The whine of
Tiny Dancer's twin turbofan engines was a constant presence to Lt. Damien Greyson. It was a sound most pilots found overwhelming and distracting. The regulation flight helmet did little to muffle the droning roar behind his cockpit. The sound was dull and fierce, and characterized what most equipment sounded like before some critical failure. But, this was the voice of his true love.
Tiny Dancer spoke to Lt. Greyson through the thunder of her engines with an intimacy that few people ever experienced in their lifetimes. He knew if she was stressed or tired, but in all his years as a pilot, Tiny
Dancer has never complained or failed him. Ever.
The tan sands of northern Iraq looked dark far below Lt. Greyson as the twilight of early evening signaled the end of their mission. At the transit altitude of 35,000 ft., Lt. Greyson could see the spine of the Zagros Mountain range flare to rose-hued pink under the setting sun as it stretched from Southeastern Turkey to Northern Iran. Things possessed a simple beauty when he strolled alone with
Tiny Dancer. There were few moments of peace in the life of an A-10 pilot, and the transit flight back to base after a successful sortie was one of them. At their current speed, Lt. Greyson estimated he and
Tiny Dancer would meet the tarmac in precisely thirty-six minutes. That was enough time to comfortably land in daylight without switching to night-vision, which was a cumbersome bother to strap-on and activate. Lt. Greyson was thinking of the hot shower after his de-briefing when the call came from his A-10 Flight Controller.
<<Tiny Dancer, this is Forward Air Control two-niner. Over.>>
Lt. Greyson had immediately switched on his comm receiver, and responded per standard operating procedure.
<<FAC two-niner, this is Tiny Dancer. Copy. Over.>>
Silence was the controller's initial response, which was not unusual. Static erupted, and Lt. Greyson thought he heard a heated conversation on the other line. Lt. Greyson sighed silently, privately hoping this interruption was something routine. He had already been in the air for last four hours and dropped most of his payload on an insurgent position that was sniping at Marine patrols ten clicks north of Tikrit. All that ordinance for just one determined man -
What a waste, he thought.
<<Tiny Dancer, FAC two-niner ... We're tracking your position at three-zero-five, Denver range 315km. Confirm. Over.>>
Lt. Greyson held the control stick firm, leafing through a laminated booklet with pages of high-quality maps. He peered through binoculars to triangulate his position relative to the mountains; to the south, the evening lights of a small, adobe town lit brightly against a narrowing, shimmering blue lake
<<FAC two-niner, Tiny Dancer ... Confirm heading three-zero-five, Denver range correction at 275km. Over.>>
Another period of silence followed, and a disquiet settled into Lt. Greyson's stomach. Position reports were given every half-hour, and that was seventeen minutes ago. FAC's position request was delivered with an urgency that meant something was wrong. He knew it. So did
Tiny Dancer, whose turbines seemed to whine pensively.
<<Tiny Dancer, FAC two-niner ... Report ordinance loads. Over.>>
<<FAC two-niner, Tiny Dancer ... We're still carrying a cluster bomb and one-hundred twenty plus 30mm rounds. ECM running and operational. Over.>>
<<Tiny Dancer, FAC two-niner ... Stand by. Over.>>
Minutes passed, and then a familiar voice greeted Lt. Greyson's ears.
<<Tiny Dancer, this is Colonel Winters. Over.>>
Lt. Greyson recognized the Colonel's strong, cogent voice before he declared himself. The pilot sat taller in his cockpit chair, physically responding to the presence of his superior officer.
<<FAC, Tiny Dancer here ... Over.>>
<<Tiny Dancer ... We have a situation in Sector 5. We need you to re-route to heading ... three-three-five, for immediate ground support. A Special Ops extraction is taking heavy fire, and they need a miracle, Lieutenant. Over.>>
Sector 5 was Mosul. The ancient city of Mosul was a Sunni Muslim stronghold, and had been a recurring thorn in the sides of both Army and Marine attempts to quell sectarian violence. It was also home to a massive network of anti-aircraft gun batteries and SAM sites. Of the few weapons capable of bringing down a fully-armored A-10 Thunderbolt, few were as feared as surface-to-air missiles, or SAMs. Many of these weapons had been dismantled during the first wave of air attacks by the Air Force, and few of the anti-aircraft weapons remained to pose any real threat. There were rumors that the surviving SAM emplacements had become mobile, and were hidden by the insurgent forces and struck when least expected. A chill ran through the young pilot. Lt. Greyson could have easily called in a "redball", claiming some part of his aircraft required maintenance or wasn't functioning properly. There were any number of legitimate excuses that the Lieutenant could have cited to avoid what sounded like a perilous and harrowing mission.
