Hack had meant to say Captain Wong, not Delta, but for some reason the words had just come out like that. He let them stand.
“Colonel, your final assessment,” the British general asked Knowlington.
Hack’s doubts suddenly reasserted themselves, and he found himself wishing, wanting, hoping that Knowlington would call it all off, say it was crazy and couldn’t be done.
“If my guys think they can do it, and the D boys are up for it, then we’ll take a shot,” said Knowlington. “I’m going to have to hustle another pilot up to KKMC to fly Hack’s plane. Lieutenant Dixon. A-Bomb, you take the lead on that flight, nail the defenses the way you laid out the mission originally. I’ll take the second pair and target the MiG, back you up and support the landing.”
Preston looked at A-Bomb across the room as the British officers began debating what additional forces could join the mission package. O’Rourke, his face as serious as a statue in the Vatican, held his hand over the mouthpiece. “You sure about this?”
“Damn sure,” said Hack.
A-Bomb held his stare for a long time.
“Damn sure,” Hack repeated stubbornly. “Damn, damn sure.”
PART THREE
THIEVES
CHAPTER 32
Colonel Knowlington pulled the survival vest over his flightsuit. Always in the past it had felt familiar, like an old jacket that had been around for years. But this morning it felt awkward and odd, heavier than it should, as if the pockets were filled with lead rather than a few survival necessities.
He double-checked his gear, moving quickly through the preflight ritual. He’d gotten bogged down with some extraneous maintenance details and was running late, very late; Antman was buttoned up in his Hog already, waiting.
The Colonel was still wrestling with his decision to lead the flight. He knew he was sober. He knew his fatigue and the last vestiges of his headache would clear after a breath or two of oxygen in the cockpit. He had several times the experience of anyone else he might tap to fly the mission; he could nail it with his eyes closed.
But should he go? Did he deserve to?
Wasn’t a question of deserving; it was a question of duty. There was no backup — he’d sent Dixon on to KKMC already to fill in for Hack. No one else in Devil Squadron could take this gig.
So it was his duty. That was something he could handle. He took his helmet, grabbed the board with the map and crib notes on the mission, and began walking toward the waiting Hog.
A certain élan, the British general had said.
Damn straight. Stealing a MiG out under Saddam’s nose. Impossible! Ridiculous!
So why had he gone along with it then?
Because he wanted to die? Because life wouldn’t be worth living if he wasn’t in the Air Force?
He couldn’t let that be the reason. The others — his men, his people, his boys — were putting their necks on the line. They weren’t doing that for some foolish, empty romantic notion, a vain piss in the wind that would satisfy his mistaken vanity. They were doing it to give the Allies a usable edge in the war and maybe beyond.
How could you tell the difference? A lot of people thought that’s what Vietnam was — vain, not worth the lives that were lost. He’d never believe that, though he had grieved the friends he’d lost, the many, many people who’d died.
The war had had an effect; in his opinion if in no one else’s. It had held the Soviets and the Chinese down for a while, helped divert attention from other trouble spots, in a way prevented something much, much worse.
And the truth was, sometimes did you lose, sometimes you gave it a shot and that wasn’t good enough; you had to accept that and move on. This war was justified for many reasons — to calm the Middle East, to keep the balance of power, to keep oil flowing, to stop Saddam from getting the bomb. It was being run much more intelligently than Nam.
So where did this mission fit in? Two Brits who might or might not be there, a Russian plane that was interesting, granted, but already a known quantity, as Wong himself had admitted.
Wong. He thought it was worth it. And Wong would know. But then, he had a wild side to him beneath all his dispassionate talk about “mission coefficients” and “risk parameters.” He wasn’t a Pentagon desk jockey, as Knowlington had initially thought. Wong had been involved in dozens of infiltrations and covert actions over the past few years.
The colonel walked toward his aircraft, his mind still trying to sort itself out. Maybe he wasn’t up to it at all — he was experienced, yes, but he was also damned old. His reflexes and his eyes weren’t what they once were, back when he was Skull in Vietnam. His stomach wasn’t as tight, his hesitations were more pronounced.
Clyston stood now at the foot of the access ladder, a stogie in his fat fist.
To say good-bye for good?
“Ready for ya, Colonel,” said the Chief Master Sergeant.
“Let’s take the walk,” snapped Knowlington, already snapping back into his old personae Skull as he started his preflight inspection of the plane.
Fueled, armed with four AGM-65s and a pair of cluster-bombs, the Hog seethed on the apron, anxious to get going. The crew members stood a respectful distance away, craning their necks to see as the pilot — their pilot — checked the plane — their plane.
Even though he was on a tight schedule, even though he knew an aircraft that Clyston was responsible for was an airplane so perfect it could possibly fly itself, Lieutenant Colonel Michael “Skull” Knowlington looked the aircraft over carefully and slowly. To do anything else would have seemed disrespectful to his crew. He inspected the control surfaces as if seeing them for the first time. He looked into each engine, eying every inch of metal. He ducked under the wings and even examined the tread on the tires. He left nothing to chance, performing the ritual as carefully as a priest at midnight mass in Rome. From left to right, from front to back to front, he moved solemnly, not merely checking his plane but absorbing it, driving it deep into his being.
Doubts and nostalgia vanished.
“Let’s kick butt,” he told Clyston, finishing.
“Don’t break my plane,” growled the old sergeant.
Skull chucked Clyston’s shoulder — a little gentler than usual maybe, but in the same spot and with the same emotion he had had more than twenty years before, standing beside a Thunderchief. He took a step up the ladder, then turned to give his people a well-done salute, a thank-you beyond words.
A lieutenant from the intelligence unit that shared some of Devil Squadron’s HQ area came running toward the plane.
“Colonel! Colonel! General’s returning you call,” shouted the man, nearly out of breath. “Said he’d hold.”
“Tell him you missed me,” Skull shouted, climbing into the cockpit.
CHAPTER 33
The rotor blades on the Huey bringing Dixon into KKMC couldn’t quite keep up with his heart. He leaned toward the rear door of the helicopter, wind and grit whipping against his face. The roof of the large mosque across from the main area of the base gleamed with reflected light, glowing in the darkness like a candle left for an exhausted pilgrim.
Dixon steadied himself as the chopper pitched toward its landing area. He pulled the bag with his flight gear and helmet toward him, then pushed through the door as the helicopter’s skids tipped down. He ran to keep his balance, adrenaline continuing to build. The smells overwhelmed him — jet fuel, diesel exhaust, burnt metal, his own sweat. Colors and dark shadows blurred around him, as he hunted for the vehicle that should be waiting to meet him.