They flashed up a picture of an A-10A Thunderbolt II, the plane her husband flew, the plane he and the other pilots called the Warthog, or more simply, “Hog.”
She waited for the rest. There was a map of Saudi Arabia and Iraq. An airbase supposedly used by the Hogs was marked out near the Gulf on the Saudi side of the border. She realized that the location of the air base was incorrect, though she wasn’t sure whether it was a mistake or something done deliberately so the Iraqis wouldn’t know where the Hogs were.
She knew it was supposed to be Jimmy’s base. All the Hogs flew from the same one.
“Kathy?”
She looked at the phone in her hand, unsure how it had gotten there.
“Kath? Are you still there? I hear the TV.”
She stared down at the worn, golden tufts of the freshly washed carpet, her eyes trailing slowly around the perfectly kept living room and its carefully arranged knickknacks and icons: the photographs of the Johnson’s three sons and two wives and their three, now four grandchildren; the souvenir from Disney World and the trophy that Jimmy had won for graduating second in his class and a medal that had been presented to his younger brother during an amateur olympics competition three years ago; and a photo in a pewter frame of the entire Johnson clan last summer at a picnic. Her eyes caught her just-rounding belly, apprehension clearly marked on her face. And then her eyes slipped over to her husband, so proud next to her, so ready to be a father after all these years of trying, so into it, having read every book as if having a child was like reading instruction manuals on a new kind of airplane. He was in his shorts and yes, he had nice legs, with sharp, thick muscles. His chest and arms were well — sculpted, too, but she’d always liked his legs and his eyes the best.
“Kathy?”
And finally, she returned her attention to the television screen, where another photo of her husband was being shown, a still from a video clip apparently taken a day or two earlier by coincidence. Beneath the scratchy frame were the words, “Believed down in Iraq.”
CHAPTER 25
Chief Clyston had just entered the building when he saw his colonel charge through the hallway from the squadron room into his office. The door flew open and slammed shut; almost immediately there was a loud roar as Colonel Knowlington barked at some hapless military operator to get him a so-and-so and so-and-so line to such-and-such in Riyadh, and so-and-so now!
Clyston hadn’t seen the colonel like this in a long, long time— in fact, he couldn’t remember him ever being this pissed off. He realized that it must have to do with Mongoose, but couldn’t quite figure out what would have sent Knowlington ballistic.
The chief master sergeant eased his 267 pounds gingerly down the hallway as the tirade reached new heights.
“Who the fuck gave out the fucking information!” the colonel shouted. “What the hell were they thinking? Using his name! Get me that scumbag because I am going to tear him three new fucking assholes! Johnson has a goddamn wife and a little fucking baby. Shitting hell!”
The stream of curses continued unabated for at least five minutes. Clyston felt himself actually shudder when the colonel hung up the phone. It had been a long time since anything Knowlington did actually scared him. Hell, it had been eons since anything scared him. But here he was, graybeard and all, standing in the hallway and feeling not a little like newbie private on his first assignment. He actually knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me. Chief Master Sergeant Clyston.”
“Come,” snapped Knowlington.
“Colonel?”
“Alan. What the fuck’s up? You hear this bullshit?”
“Major Johnson being shot down?”
“It’s on fucking CNN. Every fucking detail.”
“CNN?”
“Some douche bag with his head up his ass talked to the fucking network! I can’t fucking believe it. They confirmed his name and everything. They could just as well have given the fucking Iraqis a map. Wait until I find out who it was. Just wait.”
There was little doubt in Clyston’s mind that his boss would tear the person in two, no matter what his or her rank was— even if it had been the President himself. Knowlington wasn’t a particularly big man, but at the moment he looked like he could wipe the floor with Mike Tyson.
“Well, what the fuck’s up?”
“I wanted you to know that Devil Three has a clean bill of health,” said Clyston. “And the rest of the squadron is primed and ready, so you’re not going to need any backups sitting back here in the hangars. They can take off at first light. Sooner, if you want.”
Knowlington’s heart rate descended to merely apocalyptic levels. “You read my mind,” he said.
“I thought you’d want us in the mix.”
Knowlington nodded. He was staring beyond the chief master sergeant, as if he could see through the walls all the way to Iraq. “I hate those motherfucking newspeople, Alan,” he said finally. “They screwed us in ‘Nam. Man, they screwed us bad.”
The chief gave him an all-purpose “yup.” This wasn’t Vietnam, though he wasn’t about to point that out. He also had a somewhat different view on the media— in his opinion, it was the brass and politicians who had fucked up; a lot of the newspeople who weren’t jerks were just trying to show how it was from a grunts’ eye-view. Nothing wrong with that. But Skull had personal reasons for his interpretation, and the Capo respected that.
“I got to find Goose’s wife’s phone number,” Knowlington told him.
“You’re going to call her?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Wouldn’t, uh, wouldn’t be my place.”
“Yeah, well, I have to take care of this myself. She’s probably watching the fucking television right now. Jesus H. Christ. Do me a favor, would you? A-Bomb stayed north to try and help the search. He hadn’t gotten back to King Khalid last time I checked. Find Wong and tell him I want to talk to A-Bomb as soon as he lands there. Tell him I don’t care if he has to go up to KKMC himself and lasso him, I want to be talking to him within the hour.”
“Wong?”
“Yeah. He’s got a screwy sense of humor but he’s exactly the kind of guy you can count on in the clutch with something like this. Got those intel and Pentagon connections. Wong’s OK.”
Clyston nodded.
“How’s the crew taking it?” Knowlington asked.
“Everybody wants to do what they can to get him back.”
“You tell them we’re bringing him back if I have to fucking hike up to Baghdad myself and carry him out on my back.”
“Yourself?”
“Yeah. Me.”
“This mission approved by Black Hole?”
“You know, Chief, with all due respect, I can’t remember making you officer of the day, let alone director of operations.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Knowlington’s frown and silence indicated he expected the Capo to tell him what was on his mind, no matter whether it was something he wanted to hear or not.
“Well, uh, taking the mission yourself,” Clyston told him.
“You think I’m too old?”
“No. You’re just, you’re getting a little excited. Usually, you’re ice.”
“Yeah, well I’m pissed. The CNN crapola. I’ll calm down, enough to nail these fuckers anyway.”
“You sound like A-Bomb,” Clyston told him.
Knowlington didn’t answer. His eyes were back in their far-away stare.
The colonel actually sounded like another pilot Clyston had known— Captain Knowlington, Thud and Phantom pilot extraordinaire. The captain had been a hell of a stick man, a balls-out jock as lucky as he was skilled, and smarter than both. That wasn’t a combination you found in a lot of officers.