But, he couldn't do that - he would not abandon his brothers in their dark hour. An A-10 pilot was different from other pilots; A-10 considered themselves ground personnel who happened to fly a lumbering aircraft, bristling with devastating firepower. Other Air Force pilots fought enemy aircraft, and spoke only between themselves, while A-10 pilots spoke directly with the troops on the ground. Lt. Greyson could usually hear the desperation and panic in the Combat Controller's voice, it was a voice often laced with the genuine fear of death. A-10 pilots loathed to hear such fearful tones from soldiers, and it spurred them to heroic purpose. Lt. Greyson tapped his fuel indicator, wondering if he would be re-supplied before racing northward.
<<FAC, Tiny Dancer. We're low on fuel ... Currently have an authorized RTB (Return to Base). Over.>>
<<Tiny Dancer, FAC ... Rendezvous direct at Delta-Zulu at 19:30 Hours for in-flight re-fueling. You'll have to head in with what you've got. If you re-arm at Base, they'll be in coffins when you arrive. Over.>>
<<FAC, Tiny Dancer. Affirmative, Colonel. Fly direct at Delta-Zulu, ETA 19:30 Hours for in-flight refuel. Then, proceeding on three-three-five for Sector 5 ground support ... Any intel on SAMs? Over.>>
<<Negative, Tiny Dancer ... Combat Controller will bring you in. He might have boots intel on SAMs. You're now mission positive. Flush dog tags in your magbag prior to engaging. Over.>>
Lt. Greyson unzipped his flight jacket just enough to yank his dog tags from around his neck. He removed them as ordered, knowing full well the fate of identified soldiers and pilots if captured. Lt. Greyson was mission positive, which meant he was no longer Lt. Greyson. A quiet transformation occurred in the devout, duty-bound man sitting behind the controls of
Tiny Dancer. Whatever doubt and mercy resided inside Lt. Damien Greyson melted before the callous, savage warrior now forming to take his place. He was now "Azrael," a member of God's avenging angels. Every pilot in his squadron claimed a unique angelic title, leaving little wonder why the 365th was known as the "Angels of Death." The lieutenant and his brethren brought these barbarians the closest thing to divine wrath possible. So, if found with dog tags, the insurgents would excitedly parade the lieutenant in front of cameras until his glamor faded to the Western media, then dispose of him with a blade to his neck. A sword would be preferable, but rumor told of knives being the tool of beheadings these days.
Azrael tilted the stick toward the north, and the monster in the cockpit temporarily gave way to the man within - it was then that Damien thought of his mother. She was alone, and worried about Damien incessantly. She watched the war news coverage like an addict, which didn't help matters. Usually she could be distracted from her concern over the pilot's fate by doting on his younger brother. Joseph had left the house four weeks ago that day, essentially abandoning their mother and every familial responsibility with which he'd been charged. Worthless fuckface, Damien thought. Joseph had promised to care for his mother until Damien returned from his second tour. His mother wasn't herself when the Lieutenant last visited, she seemed disoriented and persistently lacking in the cantankerous vigor that defined her character. The nearest neighbor was ten minutes away, but they were often gone tending to other properties or harvesting. Damien and his mother needed Joseph to do his duty, as a son and a brother. Honor was less about the way one acted, but about the responsibilities and promises one keeps - to others, as well as oneself. Damien felt a deep, burning shame for Joseph, and he honestly puzzled how they could be related.
<<Azrael ... bring 'em back alive.>>
The Colonel's voice snapped the pilot back into his reality and plucked a personal chord in the young man from South Dakota, and a surge of silent emotion racked his sensibilities. Damien retreated into himself and the unholy warrior emerged.
