“I don’t know what to do,” confessed Rubeo.
“Go there. Go there and see it with your own eyes.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“What other choice do you have?”
“It’s not going to tell me what happened. The failure — or accident or attack, whatever it was — happened in the aircraft. Not on the ground. There may have been interference. It’s possible — it is possible — but it’s a real long shot. I think—”
“Ray, you’re not going there to find out why it happened. You’re going there to see. For yourself. So you can understand it, and deal with it. Otherwise, it will haunt you forever. Trust me.”
Rubeo said nothing.
“You saw my daughter recently?” asked the other man.
“I spoke to her yesterday. She’s in Washington. You should call her. Or better yet, visit. Let her visit.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re very good at giving advice. If you were in my position—” Rubeo stopped, realizing he was wasting his breath. Dog — the former Colonel Tecumseh “Dog” Bastian — was in fact excellent at giving advice, perhaps the only person in the world that Ray Rubeo respected enough to take advice from. But Dog was terrible at following it, and there was no sense trying to push him; they had been over this ground many times.
“Your son-in-law is over here,” Rubeo told him instead. “He’s looking as fit as ever.”
“Good,” said Bastian, with evident affection. “Take care of yourself, Ray.”
“I will.”
“Take my advice.”
“I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t intend to.”
18
Visor up, Turk leaned against his restraints, peering through the A–10E’s bubble canopy toward the ground. Dirty brown desert stretched before him, soft folds of a blanket thrown hastily over a bed. He could hear his own breathing in his oxygen mask, louder and faster than he wanted. Chatter from another flight played in the background of his radio, a distant distraction.
The target was a government tank depot near Murzuq. Eight tanks were concealed there beneath desert camouflage, netting and brown tarps. Shooter Squadron would take them out.
“Ten minutes,” said Ginella in Shooter One. Paulson was her wingman, flying in Shooter Two.
“Roger that,” said Beast in Shooter Three.
Turk acknowledged in turn. The planes were flying in a loose trail, slightly offset and strung out more or less behind one another. Turk was at the rear, flying wing for Beast.
He swiveled his head to check his six, then pulled the visor down, automatically activating his smart helmet.
Ginella directed them to take a course correction and then split into twos for the final run to the target. The first element — Shooter One and Two — would make their attack first. Beast and Turk would move to the north, watching for any signs of resistance from another camp about two miles in that direction. Depending on how well the initial attack on the tanks went, they would either finish the job or look for targets of opportunity before saddling up to go home.
Turk found the new heading, checked his six, then nudged his Warthog a little closer to Shooter Three as the lead plane ran through a cluster of clouds.
“Shooter Four, let’s bring it below the clouds,” said Beast. All laughs on the ground, he was nothing but business in the sky. “We need to be low enough to get an ID on anything we hit.”
“You see something?” Turk asked.
“Negative. I just want to be ready.”
Turk slid his hand forward on the stick. The threat radar began bleeping.
“We have an SA–6 battery,” said Ginella calmly. “Beast, you see that?”
“Looking for it,” said the pilot.
The detector had spotted the radar associated with the mobile missile launchers, and gave an approximate direction — south, just off the nose of Shooter Three. The radar had been switched on and off quickly — most likely to avoid being detected.
Turk hunted for the launcher, zooming the optical sensors. The center crosshair hovered over a gray and very empty desert.
“I see it,” said Beast. He pushed his nose ten degrees east, cutting in Turk’s direction as he gave him the location. Turk, nearly two miles behind Beast and a little higher, couldn’t see it.
“Two launchers. One up farther east just getting into position,” said Beast. “I’ll take the one with the van — Turk, take the missiles.”
“Roger that.”
Turk didn’t see the truck. In the Tigershark it would be labeled neatly for him, and the computer would prompt him if directed. But adapting wasn’t a hardship — he took his cue from Beast’s course and pushed toward the closer target.
He’d rehearsed the weapons procedures several times before taking off, and had of course used them many times during his earlier stint testing the A–10E. But as he closed in and got ready to pickle his weapons, his mind blanked. Fingers hovering over the buttons that controlled the Tactical Awareness Display, he momentarily couldn’t recall how to set it up.
Just like the A–1 °C. Slew the target by using the control on the throttle.
The cursor started moving. He edged it into position, “hooking” or zeroing in on the tanklike launcher on the ground.
Digital Weapons Stores. Move quickly. Let’s go!
He brought up the screen on the display. Turk felt the sweat pouring down the sides of his neck. His hands were wet and sticky inside his gloves. He thought of taking them off but there was no time. Time in fact was disappearing, galloping away.
The firing cue was rock solid in the HUD.
Big breath, he reminded himself. Big, slow, very slow, breath.
Someone on the ground was firing at him with a machine gun. He could see tracers.
Far away. Ignore them.
Both the cue and the launcher seemed to shrink.
Shoot the bastard.
The target was dead on in his sights. Turk pressed the trigger, pickling an AGM–65E2/L laser-guided Maverick missile.
The missile popped off the A–10E’s wing. The infrared seeker on the missile homed in on the laser target designated by the A–10. A little under four seconds later, 136 pounds of shaped explosive burrowed through the body of the middle SA–6, igniting inside the chassis of the launcher. A ball of fire leapt skyward. Turk shuddered involuntarily, banking to his right and starting to look for whatever had been firing at him earlier.
“There’s another radar unit flashing on to the south,” said Beast. “Straight Flush. Has to be pretty close.”
The Straight Flush radar was used to control the SA–6s. Turk pulled back on his stick and started to climb in Shooter Three’s direction, covering his back while he hunted for the radar.
The radar flicked off.
Beast cursed.
“Still there somewhere,” said Turk.
“They have an optical mode. Be careful.”
The surface-to-air missiles could be launched and guided by camera. In that case the range was some eighteen miles.
“Gotta be down there behind that hill,” said Beast. “On the right. See it?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Probably just the radar. But watch yourself. We’ll swing in from the south,” added Beast, already starting to bank. He didn’t want to come straight over the hill; if there was a launcher set up in its shadow, it could fire before he saw it.
Turk closed the gap with his leader as he came around north with him. A cluster of houses appeared off his right wing as he turned.
A lump grew in his throat.
“Oh yeah. I see him,” said Beast. “All mine.”
By the time Turk spotted the launcher, Beast had already fired. Turk watched the missile hit, a geyser of smoke, vapor, and pulverized metal erupting upward. A half second later there was a flash of white and then orange, then little flicks of red in a black cloud that seemed to materialize above the launcher.