He spotted another pair of F-16s circling just to the west. They had been sent to make sure the Scuds were toast, and to mop up any remaining SAMs.
“OK, guys, I’m going to go tank,” A-Bomb told Boa One. “I’ll be back ASAP.”
“Don’t sweat it,” said the pilot. “Your guy’ll be back at base draining beers in no time. And for the record, I prefer a quarter — pounder with cheese.”
“Copy that,” A-Bomb told him, plotting his course to the nearest tanker.
CHAPTER 19
When he landed, Mongoose felt his knee give slightly. But he was already well into the roll, already peeling over. He tumbled onto his side and thought for a second that he was going to roll forever. Realizing the chute’s harness was still attached, he wondered why he hadn’t released it. He had dirt in his mouth. He pushed himself forward, put weight on the knee, and again thought of the chute. One hand began reaching for his knife as the other slipped the harness restraints.
Okay, he told himself, calm down. The hard part is over; all you have to do is wait for the search and rescue helicopter. Just relax. Push your buttons.
Remove the radio from your vest.
Turn it on.
Very simple.
Very calm.
Breathe first.
No one answered his first hail.
He was having trouble talking anyway, still gulping air. He put his hands to his chest and steadied a slow breath in and out. Making sure his finger was on the microphone button, he tried again.
He gave his call sign, asked for a response. Something floated in, a mangled transmission from far off. There was too much static for him to make any sense of it.
Bits and pieces of his SERE training — Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape— came back to him as his mind slowly cleared. The first few minutes on the ground were critical. You wanted to keep yourself in control.
Push your buttons. Check your list.
He was going to be picked up. It was just a matter of keeping his head clear.
Damned if there hadn’t been a shitload of rain during his SERE training. And heat. Now it was just cold.
This was a desert, or actually on the edge of one. You’d think it would just be hot all the time.
Mongoose tried the radio again. Its range varied according to weather, terrain, and time of day, but he could probably count on about thirty miles. Planes could zip in and out of its envelope without getting a good fix; he tried to keep it straight up and down for maximum range, to speak slowly as he transmitted, and stay calm.
His head was still foggy. He had only a vague notion of where he’d been hit, relative to his target. It was well south and east, he knew that. And after he had been hit he’d flown through the sky like a missile, away from the plane.
His breathing was starting to come back under control. He thumbed his radio to a new frequency, took it from the top.
From the air, much of southern Iraq looked almost featureless, undulating sand and gristly dirt extending for miles and miles. Here on the ground, Iraq turned out to be a silty waste, tiny grains of sand and grit sifting among stubby branches, as if the desert had flooded an orchard. A rough progression of hills began immediately to his right, long bumps nudging back north; they could have been part of an ancient stairway leading to the Euphrates, worn down by time. A dry creek bed or wadi lay about a hundred feet ahead of him; its gully oriented approximately east — west. A hard-packed road skirted close to it about twenty yards from where he was standing. Beyond the road, the terrain seemed a little harder. There were several clumps of short trees and more hills.
Wind kicked up grit and slapped his cheeks as he tried the radio again, reminding him that every transmission by the PRC-90 emergency radio in theory helped the enemy as much as his would-be rescuers. He had to ration his calls, at least until he was sure someone was coming for him.
He’d have to ration his water, too. He had only his pocket canteen and four packets in his vest.
Mongoose took out the small canteen and sipped very slowly. But the sips were larger than he thought; it took only three to drain the container.
A-Bomb ought to be around up there somewhere. No way A-Bomb would have left him. He repeated his hail and then switched to beacon, setting the radio to emit a distinctive SOS that in theory all allied planes could recognize.
Any Iraqi who wasn’t blind probably saw him land. He had to get the hell out of here.
He’d thrown his helmet off after he’d gotten to his feet. It lay upside down a short distance away, looking a bit forlorn. His chute had tangled in the stubby vegetation. The ejection seat, its emergency survival pack, and life raft were all set out like props upstage in a surreal play.
He ought to hide what he didn’t need, even if it was getting dark. They’d point the Iraqis toward him, when they came.
As he stared at the seat, he felt a pain in the back of his head. It was like a fist pounding from the inside, whacking at the base of his skull and neck. He put his fingers into the wedge behind his ears, tried to relieve the pressure by kneading the muscles there. Closing his eyes, Mongoose attempted once again to control his breathing, slowing it and relaxing all this muscles, hoping to ease whatever spring had over-wound itself. His body was starting to shake, whether from shock or the cold he couldn’t tell. He wanted to take stock of his survival supplies and equipment. All he could think of for nearly a full minute was the pain. A shock-induced trance was slowly taking hold of him.
The sound of an approaching truck on the roadway knocked him out of it.
CHAPTER 20
Colonel Knowlington was still going over the A-10A check flight when Captain Wong’s perpetual frown appeared over Sergeant Rosen’s shoulder. Wong was a rarity— an intelligence officer who was actually intelligent and had a sense of humor. His dry, anti-bureaucratic wit was so funny that just looking at his face generally made Knowlington start laughing.
Not today, though. His face was drawn and worried, and Knowlington knew exactly what the problem was as soon as he approached.
“Colonel, you want to get on with Lieutenant Dixon at Riyadh right now, sir,” Wong told him.
Knowlington nodded, and without saying or doing anything else, immediately began walking toward his office in the squadron building. An A-10A fresh from combat screeched onto the runway, but he didn’t hear it. Nor did he see any of the several people who greeted him as he walked. He walked in a gray, cold space alone, nerve endings hardened, ready, though not enthusiastic, to do his duty.
He didn’t even greet Dixon when he came on the line. All he said was, “Who is it?”
“Looks like Major Johnson in Devil One,” said the lieutenant. “I’m still pulling in details. It was their last mission of the day. Their tasking was changed and they went after Scuds about sixty miles further north. I happened to be in—”
“He eject?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Knowlington nodded but said nothing, as if his lieutenant could see his response.
“What else do you know, BJ?”
“Nothing, really,” said the lieutenant. “A-Bomb’s still up there. They have a search and rescue operation going, but I don’t have any details. I don’t know that he’s been heard from. In fact, I kind of think he wasn’t. But I wasn’t, well, obviously back here—”