SOAR: A Black Ops Novel

0919:36. The 62’s tall leaf rear sight, Gene Shepard concluded, was going to be useless, except to align with the thick front post. He felt the chopper’s violent series of moves under the soles of his Adidas. But he wasn’t thrown off his stance because his body was compensating gyro-scopically for each twist and turn. He was in a groove now, reacting to every minute nuance of Mick’s piloting. Pinball wizard. The HIP rolled slightly, and then the convoy appeared at the left edge of Shepard’s peripheral vision. He brought the machine-gun arm around, dropped the muzzle until his front sight was where he wanted it to be, and then stitched the trucks broadside as Mick gave him a seven-second window of opportunity. He could see splinters flying as the fat, 7.62 rounds impacted on target. And then the HIP veered away and nosed into the sky. Shep heard the slap-slap-slap of rounds as ground fire chased them.

0919:46. Ritzik saw the Chinese aircraft — both painted with the same distinctive camouflage pattern as the HIP. They were coming from his left — out of the sun. And then Mick banked, turned, and the two PLA aircraft disappeared from view. Ritzik yelled a warning.

0919:49. Ty Weaver had the big HK up. He was sitting open-legged, his rear end planted firmly on the decking, right leg tucked, knee bent almost ninety degrees, his left leg extended so his butt and feet formed a makeshift tripod. He’d wrapped the sling around his left arm to give himself increased stability. The bottom of the triceps muscle on his right arm was supported by the outside of his right knee so that bone didn’t rest on bone. That was the rule: soft against hard; hard against soft. His hand held the rifle stock firmly in the hollow of his shoulder; Ty’s cheek pressed against the comb, making a solid spot weld.

Except — he couldn’t see. The sun’s glare was too bright. And then Ty felt Mickey D shift the chopper’s attitude, moving slightly to the left. The starboard side of the Chinese HIP floated slowly into his frame of view. The sight picture was perfect. Ty’s right hand shifted slightly, moving onto the knurled knob to adjust the parallax. Then he was back on the trigger, concentrating on breathing, on the target, and on the crosshairs, zoning everything else out of his consciousness.

0919:52.”Toggle the switch, Sam. Toggle the switch.” Mickey D swung the chopper around smoothly so as to give the sniper the most stable environment possible. He caught the spook’s hand in his peripheral vision as Sam worked the IFF switch. The pilot saw the Chinese HIP slow and hover so the HIND gunship could make its first pass.

0919:52. Gene Shepard watched, transfixed, from the corner of the starboard-side doorway as the HIND wheeled, straddled the road, and tore into the convoy with its Gatling gun and rockets. It moved almost lazily over the panicked Uzbeks, its heavily armored fuselage impervious to ground fire.

0919:55. Mick maneuvered the HIP, keeping level with the Chinese transport at a distance of three hundred yards, and as evenly as he could, he slowly rotated the craft counterclockwise. His lips were moving: “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, Ty — get the job done.”

0920:00. The glassed-in cockpit panned inside Ty‘s field of view. He compensated for the distance using the Mil-Dots in his reticle, eased the fine crosshairs where they belonged, held steady, and squeezed the trigger, sending the 168-grain boat-tail bullet on its way.

0920:01. The Chinese HIP dropped like a stone. TV’s scope followed the chopper until the aircraft slipped below the HIP’s floor line. He knew he’d hit the pilot. But now the HIP had turned, and he didn’t have a clear shot at the left-hand seat. He crabbed forward, straining at the safety straps, until he could see the HIP’s air intakes three football fields away. No good: they had baffles. The Chinese chopper yawed clockwise, then held steady as the copilot gained control over the craft. Ty caught the confused expression on the door gunner’s face. The man was shouting into his microphone. Instantly, Ty’s crosshairs quartered the gunner’s face and held on the bridge of his nose. He squeezed off a second round. The machine gunner went down. Now he raised the crosshairs until they found the HIP’s starboard-side engine exhaust. Ty put three quick rounds into it.

The MSG90’s bolt locked back. Ty unslung the heavy gun, released the magazine, and let it drop onto the decking. He felt Mickey D rotate the chopper. But Ty fought off distraction. He reached for a second five-round mag, which he rammed home. Then with his left hand he slapped the cocking bolt forward and reslung the rifle. He shouldered the weapon and made his spot weld. But there was nothing in his sight picture except a wisp of gray-brown smoke.