her shoulder to see the Osprey’s crew chief jog over to the Mi-17. Still wearing his flight helmet, cord dangling from his shoulder, the Marine flier climbed aboard and satisfied himself that no one remained inside. Then he ran back to his own aircraft.
A few moments later, the Osprey’s rotors picked up speed. Gold felt the staccato beat vibrate through her rib cage as the MV-22 levitated into the air like a helicopter. The Osprey rocked slightly, rotated into the wind, and accelerated. As the aircraft climbed and gathered speed, its nacelles tilted forward until the rotors positioned themselves like giant propellers. Now the tilt-rotor flew as a fixed-wing airplane. It grew smaller and smaller until absorbed by the cumulus that cloaked the horizon to the north.
The thick grass made for difficult walking even downhill. Blount bulldozed through it more easily than the rest; the rustling blades came up above Gold’s knees but only to Blount’s calves. The Marine wore a combat utility uniform in MARPAT digital camo. He carried a Squad Advanced Marksman Rifle, a scoped M16 larger than Gold’s M4 carbine.
Parson followed close behind the Marines. From the set of his jaw, Gold could see he was angry—at the loss of Rashid’s flight engineer, at the destruction of an aircraft. She knew how deeply he felt the loss of his own crew years ago, and she could imagine what must be going through his mind.
Reyes seemed to take it all in stride. He scanned to the left and right, held his index finger across the trigger guard of his rifle, took long steps through the grass. Gold didn’t know him, and she’d had little contact with Air Force pararescuemen; she’d met them only on a few HALO training jumps. But she knew PJs were taught to expect anything and assume nothing when they parachuted or rappelled to reach a downed pilot or wounded soldier. A patch Velcroed under the flag on his left sleeve displayed his blood type: AB POS .
Rashid held his pistol and kept looking down at the village. Gold thought that was a good thing. She knew he was upset about his crewmates, but at least he seemed to have his mind on what was happening now.
“This is probably far enough,” Parson said eventually. The carcass of the Mi-17 was at least a half mile away, silhouetted by the rising terrain behind it. He stopped, turned to look at the stricken helicopter.
Gold supposed Parson wanted to see the fireworks; she felt too heartsick to care. The run of events, the big picture, haunted her now. Things would get worse before they got worse.
A spray of sparrows settled into a birch by a low stone wall at the edge of town. One of the Cobras orbited overhead while the other rolled onto its firing run. It descended at a steep angle, then lined up on its target. Everything about the gunship—its hard edges, stingerlike shape, smudged trail of exhaust—seemed to threaten. Gold thought that even someone from centuries past could look on that thing and know it was a weapon.
Smoke boiled from underneath the Cobra. A dot of light—Gold could make out no more than that—shot from within the smoke. It corkscrewed for an instant and then straightened itself on a direct path to the Mi-17.
When the projectile struck, the helicopter swelled with fire. The entire mass lifted off the ground. Then, in apparent slow motion, its components disassociated from one another. The main rotor spun free like a flaming pinwheel. The tail boom danced end over end through flickering billows. Sparks arced away like embers kicked from a banked campfire, bounced as they fell back to the ground. A half beat later came the noise. Not a blast, more like a hard crump from the very inside of Gold’s head. The sparrows exploded from the birch.
“What in God’s name?” Rashid asked in English.
“A TOW missile,” Parson said.
Not in God’s name, Gold thought. All these things around us man has brought on himself, claims for God notwithstanding.
The helicopter and the
A few moments later, the Osprey’s rotors picked up speed. Gold felt the staccato beat vibrate through her rib cage as the MV-22 levitated into the air like a helicopter. The Osprey rocked slightly, rotated into the wind, and accelerated. As the aircraft climbed and gathered speed, its nacelles tilted forward until the rotors positioned themselves like giant propellers. Now the tilt-rotor flew as a fixed-wing airplane. It grew smaller and smaller until absorbed by the cumulus that cloaked the horizon to the north.
The thick grass made for difficult walking even downhill. Blount bulldozed through it more easily than the rest; the rustling blades came up above Gold’s knees but only to Blount’s calves. The Marine wore a combat utility uniform in MARPAT digital camo. He carried a Squad Advanced Marksman Rifle, a scoped M16 larger than Gold’s M4 carbine.
Parson followed close behind the Marines. From the set of his jaw, Gold could see he was angry—at the loss of Rashid’s flight engineer, at the destruction of an aircraft. She knew how deeply he felt the loss of his own crew years ago, and she could imagine what must be going through his mind.
Reyes seemed to take it all in stride. He scanned to the left and right, held his index finger across the trigger guard of his rifle, took long steps through the grass. Gold didn’t know him, and she’d had little contact with Air Force pararescuemen; she’d met them only on a few HALO training jumps. But she knew PJs were taught to expect anything and assume nothing when they parachuted or rappelled to reach a downed pilot or wounded soldier. A patch Velcroed under the flag on his left sleeve displayed his blood type: AB POS .
Rashid held his pistol and kept looking down at the village. Gold thought that was a good thing. She knew he was upset about his crewmates, but at least he seemed to have his mind on what was happening now.
“This is probably far enough,” Parson said eventually. The carcass of the Mi-17 was at least a half mile away, silhouetted by the rising terrain behind it. He stopped, turned to look at the stricken helicopter.
Gold supposed Parson wanted to see the fireworks; she felt too heartsick to care. The run of events, the big picture, haunted her now. Things would get worse before they got worse.
A spray of sparrows settled into a birch by a low stone wall at the edge of town. One of the Cobras orbited overhead while the other rolled onto its firing run. It descended at a steep angle, then lined up on its target. Everything about the gunship—its hard edges, stingerlike shape, smudged trail of exhaust—seemed to threaten. Gold thought that even someone from centuries past could look on that thing and know it was a weapon.
Smoke boiled from underneath the Cobra. A dot of light—Gold could make out no more than that—shot from within the smoke. It corkscrewed for an instant and then straightened itself on a direct path to the Mi-17.
When the projectile struck, the helicopter swelled with fire. The entire mass lifted off the ground. Then, in apparent slow motion, its components disassociated from one another. The main rotor spun free like a flaming pinwheel. The tail boom danced end over end through flickering billows. Sparks arced away like embers kicked from a banked campfire, bounced as they fell back to the ground. A half beat later came the noise. Not a blast, more like a hard crump from the very inside of Gold’s head. The sparrows exploded from the birch.
“What in God’s name?” Rashid asked in English.
“A TOW missile,” Parson said.
Not in God’s name, Gold thought. All these things around us man has brought on himself, claims for God notwithstanding.
The helicopter and the
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