Sand and Fire (9780698137844) (30 page)

Something began to irritate his eyes. It reminded him of cutting onions or peppers, except his eyes didn't tear as much. Blount blinked twice, forced his eyes to water. That brought a little relief. With his index finger, he wiped the notch of his right eye where the tear duct lay. The finger came away smudged with what looked like ground mustard. Almost imperceptibly, the sky had turned darker shades of that color in all directions.

“All right, boys,” Blount said. “The dust is about to get thicker. Y'all keep a sharp eye out while you can, 'cause I don't know what we'll have for visibility.”

“Aye, aye, Gunny,” Fender said.

Blount checked the DAGR again, pointed to correct the team's heading a few degrees. Dust collected in the folds of the men's clothing and gear; the horizon no longer existed. The ground melded with the sky as if the earth and its atmosphere were made of thicker or lighter measures of the same stuff. Swirls in the air seemed to grow solid, then dissipate. The men turned as they walked, checked behind them and on their flanks.

Fender pointed at something to the south.

“Do you see that?” he asked.

Blount pivoted to look. At first the dust in that direction appeared much the same. But after a moment he noticed a thickening along the ground.

He would have dismissed it if not for the way it moved. The wisps and swirls did not dissipate like all the others. A plume traversed the desert at a constant speed, going east to west. No gust of wind ever blew that steady.

“That's a truck,” Blount said.

P
arson forced himself to concentrate on his job as he fought back a range of emotions. The news of Chartier's contact with Blount elated him, of course. But now he worried whether the rescue choppers he'd just alerted could get there in time; they would launch at any minute. Parson glanced down at the VFR charts on the ops counter, noted their brown depictions of vast expanses of wasteland. The problem would come down to technology versus the weather and the enemy. Could the Pave Hawks pluck four men from the back side of nowhere before the storm or jihadists overtook them?

The next couple hours would tell. The forecast called for winds at ten knots gusting to thirty, starting during this hour. Blowing dust, visibility down to a mile or less.

The ops center door swung open and the four chopper pilots rushed inside. The pilots' flying gear bulged with pouches for radios, flares, and other survival equipment. Their M9 pistols hung in holsters, along with extra magazines. Their enlisted personnel—the flight engineers, gunners, and pararescuemen—were already at the helicopters. He showed the pilots the weather forecast.

“Wish I had better news,” Parson said.

“We'll push it hard as we can,” one of the pilots replied. “Worst case, we'll just set her down in the desert if we have to.”

“Hope it doesn't come to that,” Parson said.

“Yeah, me, too,” another pilot offered. “Let's get this done.”

The pilots stuffed weather sheets into the lower leg pockets of
their flight suits and rushed out the door. As they left, Parson heard a familiar sound, the engine start sequence of a C-130. In this case it was an HC-130 Combat King, specially modified to refuel the Pave Hawks in flight. If the helicopters needed extra gas to reach the survivors, they could join up with the Combat King on a predetermined refueling track.

He followed the pilots outside to see them take off. The air had already taken on a strange translucence, softening the edges of distant objects. The effect came as a result of dust lifted high from miles away, now drifting back down to earth. Just a foretaste of what was to come.

Saint-Ex had faced the same kind of weather, Parson knew, with much more primitive aircraft and less reliable forecasts. Parson recalled a description written by his new favorite author: . . .
desert storms that turn the sky into a yellow furnace and wipe out hills, towns, and river-banks, drowning earth and sky in one great conflagration
. Well, Saint-Ex, Parson thought, here we go again.

The crews climbed aboard the two waiting Pave Hawks. Beyond the choppers, the Combat King sat with propellers spinning and red strobes flashing like an all-capable mother ship. The Pave Hawks' rotors began turning, at first languidly, then faster.

Above the noise of rotors and turboprops, Parson heard the whistling sound of jet engines throttled back. He looked up and saw a pair of Mirages on downwind. One entered the break, banked hard to the left, lowered its landing gear. The other extended downwind for several seconds, then turned onto the base leg just as the first jet touched down. A few moments later both fighters rolled along the taxiway, canopies lifted open on their actuators. Parson could see Chartier and Sniper in the lead aircraft, helmets turning side to side as they scanned for ground traffic, oxygen hoses extending from their masks.

Now that the missing men had been located, the mission changed from search to recovery. That meant the Mirages could taxi into parking and let the Pave Hawks and their support aircraft take over.

