Kavanagh scratched his silver hair, thinking, as he sat back down in his chair. The springs squeaked.
“If you got hurt or captured or, God forbid, shot down, it puts my ass in a sling and the U.S. government on the hook. I’m sorry.” Kavanagh folded his hands on the desk.
Myers leaned on his desk, her face nearly in his. “If I got hurt or shot down or captured, technically, it would be my ass in the sling, not yours. And since when does an American military officer worry about his ass? Is that how you qualified to fly one of those?” She pointed at the A-10, affectionately known as the Warthog.
“No, ma’am.”
“I know it takes a lot of guts to fly one of those. I know a lot of brave young men and women who graduated from the Academy. Just like you.” She nodded at his Air Force Academy ring. “I’m not asking you to get out of your chair or out from behind your desk. I just need you to sign whatever paper you need to sign and let us go. I’ll take full responsibility. I’ll sign any document you put in front of me to that effect.”
“I can’t believe the CIA or the DoD or whoever has recruited you to run some special op into hostile territory. No offense.”
“None taken. There are better-trained men and women than me for that sort of thing.”
“So, then, you admit this is personal?”
She banged the desk. “You’re damn right it’s personal. These are friends of mine and their lives are at risk, and I’m not going to stand around and do nothing about it.” She picked up the photo of the colonel’s wife and kids. “Would you let some pencil-pushing bureaucrat stand between you and your family if you knew their lives were in danger?”
“Hell no.”
“Then you understand.”
“Who are these people you’re going after?”
“Two of the finest men I’ve ever known. They risked everything for me, and for our country, time and time again. They deserve better than what they’re getting from our government, which is nothing.”
“Why not call the White House? I’m sure the president would listen to you.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried? The administration quoted me chapter and verse on the ‘no new boots on the ground’ doctrine. Can you imagine it?”
“But that was your policy, ma’am.”
“Nonsense. My policy was to not start new wars that don’t advance American national interests. But when American lives were at stake? I would’ve unleashed hell to save one American life. That was my job as president. And that’s my reasonable expectation as a citizen. President Greyhill won’t send troops in order to protect his interests.”
“You’re putting me in a helluva position.”
“What kind of position do you think my friends are in over there?”
Kavanagh’s neck flushed red. “I wish to God you were still the president.”
The plane is already fueled and ready to go, according to the colonel,” Myers said.
“I still don’t think you should come. It’s risky,” Judy said. “And Troy would kill me if something happened to you.” She was working a piece of gum hard in her jaw.
“If something happens to me it’ll probably happen to you, so Troy will be the least of your worries.”
The two of them headed for the Aviocar, which had already been wheeled out onto the tarmac. They approached the plane. A square-jawed slab of meat in civilian clothes blocked the entrance to the Aviocar’s cargo door. Judy recognized him. It was Sergeant Wolfit, the man from whom Pearce had stolen the M4 carbine. Judy noticed that a new M4 carbine was slung across the sergeant’s broad chest, filling out a bright orange Tennessee Vols T-shirt. His narrow eyes bored a hole into Judy.
“We have permission to take this plane,” Myers said. “Colonel Kavanagh authorized it.”
Wolfit shifted his gaze to Myers. “I know, ma’am. I’m here to ask permission to join you.”
“Why?” Judy asked.
He tapped his rifle. “Sometimes men are handier than drones.”
“Permission granted. And please, call me Margaret.”
Wolfit’s flinty face broke into a wide grin. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Judy pushed past Wolfit and into the cargo door, turning left for the cockpit. Someone else was in the copilot’s seat, also in civilian clothes.
“Who are you?”
The silver-haired man smiled. “I’m a friend of Margaret’s. Name’s Kavanagh.” The colonel extended his hand. Judy shook it.
“Hopper.” She fell into the pilot’s seat.
“We already ran the preflight check. You’re good to go.”
“Thanks.” Judy reached into an oversize shirt pocket. Pulled out a Polaroid.
“Hope you don’t mind the company, Hopper.”
“Not as long as you keep your hands off the yoke.”
Kavanagh laughed. “I like your moxie, kid. But I probably have a few more years in the pilot seat than you.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Judy pulled the gum out of her mouth and stuck it on the instrument panel, then fixed the Polaroid on the gum. Her good-luck charm. It was a faded picture of her as a young girl on her father’s lap flying an airplane for the first time. Seemed especially appropriate now. There was a very good chance this flight would be her last.
56
Aéropostale Station 11
Tamanghasset, Southern Algeria
15 May
Pearce ran to his camel and pulled off the Pelican case, flung it open, and grabbed the firing tube, already loaded with the fully charged Switchblade UAV. He wished like hell he had grenades for the M-25, but he’d already used them all back at Anou. But at least he could use the Switchblade for surveillance.
Pearce ran to the hangar entrance, pulled the launch tube over his shoulder, and fired. The pneumatic whump spit the five-and-a-half-pound drone into the air high enough for its electric motor to kick in. The small plane sped into the hazy blue sky. If there were any bad guys out there, the Switchblade should be able to see them.
“I have an image,” Mann said, holding the tablet in his hands that served as both a flight controller and view screen. Pearce cross-trained all of his people to handle all kinds of vehicles for emergency situations like this. Even though Mann was a UGV specialist, he could pilot a UAV when the occasion called for it. Mann used the tablet only because he hadn’t practiced with the MetaPro glasses yet.
Pearce cursed himself for not thinking about the UAV earlier. He should’ve been more cautious. He packed the tube back into the case and crossed back over to Mann. Mossa and the other Tuaregs were peering around the German’s shoulders, too, trying to see what was going on. These hardened desert fighters had never seen such technology.
“Troy!”
Pearce whipped around. Cella pointed northeast, toward the horizon. He ran over to her.
“Look!
Pearce saw it. A white speck running low and fast, racing toward them. Looked like a chopper. Might be Ian’s backup ride.
Or not.
“Troy!”
Pearce ran back to Mann. Wished his friend had brought his comm set.
“I’m counting six vehicles. Due west of our position, about two kilometers, and closing fast.” He handed Pearce the tablet. Mann was right. They were screaming across the desert floor. He tried to zoom in, but when he did, he lost them—they’d race right out of the frame. When he zoomed back, he could see them but not really make them out. Looked like desert patrol vehicles, militarized versions of dune buggies. Two men each. Full-faced helmets. Fixed weapons on the platforms.