<<Yes, Sir ... Tiny Dancer. Over and Out.>>
The boom from the KC-135 Stratotanker pushed
Tiny Dancer downward, and
Azrael kept the controls locked while the boom operator began to pump fuel into his Thunderbolt. The entire procedure took ten minutes. Replenished, he took the opportunity to prepare and mount his night-vision goggles on his flight helmet. Dusk was coming, and
Azrael wanted to be prepared if the engagement lasted beyond the realm of visible light.
Forward Air Control briefed
Azrael on the ground situation, which had only become more dire as evening approached. The Special Operations group had made their way out of the suburban sprawl of southwest Mosul, and were trying to exfiltrate and cross the Tigris River. A contingent of the 82nd Airborne had covertly secured a ford and was waiting in subterfuge, not wanting to prematurely reveal the destination of the targeted troops.
Azrael did the math in his head, noting the strategic locales in grease pencil upon his laminate maps. That leaves another half hour before they reach the River, he reasoned. To make matters worse, the Combat Controller reported the insurgent strength at battalion size or larger - a force that size was bristling with mobile anti-aircraft guns and SAM batteries. The Americans were withdrawing across near open desert, and the rough, sandy conditions were the only reason they had not yet been outflanked. That was something Azrael needed to be aware of as he made his preliminary observation and prevent from happening.
The river ford was the key to everything, and successfully securing the southwestern bank would have lended a desperately needed tactical advantage to the Americans. The river served as a physical barrier to flanking maneuvers, the 82nd supposedly had an infrared beacon to communicate the location to
Tiny Dancer, and assist
Azrael in guiding the exfiltration process. It was a daring plan rife with danger; should the Americans be caught while in the process of crossing, the insurgents could easily line the opposing bank and enjoy unqualified enfiladed fire on the ferry operation. There were two EMD 500 Defender helicopters, each armed with M134 Miniguns, that were prepared to patrol the river corridor and plaster the opposing shore with blistering fire, clearing the rescue helicopter's landing zone of hostile forces. The helicopter's range, however, only extended to the river - it was
Tiny Dancer's task to escort the harried soldiers to the river alive.
Knowing the plan about to be executed by the ground forces and being, in fact, an integral and active participant in it was what separated pilots like
Azrael from the prima donna ace. While never having shot down an enemy aircraft, the fair portion of the insurgent's military heavy arsenal laid broken, burnt, and shattered across the desert landscape at the hands of
Tiny Dancer. Even then, the discarded husks of the enemy's war apparatus could be seen below
Tiny Dancer as
Azrael peered earthward, signaling that the outlying districts of Mosul would arrive soon. A dullness lined
Azrael's stomach that was both focused and sickening.
Azrael dialed in the Joint Terminal Attack Controller's encrypted frequency on
Tiny Dancer's radio unit. Her knobs were worn, and the rib edges that allowed fingers to grip the dial had long eroded white and round. The speakers inside
Azrael's helmet immediately crackled to life and painted a grim picture of the soldier's predicament.
<<... I repeat, this is RedFox Charlie. Calling for air support, Sector 5. Over.>>
<<RedFox, Azrael inbound with Hog support. ETA in three minutes.>>
<<(panting) Copy that, Azreal. Enemy concentration to our northwest, approximately three-hundred yards, due ... Fuck! JOHNSON!!>>
A man just died during that conversation. The JTAC sounded harried, but not panicked - he was a professional, who didn't allow his emotions to interfere with his duty or cloud his judgment. Nevertheless, his voice came laced with fear for the survival of his companions. He was running while talking, and his winded orders were difficult to interpret. In the background, the constant eruption of semi-automatic gunfire incurred an added urgency. The Controller would never admit it, but they were in deep shit.
Azrael arced
Tiny Dancer wide to the south. He set his binoculars against his eyes, and surveyed the predicament on the ground. Below him, like a ribbon of inhospitable glass, ran the Tigris River.
