“Yeah. Fate,” said the ordie. “Can’t live with it. Can’t live without it.”
Now that was a candyman’s philosophy.
“Excuse me, Sergeant,” said the E-4, slipping his feet off the Maverick. “You don’t mind, but I have to get these suckers loaded. And uh, no offense, but this isn’t the safest place to be smoking a cigar.”
“Good point, Devereaux,” said Clyston. “Carry on.”
CHAPTER 31
Hack pushed the receiver closer to his ear, trying to pick up the others through the static. There were more than a dozen British and American officers on the line, and all of them sounded like they were underwater or they had filled their mouths with sand.
“Neither Tension nor Hercules produced anything,” said the British SAS major reviewing the search operations. “Light resistance, including some SAM activity, was encountered at both sites.”
Hack took that as a slap, but kept his mouth shut as the major continued. The British RAF general ultimately responsible for the missing men had opened up the phone conference by tossing Devil Squadron a bone, saying that the two RAF fliers credited the Hogs with saving their skins. If anyone criticized Preston directly, he’d throw that back in their faces. In the meantime, it was best to keep quiet.
“Splash remains our only possibility,” said the major after detailing some other leads that had washed out. “Granted, it is still a long shot.”
Hack started to say that he and A-Bomb were ready as well, but he was cut off by Captain Wong.
“The small base we are calling Splash may be more significant than original estimates surmised,” said Wong.
It was obvious from the background noises that he was speaking from an aircraft, though he didn’t bother to explain why he was aboard one, let alone how he had managed the link.
Wong launched into a long and somewhat muffled dissertation on what the tapes from the Tornado overflight and recent satellite snaps showed. Unable to follow Wong amid growing static, Preston dug his nail into the Styrofoam coffee cup — real Dunkin’ Donuts, as A-Bomb promised. As the unintelligible filibuster continued, Hack glanced at the box of donuts on the desk, which lay just out of reach. He considered putting the phone down and grabbing another Boston Kreme. As implausible as it seemed, the treats were authentic. O’Rourke could probably find a McDonald’s in downtown Baghdad.
If he ever took command of the squadron, he’d make A-Bomb one of the flight leaders. Not because of the donuts — the guy was a damn good pilot, a kick-ass pilot, even though personally he looked like a slob. Glenon — Glenon had too much a temper to be a front-line jock, in Hack’s opinion, though he obviously must do well in peacetime exercises and the like.
Wong — Wong could go back to the Pentagon or wherever he came from. He kept talking and talking, even though all he seemed to be saying was that there were now two very short-range missile launchers at Splash, SA-9s.
Preston gave into temptation and stretched for the donut. When he picked the phone back up, Wong was still detailing the point defenses, noting that four more trucks with antiair artillery had been seen on the road nearby. The SA-2 site they had identified earlier remained a potent threat, even though it had not come up on the aborted mission.
“They’re probably defunct,” said Preston harshly. “They’re not a factor.”
Despite his hope that his comment would cue someone else to take over the conversation, Wong kept right on talking.
“There is a building at garshawl eastern gergawsh.”
Wong’s words trailed into an swirl of echoing static, scrambling the sentences as effectively as a 128-byte encryption key. The words Hack could make out sounded something like “shadows inside a building,” although that didn’t make much sense..
“Hey, hold on,” interrupted A-Bomb, shouting into his headset a few feet away. Hack pulled the phone away from his ear, but not before his eardrum felt like it had been shattered. “What you’re saying is there’s a plane in the hanger?”
“Affirmative,” said Wong.
“What kind of plane?” said Hack.
“That is what I intend to find out.” Wong said. “I believe it is a MiG-29, variant unknown. My task will be to examine the plane and gather as much detail about it as possible.”
“A MiG?” asked one of the British officers.
“We think there’s a MiG-29 in the old hangar building at the northeast side of the airfield,” Knowlington cut in. His voice came over the scrambled line sharp and direct; the snap in it reminded Hack of his father. “Wong wants to have a look at it.”
“Wong?” asked Preston.
“What if it takes off?” asked Hawkins.
“There is that possibility,” said Wong. “A fuel truck has been positioned in the L-shaped revetment at the northernmost point of the field. The aircraft should be targeted by one of the attack planes in the support package.”
“The revetment was empty yesterday afternoon, Bristol,” said Hawkins. “I remember it very clearly. We were planning to use it for cover.”
“Correct. As I was saying, there is a possibility the Iraqis are preparing the plane for an early morning takeoff.”
“CentCom has assigned a pair of F-15s to take out the MiG if it tries to come south,” said Knowlington. “The Iraqis may have a suicide bombing run in mind. Hard to tell. In any event, we’d like to try and have a look at the plane before we destroy it.”
“It presents a unique intelligence opportunity,” added Wong.
“What does Wong know about MiGs?” said Preston.
“I know a considerable amount about Soviet weaponry,” said the captain haughtily.
“You ever fly one?”
“I am not a pilot.”
“We’ll nail it,” said A-Bomb. “Maverick will slice through the hangar like a knife through a cheese danish.”
“The hell with blowing it up,” said Hack. “I’ll fly it out of there.”
“What are you saying?” asked one of the British officers.
What was he saying? Steal it?
The idea seemed to explode in his head, and adrenaline suddenly flowed into the muscles and bones that had been worn down by the day’s action.
Steal it.
“Let’s fly it out,” said Hack. “I can do it.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” said Hawkins.
Hack jumped to his feet. “We can get it. I’ll fly it. I can do it. Fuck, I know I can.”
“You’re going to fly a Fulcrum?” asked A-Bomb.
“I already have,” Preston said. “I was at Kubinka last year. Colonel, you know that. Shit. I can just walk off with it, assuming it’s fueled. Tell them, Colonel — I was at Kubinka. I’ve flown MiGs.”
“It’s true,” said Knowlington.
Kubinka was a Russian air base, where Hack and three other officers had visited as part of an exchange program. Knowlington did know, because Preston had come back to the Pentagon directly from that assignment.
What he obviously didn’t know was that Preston had flown from the backseat, doing little more than take the controls at medium altitude, and then for only a few minutes.
But he could do it. He knew he could do it. The idea of it — the sheer, beautiful audacity of stealing the prize right out from under Saddam’s nose — he couldn’t resist! No one could.
“Let’s take it,” he said. “I’ll go in with the ground team. Bing. We’re off.”
“You’re talking about huge risk here,” said Hawkins. “Incredible risk.”