The helicopters' main rotors came up to speed, spinning in blurred discs. The pulse and thump grew deeper as the blades changed pitch, and the choppers lifted off. The helos flew a few yards above the ground in a slightly nose-low attitude, then began to climb and turn to the south. At the same time, the HC-130 started taxiing toward the runway.

The movement of all these aircraft made it seem invincible forces had gathered themselves, that some inevitable reckoning would soon play out. But Parson knew all too well the frailty of the machines, the fallibility of the people inside them, and the unpredictability of fate.

By the time the HC-130 growled into the sky, visibility dropped further. Buildings on the far side of the airport grew indistinct, as if viewed through translucent glass stained the color of bourbon. Parson waved to Chartier as the Mirages taxied into parking. Then he went back inside to check the weather again and see if the data confirmed his suspicion. Sure enough, a new observation had popped up on his computer:

SPECI HLLM 231700Z 21015KT R29/1500D PO NSC 20/28 Q1020

The first part of the coded observation carried the identifier for Mitiga and a date/time stamp. It was a special observation because it differed significantly from the last one. The rest brought no good news: Winds from the southeast at fifteen knots. The runway visual range along Runway 29 had fallen to fifteen hundred meters and was still going down. No significant clouds, but that wasn't the trouble; PO was the international code for dust or sand whirls. Temperature, 20 degrees Celsius. Dewpoint, 28 degrees. Altimeter setting, 1020 hectopascals.

The captain working the shift with Parson glanced over and said, “How's it looking?”

Parson simplified the codes and data:

“Weather's going to dog shit.”

“Great.”

Parson worried about visibility, of course, but his concerns extended beyond that. Unlike fog, dust could actually damage aircraft. Dust clogged filters, pitted rotors and propellers, scoured turbine blades. The C-130 flight manual even called for crews not to operate the air-conditioning system on the ground in a desert environment—despite the sweaty misery—to avoid sucking sand into the ducts. The book also said to keep flaps up until ready for takeoff so dust wouldn't foul jackscrews and actuators.

But in flight, crews could do little to minimize damage except minimize time in the air. Normally, you'd just postpone missions until the storm passed. But not this time.

More radio traffic caught Parson's attention. The traffic came on the ops frequency, with the call sign of Gold's C-130 flight from Algeria.

“Kingfish, Reach Two Four X-ray.”

The captain at the ops desk lifted the hand mike and answered.

“Reach Two Four X-ray, Kingfish. Go ahead.”

“Kingfish, be advised we are fifteen minutes out. We have a patient on board who needs immediate medical attention. Gunshot wounds to the lower arm.”

Parson twisted in his seat toward the radio. Had something happened to Sophia? Damn, did she have to get shot on
every
mission?

“Gimme the mike,” Parson said. The captain handed it over. Parson pressed the talk switch and said, “Reach Two Four X-ray, who is the patient?”

“Uh, I don't have the name in front of me, sir. He's an Algerian national.”

Parson felt a flood of relief, and then he felt guilty for feeling relief. It was bad when anybody got shot. But he couldn't deny he was glad Sophia wasn't hurt. He'd nearly gotten her killed in Afghanistan, and the vision of her bloodied and fighting for her life in a
rescue helicopter still haunted him. Parson knew he loved her; he'd admitted that much to himself by now. But none of the in-vogue phrases for these kinds of relationships quite applied. She was not a “work spouse.” She meant far more to him than that. Not a “friend with benefits.” That implied too-casual sex. “Emotional affair” didn't cut it, either. Their bond—forged under fire and maintained at times by long-distance—defied description.

He keyed the mike again and said, “Kingfish copies all. We'll have E-MEDS standing by. Do you have current weather for Mitiga? Visibility's going to hell.”

“Yes, sir, we do. We'll see you soon if we can get in. Reach Two Four X-ray out.”

Parson called E-MEDS, the Expeditionary Medical Squadron, to make sure an ambulance stood by. That done, he could only monitor the computers and radios, and wait.

A few minutes later, Parson heard the C-130 call in on the VHF tower frequency.

“Mitiga Tower,” the pilot said, “Reach Two Four X-ray is with you on the ILS to Runway Two-Niner.”

Parson glanced at the radio, looked out the window at the swirling dust. The sight made him grimace.

“Reach Two Four X-ray, Mitiga Tower,” the controller responded. “You are cleared to land.”

That made things sound simple, but Parson knew better. Visibility came and went during these storms, and nothing mattered except what the pilots could see when they reached decision height. Depending on the airfield, decision height was usually two hundred feet above ground level for a Category One approach. Very little room for error when you got that low. If the pilots couldn't spot the approach lights or other parts of the runway environment, they had to go around: shove the throttles, arrest the descent, start climbing away on a predetermined missed-approach path. The situation allowed for no fumbling, no hesitation.

