He really did seem like he was twenty-three again, full of vinegar. The old pros called him “Stick Boy.”Part of it was a compliment in honor of his flying skills. Part of it wasn’t.
Long time ago, that. In those days, Clyston hadn’t really thought of making the Air Force a career. But after Vietnam, it just seemed to be the thing to do. No explaining why.
Pre-flight finished and plane ready to crank, Knowlington gave them a thumbs-up signal as the Hog’s rumble turned serious. The plane began edging toward the firing line, ready to launch itself into the darkness.
Chief Master Sergeant Clyston stood and watched until the glow from the twin jets at the back of the plane vanished into specks smaller than the stars. Finally, he nodded, hitched up his pants, and turned to see about where in hell he could find a hinge for Tinman.
CHAPTER 34
When it was obvious that the Scud alert was over, Lieutenant Dixon was the first to shed his gear. He’d had to scrunch over the entire time, and as fascinating as it was to hear a television correspondent explain what it was like to be scared shitless, Dixon couldn’t help but think about the roast beef down the hall, getting cold.
According to CNN, Patriot missiles had nailed the incoming Scuds. There apparently hadn’t been any chemicals in the warhead; at the moment, there didn’t appear to be any casualties either. For all their value as propaganda weapons, the Scuds were fairly useless tactically, amounting to more of an annoyance than anything else.
Plus they pissed people off. Especially ones like Dixon who were waiting to eat roast beef for the first time in months.
Three British army officers were among the other guests, as were two very pretty women who had showed the poor taste of bringing their husbands along to eat with Fernandez, his wife and their twelve-year-old son. The fact that the women were obviously spoken for made Dixon concentrate even harder on the meat.
It turned out to be nice and hot, and even juicier than his imagination had hoped. There were mashed potatoes and gravy, and even the carrots looked good. Steam wafted upwards from the dishes. Lush, sensual aromas filled the air. For the first time in several days Dixon actually forgot about being stuck in Riyadh instead of flying a Hog.
Plate heaped high, the lieutenant barely managed to keep his hands together as one of the Fernandez neighbors launched into a brief benediction. He had just grabbed his fork when one of the two Pakistani servants appeared and announced that someone had come to the front door looking for Lieutenant Dixon of the U.S. Air Force.
“Me?” he pleaded, but the servant had not made a mistake. He found an Air Force security captain and a pair of Army MPs standing in the front foyer.
“Lieutenant, I have orders for you.”
“Now?”
“My understanding was this was to be expedited.” The captain made an expression designed to convey the fact that he couldn’t explain everything with Dixon’s civilian host standing behind him. “That assignment you were waiting for?” he said. “Well, it’s been approved.”
“Darn.” Dixon realized he was talking about the Special Ops gig. Talk about timing.
“Lieutenant?”
“It’s just— I— roast beef.”
“Yeah, smells good.”
“We’ll take up the slack for you, BJ,” said Fernandez. “Open invitation. Come back anytime.”
“How about a doggy bag?”
The captain hitched his fingers into his gun belt. “Say Lieutenant, no offense okay, but I had to shanghai half the Army to come out and find you.”
“All right, I’m sorry,” said Dixon. “I’ll follow you.”
“No, sir. We’ll have someone else take your vehicle back to Riyadh, if you don’t mind.”
Man, thought Dixon, attach the words “Special Ops” to something and people really got worried.
It would be different if he were going to go and get Mongoose. Undoubtedly the squadron DO had been picked up by now— or, more likely, taken by the Iraqis. Even if he hadn’t, it would take the better part of the night if not longer to drive all the way up to the advance base where the Pave Lows operated.
Probably, this was just part of Knowlington’s backdoor plan to get him back to the base without raising any suspicions. But hell, couldn’t it have waited until he finished dinner?
“Really, Captain, it’s no sweat for me to take the car back to Riyadh myself,” he said as he went out the front door.
“I doubt your vehicle will fit in the Huey,” said the captain, pointing to the chopper revving on the front lawn.
CHAPTER 35
In the dark, halfway up to KKMC, Skull felt one of the engines behind him stutter momentarily. It was an infinitesimal, practically unnoticeable thing, maybe an odd current that hit that one engine only or some microscopic impurity in the fuel. But it sent an icy shudder across his spine and around to his ribs; his chest and shoulder muscles spasmed and the darkness of the sky enveloped him. He became a rock, not a pilot. He could hear his breath in his ears and feel the mask pinch his face. His legs felt heavy, his arms paralyzed.
Until that moment, he hadn’t worried about whether he could do this. He felt he had to, and that was enough.
But now his muscles tightened and he had to work hard to control his breathing. The plane was over whatever tiny stutter it had felt, but his was just beginning. He had to think about what he was doing― with his head as well as his hands and legs.
Hog wasn’t exactly a quick mover. Stable as hell, and predictable, but she cut through the blackness like a loaded dump truck working on three cylinders.
For a war zone, there were a hell of a lot of lights visible. Fires, too. Couple of good ones were burning in Kuwait.
Back in Nam, he’d poured the gas on to get away from the guns on the Laos ridge when his wingmate went down.
It wasn’t that he was scared; it was that he’d been taken by surprise. His instincts took over.
And betrayed him.
Or showed who he truly was, beyond the bullshit and hype, beyond the luck. When you stood totally naked in front of the world, when it was all instinct, you couldn’t lie to yourself.
There was a coward in him. He had to face that. They’d never recovered the crew and it was his fault.
Damn, he wanted a drink.
Fortunately, this was the one place in the world that he absolutely couldn’t get one. Colonel Knowlington worked his eyes around the cockpit very deliberately, letting each needle and number soak into his brain before moving on. Everything was working at shop manual specification; not bad for a plane that had received a new engine, control surfaces and sundry repairs within the past twenty-four hours.
If his math was correct, he had fifteen minutes to KKMC. Hog might actually be a bit faster than it seemed.
Two pilots had reported hearing fleeting transmissions over the emergency band as they returned from sorties up north. Whether they were Mongoose or not, no one could tell; they hadn’t been much more than static, and they could even have been Iraqis. The fact that Mongoose’s emergency beacon hadn’t been picked up was not a good omen. Still, the news was vague enough to be interpreted either negatively or positively.
Skull chose positively.
His grip on the stick unclenched. He flexed his thumb back and forth, across, holding the plane’s control stick firmly but gently. The thumb was one place he always got cramped in combat. As if all his tension went there.