Azrael spotted the Special Operations group and the band of para-military insurgents in desperate pursuit. He pulled out his laminated maps, and rifled through the stack for Sector 5. The pilot flipped his binoculars and used them as a magnifying glass, soon finding what he was looking for.
<<RedFox, ... Modify your heading, due west by southwest ... There's an irrigation ditch and escarpment you can use as temporary cover. ETA two minutes. Over.>>
RedFox screamed back something understated about burning tail, but the stakes were clear.
Tiny Dancer would arrive soon enough, and
Azrael could already make out the enemy in finer detail. But, it wasn't the three dozen Arabs that concerned the pilot, it was the dust being kicked up from the northeast. Damn it, he thought. Through the dusking of impending twilight and billowing clouds of dust, the binoculars could still pick out the much larger, incoming force. It was mechanized — trucks, jeeps, and flatbeds with light artillery, and God knows what else.
Fuck.
Mopping up an battalion of enemy ground targets took half a fighter wing. He and
Tiny Dancer were one plane, and only partially armed.
Azrael switched the comm to Forward Control for authorization; no matter how much he wanted to lay waste to the landscape fleeting below him,
Azrael was required to call in the attack run.
<<Ground Control, Azreal ... I repeat, this is Tiny Dancer. Over.>> The Lieutenant didn't wait for a response.
<<Contact! Confirm thirty-five hostiles in pursuit ... I repeat, that's three-five enemy, small arms and RPG contact at grid three-eight-zero-niner. Add ... Incoming contact ... Confirm hostile convoy, battalion size ... I repeat, that's B-T-L hostiles, mechanized, inbound at ten klicks. Authorization to engage. Over.>>
<<Roger that, Tiny Dancer ... Engage at-will. I repeat, you have a green-light to engage all targets. Send 'em to Hell.>>
Azrael, reacting in an absorbed instinct, immediately switched the comm channel back to the nightmarish desperation on the ground. The open channel riddled with gunfire, and he needed to give them relief.
Tiny Dancer was nearly on top of their position, and the aircraft depressed to a thirty-degree attack angle. The night-vision goggles came down and
Azrael could clearly see the blinking infrared ID trackers on the American position. They found that trench, and the heat from their return fire lit the field aglow. Azrael's finger hovered near the trigger, and at the correct distance he pulled back his finger and unleashed
Tiny Dancer's 30mm cannon.
The insurgent had hunkered down among a field of abandoned trucks, and were trying to connect their rocket propelled grenades down range at the American position. They had chased them for over an hour, and lost many brothers. The insurgents wanted retribution of their loss and unyielding anger, and above all to praise Allah with their faithful service. A few looked up at the thunder of
Tiny Dancer's engines before chaos overtook them. The demonic roar of the 30mm cannon arrived just as the first rounds tore into men and metal without mercy. Trucks were left riddled with holes in the wake on
Tiny Dancer's onslaught, and the insurgents were quickly - and, most violently - reduced to mushy piles of blood, severed limbs, and tattered flesh — their fetid lives ended in the span of four and a half seconds.
Moments later,
Tiny Dancer rolled vertical and streaked overhead. The operatives cheered in victory, but the Lieutenant knew a tougher fight was barreling down the highway. He hated to crush the small hope they just received, but it was a matter of survival that they haul themselves toward the Tigris River.
<<RedFox, Azrael ... Proceed all-haste to grid two-two-eight-niner. Mechanized reinforcement inbound from zero-three-zero, eight klicks ... Over.>>
There was no argument from the Controller, and
Azrael heard the sound wind flushing and pant legs rubbing against one another over the open channel. Satisfied,
Tiny Dancer veered to the northeast, and approached the small convoy. The trucks were arranged in a semi-regular line, and
Azrael wished she had another laser-guided bomb under
Tiny Dancer's wing — nothing stops a convoy like a crater the size of a small house where a road once was. Unfortunately, his last LGB was spent decimating that sniper earlier in the day; only a single cluster bomb hung underwing. The cluster bomb was most effective against a larger group that was spread out, and thus more susceptible to the effective radius of the bomb's munitions. He needed to find an alternate way to slow that convoy.
