Smitz rolled up what was left of the scroll and stored it in his briefcase. He then passed out two-page sheets that he’d previously printed out of his NoteBook.
“Here’s a bit of information on some of the Arc-Light’s original crew,” he explained. “It’s very sketchy, but I thought it might be best to see who we are going in to rescue.”
Once everyone had their info sheet in hand, Smitz stood up straight and stretched his back.
“We’ll be taking off at 2100 hours tonight,” he announced. “You should all get some sleep if possible. Any questions? Comments?”
Only about a million, Norton thought to himself.
But before he could say anything, there came a voice from the back of the small room.
“Yes, sir. I would like to go on record as saying this plan is total bullshit.”
Everyone turned.
It was Chou Koo—Joe Cool.
The room was suddenly very tense. Chou was the kind of guy who had never questioned an order in his life.
And now he was speaking up.
“Something to say, Captain?” Smitz asked him calmly.
“I think what you are proposing is impossible,” Chou replied. “With all due respect, sir.”
“Why is that, Marine?” Smitz asked sternly. “Share with us.”
Chou stepped forward.
“Simple really,” he said. “What if one of the Halos develops a mechanical problem? There are no backups. With everyone who is going on this ride, the air techs and so on, there probably won’t be enough room on the other aircraft to bring everyone back home. What do we do then?”
It was a tough question, but Smitz had to answer.
“If that happens, the others continue on,” he said. His words were absolutely ice cold.
Chou’s jaw clenched.
“Well, what if we lose the fuel chopper?” he asked. “How will the entire unit proceed then? Or even get back to friendly lines? Or if we get stuck on that mountain and the Gomers get wise at some point, how will we get out?”
Smitz just stared back at him.
“We probably won’t,” he replied.
Chou stood frozen for a moment, then finally turned away.
Smitz looked at the rest of them. His eyes were narrow and absolutely dark. Yeah, he’d changed—a lot.
“Any more questions?” he asked.
There were none.
Below the steering house on Heaven 2 was a room just big enough to fit a dozen bunks stacked three on top of each other. This was where the pilots were sent to sleep before the mission jump-off.
Norton climbed up onto his assigned bunk and collapsed. The cubicle was small and stuffy, but at least he didn’t have to sleep inside his chopper as the Marines and the air techs were doing.
No sooner had he laid his head down when he heard Delaney in the next bunk over let out a burp and then a moment later, start to snore. Norton was simply amazed. Apparently Delaney could fall asleep almost anytime, anywhere, no matter what the circumstances. Norton envied him. Considering what lay ahead for him and the rest of the unit, sleep was the furthermost thing from Norton’s mind.
He pulled out the two-page information sheet Smitz had given them on the gunship’s original crew. The questions began flooding in. What had happened to them that night the plane went missing? What had they been going through ever since? Were they really still alive, as some in the CIA believed? Or had the Iraqis cooked and eaten them a long time ago?
He began reading the info sheet. It contained the names and rank of all on board the ArcLight plane that night, but only photos and detailed information on the pilot and copilot.
Both men looked just like hundreds of flyboys Norton had run into during his military career. Clean-cut, clear-eyed, rock-jawed, kinda dopey, but actually very smart, just in a very different way. Pilots were always easy to pick out of a crowd. That all had that same look.
Both men also looked like candidates for the pulpit. That was another thing about flyboys. They were always so Christian, so religious, so goddamn holy.
But what shape were these two in now?
The pilot of the plane the day it took off was a guy named Jeff Woods. He was a colonel in what the info sheet called “a U.S. Air Force Special Section.” He was buzz-cut blond, late forties, a slight resemblance to astronaut John Glenn. Married, two kids, pretty wife, at least in 1991. Little League coach. Community volunteer. Deacon at his church. Whiter than Wonder Bread.
The second in command was an Air Force major named Pete Jones—could you get a more American-sounding name than that? He too was rock-jawed, poster-boy handsome, jet-black hair, worn a bit more stylish than Wood’s. A rake. But a Christian one, according to his file.
He had no kids.
Very cute wife.
Something to come back for…
Where the hell was she now? What was she doing at this very moment?
The next thing Norton knew, Delaney was shaking him awake.
Norton sat up with a start, drool rolling down his chin. Somehow nine hours had passed by. Delaney was dressed in his futuristic flight suit, helmet and all.
“C’mon, Jazz,” he was saying. “Nappies are over. Time to go to work.”
Chapter 18
It was dinner time at Zim’s palace.
As usual, Zim was eating alone, perched high above his chamber on his mountain of pillows. There were no young Japanese girls around to watch him eat or to wipe his mouth clean after an exceptionally messy bite. There were some things the little nubile ones just would not do.
Even his personal guards preferred to wait outside the chamber while Zim was dining. He wasn’t sure why. His fare was always so appetizing, if a bit regional and esoteric.
Zim had a huge bowl before him with two forks as his only utensils. In the bowl was a combination of raw lamb’s brains, horse’s eyes, and salmon guts, all mixed together in plain yogurt.
Truth was, Zim loved to eat alone and in peace, as he was loath to share his meal with anyone. That was why he was surprised when just into his second bite, the doors to his chamber opened.
Two guards came in, followed by a man on his knees. Zim looked up and immediately frowned.
It was Major Qank.
“I am eating,” Zim said with a wave of his hand, dismissing his intelligence officer.
Qank bowed deeply and took a deep breath.
“A thousand pardons, sire, but… this is very important.”
“What could be more important than my meal?” Zim asked Qank as if he was actually awaiting an answer.
Qank was stumped for an adequate reply.
“Well, this is equally important, my sire,” he finally replied.
This answer gave Zim pause.
Finally he said: “OK, get up. And what is so urgent?”
“A note, sir, from the man in Room 6…”
Qank tiptoed to the bottom of the pillow pile. He was just tall enough to hand the note up to Zim.
Zim finished chewing an elongated fish intestine, slurping the last few inches as one would a spaghetti strand, and finally opened the note.
Again the message within was simple. It read: “They are here.”
Zim read the note several times, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and stared down at Qank.
“Is he being intentionally vague here, do you think?”
Qank just shook his head. “No, sir. I think he’s being quite clear. The Americans have somehow managed to sneak by the Third Ring and they are now in the area.”
Zim put his hand to his chin and pretended to be in deep thought.
“Hmmm, what shall we do then?”
Qank had anticipated this question. They actually had a contingency if the Americans ever got this close. He just hoped Zim’s memory was as good as his.