The way he saw it, the way he would tell it to the investigators later, both engines quit at the same time. The plane edged down, then one of the power plants caught again, hard, exploding as if the afterburner suddenly slammed on, sending the plane into an uncontrollable yaw.
Until that moment, Hack had probably figured he could control it. That was the kind of guy he was — he didn’t give up and was cocky enough to figure he could work himself out of any jam.
But everyone has his limits. Hack must have gone for the handles. The canopy didn’t come off, but the seat sure came out, flying almost straight down. Skull started to bank, keeping one eye on the MiG which was now pirouetting not fifty yards from him.
Knowlington saw, or thought he saw, the chute to the seat open. Debris was in the air, or at least he thought he saw debris, or just sensed there was something. Pulling up on his stick, he tried to stay clear.
He circled back, dropping low and slow. By that time, the parachute was skittering along the ground, crazy-curled by the wind.
Skull spotted the seat, and then saw Preston, who ought to have released the chute, who ought to have been standing there, probably kicking the desert because he had been so God damn close, so stinking damn close, to hitting a grand slam, landing an Iraqi MiG back on a U.S. base for all the world to see.
But he wasn’t. Preston was lying in the sand, his body crumpled. It didn’t take more than a single pass to know he was dead.
Epilogue:
HANGING AROUND
CHAPTER 63
No way in the world was it possible to debrief a mission — to even think about a mission — without coffee. Hell, it was against Air Force regulations and probably the U.S. Constitution to even try that. The Geneva Convention probably even declared it punishable by hanging. The UN undoubtedly had a commission on it.
So as soon as A-Bomb touched down at the Home Drome — right after he parked and popped the hood and plopped down on the tarmac next to Sergeant Rosen, who was taking personal care of his aircraft this morning; right after he gave the rest of the crew a quick thumbs-up and pointed to the holes in the airframe (unnecessary, actually, due to the rather obvious gashes and dripping fluids); right after giving the appropriate shrug to an airman’s incredulous “You actually managed to get home like that?” remark — A-Bomb ambled over to the only place at King Fahd that could be relied upon for A-1 Debriefing Strength Joe: his quarters.
Regrettably, A-Bomb had not yet completed his plans to rig his commercial Bunn coffeemaker to an IFF device, which would allow the unit to begin grinding and brewing as his Hog approached the runway. He therefore had to wait an excruciating ninety seconds as the machine ground a choice selection of hand-picked African and Columbian beans before dripping distilled mountain water into the pot.
The interlude gave him time to contemplate a philosophical question: What should he have for breakfast, Freihofer’s or Entenmann’s?
Technically, neither of the famed Northeast bakeries was listed among the official military suppliers providing food at the mess. But A-Bomb had a direct line to outlet stores for both. With the help of several well-connected supply sergeants — there were no other kind of supply sergeants, after all — he had managed to schedule regular deliveries from both. In fact, a C-5A with a fresh load of cheese strudel and sticky buns ought to be due at any moment. Still undecided, he filled his thirty-ounce ceramic coffee mug and left the tent.
A-Bomb had walked about two sips’ worth toward the unloading area when one of the squadron pilots, Billy Bozzone, flagged him down.
“Coffee’s in my tent,” he told Bozzone, a lieutenant who had grown up on Staten Island but was otherwise a good sort. “Going over to grab some Entenmann’s, I think. Or maybe Freihofer's. Kind of waiting for inspiration to strike.”
“Intel guys are looking for you,” said Bozzone. “Delta major, too.”
“Yeah, I’m on my way,” said A-Bomb. “What’s the rush?”
“You haven’t heard? Preston’s dead. MiG malfunctioned and he fell out of the parachute harness.”
For the first time since he came to the Gulf, A-Bomb could find nothing to say.
CHAPTER 64
Sergeant Becky Rosen’s fingers betrayed her, fumbling everything from screws to cables, even slipping off the controls of an oscilloscope. She couldn’t staunch the adrenaline, couldn’t slow the thump of her heart as she worked.
Was BJ all right? What had happened north? Where the hell was he?
Every comment from someone in Oz threw her. Every roar of a jet or whistle of landing gear took her attention away from what she was doing. Finally, after nearly smashing a screwdriver through the radar unit in A-Bomb’s plane, she put down her tools and walked away.
“Sarge, what’s up?” called one of the crew.
“Gotta take a leak,” she told him mildly.
“You selling tickets?”
“You won’t make enough money in three lifetimes, Tommy,” she said. “Put that unit back together for me, will ya?”
“Gotcha, Sarge.”
Her legs began to shake as she walked toward the small restroom stall in the back of one of Oz’s hangars. By the time she pushed the door closed behind her, her knees were jelly. As she sat on the commode, her hands began to shake and she realized she was crying.
I can’t do this, she told herself. There’s no way I can do this.
Joining the military didn’t mean you had to give up being human. Nor did it mean that you had to stow your emotions.
But.
But.
Rebecca Rosen felt as if she’d slipped into someone else’s body. The limbs didn’t work quite the same way. The head seemed at a permanent tilt. The borrowed eyes made the light seem more yellow.
No. This wasn’t her. She wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t.
Feet scuffled along the floor a few yards away. Sergeant Rosen ran her fingers through her short hair and kneaded the skin behind her ears. She took a long breath, reached around and flushed the commode.
Outside, she scowled when a staff sergeant said something about A-Bomb’s plane needing an entire overhauclass="underline" new sumps, new fuel system, new skin..
“No fuckin’ way,” she said. “Just go get Tinman. He’ll tell you what to do if you can’t handle it.”
“Sump’s shot out,” said the sergeant.
“You want me to fuckin’ kiss it and make it better?”
The sergeant scurried back under the plane.
“Getting on them kind of hard this morning, no?” said Sergeant Clyston from behind her.
“There’s no fucking way we’re losing an airplane because it has a dent,” Rosen told him. “It can be fixed. I checked it myself.”
Clyston nodded, but said nothing.
A half-hour later, Lieutenant Dixon and Gunny landed. By then, details of the mission had spread through Oz. Rosen and the others knew that the SAS men had been rescued and the MiG stolen. They also knew that Dixon’s radio had been shot out — and that Major Preston had been killed when the MiG malfunctioned and he had to bail.
Sergeant Rosen stayed back in the hangars when Dixon landed. With any other pilot, on any other day, she would have among the first to inspect the plane. Instead, she busied herself with a balky INS unit, working at a bench at the furthest end of Devil Squadron Hangar 1.
Still, her hands trembled when she heard his voice behind her.