“Away, away,” said Turk. Coop had already dropped his bombs and was moving back to the north. “Egressing north,” said Turk. He checked his compass reading and gave Coop the heading, moving toward the rendezvous they had briefed.
He could hear the chatter of the other pilots over the squadron frequency, calling “good bombs” and “shack,” indicating they had hit their targets. Fingers of smoke rose in the far distance — at least some of the bombs had hit their targets.
Primary mission complete, Paulson checked with the flight boss, making sure they had a clean screen — no enemy fighters — and then told the others that he was going to take a run over the target area.
“If I see anything else we can hit down there, we’ll come back and grease them,” said Paulson. “Grizzly, you’re on my back.”
“Copy.”
The A–10s were relatively high, over 15,000 feet, which put them out of range of guns and light MANPADs, but also made it difficult to get a definitive read of anything on the ground. They crossed once at that altitude, then came back, dropping to about 7,000 as they ran past the site.
Paulson reported that there were two fires burning near the artillery emplacements, and that there seemed to be widespread destruction. A few moments later he added that the ammo dump had been obliterated.
“Only thing here is black smoke and red flames,” he said, climbing out.
Deciding there were no targets worth taking a run at, the flight leader had them saddle up and head westward, aiming to get them back to Sicily by lunchtime. But they’d only gone a short way before they got an emergency call from a harried JTAC ground controller, requesting immediate assistance in a firefight that happened to be less than fifteen miles out of their way.
Out of habit, Turk punched the mike to acknowledge and ask for more details. Paulson overran his transmission with his own acknowledgment a moment later.
“Sorry,” said Turk, clicking off. “My bad.”
“Go ahead, Turner,” Paulson said to the JTAC. The forward controller — JTAC stood for joint terminal attack controller, the formal military designation — was a Navy SEAL operating with a group of rebels caught in an ambush on the edge of a stream. The rebels were huddled around two disabled vehicles, under attack from both sides.
“What ordnance do you have?” asked the JTAC. Bullets were whizzing in the background as he spoke; Turk could make out two distinct heavy caliber machine guns. “Say again?”
“Turner, we have our thirty calibers and that’s it,” replied Paulson. “Give me a location.”
“Shit.” The controller was clearly looking for a big boom. Maybe he hadn’t worked with a Hog before.
“Repeat?”
“At this time, I would like you to put down heavy fire to the southwest of my position,” said the JTAC, calmer, though his voice was nearly drowned out by gunfire. “Restrictions are as follows. Make your heading east to west. We are near the two pickup trucks. The enemy is north and south of us. The heaviest— Shit.”
There was an explosion in the background before the JTAC continued.
Pushing his wing down, Turk got his nose in the direction of the southernmost grouping of enemy soldiers, figuring that Paulson would divide the group in two for the attack, and take the northern bunch himself, since he was closest to them. But instead Paulson called for them to all attack the northern group.
“I can get that southern gun,” said Turk. He could already see it on his target screen. “Coop can follow me in.”
“I’m in charge, Dreamland.”
Turk blew a wad of air into his face mask in frustration. “Copy that,” he said.
The Hogs ducked low. The first two aircraft tore up the terrain with long sprays of thirty caliber. Fire rose over the position.
Turk followed in, about two miles behind. But as they approached, his gear became confused by all the secondaries and smoke and he couldn’t see well enough to get a specific target.
He told Coop to pull off. They rose, circling north.
“What the hell are you doing, Three?” radioed Paulson.
“I didn’t have a definite target. Too close to the friendlies,” said Turk.
“Picture’s clean down low.”
Bullshit, thought Turk. Stop giving me a hard time. But he said nothing.
Paulson told him and Coop to orbit north in a holding pattern.
“We can get that target south,” said Turk.
“We’re on it, Dreamland,” snapped Paulson.
Turk did his best to keep his head clear, checking his instruments and making sure there were no threats in the immediate area. Paulson and Grizzly took two runs at the area. Finally the JTAC called to say they had stopped taking fire.
“We’re good,” said Paulson. “Heading home.”
Turk seethed the entire flight home, and was in a finely wrought lather by the time he touched down. Paulson managed to avoid so much as eye contact during the postmission briefing. He made no mention of their disagreement when he talked to Ginella, and was even complimentary toward Turk, whom he called Turk, not Dreamland.
Turk figured it was a show for the boss, and that made him even angrier. But there was nothing to be done short of knocking the asshole on his back — which he might have done had he managed to get out of the briefing room quickly. But he was waylaid by Ginella.
“Lunch?” she asked, putting her arm across the doorway. He was the last pilot in the room; they were alone together.
“A little late.”
“It’s never too late for some things.”
“I gotta check with my guys,” said Turk. He started to push against her arm.
“Turk.” She put her hand on his chest.
A pilot from another squadron walked down the hall just then. He cleared his throat loudly. Ginella pulled her hand back. Turk took the opportunity to squeeze past into the hallway.
“I just gotta go,” he told. “I’ll talk to you.”
Ginella rolled her eyes, then went back into the room.
15
Kharon spent the night in a sleepless stupor, unable to do anything but berate himself. He told himself he was a weakling and worse. He called himself a coward and a jerk and a fool. He punched his stomach with his fist until he collapsed in the bathroom, retching over the edge of the tub.
His life had led to that one moment, and he had failed.
He offered me a job!
The guilty fool!
And still I did nothing! Nothing! I could do nothing!
Kharon writhed on the floor of his hotel bathroom for hours, alternately beating and sobbing to himself. He was incapable of getting up, of moving.
Morning came. There was no epiphany, no conscious decision to reverse course. He simply rose, and in the still of the night fled the hotel, driving himself to the Aeroporto Fontanarossa Vincenzo Bellini, which was still taking civilian traffic, though largely given over to NATO operations. He found it surprisingly easy to find a flight off the island, and within a few hours had connected into Morocco, and from there bribed his way onto an Egyptian Air flight to Tripoli.
By the time he arrived, he had decided what he would do. His head felt like an empty space; the decision neither cheered nor frightened him. It seemed only preordained.
He found a cab and had the driver take him to Al-Fateh Tower, near the beach area. The government offices that had been located in the building were shuttered, as were most of the banks, but a few stalwart tenants remained, carrying on as best they could. Guards were posted on the bottom floor, but as far as they were concerned, Kharon was no threat: he was clearly a Westerner, and they let him pass after a brief look at his passport.