what we're going to do. I'll get their attention with a little spitfire, while you take out the SAM. Hopefully, we can keep their attention on us long enough that they leave Serpico alone for a few minutes."

"Copy."

Any fatigue Francois had was lanced by the rage racing through him. U.S. troops were fighting for their lives down there, and now they had to deal with this bullshit? He shoved the throttle and the nose forward. With his marker showing two miles to the target, he slowed down to 400 knots and dropped to 200 feet. Holy shit, this was going to be close. Francois strapped his mask back in place and kept his hands rock steady. He craned his neck sideways to see around the HUD.

"Maico… Maico… we are overrun."

The Marine on the radio sounded scared shitless. His voice echoed in Francois's ear as he begged for help. The vehicles appeared.

"How the fuck did those camel fuckers get their hands on an Avenger, Ozone?"

"It's not theirs. It's ours. The Marines were transporting them up to Kabul."

"Is it still considered friendly fire if we're shot down by our own weapons in the hands of the enemy?"

"You ready, Sudds? We've got one shot at this."

"Affirmative."

Francois's left hand touched the master arm switch as he stared down the American-made vehicle, in the hands of the enemy, loaded up with Stinger missiles. Years and countless hours of training took over as he lined up on the far end of where the string of vehicles sat. He was about a quarter mile from the closest truck. He angled his nose down and let the little aiming circle wriggle around. Francois adjusted his airspeed and the angle of his targeting system. Since he was just the distraction, exact targeting wasn't critical.

"Close enough."

He squeezed the pickle button with his right forefinger. The percussive burp of his cannon rocked the jet sideways as his Gatling gun spat out a few hundred 20mm shells. Groups of soldiers turned and lifted their weapons toward him. He was well within their range. He adjusted his aim toward the middle of the convoy and fired again. Dark little figures scattered like cockroaches. Francois was so close to the ground he could see the American flag painted on the doors of the vehicles.

"Maico, seven-five fox one!"

Tristen's transmission meant he'd launched the missile. "Time to get the hell out of Dodge."

"BINGO… BINGO… BINGO…"

Francois's audible warning system that all the pilots referred to as Bitching Betty screamed at him over his low-fuel status. The Avenger exploded, lighting up the darkened sky. Francois climbed to 300 feet and rolled.

"Maico, hit 'em again. They're still…"

Francois knew he'd never have enough fuel to circle around again. More trucks exploded. Tristen must have let out a round of cannon fire. Francois knew he had one good maneuver left in him. He slammed the throttle forward to gain speed, angled his nose straight toward the sky, and rolled to the left till he nearly inverted. Then he sliced down toward the ground. One of the Taliban vehicles must have been manned by an insurgent with balls of steel because he openly fired at Francois. Green tracers arced over his right wing. He used all his training to ignore the deadly fire and leveled out. He brought the little target symbol onto the front of the truck and squeezed the trigger.

Dirt and sparks flew through the air, obscuring the truck in a haze of chewed-up asphalt. He had just over a hundred rounds remaining. He danced through the air to spoil the aim of any other insurgent with smart ideas. Francois looked over his shoulder and caught sight of a truck exploding. It must have been carrying ammunition because the force reverberated through Francois's jet, and another truck nearby also went up in a conflagration of fire.

"Serpico… Maico four-two and seven-five are off to the northwest… BINGO… Winchester and RTB."

They'd done the best they could. They were out of fuel and out of ammunition. The Marines had to clean up whatever was left; Francois and Tristen had other things to worry about. Mainly not splattering into southern Afghanistan. François had 1,500 pounds of fuel left, and he suspected Tristen had little more. There was no way they'd make it back to Bagram.

Cold sweat beaded on Francois's skin. Checking to make sure none of his engines had caught a stray round or three, he set his weapons back to safety. He climbed to 10,000 feet and headed northwest. He dropped his mask again and wiped his eyes.

"Maico seven-five, you out there, Sudds?"

"Affirmative. At your eight o'clock low. Looking for the Mobile station. Bitching Betty is in rare form."

"Roger. Last known tanker location pinged 120 miles off our nose. You feeling lucky?"

He and Tristen had only planned on being in the air for a six-hour mission. Francois hadn't brought any water or snacks. His ass hurt, and his eyes burned. Shivers raced up and down his body because of his sweat-soaked flight suit, so he flipped on the heat.

"With you at my side, Ozone, I always get lucky."