Rosen glared briefly at Karn before turning to the capo di capo.
“Help yourself,” Clyston said, gesturing to the refrigerator.
“No thank you, Sergeant.”
“How’d it go?”
“I fixed it.”
“Yeah, I noticed. Problems?”
“Not really.”
Clyston nodded. “Freddy take care of you?” He was referring to a friend of his who had arranged transportation for her out of Al Jouf.
“More or less.”
Clyston frowned. “All right. Tell me about it. You two shut your eyes,” he added.
“The co-pilot on the KC-130 coming back was a jerk. That’s it.”
“He’s going to complain?”
“He might.”
Clyston sighed. Hopefully, the man would be so pissed off he would go right to Knowlington. The colonel would nod seriously, scratch his chin, and promise to look into it. As soon as the door closed, he’d shake his head, roll his eyes, and do what he always did about insignificant bullshit: forget about it.
“You didn’t break any bones, did you?” the capo di capo asked, trying to make light of the situation. But Rosen didn’t take the hint.
“I shoulda,” she said.
“Relax, Rosen. Come on, have a seat.”
She glanced at the others, deepening her scowl. “I have work to do, Sergeant.”
“The hell you do. Your shift ended hours ago.”
Rosen’s face flushed momentarily. She seemed genuinely touched by his concern.
Must have been the light.
“I caught a Herc back,” she told him. “Lucky timing.”
“I guess.”
“I heard Tinman needed help on Lieutenant Dixon’s plane, the one Captain Glenon tried to break,” she said.
Clyston nodded. One of these days he was going to adopt her. “Tinman may not let you help.”
“We can get along if there’s work to be done.”
“Your call. Good work at Al Jouf.”
She flushed again, but left before it was too noticeable.
“Lesbo, right?” said Bobby.
“Nah,” said Clyston. “She just has trouble getting along with people. Officers especially. Takes them seriously. That’s where the trouble starts, as a general rule.”
CHAPTER 34
Officially, the club didn’t exist.
Unofficially, it didn’t exist either.
But its thick, smoke-laden air was real enough. The bikini-clad Pakistani waitresses — with a few similarly dressed men thrown in to provide gender balance — were actual flesh and blood. Mostly flesh. The dim lights, live music, and flowing booze had a hallucinatory quality at first glance, but soon proved as physical as anything else here.
“Never been in The Depot before, huh Kid?” A-Bomb asked as he threaded his way through the crowd at the bottom of the entry stairs located just a few yards from the base property line.
“No,” said Dixon. He looked a bit like a five-year-old taking his first trip to the circus.
Or a whore house.
“Used to be a bomb shelter. I think. People get kind of bristly when you ask. My idea is, enough guys had enough wet dreams and it sprang together out of thin air. Or sand. Whatever.” He stomped Dixon’s shoulder to show he was kidding. “Here come on, this is my spot.”
A-Bomb slid in behind a round cocktail table in a corner. From here, he had a perfect view of the small stage, in case one of the unscheduled floor shows stoked up.
“Shit-faced, kid, that’s what we’re getting,” he told him. “And then, we’re going to have to cook you up a nickname. BJ sounds a little too, you know, suburban. You need something new.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. You need something that fits you. Finding the right nickname is a delicate art. How long have you had BJ?”
“All my life.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. Time for a change.” He motioned over a waitress in a black leather thong. “Pair of Buds,” said A-Bomb. “And maybe later, talk to the kid a little.”
“I’d love to,” she purred, running her fingers lightly across his head before disappearing.
A-Bomb laughed as the kid turned paler. “Lighten up, BJ. Hell, you were in combat today. You’re a man from now on. Cherry broken.”
“I don’t know.”
“Hey, relax. Uncle A-Bomb isn’t going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.” He leaned across the table. “And they all get shots once a week.”
Doberman found them sitting in A-Bomb’s favorite corner.
“How much have you guys had to drink?” he asked.
“Hello to you, too,” said A-Bomb.
The pilot pointed to the half-emptied bottles. “How many?”
“Relax,” said A-Bomb. “We just got here. I’ve had a sip and Junior’s been too interested in the floor show. You’ll catch up in no time.”
“I’m not catching up. Knowlington’s called a big meeting over at Cineplex.”
“For when?”
“Now.” Doberman glanced at Dixon. He expected to find A-Bomb here, but the kid — hell, he went to church services, for crying out loud. Doberman glared at him; Dixon, who looked paler than the albino strip artist on stage, remained silent.
Obviously in shock.
“No shit,” said A-Bomb. “What’s up?”
“The GCI site BJ and I hit this morning is still on the air. Apparently the stinking radar dish I hit didn’t stay hit. There’s a British flier on the ground somewhere near there that they want to rescue first thing in the morning, and the squadron’s been tasked to shack the shit out of the dish and the guns on the southern side.”
“Ouch. Who’s going?”
“Believe it or not, Mongoose wants to.”
“Figures.” A-Bomb pushed the beer away. “And here I thought I’d get some sleep. Oh well — who needs sleep when you can fly?”
“You’re going?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Doberman. “But I ain’t fucking happy about it.”
“Who’s happy?”
“You’re crowing,” said Doberman. “Like you’re happy.”
“Nah.”
“I’m going because it was my job in the first place,” said Doberman. “I screwed it up; I’ll fix it. You stay home.”
“Tie me to the fucking bed and I’ll bring it along,” said A-Bomb. “No way I’m not going.”
“I screwed it up,” blurted Dixon.
“Relax kid,” said Doberman. “Drink your beer.”
“I blew it. I saw the dish and then I lost it. I thought you took it out.”
“Hey, nobody blew it.” said A-Bomb. “You guys have to learn to deal with reality. Sometimes you miss.”
“You’re giving lessons on reality?” said Doberman.
A-Bomb started to say something, but then just waved his hand. “Let’s get back,” he said instead, standing. “How’d you know we were here, anyway?”
Doberman rolled his eyes, then stuck his finger into Dixon’s chest. “Him, I’m surprised about.”
“Hey, easy on the kid,” said A-Bomb. “BJ’s okay. Hell, he’s coming on the mission, too. Right kid?”
“I, uh — ”
“Look at his face, Dog Man. Kid’s a Hog driver. All we got to do is come up with a new nickname for him.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know. But BJ sounds like he ought to be on Little House on the Prairie, don’t you think?”
Lieutenant Dixon followed along as they threaded out of the club, heart pounding wildly. It had begun as soon as he heard the words, British pilot.
He was being handed a chance to redeem himself. He had to get back in the sky and grab it. Everything he had been wanted to make it right.