if the weapons directors on the M/V-22 could actually home in on the glints of light. Whichever it was, flinging the little disks drove the gear batty, as one of the Whiplash team members had proven yesterday when morale had started to sag.
Maybe he hadnât flung the disk as a joke, thought Boston. Maybe he was hinting at the solution.
Boston threw himself back down as the Osprey approached. The computers controlling the guns were programmed to avoid hitting anyone, but they didnât miss by much. As the guns began to fire, the tilt-rotor aircraft seemed to jump upward in the sky.
The burst lasted no more than three-quarters of a second. When it stopped, the Osprey settled back down and flew in a semicircle close to the ground.
Eight feet off the surface.
That wasnât all that high.
Boston watched as the Osprey flew toward the hangar area, still skimming low over the terrain.
That was the solution. It had to be.
As soon as the tilt-rotor craft had gone, he began grabbing the disks.
C APTAIN D ANNY F REAH watched in amazement as the Osprey whirled around, hoodwinked by the flashing reflectors. It fired, then settled back down into a hover just at the edge of the minefield.
âI think he figured out how to control it,â said Liu, who was next to Danny.
âOr at least confuse it,â answered Danny.
âIf he uses the Osprey to blast a path through the minefield, the computer simulators wonât understand,â said Liu. âHeâll still be blown up by the proximity fuses. But youâd have to give him points for figuring it out.â
âSure, but thatâs not what heâs doing,â said Danny as Boston began running toward the rear of the Osprey.
âHoly shit,â said Liu.
Boston leaped into the air and caught the rear tail of the variable-rotor aircraft. His legs pitched forward and his ruck hung off his back, but the sergeant managed to hang on.
E VEN THOUGH THE massive rotors were locked above the aircraft, they still kicked up a hurricane around the aircraft. Boston shook like the last leaf on a maple tree in a norâeaster blizzard as the aircraft pushed ahead toward the apron area beyond the minefield.
The trooper felt his fingers numbing as the MV-22 moved ahead. They were cold, frozen evenâhis right pinkie began to slip, then his ring finger, then his thumb.
He leaned his head down, trying to see exactly where he was.
Not even halfway across.
Hang on, he told himself.
The aircraft bucked upward. Boston realized heâd miscalculated about how close to the ground it flew once it cleared the minefieldâfrom where heâd stood, it didnât seem as if it rose at all, but now he realized it must go up at least a few feet, and a few feet were going to make a very big difference when he jumped.
He could get it to dip again by tossing one of the reflectors. But to toss oneâhe had two more in his pocketâheâd have to hold on with one hand.
Could he?
No.
Besides, the shock of the guns would easily throw him off.
The Osprey began turning to the left. The shift in momentum was simply too much, and Boston lost his grip. He tried to relax his legs so he could roll when he landed, but it happened too fast; his heels hit the ground and he fell back hard. His backpack took a little of the sting out of the fall, probably just enough to prevent a concussion as it slipped upward on his back. He rolled and flipped over, then hunkered against the hard surface of the ancient lakebed, anticipating the screech and growl of the simulated mine.
But he heard nothing. Boston raised his head. Shit, he thought, I blew my eardrums out.
Then he heard the Osprey thumping in the distance. He saw one of the spiked balls lying about fifteen feet awayâjust far enough not to go off.
Slowly, Boston pushed up to his knees. He rubbed some of the grit from his eyes, then stood, trying to get his bearings.
The cone was ten feet away. He took
Maybe he hadnât flung the disk as a joke, thought Boston. Maybe he was hinting at the solution.
Boston threw himself back down as the Osprey approached. The computers controlling the guns were programmed to avoid hitting anyone, but they didnât miss by much. As the guns began to fire, the tilt-rotor aircraft seemed to jump upward in the sky.
The burst lasted no more than three-quarters of a second. When it stopped, the Osprey settled back down and flew in a semicircle close to the ground.
Eight feet off the surface.
That wasnât all that high.
Boston watched as the Osprey flew toward the hangar area, still skimming low over the terrain.
That was the solution. It had to be.
As soon as the tilt-rotor craft had gone, he began grabbing the disks.
C APTAIN D ANNY F REAH watched in amazement as the Osprey whirled around, hoodwinked by the flashing reflectors. It fired, then settled back down into a hover just at the edge of the minefield.
âI think he figured out how to control it,â said Liu, who was next to Danny.
âOr at least confuse it,â answered Danny.
âIf he uses the Osprey to blast a path through the minefield, the computer simulators wonât understand,â said Liu. âHeâll still be blown up by the proximity fuses. But youâd have to give him points for figuring it out.â
âSure, but thatâs not what heâs doing,â said Danny as Boston began running toward the rear of the Osprey.
âHoly shit,â said Liu.
Boston leaped into the air and caught the rear tail of the variable-rotor aircraft. His legs pitched forward and his ruck hung off his back, but the sergeant managed to hang on.
E VEN THOUGH THE massive rotors were locked above the aircraft, they still kicked up a hurricane around the aircraft. Boston shook like the last leaf on a maple tree in a norâeaster blizzard as the aircraft pushed ahead toward the apron area beyond the minefield.
The trooper felt his fingers numbing as the MV-22 moved ahead. They were cold, frozen evenâhis right pinkie began to slip, then his ring finger, then his thumb.
He leaned his head down, trying to see exactly where he was.
Not even halfway across.
Hang on, he told himself.
The aircraft bucked upward. Boston realized heâd miscalculated about how close to the ground it flew once it cleared the minefieldâfrom where heâd stood, it didnât seem as if it rose at all, but now he realized it must go up at least a few feet, and a few feet were going to make a very big difference when he jumped.
He could get it to dip again by tossing one of the reflectors. But to toss oneâhe had two more in his pocketâheâd have to hold on with one hand.
Could he?
No.
Besides, the shock of the guns would easily throw him off.
The Osprey began turning to the left. The shift in momentum was simply too much, and Boston lost his grip. He tried to relax his legs so he could roll when he landed, but it happened too fast; his heels hit the ground and he fell back hard. His backpack took a little of the sting out of the fall, probably just enough to prevent a concussion as it slipped upward on his back. He rolled and flipped over, then hunkered against the hard surface of the ancient lakebed, anticipating the screech and growl of the simulated mine.
But he heard nothing. Boston raised his head. Shit, he thought, I blew my eardrums out.
Then he heard the Osprey thumping in the distance. He saw one of the spiked balls lying about fifteen feet awayâjust far enough not to go off.
Slowly, Boston pushed up to his knees. He rubbed some of the grit from his eyes, then stood, trying to get his bearings.
The cone was ten feet away. He took
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