“Major James Johnson.”
“I am a major as well,” said the man. He switched his pistol from his right hand to his left.
And then he extended his arm to shake Mongoose’s hand.
Not knowing what else to do, Mongoose took it.
Had he thought about it, he might have expected something hard and callused. But this was soft and gentle, almost feminine.
The man smiled and nodded as he pulled back. Then he fished into his pocket and produced the blood chit — a note in English and Arabic that promised a reward for his return to allied hands.
“What is this?” asked the Iraqi captain. It was obvious he had already read it; his voice sounded like a reprimand.
“My people will reward you for returning me safely.”
The officer made a show of ripping the note up and throwing it aside.
“And this?” He held up an envelope — Kathy’s letter. “War plans?”
“A letter from my wife.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Mongoose shrugged. The man glanced at the letter, smiled, then held it toward him. Mongoose hesitated, then slowly took it.
After returning the envelope to his shoulder pocket, Mongoose looked up to see the Iraqi’s pistol in his face.
“Do not think that because I show you kindness I am weak,” said the man. “If you try to escape, you will be killed. You understand?”
He nodded.
“Into the truck.”
With that, one of the other guards grabbed him roughly and pushed him toward the front of the open flatbed.
CHAPTER 37
She saw them through the window. At first she thought the man and woman in the car were lost, looking for a neighbor’s house. Then another car pulled up behind, followed by a van.
The van had a television station’s logo on the side.
Robby stirred in her arms. He was hungry again. She sat on the couch, opened her blouse and let him suckle. Ordinarily, he was more active in the afternoons, but he seemed to sense that his mother needed him to be calm. He poked her a few times with his hand, happy to be getting his milk, then settled back down.
Her in-laws were still out, not due back until five. The Air Force people, none of whom she knew, were on the way. They were far from an air base, and because the squadron had been patched together at the last minute from other units and reserves their stateside home base existed only on paper. Still, she knew the procession of blue cars would soon make their way through the twisty rural streets, hunting for the tiny house.
Part of her preferred to be alone, though now that the reporters were outside she wasn’t sure what to do. Sooner or later, one of them would ring the doorbell.
She’d locked the door earlier, but double — checked it now just to make sure.
When she realized that the commentators had no real news to report, Kathy had turned the sound off on the television. She kept glancing toward the screen every so often, however, alternately hoping for good news and dreading what she might see.
A new map of Iraq flashed on the screen, too vague to give any real idea of the country. It was followed by a picture of the A-10A lifted from Jane’s, the encyclopedic military reference work. A retired Air Force colonel appeared on the screen, a man she hadn’t seen in any of the sequences before.
The words, “Former POW,” flashed under him.
Had Jimmy been captured? Was he alive?
She reached for the remote control, put the sound back on.
The phone rang as she did. She jumped up and startled the baby. He started to cry.
It was more a moan, forlorn and passive. Not his usual cry.
By the time she soothed him, the answering machine had picked up. A woman’s voice came over the speaker. “Mrs. Johnson, my name is Teresa Fisher. I’m a reporter for WFDC over in Calhoon. We’re very sorry to hear about your husband.”
There were about a dozen reporters outside, the woman told the tape. They wouldn’t come in and bother her, but if she wanted to say anything, they would be waiting outside. Three times the woman said she was sorry about her husband. Her voice sounded sincere.
“If you need anything,” added the reporter, “let us know. We’re sorry we’re disturbing you. You should know that the whole country supports you. We’ve already had calls at the station, saying how much everyone is praying for you.”
Kathy stared toward the kitchen hallway as the phone clicked off. Behind her on the TV, the newscaster was repeating that there was no new information about Major Johnson or the other pilots lost over Iraq.
Then he asked the retired Air Force officer about the possibility of torture.
Kathy pushed the red button on the remote, killing the power.
PART THREE
SMOKE ‘EM
IF YOU SEE ‘EM
CHAPTER 38
Colonel Knowlington’s eyes were scratchy, straining in the darkness as they swept the cockpit instruments. His shoulder muscles were still a little tight, but otherwise he felt settled in the plane, the Warthog strapped around him. He couldn’t quite tell the performance by feel alone yet— part of his problem was that he expected things to happen faster than they did— but maybe that was just as well; it meant he took less for granted.
A-Bomb was in a combat trail not quite a mile behind him in the dark sky. They flew on silently, observing the general rule that unnecessary transmissions were almost always the ones the enemy used to home in on you.
One thing about the Gulf War that made it a hell of a lot different than Nam— Big Brother was definitely looking over your shoulder. There was an airborne controller working close-in and a fleet of AWACS charting everything but the pigeons from here to Berlin.
Pigeons probably had their own radar planes. Knowlington had always approved of the concept in theory— it greatly increased the odds of holding off enemy interceptors, which in turn meant better survivability for bombers. But it also chipped away at a pilot’s autonomy. Skull had been taught that individual initiative was the cornerstone of successful air combat— in contrast to the heavily orchestrated and ground-controlled Soviet system. The fact that information from the four AWACS on station was relayed back to the command center in Riyadh meant that it could easily be fed to Washington, D.C. Given what had happened in Vietnam, the colonel shuddered at the possibility of some White House janitor helping coordinate the air war on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
That hadn’t happened yet, at least. The two Hogs of Devil Flight had full autonomy to carry out their mission as an unscripted part of the search and rescue team.
Knowlington wanted a drink, but he could deal with that. It was like dealing with the SA-2s or -8s or -13s or Rolands, except that the launch warning was always sounding. You did your jinks, threw your chaff, lit your flares—
Belay the flares at night. Blind the shit out of you. And useless against a radar missile.
Skull rechecked his position on the INS, making sure he was precisely on beam. They were at eighteen thousand feet, which in his mind felt low though it was near the top of the Hog’s comfortable operating envelope. Fires burned in small sparkles in the distance; bulky shadows stretched out around them. Knowlington resisted the impulse to assign positions to the shadows; it was too easy to get the wrong idea stuck in your head. Better to stick to the abstract numbers.