And, then, the answer presented itself. The convoy had left the paved highway, and had taken a dusty spur road that lead through a complex of light, industrial buildings. Poised high above,
Azrael could see the dusty road continued from the complex and led directly to the American position.
Tiny Dancer wheeled about in a wide arc, and descended in altitude to face the convoy head-on. He needed to be low and close when
Tiny Dancer fired her 30mm cannon at the head of the convoy. The idea was to smash the convoy's progress by choking the leading vehicles, trapping them with the network of structures. The gambit would not stop the convoy, but it might delay them long enough for the American operatives to reach the extraction point.
Tiny Dancer's underbelly pinged from thousands of rounds as small-arms fire riddling her fuselage. The burst was short, but intense, and the depleted-uranium rounds punched through three or four vehicles at a time.
Tiny Dancer pulled up and away, leaving a plume of black, flame-spitting smoke in her wake.
Azrael glanced at the dashboard, and checked his ammunition level. He had one cluster bomb and one three-second burst left. He had to make them count.
Tiny Dancer sailed above the Tigris River valley, and the crossing point established by the 82nd Airborne blinked with bright insistence through
Azrael's night-vision goggles. The operatives must have correctly plotted the tally point, because
Azrael could see them racing in loose formation to where the 82nd positioned themselves on the north side of the Tigris.
The convoy's smaller vehicles had broken free from the grid-lock and raced along the desert sands to catch the Americans on-foot. There were half a dozen jeeps and trucks, each kicking up a sand cloud behind them, like fingers scooting forward in a sandbox. The 30mm gun was too precious to waste on scattered targets, so
Azrael turned on
Tiny Dancer's full array of running lights and streaked toward the vehicles. He wanted the pursuers to focus on
Tiny Dancer, and fear, even for a moment, that another devastating strafe was incoming. The trucks ceased and turned their weapons skyward, and the broken, glowing lines of anti-aircraft fire criss-crossed
Tiny Dancer's flight path. Something hard thumped under
Azrael's foot, and were it not for the titanium "tub" protecting the pilot,
Tiny Dancer's cockpit would have been sliced open by a 57mm burst.
Azrael ignored the fear, the noise and reckless chaos of war, and dove hard and straight at the vehicles.
Tiny Dancer must have passed a mere twenty feet above their heads, and the deafening scream of the plane's engine wash. Glancing over his shoulder,
Azrael could see many men on the ground, holding their ears to futilely nurse broken eardrums.
The fell pilot donned a snarled grimace, and aggressively veered
Tiny Dancer southward toward the Tigris River crossing point. The infrared 82nd's infrared markers blinked furiously, and the harried operatives clustered along the bank, having found their saviors. Inflatable pontoons filled with men could be seen fording the Tigris and the operation appeared to be heading to a swift conclusion.
That was, until the remaining truck untied themselves from
Tiny Dancer's roadblock and opened fire at the upper range limit of their heavy machine guns.
Azrael's night-vision goggles witnessed the bright, dashed lines streaked from a dozen trucks bouncing over the sands. The insurgents sped desperately to reach the river before the Americans escaped, and fired wildly along the river bank. The rear line of the north bank was manned by the 82nd Airborne, who returned fire as best able - their assault rifles fell short of the protective distance the insurgence enjoyed. They called in a prayer.
<<Azrael, Combat Control ... Taking heavy fire from northeast. We need an ordinance drop at grid three-five-seven-two, ... Range two-thousand meters.>>
<<Copy back coordinates three-five-seven-two, ... locked for ordinance delivery ... Fire in the hole.>>
Tiny Dancer descended for another attack run, this time unleashing the cluster ordinance. The bomb exploded violently forty feet above the insurgent's position, and rained hundreds of micro-fulminations, tearing everything apart in a hellish storm of flesh and deafening noise. But, in spite of he short victory, Azrael could see more trucks, more, men, and more weapons on their way. The conflict had attracted the attention of all local militias, and every crazed zealot with an AK-47 was inbound to inflict pain.
Tiny Dancer had just one three second burst remaining, not enough to destroy these aggressive interlopers.
Where the fuck are those Defender helicopters, he cursed.
