Night of the Hawk by Dale Brown

Author:Dale Brown [Brown, Dale]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2008-08-08T22:00:00+00:00

Wohl gave the weapons to an Air Force crew chief, who stowed them in a rack within easy reach of the MV-22's door gunner. "You've got your sidearm, and you tested pretty good with it. Captain Briggs will help you guys out."

McLanahan had the feeling that Wohl was silently saying, And I pray you losers will never have to draw it.

"I didn't want to carry the damn thing anyway," Ormack said as he began to unclip the ammo pouches from his ALICE harness and handed the stuff over to WohI to redistribute through the platoon. "Never got used to it." His voice seemed distant and hollow.

Hearing Ormack scared McLanahan a bit. Would his own voice sound that way if he spoke right now? He didn't want to find out, but he had to talk about it. McLanahan nodded toward the other camouflage-suited Marines around them and said to Ormack, "Let those guys handle the shooting. We'll keep our heads down and get Dave."

Ormack seemed to like the logic in that, although his averted eyes and hesitant nod showed how many doubts the man really was carrying around inside of him.

The MV-22 made a steep turn and seemed to settle even closer to the ground. Patrick, who was accustomed to flying big aircraft at very low altitudes, didn't think they could get any closer to the ground, but they did, The winds were gusting and the ride was bumpy, and for the first time in his career he felt the odd queasiness of airsickness.

Hal Briggs seemed to notice it right away, even in the dim red light of the crew cabin. "You're lookin' a little green, Muck," the Air Force security officer said. "Think of eating a lemon-that always helps me."

'I'm used to flying low, at night, and in shitty weather," McLanahan said, "but I'm usually at the controls, or at least I can see outside. Being chauffeured like this isn't fun. I need a window."

"I can tell you barf stories that would curl your hair," Briggs said with a smile, "but that won't help your stomach. Think of Dave. We'll see him soon."

That was their small group's battle cry over these past few weeks. Whenever they felt like quitting, or were getting frustrated from lack of knowledge, or couldn't perform some task or feat, to themselves or to one of the others they would say: Think of Dave.

Sometimes, McLanahan thought, life takes truly strange courses. Three weeks ago he was working on modifications to the B-2 stealth bomber they had received in Dreamland. Two weeks ago he had learned that Dave Luger was alive, and hours later he was shooting an M-16 rifle for the first time-the very first time. One week ago he was up to his knees in mud being screamed at by some deranged Marine gunnery sergeant. Now he was sitting in a web seat on a special operations aircraft, wearing a knife and camouflage paint on his face and a big 9-millimeter automatic pistol at his side, flying into Lithuania.

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