You could live with that, though. He knew guys with back spasms. Now that was a ball buster.
Bottom line was, he was bringing Mongoose home. His man, his responsibility. Some people might think he’d lost a step― he’d seen that question in Clyston’s eyes― but they were wrong.
He did worry about his eyes. Vision was the reason he’d plunked MiGs two and three from the sky. The others you could argue luck and flying skill, but two and three― he nailed them because he spotted them, saw the specs and knew instantly what their direction was, where their energy was pointed.
See the enemy first and he’s yours; that was the old fighter-pilot maxim. And forget about 20–20 vision. You needed 20–10, at least.
Skull’s were 20–05, X-ray sharp, on a bad day.
Maybe not now, though.
Didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered, as long as he kept his muscles loose, worked the cockpit well, stayed within the limits of the plane.
He was going to get Mongoose back, or die trying.
Thing was, if he went out that way, then people really would think he was a hero.
A few might even be relieved.
Skull started to laugh.
Fourteen minutes to KKMC.
CHAPTER 36
Mongoose clawed against the hard earth, pushing himself up the hill, away from the light, not even daring to pray that they hadn’t seen him. Suddenly the ground disappeared and he felt himself falling forward, tumbling in confusion. Gunfire erupted behind the hill, but he barely heard it as he found his feet again and began to run.
What he did hear were the trucks. Their engines erupted as lights swung across the sky. The night turned reddish white― the Iraqis had fired a flare.
Open space lay in front of him. No trees, no rocks, no buildings, nowhere to hide.
His pistol was in his hand. He whirled, sighted toward the crest of the hill.
No one there.
Maybe they hadn’t seen him after all. Maybe they weren’t even here. Maybe this whole goddamn thing was a stinking mirage, the result of him hitting his head on the cockpit fairing or some such bullshit when he pulled the handle and got out of the plane.
Maybe he really wasn’t in Iraq at all.
He started running again. The desert seemed to rise up around him, the flare starting to fade. He slipped on something, felt his ankle twist out from under him, had to put his hand out, and lost the pistol.
When he looked up, three men were standing in front of him, three rifles pointed directly at him less than ten yards away.
“You will surrender,” said someone over a loudspeaker from the truck. The English was fairly good, with an American twist to the pronunciation. “You will give up now and you will not be harmed.”
The Beretta was only a few inches from his fingers. He could reach it. He could get these guys.
“You will surrender now.”
He glanced behind him, saw the other truck driving up. He rolled back on his butt, suddenly very tired.
When Mongoose didn’t get up fast enough, one of the Iraqi soldiers pulled his rifle back to hit him. Another caught him, and an officer ran up and began berating the man, screaming something in his face. At the same time, a pair of arms took hold of the American from the back, pulling him away and upward at the same time.
Something inside Mongoose snapped; he decided to try and shoot them all. He raised his arm and snapped his fingers closed, squeezing off the trigger.
Only to remember he had lost the gun.
The man pulling him backwards released him and he fell into a heap. Something heavy and hard caught him in the ribs. The blow pushed the air from his chest and he hunched toward his legs, gulping in pain, darkness edging the corner of his brain as if he were taking ten g’s.
More yelling. Hands over him. Pulling and pushing. Somebody spit. He fought to breathe. They searched his flight suit with hard pats that were more like punches.
They were more than halfway done with their searching before his lungs started working again. By then he was on his back, an Iraqi on each arm and leg. He tried to get his head back into checklist mode, knew that was his job now. The anger had to be stowed where it couldn’t hurt him. When they released him, he rose slowly, standing with his arms held out in a gesture of surrender.
“You are our prisoner,” said the man who had stopped the soldier from battering him. It was his voice he’d heard on the loudspeaker. His English was perfect, though he spoke very deliberately. “You will follow our orders precisely, or the consequences will be grave.”
Mongoose said nothing, but did not offer any outward resistance. One of the trucks swung closer, illuminating the area with its headlights. Four or five Iraqi soldiers stood around him, well armed and equipped. Other men were continuing the search of the area.
“Where is your copilot?” asked the officer.
“I don’t have a copilot,” said Mongoose. “I fly alone.”
“What type of plane do you fly?”
Mongoose hesitated. The truth was, his unit patch had a Warthog on it, so it wouldn’t take much detective work to figure out the answer. But answering the question felt like surrendering.
“It’s only got room for the pilot,” he told the officer. “One man. Me.”
“A fighter?”
“Yeah.”
The officer nodded, and shouted something to the others. It might have been that he didn’t trust Mongoose; their search continued.
The soldiers shifted, each staring openly at his face and uniform. One seemed angry; the rest looked merely curious, as if they were looking at a giant ape who had escaped from the zoo.
As long as the officer was here, Mongoose thought, he wouldn’t be killed; he might not even be beaten. Most likely there was a reward for his safe return to Baghdad.
Or maybe not. Maybe the officer wanted to torture him himself.
When they had searched him, the soldiers found and taken all of his important gear, including his radio, knife and maps. But for some reason they missed his small flare gun, tucked into a leg pocket near his boot; he realized that as he stood uneasily in the semi-circle of soldiers.
Something, at least.
They’d also taken Kathy’s letter. But there wasn’t much he could do about that.
One of the soldiers in the distance shouted. The officer motioned several of his guards toward the shouts and they ran off. The search beam popped on and suddenly everyone was firing. Mongoose cringed, but tried otherwise not to react; he knew it was some sort of mistake, a false alarm. Instead, he focused his eyes on the ground, trying to think of something he could do.
No way he could run off and make it. He was pretty much stuck here.
It took the officer some minutes to calm his men. “You are not afraid?” he asked when he returned. His eyes were set wide in his face; up close he was a homely man, who didn’t appear particularly wise or compassionate.
“I’m very afraid,” Mongoose told him.
“You did not take cover when my man began to shoot?”
“Just now? I told you, there’s no one else. They’re shooting at shadows.”
“A good thing for you,” said the officer. He turned and shouted at the guards— apparently telling them to get up, since they did. He barked out more commands. All but two left to join the others.
The man seemed about his age, maybe a little older. Barely five-eight, he was thin; his uniform hung around him as if meant for a heavier man.
“I could kill you,” the officer told him.
“That’s true,” said Mongoose.
The officer smiled and nodded. “What is your name?”