Stephen Knight - Slaughterhouse

At the same time, the Apache’s air data sensors—wand-like devices mounted on either side of the helicopter’s fuselage—took into account the current wind conditions. Those were added into the firing solution as well, and another piece was dropped into the tactical puzzle. That enabled the Apache to know what its target was, where it was in the overall picture, how fast it was traveling, and what likely conditions a Hellfire missile would have to fly through in order to reach the designated target.

As all of that was going on behind the scenes, Fleischer concentrated on keeping the laser focused on the rapidly approaching Huey. The Apache had been designed to destroy tanks and other land-based vehicles. Keeping the Huey in the sights was no easy task, though Smitty helped by easing the Apache into a slight drift to the right, keeping the two aircraft pretty much lined up nose to nose. Despite the complex dance between humans and electronics, Fleischer was ready to fire inside of two seconds. The UH-1 didn’t take any evasive action at all, which was unsurprising. Not only did the Klowns have a general disregard for personal safety, the National Guard aircraft was likely not equipped with laser warning receivers.

“Ready to shoot,” he said.

“Good to shoot,” Smitty said. “Hurry. He’s going to get too close—”

Fleischer launched the Hellfire, and it raced off the rail on the right side with a sharp hiss. “Shot!”

Fleischer kept the targeting laser focused on the approaching Huey, painting it with light that the semi-autonomous seeker in the Hellfire’s nose would home in on. As the aircraft drew nearer, he could make out more of the target’s details. It was armed only with door gunners, and the two pilots were staring through the big Plexiglas canopy and grinning like buffoons. The chopper’s big rotors ravaged the sky, and its blunt nose held a slightly low position as the Huey approached at full speed. The pilots were definitely keeping the turboshaft engine pegged in the red zone. Frying the expensive T53 power plant was of no concern, so long as they could close with their target and do whatever they were planning to do.

The Hellfire slammed right through the UH-1’s rotor disk and pierced its fuselage. The Klowns’ mission ended when the UH-1 disintegrated. Fleischer had wondered if the UH-1 had enough structural density to cause the weapon’s detonator to trigger. He would not have been surprised if the missile had simply traveled right through the Huey without exploding, but apparently, it hit something substantial enough to activate the explosives. The aircraft disappeared into an expanding ball of flame that belched out a cloud of whirling shrapnel. The remains of the tattered, fiery carcass corkscrewed to the right and descended rapidly, crashing into the parking lot of a building that sat just short of a small river.

Jesus, I actually scored an air-to-air kill. Fleischer grunted, and went to work trying to target the next Huey.

Smitty’s response was less contained. “Holy shit , that was awesome!” he crowed.

Presuming the second Apache had splashed another Huey, Smitty roared again, but Fleischer knew it was too late. The Huey was already too close for a Hellfire shot, and there was no way they could hit another aircraft with rockets. He briefly considered opening up with the thirty-millimeter cannon, but the M230 chain gun was just too imprecise for that kind of engagement. All he would do was spray high-explosive armor-piercing rounds across the landscape and possibly kill or maim helpless civilians.

The Apache suddenly wrenched to the left, and its twin engines roared as Smitty applied full power. Fleischer lost all hope of maintaining a target lock as the Apache leaped into a full-on climb, its rotors pounding as they coned upward, scraping as much lift as possible from the hot, heavy air surrounding the gunship.

Before Fleischer could ask what was going on, he had his answer. Several rounds struck the Apache’s belly, one of which traveled right through the aircraft’s outer skin and pancaked against the bottom of his armored seat with a loud thwack! that made him jump against his harness. Clearly, one of the Huey’s door gunners wasn’t interested in becoming Fleischer’s second air-to-air kill. Fleischer consulted the millimeter wave radar display and confirmed that two of the Hueys had indeed slipped past by flying beneath the climbing Apache.

“Wizard, this is Tomcat Six. You have two Hueys inside the wire!”

Muldoon looked up when he heard the thumping rotor beats of the approaching Hueys. Like most of the troops in the now-scored truck, he’d had no idea what was going on beyond the aborted attack against the column. They’d just finished putting out the fire and were trying to decide what to do—the truck needed to be looked at, and the Rawlings girl was already looking over the side to get an idea of what was up with the left rear tires—so the troops had been unaware there was a helicopter fight going on. But the slapping rotor beat of the UH-1s was a definite environmental change that the big lightfighter gave his attention to.

Two helicopters charged toward the column, big rotors flashing, noses lowered as they powered through the summer day. Behind them, several Apaches banked hard, as if to give chase. Farther downrange, another two Apaches pivoted in their hovers. And beyond them, two columns of smoke rose from flaming wreckage lying in the middle of a distant field.

Muldoon stood up and grabbed truck railing. There was no way to tell what was on fire out there.

But they could be helicopters.

He turned to shout to Lieutenant Crais, but then two Kiowa Warriors came screaming in from the southwest. The modified M2 fifty cals mounted on their left hard points chattered as they raced past, and hot cartridges rained down on the truck as it limped along the highway, still trailing smoke from the burn damage done by the Molotov cocktails. Muldoon noticed the Kiowas weren’t strafing.

They were trying to hit the Hueys with their fixed guns.

Then, he heard the distant pop-pop-pop-pop of an M240 as one of the Huey door gunners returned the favor.

“Hey, what the fuck is going on here?” Nutter shouted.

“Lieutenant!” Muldoon yelled. “Hey, Crais!”

Lieutenant Crais turned, his perennially harried expression morphing into full-on pissed off when he realized Muldoon was the one calling him, and by his last name, at that. Lieutenant Crais was an officer who didn’t like hearing anything but honorifics directed his way, which was a shame, because it meant he and Muldoon would never be buddies. Muldoon spent at least three nanoseconds crying over that one night.

“Muldoon, sit the fuck down!” Crais called back. “The truck’s moving!”

Muldoon pointed at the Hueys. “Incoming!”

His response got the attention of the rest of the soldiers, even Rawlings, who snatched up her M4. About thirty pairs of eyes swiveled toward the approaching helicopters. Muldoon saw that the Kiowas had broken off, their attack ineffective.

“So what? Sit down!” Crais shouted.

“Lieutenant! Those are Guard choppers, not ours!”

“ Sit down !” Crais repeated, his face coloring with fury. “I know who’s—”

Muldoon turned to look up at the soldier manning the M240B mounted on the truck’s cab. He stared at the approaching Hueys, but he hadn’t lined up on them.

“Shoot ’em!” Muldoon shouted.

“Like, for real?” the soldier asked. Like Muldoon, he wore sunglasses, and his eyes were unreadable behind them.

“Shoot ’em!” Muldoon repeated. He turned back to Crais as the gunner swung the machinegun around. “Lieutenant, stop the truck!”