Parson remembered an old instructors' saying about flying in weather this bad: Don't consider a missed approach an aborted landing. Consider a landing an aborted missed approach.

He looked out the window toward the runway. The sun had not started to set, but the light—filtered through dust—looked like twilight. He heard the grumble of the C-130's turboprops. Watched the approach end of the runway. Saw nothing. The grumble grew louder. Parson still saw no part of the airplane, not even landing lights. He could imagine the pilots' eyes glued to their instruments, watching the altimeter and the localizer and glide-slope needles. Another call came over the tower frequency.

“Reach Two Four X-ray's on the missed approach.”

Parson cursed under his breath.

“Roger, Reach Two Four X-ray,” the tower said. “Contact Approach Control on one-one-niner point seven.”

“Reach Two Four X-ray over to Approach.”

Parson wondered if they'd divert to another airfield or make another attempt at landing here. Under Air Force rules, they couldn't even start an approach unless the weather was reported above minimums. And the visibility changed moment to moment in a dust storm.

For long minutes he heard no engines and no more calls on the tower frequency. He considered checking the plane's flight plan to learn its alternate airport; surely it had headed for Cairo or somewhere. But then another call came on the radio.

“Mitiga Tower, Reach Two Four X-ray's with you on the ILS to Two-Niner.”

“Reach Two Four X-ray cleared to land.”

Parson stepped outside and again watched the skies above the approach end of the runway. Fine particles stung his eyes. He heard the growl of engines once more. Across the airport, the orange windsock fluttered in a dirty, gusting breeze. Several seconds passed with no sign of the C-130 except its noise signature, and Parson expected to hear it pass overhead in another missed approach.

But one shaft of light penetrated the beige clouds, perhaps a quarter mile from the touchdown zone. Then another appeared. Parson recognized the landing lights of a Herk. The aircraft took shape as if formed from the blowing sand. When the main wheels touched down, puffs of gray tire smoke joined the swirls of dust.

The E-MEDS ambulance began rolling across the tarmac, along with the blue pickup truck of the flight line team. The pickup stopped near an aircraft parking spot. A marshaller got out of the passenger side and stood with two electric wands held above his head. Parson watched the C-130 roll from the runway and lumber along a taxiway, its engines sighing as they shifted into low-speed ground idle. When the Herk reached the apron, the marshaller signaled it to turn left into the parking spot. The aircraft rolled to a halt.

Parson strode across the tarmac to the C-130. After a couple of minutes, the props spun down. The crew door dropped open, a loadmaster stepped out, and Parson climbed aboard. He glanced up at the crew on the flight deck: two pilots, a navigator, and a flight engineer. Clinks and rattles sounded in the cockpit as they unbuckled their harnesses and unplugged their headsets.

“Good job, guys,” Parson said. “After that missed approach, I thought you were headed for Egypt.”

“Well,” the navigator replied, “you said you would kick our asses if anything went wrong.”

Parson laughed. “Yeah, I did, didn't I? How's the weather behind you?”

“Varies,” the copilot said. “Sometimes you can see a mile, sometimes you can't see anything. I almost hit the go-around button again, but right then I saw the approach lights.”

“Yeah,” the pilot said. “We were surprised those helicopters took off in this mess. We heard them talking to tower.”

“Well, there's a good reason for that,” Parson said. “We made contact with the missing Marines.”

In the cargo compartment, Gold stood with her back to the crew
entrance door. She and a tall African Union officer helped a man get to his feet. The man wore some sort of native headdress. He had a bandage across his wrist. Two men—no, two boys—sat in the nylon troop seats. One of them wore a blue headdress, like the wounded man. Gold turned when she heard Parson's voice.

“That's wonderful news,” Gold said. “Did you talk to them?”

“No,” Parson said, “but the Mirage crews did. Flew right over them.”

“Thank God. I just hope the choppers can get to them.”

“Tell me about it.”

Parson walked over to Gold, placed his hands on her shoulders. She put one arm around his waist for just a moment, then turned her attention back to the wounded man. The patient stood on his own two feet but looked weak and tired.

“How did he get shot?” Parson asked.

“Long story. I'll tell you inside.”

“I guess you guys have had a rough day,” Parson said.

“Oh, yeah,” Gold said.

The AU officer began talking to the boys in a language Parson had never heard. They unfastened their seat belts and stood up.