Well, at least someone there was on the ball, Skull thought to himself.
Then he thought, shit. But it was too late not to talk to her.
“I wanted to tell you that we’re doing everything we can to pick him up.”
“He is still alive, isn’t he?”
Knowlington fought back the impulse to assure her that her husband was fine. It was natural and human, but it wasn’t fair.
“I have to be honest, Kathleen. We’re working on that. We’ve spotted the wreckage and he’s not there.”
“You’re sure he ejected?”
Again, he squelched the impulse to lie. “We believe he did. But we have not had confirmation.”
“I see.”
Her voice had become small again. He could hear crying in the background; their child.
“I’m sorry, Colonel, but I have to go. Thank you for calling.”
Knowlington put the phone down and sat at his desk a moment longer, his eyes staring at the blank, smooth top. Was it better to be honest, or was it just cruel?
CHAPTER 30
Chief Master Sergeant Clyston sank into his Stratolounger, luxuriating in the thick richness of the Mozart pumping through his earphones. Don Giovanni was just now being handed the Devil’s bill for his incredible success with women. It was a moment that never failed to please the Capo, rating right up there with the time he had figured out how to knock an entire hour off the overhaul of a GE J79-15 turbojet.
Clyston’s appreciation of justice and its musical expression was not unalloyed, however; the chief had escaped to his highly customized temp tent to contemplate a serious moral question: Should he let Skull fly in combat?
In theory and in law, Colonel Knowlington outranked the chief by a country mile, and could command himself to do anything he pleased. But theory and law did not apply to the Capo di Capo; or rather, they did, but in a way considerably more convoluted than might be laid out in a military handbook.
Any good crew chief feels responsible not only for his airplane but his pilot. Clyston was no different, and in fact as he got older had become something of a father figure to several of the pilots to whom he’d “loaned” his planes. His role was an advisor, though, not a boss; he worked with the officers entirely by suggestion, though admittedly some suggestions were stronger and more strategically placed than others. Shortly after coming to Saudi Arabia, one such suggestion had grounded a suicidal pilot. That was an extreme example, of course; to a man the squadron’s pilots had abilities and “stuff” that even a graybeard like Clyston could admire.
His concern about the colonel went beyond both his normal concern for a pilot and his ancient friendship with the commander. He had the squadron to consider.
Skull wasn’t drinking anymore; he knew that for a fact. The snap was back in his walk, and his judgment was right on. Hell, even drinking the guy made a lot of right moves, if only because he gave his subordinates nearly free reign.
But flying was different. Flying in the dark, miles and miles behind the lines, pushing the plane to do something it wasn’t designed to do?
At his peak, there were few combat pilots in the air force better than Tommy Knowlington. But his peak had passed a long time ago. He’d put in some large hours over the past few weeks and done the flight test on the Hog today without a problem, but no one was shooting at him.
Thing was, even if it wasn’t Knowlington flying, going north wasn’t a particularly smart thing to do. Get into trouble and butts were going to be fried.
Where would the 535th be if Skull’s ass was the one getting singed?
Worse, what if he was cooked by the same SOB who took down Mongoose? The major could be a class-one, anal prick, but he was a kick-butt flier with high time in the Hog cockpit. Whoever got him wasn’t just lucky, they were damn good.
Clyston was the only one in Saudi Arabia, probably the only one in the air force, who could talk Knowlington out of flying the mission. He was the only one who could go to Tommy and tell him: Listen, you don’t have to prove yourself to anybody any more. You have to run the squadron.
Maybe he couldn’t talk him out of it. This wasn’t about proving he could fly combat again. This was about getting his guy back.
Especially since it was Mongoose. Clyston knew the colonel well enough to realize that, in his mind if no one else’s, Skull thought he should have been the one flying that mission. He’d see getting Mongoose back was not only as his job, but his duty. His guy, his job.
Hard to talk somebody out of doing their duty.
Someone like Knowlington, it’d be impossible.
But what was Clyston’s duty?
The chief leaned back in his chair, listening for clues as Mozart doubled back against his theme.
CHAPTER 31
Mongoose had almost reached the trees when he heard the sound, a low, guttural moan moving in the night. At first he thought it was an animal, a wolf or hyena or something, a beast that had caught his scent and was calling its brothers for the kill.
By the time he flopped to the ground on his belly he realized it was a truck, maybe two. The moonlight showed him the shadows moving a mile away. They felt their way toward him, slow and deliberate.
Mongoose lay on his belly, frozen by a mixture of fear and fascination, as if he were seeing someone else’s nightmare. The trucks crested a small hill in the distance, kept coming.
They didn’t have their headlights on. Smart precaution, but it would make it tough for them to see him here.
They were looking for him, no doubt about it. The shadows stopped and a beam of light erupted from the second, sweeping the ground. It found the trees then arced slowly, still about a hundred yards away from where he lay.
That got him moving. Mongoose jumped up and began running in the opposite direction. He tripped over something, felt himself spilling forward. Somehow he managed to get his elbow out, and roll with the fall. He tumbled back to his feet, ran a few more yards, saw the sweeping light from the corner of his eye and dove once more to the ground.
The light paused on something twenty yards away: The trees maybe, or a shadow that looked like a man. Whatever it was, the trucks put their headlights on and revved their engines, moving again.
Moving toward him.
Now would be a great time for a Hog to appear. They weren’t worth shit in the dark, but they would sure make him feel better.
No Hog appeared. The trucks came closer.
At most, he was a half-mile from the road. Much too close. He couldn’t be sure what they’d seen, but he knew he hadn’t felt the light. He was still hidden. He ran ten yards, up a slight incline, then fell; rolling, he got a mouthful of grit before he managed to stop his fall.
The search beam was trained on the trees. Mongoose scrambled to his feet and started running again, hoping they would be focusing all their attention there, hoping he wasn’t making too much noise. He could get over this dune or hill or whatever the hell it was and he’d be safe.
The pilot had only taken a few steps when something told him to dive for cover again; he flopped down, expecting the searchlight to play over him.
When it didn’t, he turned and looked over his shoulder. One of the two trucks was now between him and the trees. Its searchlight was examining the area carefully, moving over the ground like a worm. Two long shadows blurred behind it. He saw soldiers moving like waves in the light.