The GAU-8 Avenger cannon roared to life, and Morrison felt the entire aircraft shudder as 70 rounds per second tore downrange. The 30-millimeter depleted uranium shells impacted the ridgeline, and the first mortar position simply ceased to exist in a fountain of dirt and fire.
— Splash one! Morrison called.
Grace pulled up, rolled inverted, pulled through a maneuver Morrison had seen performed exactly twice in his career—both times by pilots with thousands of combat hours. She lined up on the second mortar position, squeezed the trigger.
The GAU-8 spoke again, its voice like tearing metal, and the second position disappeared.
— Splash two!
Then the world exploded.
The DShK heavy machine gun opened up from one of the technical vehicles—tracers arcing through the air in streams of green fire. Morrison heard impacts—metal on metal—as rounds punched through non-critical sections of the aircraft.
— Taking fire. Grace said, her voice unchanged.
She rolled right, dove, pulled into a climbing turn that defied physics. The tracers followed but fell behind—the gunner unable to track her maneuvers.
— Sergeant, paint that technical for a Maverick.
Morrison’s hands moved on the tablet, designating the target.
— Target painted. Fox three.
The AGM-65 Maverick missile dropped from the wing, motor igniting, tracking toward the technical. The explosion was enormous. The truck flipped end over end. Bodies scattered like thrown dolls. The DShK gun tumbled through the air, still firing tracers spiraling wildly into the sky.
— Good hit! Morrison shouted.
