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He’d seen a woman gunned down in the Iraqi countryside for trying to warn him about a search party.

He’d been singed in the explosion of an Iraqi house whose sole occupant was a two-year-old child.

He’d carried another Iraqi child, a boy perhaps six or seven, nearly to freedom, only to have the kid jump on a grenade meant for him.

The image of the boy’s broken body floated before him in the hazy wake of the Hog engines as the green-hulled warplane waddled off the runway: bits and pieces of flesh scattering in the wind, soot covering his face. The boy’s eyes open and clear, irises a brilliant green.

Why did God let that happen? Why the kid and not him? It was Dixon’s job to die, not the boy’s.

BJ rubbed his cheeks, then stared at his hands. He expected them to be black with soot, but they were clean.

There hadn’t been time to buy the kid, or even do more than make sure he was dead. Dixon had been jerked away by the others on the team, strapped into a harness, and snatched from the ground by a MC-130E Combat Talon Fulton Surface-to-Air Recovery. Propelled through the air by a flying slingshot, he’d dangled in the wind before being cranked into the bay of the big combat cargo plane. The grenade, the kid, the plane blurred into the tunneling hush of air around his ears. Infinite shades of black and brown wove ribbons around his head as he rambled weightless, helpless, through space.

Had it happened at all?

He saw himself going to the child, bending down.

But he hadn’t done that, had he? He’d stayed back, afraid of what he would see.

No, he’d been there, holding the kid when the grenade exploded. He remembered that specifically.

But no way he would have survived if he had held the kid.

But he remembered it, could feel the shock wave reverberating through his bones, shaking his arm nearly out of its socket.

Too much of this. He was losing his mind.

Dixon rubbed his fingers across his face and began walking toward Oz, Devil Squadron’s maintenance area. Four of the squadron’s eleven planes — they’d lost one earlier in the war — were being repaired and prepped for action. Techies swarmed back and forth, oblivious to him.

Dixon looked at his hands. His fingers ought to be filthy dirty, but they remained clean, stark white, not even pink. The deep bruises on his ribs and arms had already begun to heal; soon, there’s be no trace of his ordeal.

Too much of this.

“Yo, BJ, what are you doing out of bed?”

Dixon turned. Captain John “Doberman” Glenon, one of the squadron’s senior pilots, stood in front of an empty bomb trolley, shaking his head.

“What are you doing?” Doberman repeated. “You’re supposed to be resting?”

BJ shrugged.

“Restless?” Glenon didn’t bother waiting for the obvious answer. “Come on. Colonel’s rounding up some guys for a meeting. He’d probably want you there.”

Without saying anything, Dixon fell in behind Doberman as he cut past the hangars and aircraft in a beeline for Hog Heaven, the squadron’s headquarters building. Though several inches shorter than Dixon, Glenon threw his legs forward like he was flicking switchblades; Dixon fell steadily behind.

“Yo, Antman,” Doberman shouted to a thin black lieutenant talking to a pair of women officers near the building.

Lieutenant Stephen Depray turned around abruptly.

“Come on. Old Man’s looking for heroes.”

“Excuse me ladies,” said Antman, bowing.

Ladies? Did anyone call women ladies anymore? Ladies — like it was all a fairy tale.

Maybe it was. Dixon’s eyes seemed to have lost their focus. Stray sounds cluttered his ears. His boot stubbed against the metal steps as he followed the others into the building. He caught his balance on the door jamb, and pushed inside. When the door slammed shut behind him the muscles in his throat gripped at his windpipe. He felt claustrophobic.

Colonel Knowlington had commandeered Cineplex for the meeting. Cineplex, a largish open room with refrigerators, a microwave, and a couch, featured a massive big-screen TV, hence its name. The television had been turned off — Knowlington obviously meant business.

“Captain, Lieutenant,” said the colonel as they entered. “BJ? What are you doing here?”

“I thought you wanted me, sir,” said BJ.

Knowlington’s eyes burned into his forehead.

Maybe that’s where the soot was — Dixon reached his fingers to rub it away.

“All right, come on,” said Skull. He looked past BJ. “A-Bomb, Hack. Good. Close the door and let’s get going.”

Dixon sat in one of the metal folding chairs directly behind the couch, watching as Captain Wong whispered something to the colonel. Pink fluorescent light bathed the room, making it larger than Dixon remembered.

“Here’s the deal,” Knowlington told them, abruptly turning away from Wong. “We’re still nailing down the details, but basically, the British have a few dozen commando teams working north of the border, just like Delta, looking for Scuds and doing some other work. They lost track of one last night. They have reason to believe that the Iraqis grabbed them and are holding them at an abandoned air strip in a city, or rather south of a city, near the Euphrates. They’re looking at a few other places too.”

He paused, scanning their faces. “It’s a longshot,” Knowlington emphasized, “but Delta’s going in to check it out. They’re taking RAF Chinooks, along with Apaches and us for cover. We hit right before nightfall.”

“What’s the lineup?” Doberman asked the colonel.

Four of our planes, Maverick Gs, in case it gets dark and you need the infrared to see the targets. Load flares and cluster bombs as well. Supposedly there’s not much defense; guns, that’s all. Of course, that may change, especially if the British are right about their guys being there. The idea is that it may just be a way station or holding spot until Baghdad figures out what to do with them.” Knowlington glanced at Wong, who nodded. “Captain Wong should have the whole deal, or as much as there is, by 1400 hours, which is going to be very close, to kickoff time. This isn’t going to be a milk run.”

“Good thing,” said A-Bomb. “I’ve been pretty bored lately.”

The others laughed.

“I’m in,” said Doberman.

“Me, too,” said Antman.

“I’ll lead the flight.”

Dixon bent his head to see the pilot who had said that. Standing near the couch, he had a large body for a fighter pilot and a head that seemed one size too large. He was a major — it must be Preston, who’d just replaced Major James “Mongoose” Johnson as the squadron DO. Dixon knew he’d been on the mission that towed him home, but BJ hadn’t been introduced yet, and in fact didn’t even know Preston’s first name.

“Good Hack,” Knowlington said. “I thought you’d want to take it.”

“Hey, Colonel, you know we’re all in,” said A-Bomb.

“You’re not tired?” Knowlington asked him.

“Tired? What the hell is that? I’m not sure I’ve heard the word.”

Everyone laughed.

“You’ve logged over two hundred hours since the air war began,” said the colonel. His voice seemed cross.

“Shit, I didn’t know we were supposed to keep track,” said O’Rourke. “What’s the record?”

Knowlington frowned, but then nodded.

“We scrapping tomorrow’s mission?” asked George “Gunny” McIntosh. He was a captain who had served as a liaison with a Marine unit in a special exchange program before joining Devil Squadron; his nickname had apparently been adapted from the term for a Marine master sergeant. He and Doberman were tasked for an early-morning tank plinking mission.