Dantini's tent. He quickly scooped up one of his knapsacks and was already out of the tent and in the center of the chopper team's campground. Dantini and Burke quickly ran up behind him.
"Aircraft coming!" Hunter said, facing the south. "Four of them . . . Get your people into shelters, now! We've got about five minutes ..."
Dantini scanned the sky in every direction. "I don't see or hear anything," he said cautiously.
"Trust me," Hunter yelled over his, shoulder as he sprinted over to one of the team's choppers.
Chapter 14
Major Jann Hoxter, flight leader for the four F-4 Phantoms, put his airplane into a screaming dive.
Directly ahead of him was the clearing near the beach where a TV-camera equipped recon drone had spotted suspected enemy activity earlier in the day.
Careful analysis of the drone's information confirmed that the area was being used by the band of helicopter mercenaries that had been harassing The Twisted Cross for some time.
Finding the enemy chopper unit had been nearly impossible - until now. The exorbitant price paid to a South African arms dealer for the ultra-high tech video drone was now looking like a very good deal indeed. Apparently it had been able to accomplish in two days what the Cross's own intelligence operatives had been trying to do for nearly 18 months . . .
No sooner had the information from the drone been processed when Hoxter's superiors ordered an immediate air strike on the enemy camp. Military sensibilities would have called for dropping antipersonnel bombs on the chopper base, followed up by barrages of air-to-surface missiles. But in this case, the sensibilities were overridden from above. A message had to be sent.
Therefore, the canisters slung under the wings of Hoxter's flight were filled with hundreds of gallons of napalm, the jellied gasoline cocktail that was a favorite signature of the High Command of The Twisted Cross.
While his three charges circled above, Hoxter rolled in on the suspected target, intending to make one, fast sweep of the area. His prestrike orders were to absolutely confirm enemy troops and equipment in the target zone before bombing-napalm didn't come easy or cheap these days and there was no sense wasting it if the enemy troops were no longer around.
Hoxter's hopes rose when he spotted a line of tents at the edge of the clearing, and next to them, two large Chinook helicopters. Oddly, the place looked deserted - almost as if the enemy troops knew the air strike was coming. This bothered Hoxter as he yanked back on his control stick and gained some altitude. His preflight briefing officers had assured him that the enemy didn't have any kind of early warning radar system. Nor did they have any SAMs.
Rejoining the three other F-4s, they immediately circled the target once more, then split into pairs. Hoxter and his wingman, Frugal, would go in first . . .
"Hang on, Lieutenant," Hoxter called back to his rear-seat weapons officer, a man named Minz, as he again put the green-camouflaged F-4 into a dive. He lined up the crosshairs of his jet's Head's Up-Display with the row of tents in the clearing, intent on dropping the first of his two napalm canisters onto the bivouac.
"Steady," he whispered to himself, his finger twitching on the weapons release button. Already he could envision the line of tents being washed over by a tidal wave of sticky blue flame so intense, it would instantly incinerate anyone hiding inside. The immolation would be the first giant step in eliminating the pesky helicopter troops . . .
Lower and lower he went, the F-4 bucking like a bronco in the murky air just above the dense jungle. "Steady," he whispered once again. In his mind's eye he could already see the flames leaping up from the target, the choking black smoke, the victims engulfed in the napalm running in panic seconds before they died.
"All for the cause," he thought. "All for our glorious leader . . ."
He reached his release altitude, took a deep breath
"Aircraft coming!" Hunter said, facing the south. "Four of them . . . Get your people into shelters, now! We've got about five minutes ..."
Dantini scanned the sky in every direction. "I don't see or hear anything," he said cautiously.
"Trust me," Hunter yelled over his, shoulder as he sprinted over to one of the team's choppers.
Chapter 14
Major Jann Hoxter, flight leader for the four F-4 Phantoms, put his airplane into a screaming dive.
Directly ahead of him was the clearing near the beach where a TV-camera equipped recon drone had spotted suspected enemy activity earlier in the day.
Careful analysis of the drone's information confirmed that the area was being used by the band of helicopter mercenaries that had been harassing The Twisted Cross for some time.
Finding the enemy chopper unit had been nearly impossible - until now. The exorbitant price paid to a South African arms dealer for the ultra-high tech video drone was now looking like a very good deal indeed. Apparently it had been able to accomplish in two days what the Cross's own intelligence operatives had been trying to do for nearly 18 months . . .
No sooner had the information from the drone been processed when Hoxter's superiors ordered an immediate air strike on the enemy camp. Military sensibilities would have called for dropping antipersonnel bombs on the chopper base, followed up by barrages of air-to-surface missiles. But in this case, the sensibilities were overridden from above. A message had to be sent.
Therefore, the canisters slung under the wings of Hoxter's flight were filled with hundreds of gallons of napalm, the jellied gasoline cocktail that was a favorite signature of the High Command of The Twisted Cross.
While his three charges circled above, Hoxter rolled in on the suspected target, intending to make one, fast sweep of the area. His prestrike orders were to absolutely confirm enemy troops and equipment in the target zone before bombing-napalm didn't come easy or cheap these days and there was no sense wasting it if the enemy troops were no longer around.
Hoxter's hopes rose when he spotted a line of tents at the edge of the clearing, and next to them, two large Chinook helicopters. Oddly, the place looked deserted - almost as if the enemy troops knew the air strike was coming. This bothered Hoxter as he yanked back on his control stick and gained some altitude. His preflight briefing officers had assured him that the enemy didn't have any kind of early warning radar system. Nor did they have any SAMs.
Rejoining the three other F-4s, they immediately circled the target once more, then split into pairs. Hoxter and his wingman, Frugal, would go in first . . .
"Hang on, Lieutenant," Hoxter called back to his rear-seat weapons officer, a man named Minz, as he again put the green-camouflaged F-4 into a dive. He lined up the crosshairs of his jet's Head's Up-Display with the row of tents in the clearing, intent on dropping the first of his two napalm canisters onto the bivouac.
"Steady," he whispered to himself, his finger twitching on the weapons release button. Already he could envision the line of tents being washed over by a tidal wave of sticky blue flame so intense, it would instantly incinerate anyone hiding inside. The immolation would be the first giant step in eliminating the pesky helicopter troops . . .
Lower and lower he went, the F-4 bucking like a bronco in the murky air just above the dense jungle. "Steady," he whispered once again. In his mind's eye he could already see the flames leaping up from the target, the choking black smoke, the victims engulfed in the napalm running in panic seconds before they died.
"All for the cause," he thought. "All for our glorious leader . . ."
He reached his release altitude, took a deep breath
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