Gunny and Doberman were catching some Z’s in a “guest” building across the way. They had to prep a separate mission at 0400; at least as far as Hack was concerned, they were no longer part of the operation. A-Bomb, meanwhile, had gone in search of real coffee, claiming Dunkin’ Donuts had set up a franchise near the mosque not far from the hangar area.
It might very well be true. Guys didn’t call KKMC the Emerald City for nothing. The massive mosque and fancy buildings surround the airstrip enhanced the Las Vegas image. They were close to Iraq and Kuwait, but this wasn’t the usual austere forward operating area. If there was Dunkin’ Donuts coffee anywhere in the Gulf, it’d be here. And if there was Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, A-Bomb would find it.
Hack realized his legs were only going to get stiff sitting down. He got up and began pacing the room. He probably out to just bag it and go get some sleep. The Splash mission would definitely be called off; no way they’d go ahead with it now that the Iraqis knew they were interested in the base.
On the other hand, it might take the Iraqis a while to reinforce the place. They might be scared shitless to move during the night, with American bombers in such absolute control. Or maybe they would only move at night, and have to wait until orders came from Saddam in the morning.
No way to know, no way to predict. The Spec Ops and SAS wizards were cooking it all up in their pot of stew right now. The backup had been to attack at dawn, so maybe it was still on.
Preston stopped walking and did a few squats, legs creaking like those of an eighty-year-old trying to take the stairs in the nursing home.
A bleary-eyed Air Force lieutenant appeared at the door. “Major Preston?” he asked.
“That’s me.”
“Delta and the SAS want to set up a talk at 2400, sir. They’re arranging a satellite slot.”
Great, thought Hack — a conference call at midnight. He’d have to wait around now, no way he’d get back up in time if he took a nap.
“We’ll handle the arrangements, sir,” added the lieutenant. “Base commander’s office will be available. You can come on down a few minutes beforehand. We’ll make some extra-strength coffee,” added the lieutenant, trying but failing to inject some cheer into his voice. Poor guy looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.
“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Said Hack. “I’ll come looking for you if I need anything.”
The lieutenant grimaced slightly as he smiled: it was obvious he hoped Hack wouldn’t add to his workload.
As he walked from the room, the lieutenant’s shoulders sagged. Hack couldn’t help remember the advice one of his mentors had given him in the early days of his Pentagon assignment: Somebody piles more work on you than you can handle, smile and ask for more.
Then pass it off to someone else.
Obviously the lieutenant worked for someone who took the advice to heart.
Might as well go find some real coffee, he thought, and maybe see what O’Rourke was up to.
As he stepped into the hallway, Major Preston heard the muffled strains of music. It happened to be coming from the direction of the building’s foyer, or at least seemed to, growing louder as he walked. The notes strained unevenly; they came from a keyboard of some type, played by someone who didn’t have much sense of tempo. The sound reminded Hack of some of his high school music classes; his band teacher had been a particularly poor keyboardist but nonetheless went at it every day before class.
The music abruptly stopped as he reached the steps leading down to the front door. Hack noticed another small flight off to the right that led down to a well-lit hallway. Curious, he jogged down them. There he spotted a black board with white letters announcing ecumenical Christian services.
Today was Sunday; he’d completely lost track.
Curious about the music and feeling a little guilty that he’d missed his first Sunday service in more than a year, Hack poked his head into the room. A preacher stood at a wooden lectern, reading from the scripture to an audience of six. The words immediately struck Preston — they were from Ecclesiastes, a section of the Bible his mother and grandmother had often cited when he was growing up. Hack had even pasted a line from a section of the biblical book to his flight board: a reminder to do what was wise and just, always.
Easy in theory, he thought now, listening to the reverend. Difficult in reality, especially in war. Hack walked into the room, sitting in the last of the twelve rows. The empty chairs made the space seem cavernous. An electronic keyboard sat near the reverend’s lectern; one of its stilt legs had been repaired with a thick tangle of duct tape.
“Who is the wise man? A man’s wisdom makes his face shine, and the boldness of his face shall be changed.” The minister nodded his head, pausing for effect.
But you couldn’t tell who was wise and who wasn’t by looking at his face, Hack thought. You couldn’t guess what people were worth by looking at them. They changed. Look at Knowlington — take him out of Washington, and the guy was actually wise, or damn close to it.
What about himself? Take him out of an F-15 and put him in an A-10 and he was worthless.
Worthless? Just because he’d flubbed the wind correction on his bombing run?
Or locked on an armored car instead of a missile launcher?
Or hadn’t been aggressive enough? How much more aggressive could he have been? Aggressive enough to get shot down? What if the helicopters had been hit?
What was wisdom? What was folly?
The minister continued on, his thin voice as earnest as any Hack had ever heard. The man’s eyes shone like faceted glass as he spoke, clearly lost in the advice he was giving..
Preston had listened to many sermons like this in his life, sometimes with rapt attention, more often with indifference as he daydreamed about something else. The minister’s voice evoked something different in him tonight — he thought about how naive the reverend must be, how innocent of his surroundings.
He knew it wasn’t fair, and he knew he ought to get up and find A-Bomb, let him know what was going on. But he stayed listening, watching the reverend speak. He remained when the service ended and the others filed out. He remained sitting as the minister closed his book and walked to the electronic keyboard and turned it off; he watched as the man walked toward him.
“Can I help you, son?”
“I’m as old as you, maybe older,” Preston told him.
The minister laughed, nodding his head. “Age comes with the collar, I’m afraid. I saw you listening to the sermon.”
“I have a line from Ecclesiastes on my flight board. I carry it with me every flight. ‘Wisdom exceeds folly.’ ”
“It does.”
“But you can’t always tell what’s wise, and what’s stupid.”
The reverend bit his lower lip, nodding his head slowly. The lids of his eyes squeezed together slightly, as if he were considering the quote for the first time. “I think that may be the point of the passage,” he said finally.
“No,” said Hack. “I don’t think so. No one ever said that,” he added, thinking of all the discussions he’d heard.
“Maybe they were wrong?”
“You think what we’re doing here is right? I mean, we could be fooling ourselves and wouldn’t know it.”
Hack felt his throat contract as the words ran out of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say anything like that — he hadn’t been consciously thinking of that, and even if he were, he’d never raise the question with a stranger.