Knowlington put up his hand, stopping what promised to be a long list of questions. “All right. Go for it. You sure you don’t want to take a flatbed up there with you and haul it home?”
“That would be preferable,” said Wong. “In fact — ”
“I’m kidding. Jesus, you’re a ball-buster. Have you told Hawkins?”
“I planned to do so after consulting with you,” said Wong. “There is an additional consideration for the Splash mission inherent in the presence of the aircraft. Regardless of whether the SAS men are being kept at the base or not, if the plane is there, and even more so if it is planning an actual attack, point defenses will be moved in certainly in response to the Tornado overflight. We should expect a half-dozen ZSU-23 chassis, and perhaps a lower-grade missile system. Indeed, I believe at least one SA-9 launcher has been reported en route, though I have not been able to coordinate the intelligence.”
The SA-9 was a short-range surface-to-air missile: while it posed more of a risk to helicopters than Maverick-bearing Hogs, it would have to be dealt with.
“We’ll have to tell Hack. It might be a stretch for two planes to hit all the guns and missiles besides,” added Knowlington. “Doberman and Gunny have a mission at 0600, so they’re coming out of the package.”
“That point was stated during the planning stage.”
“I would say four planes are the minimum neede4d to support the mission — more would be optimum.”
The hangar should be targeted by one of the Hogs. If anything went wrong, a Maverick could obliterate the MiG, whatever Saddam’s plans.
But to arrange for four planes, he’d have to go himself. There simply wasn’t another experienced pilot available who could lead such a hazardous mission.
No?
No.
He hesitated, remembering the idea that had occurred to him earlier, the cloud of 23mm slugs enveloping him.
His own death wish?
Knowlington glanced at the old-style phone on his desk. At any second its ring might change everything.
“All right, let’s get on this,” Knowlington told Wong. “Set up satellite time with the SAS and whoever else needs to be clued in. I’ll deal with the British command, and rejigger the duty rosters to finding two other planes and pilots.”
“Understood,” said Wong.
Aware that he was moving a bit too fast, but unable to slow down, Knowlington jumped from his chair and ran from the room, out of the telephone’s reach.
CHAPTER 28
“I say, have you a cigarette?”
Captain Hawkins jumped up from the wheel of the howitzer carriage where he’d been sitting, staring over the sandbags at the approaching shadow.
“Startled you?” asked Sergeant Burns, his face finally visible in the dark night.
“A little,” admitted Hawkins.
“Cigarette?”
“Don’t smoke.”
The SAS sergeant leaned against the gun, next to Hawkins. “I do. Have one.”
“No thanks.”
“Not even tempted?”
“No.”
“English cigarettes don’t cause cancer,” said the sergeant. He snorted, then clicked open a metal lighter. An odor of lighter fluid mingled with the smoke as he lit up.
“You did the right thing,” Burns told him. “Calling it off.”
Hawkins shrugged.
“Pilot has two kids.”
Everybody has someone, Hawkins thought. But he said nothing.
“Have another go at dawn?”
“I’d like to, yeah,” Hawkins told the Englishman. “Assuming your guys don’t find them before that. We won’t know until close to midnight. I’ve arranged for a phone conference.”
“Ring ‘em up,” said the sergeant, exhaling. “Ring ‘em up.”
Hawkins wasn’t quite sure what he meant or even what he might want. Probably just wanted to shoot the shit for a while.
The Delta captain sat back on the tire, shuffling his feet in the sand. The artillery base was a few miles from Iraq, used more for staging and supply than actual bombardment, though of course that could change in an instant. The team had been given a trio of bunkers to sack out in not far from the makeshift airfield where the helicopters were being serviced.
They’d be ready for another “go” by 0400, assuming the Brits gave the green light. His men would be tired, but so would the Iraqis. There wouldn’t be a last-second fly-by this time, but he’d have the benefit of the latest satellite data as well as the Tornado intelligence, which he’d already seen.
Damn blurry copy of a blurry image. The pilot and his crewman had been airlifted to an RAF base; the video had been processed and several faxed to him. As far as he could tell, there were still no serious defenses beyond the antiair artillery that had been there before.
“I’m a family man myself,” said the sergeant. “Don’t look it, I know,” he added. “Five kids, though. Five shiny faces. Had to join the squadron just for peace.”
“You have five kids?”
“Almost a football team.” The sergeant took a long draw on his cigarette. “Took the family to Blackpool just before we came. Adventure.”
The SAS commando began recounting the trip to the amusement park, which Hawkins took it was the English equivalent to Coney Island, only better. There was a mammoth rollercoaster there, supposedly the highest in the world. Cars reached eighty-five miles an hour on the downhill.
“Scared shitless, I don’t mind saying. Nearly threw up right in the seat. Did on the ground,” said the sergeant. “Scariest thing I ever did.”
“Scarier than this?”
“Oh much. Scarier than Belfast, and I served there eighteen months. And Londonderry.”
“I have relatives there.”
“Oh.” He sucked the cigarette down to its filter. “Catholic, I imagine.”
“That’s right.”
“Hmmph,” said the sergeant. He threw the cigarette down, took out another. “Hard life.”
“Probably is.”
Burns lit his cigarette. He shifted his weight, but didn’t move off the big gun. “I expect we’ll get the go.”
“I hope so,” said Hawkins.
“Went on that rollercoaster three times in a row,” said the sergeant. “Didn’t want the kiddies to see I was scared. Turned the stomach inside out, that.”
“I imagine it would.” Hawkins laughed. “I don’t like rollercoasters myself.”
CHAPTER 29
Rebecca Rosen floated in a pool of warmth, her body still trembling from making love with BJ. It hadn’t been what she thought — it was better, better, better. Her head vibrated; she’d fallen away from time, away from the war. The world outside no longer existed. Reality was here, on this tiny cot, BJ’s body pressed gently against hers, his face leaning against her breast, his breath brushing back and forth across her neck. His eyes were closed; she drifted toward sleep as well, lost, pleasantly, lusciously lost, finally oblivious to the aches and distresses of life.
But the world was a hard master.
“Knock, knock,” said a voice from beyond the bubble surrounding her.
“Knock, knock” — part-mocking, part-smirking, part-warning, part-censoring…
Colonel Knowlington entered the tent, standing over them. BJ jumped up, pulling the blankets with him to cover up. She rolled over, belatedly hiding her face. She considered diving to the floor, but didn’t dare.