Sand and Fire (9780698137844) (12 page)

“Stand by for engine start.”

Parson pressed his talk switch on the side of the throttle and said, “Roger.”

Chartier reached to press buttons and flip switches Parson could not see from his seat. But Parson could hear the Snecma M53 engine when it began turning, and the huff when the igniters lit the fuel mixture in the combustion chamber. Annunciator lights winked out as oil and hydraulic pressures climbed.

The whines and hums of an airplane coming to life made Parson feel like a young lieutenant again, newly enamored of the sky and the machines that conquered it. He'd always loved aviation, but for most of the last decade, airplanes had taken him to war. He had transported the wounded, brought home the dead. He had seen blood splashed across instrument panels. But this sortie, he anticipated, would bring only the sheer joy of flight.

Both canopies lowered and closed, and cool air from the air-conditioning and pressurization system began filling the cockpits. Parson pulled on his gloves, kept his hands off the control stick and switches. Chartier called ground control for his flight clearance and permission to taxi, and the Mirage began rolling out of a hardstand where an American F-100 Super Sabre or a Soviet MiG might once have parked. A second Mirage, Chartier's wingman, taxied from the next hardstand.

The canopy offered great visibility. Parson instinctively scanned for other air traffic and saw nothing but an Emirates airliner climbing for departure. When he looked behind him, he noticed the hot exhaust gases shimmering from the Mirage's tailpipe. As the two jets neared the runway's hold-short lines, the tower called. The Libyan controller spoke accented but practiced English.

“Dagger Flight, cleared for takeoff, Runway Two-Niner.”

“Cleared for takeoff, Runway Two-Niner,” Chartier answered. Then he added on interphone, “Here we go,
mon colonel
. Afterburner takeoff.”

Chartier eased the throttle forward and turned onto the runway. He stopped and waited for the second Mirage to taxi into the wing position. Next, Chartier pumped his brakes, held them, and twirled his index finger to signal his wingman to run up engines. Parson's own interlinked throttle moved as Chartier pushed up the power. Chartier gave the engine gauges a quick final scan and looked back toward his wingman.

The man in the front cockpit of the second jet gave a thumbs-up. Chartier moved his head back against the headrest—then moved his head forward to signal the wingman for brake release. The throttle clicked into the afterburner detent. The burner lit off with a roar, and the rapid acceleration pressed Parson back against his seat. In seconds the airspeed indicator scrolled well past one hundred knots. Chartier pulled back on the stick just slightly, and the Mirage knifed into the blue Saharan sky. Just after the aircraft broke ground, Chartier brought up the landing gear.

Ahead, Parson could see downtown Tripoli shrinking to a sand-table miniature of itself as the jet rocketed for the heavens. Across the urban landscape, rusting cranes stood like skeletons over abandoned construction projects. Beyond the city, the Mediterranean glowed a deep azure. Chartier leveled off at seventeen thousand feet above the water, then turned left.

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 waiting 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.