Chapter 5
The airspace near the Afghan border
"Um ... Sir? I believe you're heading the wrong way," Lt. Turrick's voice came over the intercom.
"This is the right heading, Lieutenant," Harm deadpanned, mentally bracing himself for an outburst. "The mission parameters have been changed."
"Changed?" An expression of utter confusion crept into the young lieutenant's voice. "I don't under-- ... By whose orders?"
"The ship's captain's." 'And mine,' he added silently.
"That's bull-- ..., Sir," the voice on the other end quickly changed from confused to angry. "I spoke to the Captain myself, and those were the coordinates he gave me."
Wordlessly Harm glanced at his instrument panel. They had about another five minutes before they would reach the border; five minutes for him to "conclude" this investigation. He decided to press on with his bluff. "New Intel was received at the last minute, Lieutenant. It is suspected that the Taliban forces moved their position, that someone warned them of our coming."
The bait was thrown into the water. There was a moment of tense silence on the other end. '4 minutes, 22 seconds,' Harm was keeping a mental countdown.
"Someone, Sir?" the lieutenant's voice was hoarse with unease.
'Hook, line, and sinker.' Harm only hoped that the mikes were working properly, and someone on the Seahawk was getting all this. "Yes, the same someone who warned the Taliban about the last mission, causing two of our planes to be shot down," he replied, keeping his voice level.
"What are you implying, Sir?" Turrick hissed nervously into the mike, his anxiety preventing him from realizing his slip.
Harm couldn't suppress a small but triumphant grin: he had him ... just one more push, and he'll have the man's confession on tape. "I am not implying anything yet, Lieutenant. But I would be curious as to your opinion about something."
"What?" the word came out sharp, like a snap of a dry twig in a forest.
"If they were forewarned, the Taliban forces would be expecting 2 Navy Tomcats to sweep over that specific location, but they wouldn't attempt to shoot them out of the sky ... what with a 'friendly' on board... Would they?"
"Sir, I'm --"
"But," Harm continued, ignoring the other man's attempt to speak, "they wouldn't be expecting that same 'friendly' coming 30 degrees north, north-east of that location. So, do you think they'd fire on us, Lieutenant?"
Another moment of silence followed, and over the open com-line Harm thought he heard the younger pilot attempt to put through a radio transmission. A flow of garbled curses followed what was obviously a failed attempt.
"I forgot to mention, Lieutenant," the Commander interjected coolly. "Your radio was malfunctioning this morning, but there was no time to replace it. I'm afraid warning your buddies this time is out of the question."
The young lieutenant felt as if he were suffocating. His mind was working feverishly, as he tried to assess the gravity of his situation. 'Rabb knows. That means, so does the Captain,' he realized with a sudden sense of fatalism. 'They all know.' The helplessness of the moment filled his whole being with pure unadulterated rage, making him lose what little self-control that remained.
"You set me up, you son of a bitch!"
For a brief moment, the Navy Commander was taken aback not by the words themselves but by the intensity of emotion behind them. Despite himself, he turned his head, taking a good look at his wingman. His eyes narrowed dangerously, a deadly glint appearing in their icy-blue depths. "You got it wrong, mister," his voice grew chillingly calm, filled with barely suppressed contempt for the traitor. "You set yourself up when you betrayed your fellow officers and your country. What were their lives worth to you, Turrick? Another 30 pieces of silver?"
Turrick's reply was cut off by the sudden barrage of artillery fire from below, and both pilots pulled hard on their sticks to avoid the volley of projectiles coming at them from the ground.
"Guess I was right about them not expecting a 'friendly' traitor this far north, eh Lieutenant," Harm yelled over the deafening noise, as he directed his attention to the guns below. "Base, this is Navy Tomcat 251. I'm taking on heavy ground fire from suspected Taliban forces. I'm transmitting their position now."
"Roger that, 251," came the Seahawk's response.
For a brief moment, Lt. Turrick was forgotten, as Harm concentrated on taking a low sweep over the area to get a better radar image for the folks on the Seahawk. Maneuvering amid the deadly flashes of rapid fire, he successfully cleared the area and began a fast climb to a safe altitude. It was then that the Commander remembered about his wingman, wondering briefly as to his whereabouts, when suddenly he felt a violent shudder go through his plane. A fraction of a second later, his ears registered his own agonizing scream, as a flash of white-hot pain seared his left shoulder.
"Perhaps my actions can convince them that I am a 'friendly' after all, Commander. I may just get lucky that way," he heard, the words muffled by the red haze that clouded his brain.
Gritting his teeth, his lips pressed tightly against the pain, Harm rolled the plane away from his unexpected attacker and pulled it into a vertical climb, circling sharply in the air to execute a loop. The g-force pressed hard on his wound during the maneuver, making him nauseous with the pain. For a brief second he wondered if he'd black out, but he held on, trying to keep his hands steady on the stick. He felt the plane lurch under him, the wounded bird slowly giving up on its own life.
"Come on ... baby ... just ... a few ... more ... seconds ..." he cajoled in between sharp labored breaths. Finally, after what seemed like minutes, but, in reality, was only seconds later, the maneuver was complete, and Harm found himself in the back of his wingman's plane. "Your luck just ran out, Lieutenant," he squeezed through clenched teeth, releasing the missile. And he watched in weary satisfaction, as the plane in front of him exploded in a giant fireball.
Moments later, his own plane lurched violently for one last time and plummeted toward the ground completely out of control.
"Mayday! Mayday! This is US Navy Tomcat 251. Location approximately 20 miles south-east of Kabul."
Harm's hand closed over the ejection handle, and he pulled, his stomach tightening at the painfully familiar rush of cold air and the sharp pull of the parachute straps. The aircraft slammed into the ground beneath him with a deafening sound, the wave of explosion reaching his descending form within milliseconds and throwing him hard to the side. He saw the ground rise sharply toward him, and he yanked at the straps of the parachute with his good hand in a vain attempt to soften the impact. The last thing he felt was the impact with the hard rock surface that sent daggers of pain through his defenseless body.