<<Combat Control, Azrael ... What's ETC on ferry operation? Over.>>
<<Azrael ... Estimate ETC is twenty-two minutes.>>
Tiny Dancer threw every light she had on, and glowed like a white star as she came in to harass the new column of militia.
Azrael wanted the enemy to see him, to fear
Tiny Dancer and distract them from the ferry operation. He swoop over them, and small-arms fire came at
Tiny Dancer. A stray bullet actually cracked the glass of his cockpit. They seemed aware that
Tiny Dancer was low on ammunition, and most sped with reckless abandon toward the river edge.
Tiny Dancer peeled around for an actual attack run with the last 30mm burst that remained. There was no reason to hold back now; if the insurgents made it to the river bank, they'd control the engagement and dead Americans would float to downstream to Bagdad.
Azrael was not about to let that happen, and lined up the strafing run, depressing
Tiny Dancer nose to thirty-degrees. The gunfire from the 82nd intensified as the light trucks grew closer and closer, and
Azrael's finger hovered over the trigger once more.
The SAMs came streaking skyward without warning. They were hid within an abandoned building next to these new insurgents, and had been tracking
Tiny Dancer for some time. They had waited for the perfect moment to strike, and found it. Six, heat-seeking missiles chased the Thunderbolt, and despite the expertly designed counter-measures, they began to overtake the valiant plane and her pilot. The first hit destroyed an engine and the left stabilizer fin, and shook the plane forward just as the trigger was begin pulled. The rotary cannon blasted into the trucks, and then, to Damien's horror, into the 82nd Airborne. The dust cloud that erupted whenever the hail of 30mm rounds struck home engulfed the river bank, and hundreds of vertical white lines spouted in the river as the final rounds overshot. Mercifully, the magazine was empty, but the damage had been done.
Azrael had committed the gravest of sins - friendly fire; he had killed those he lived his military life to protect. His stomach clenched as the nausea threatened to overtake him.
The pain and guilt was raw, so much that he failed to notice
Tiny Dancer was now inverted and the desert swept by above his cockpit. Another explosion ripped through
Tiny Dancer and she lost her other rear stabilizer.
Azrael knew his chances for survival were slim, soon the ground would rise to meet him and he would die by high-velocity impact. But, he wasn't descending. The foot pedals were inoperative, since there was no tail to control, but when
Azrael pitched the stick he found
Tiny Dancer slowly twisting into a steady, counter-clockwise roll. The was operating on mechanical hydraulics, and he knew why. It was that dent in the manifold, the imperfection that only he knew about. The bump shifted the wild steering cable and locked it into place. Lt. Greyson returned as the incredible emotion he held for his aircraft became tempered by the reality he must now lose her. It would be the last of her many gifts to him — Life.
Wings now vertical, cockpit pointed directly toward enemy territory, Lt. Greyson opened his com channel.
<<Echo! Echo!
Tiny Dancer is fatal ... Punching out.>>
A tear flooded his duct as he said goodbye to his
Tiny Dancer, and pulled the ejection lever. The glass canopy burst off the fuselage as another missile contacted the underbelly. Three hits, and still she was airborne. The seat's ejection rockets blasted Lt. Greyson into the cold darkness. Amidst the deafening wind, the free-falling pilot heard a fiery crash, roaring defiantly in his night.
..........................................................................
"Goodnight, Jackson."
Jackson Jones laid perfectly still, not wishing to disturb the woman lying before him . Not long ago, Lily was defiantly against sleeping or otherwise making herself vulnerable. Not that Jackson could blame her. She'd been through a great deal, given what she'd revealed about her family (willingly or not). He looked again at Lily, and marveled at the perfect face. It was the face of an angel ... No, of Beatrice, herself.
Jackson slowly removed himself from Lily's grasp. His arm muscles flexed as he lifted the peach chair and brought it beside the bed. He wanted to lay with Lily, but should he be caught, the consequences would be disastrous. Instead, he sat in the chair, and reached up to hold the hand of his sleeping beauty. Lily's skin was smooth and soft. He enjoyed the texture of her surface, wondering if she was as yielding on the inside, when sleep overtook him.
