“I know the place looks pretty drab. We’ve packed away the valuables,” said Fernandez through his hood. He worked as an accountant for a Saudi oil concern owned by one of the royal family. “I know what you’re thinking— we don’t have a proper basement. But this wing was supposedly steel-reinforced and good against anything but a direct hit. I don’t know whether to believe them or not. But at least there’s no windows.”
They stepped down a single step and continued through yet another hallway, this one lined with expensive-looking paintings. Dixon wondered what the stuff that had been packed away looked like.
His nose twitched with the smell of roast beef. Before he could ask about it, his host opened the door at the very end of the hall, revealing a thick piece of plastic. He reached down and pulled it up, revealing a room about twenty by thirty feet long. A dozen people, all wearing gas masks or protective hoods, a few in full suits, crowded around a brown leather love seat and ottoman, watching a CNN feed. A correspondent in a chem suit but no hood was speaking to the camera in hushed tones.
“Here’s a whole suit,” said Fernandez, leading him to a table in the corner. He held up a suit that was clearly too small for Dixon’s frame.
“It’s not going to fit.”
“Take the mask, then. Like I said, I don’t trust the equipment.”
“I honestly don’t think it’s necessary.”
His host’s answer was cut off by the peal of a siren. As loud as the siren was, the explosion that followed was even louder.
Dixon quickly began stuffing himself into the gear.
CHAPTER 29
Of Colonel Knowlington’s many friends in the Pentagon, Alex Sherman was among the least sympathetic. For one thing, Sherman was a civilian; he didn’t quite understand the wrenches your guts went through when people shot at you.
For another, Sherman was a reformed alcoholic; he took a tough love stance toward everybody and everything, Michael Knowlington especially. They’d met each other in Saigon, well before either admitted drinking was a problem, let alone something they ought to give up. Sherman was the one media person Skull could stand. Actually, he was a pr consultant, then for the Army, now for the Joint Chiefs, with a title nearly as long as Knowlington’s service record. Sherman’s opinion of reporters was every bit as jaded though far more nuanced than the colonel’s; having fed the sharks for so long, he’d come to understand and maybe like a few.
Which was one reason Skull let him have it full blast for the CNN story.
“Hey, you through? It’s not like I’m the assignment editor, or the guy with the big mouth,” said Sherman. “It’s just one of those things, Mikey. A reporter happened to be around when some guys were talking.”
“One of those things? I thought there were fucking censors to keep the lid on.”
“Yeah, well, somebody’s butt’ll fry on that, believe me.”
“These god damn bozos are going to get him killed.”
“That’s not true. If anything, this may help keep him alive. If Saddam knows we know he’s alive, the odds for survival are better.”
“You have statistics on that?”
“Believe me, we’re just as peed over here as you are.”
“Has anyone talked to his wife yet?”
“Well, by now— ”
“I haven’t been able to get a line through to her. Can you arrange that for me?”
“Me?”
“You have some pull, don’t you?”
“I don’t know if I can get approval, for one thing.”
“Screw approval. Just get me the phone number. We don’t have it for some reason, and it’s unlisted.”
“Mikey, you really think you should talk to her? What the hell are you going to say?”
“You going to help me or what?”
Sherman’s long sigh announced surrender. “Let me see what I can do.”
“I’ll stay on the line.”
“Come on.”
“I may never be able to get you again.”
“Jesus.”
Knowlington leaned back from his desk and saw that Captain Wong was standing uncomfortably in the doorway. “Those Mavericks on the plane?” he asked the major.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but for the record, I’m not a spear carrier.”
As pissed as he was, Knowlington just had to laugh. “Owww — that’s a bad pun. Sometimes you have to give it rest though, Wong. So, they’re on?”
“They’re placing two on the plane as we speak. Colonel, can we discuss my transfer? I’d rather be studying Russian invoices for rivets than dealing with ad hoc, unvetted combat plans that rely on outmoded weapons pushed beyond their technical capabilities into non-functional paradigms of non-optimum performance. Sir.”
“God, Wong, sometimes your jokes go over even my head. Anybody else, I’d think they were serious. Shit, you crack me up, you know that?”
“I am serious,” Wong said.
“Thanks. Listen, go get some rest. I appreciate your schlepping around this stuff for me. Really. And your humor.”
“I wasn’t making a joke.”
“Go on, get out of here.”
Knowlington waved him away with a laugh. Damned best straight man in the air force. It was the face that did it — so damn serious, it set everything else up.
Non-functional paradigms — what a ball-buster. No wonder they kicked him out of Black Hole.
Truth was, Knowlington knew that using the missiles’ infra-red seeker to look for a man on the outskirts of the desert was like using a metal detector to find a bullet in a gravel pit at twenty thousand feet. But they had to do something.
Truth was, the fact that no one had picked up Mongoose’s radio beacon meant that maybe there was nothing to be done. But if you thought like that, you never made it yourself.
“Hey, you still on the line or what?”
“Yeah, I’m here, Alex,” Knowlington told his friend. He stood up in his chair, mouth suddenly dry. The colonel ran his free hand back over forehead, then down his chin and neck.
“Okay,” Sherman said, apparently to an operator. “It’s yours from here, Tommy. And you’re welcome.”
“Hello?” said a woman’s voice, soft and bewildered.
To the colonel, it sounded a lot like one of his sisters. They were, after all, the reason he’d wanted to call. Both had been contacted two different times by the Air Force, once because his plane turned up missing and once when he was actually shot down. He wasn’t sure now whether there had been phone calls or someone in person coming to the house; he just knew they had talked to someone.
The time he was missing was a first class screw-up, all around. They had him dead. But his sisters told him later it was better knowing that someone was at least making an attempt, and knew who they were. Being in the dark was the worst thing; it made you feel farther away than you really were.
“Hello?”
“Is this Kathleen Johnson, Major James Johnson’s wife?”
“Who is this?”
A sliver of steel came into her voice, resolution or stoicism, or maybe even anger.
“Kathleen, this is Colonel Knowlington. Your husband’s commander.”
“Oh.”
“This isn’t an official call. I wanted to talk to you personally and tell you I was sorry about the television broadcast. That was a mistake.”
“The Pentagon people said they weren’t sure how it got out. They already apologized. So did one of the Air Force officers who called to say they were on their way.”