They might be going for Mongoose, but only if that shadow was really him. They might also just be passing through. They were still pretty far off; odds were they’d miss him, even if they searched the buildings.
Attack them and anyone in range of their radio might put things together.
Or not. Best just to splash them. Odds were they were working alone.
“We’ll do a quick circuit, see what else is around,” Skull told him. “You hear the beacon yet?”
“Negative. I keep trying.”
“Me too.”
They passed over the two trucks and rode out about three miles before banking back. There didn’t seem to be anything else out here.
Plinking the truck with the Maverick was child’s play. You flagged the crosshairs onto the target and locked it; the missile took care of the rest. Skull pushed the nose of his Hog down, accelerating slightly as he came back around toward the truck from the northeast. He had 5,500 feet, no wind to speak of, a nice smooth ride and a good view of the trucks on the screen. He was lower than he probably had to be but that would only increase his accuracy.
Skull locked on the engine and ready to fire.
As he closed, the reconsidered the situation. There were only two Mavericks aboard. He had to keep one if he was going to use it to see. That meant he had only one shot, and it seemed like a waste to take out such a soft target with it.
Better to use the cannon. Except that it was dark and they’d have to go even lower.
“Whatchya doin’, Skip?” asked A-Bomb.
“I don’t think these guys are worth a missile,” said Skull.
“They’re heading toward Goose. I can feel it,” said A-Bomb.
Skull pulled the Hog’s nose up, breaking his approach and swinging back to the north. “Want to get some shooting in?” Knowlington asked his wingman.
“Shit yeah.”
“Here’s the game plan. We’ll go back, fly a trail, you behind me. Get good separation. I’ll hit a flare; you come in and smoke ‘em. If we time it right, you should be able to splash both trucks on one pass. I’m pulling up and to the left; you go right.”
“I’m with you, Colonel. Let’s do it.”
“Watch your eyes. If you’re blinded, pull off and take another turn. I’ll be spinning around for your six.”
“Sounds good.”
Skull brought his Hog onto the course and reached for the throttle, pulling it out and bringing the nose down at the same time. The plane jumped downward, air shrieking around her as she bolted into the attack. He used the Maverick screen to help measure the distance, one finger up on the panel to kick out the LUU-2 flare. The Hog was low enough now to be heard and he expected ground fire at any second. It wouldn’t amount to anything but an annoyance— unless, of course, one of the Iraqis was packing the silver bullet.
Silver bullet came and got you no matter what. So you couldn’t waste your worry on that one.
Knowlington focused on the screen. He pushed himself down into the seat, trying to melt himself into the plane, make his muscles merge with it. The trucks glowed brighter and brighter in the TVM. He was just about to pass them and he yanked the stick— too hard he could tell— but he caught it quick, fired the flare, and now had his hands full, the Hog bucking above the flash. Temporarily he was lost. There was light everywhere and something popped in his head— a light snap and a burst, a thin string breaking— and he was in control, flying the plane, pushing up through five and then six thousand feet, going faster than he expected and banking into a turn, positioning himself to watch A-Bomb’s butt but also step in if he missed.
CHAPTER 43
This time, he knew it was a Hog, and he knew it was coming back. It came at him close and sudden, and he jumped to his feet in the moving truck, as excited as if a guardian angel had suddenly appeared in the sky. He pitched around toward the front of the truck, looked over the cab into the darkness, up at the crescent moon. He thought he saw the plane’s shadow pass in front, the moon winking at it as it dove to rescue him; thought he felt the thick wings of the Hog swoop to grab him and pluck him to safety.
In the next second, an LUU-2 parachute flare exploded overhead, the light of two million candles turning the desert brighter than a ballpark during the World Series. His whole face stung with the sudden light. Rifles next to him started to fire.
Then he realized what was happening:
The Hogs were going to smoke the truck.
Head down, still temporarily blinded, he pushed to get away, leaping and flailing toward the side of the vehicle. The earth roared behind him, hell opening up and spitting sulfur. Major James “Mongoose” Johnson felt himself lifted up, then flying through the air, brimstone and molten metal stinging his nostrils.
CHAPTER 44
When she’d told them she’d speak at nine p.m., it had seemed like a very long time off. But it was here, and even though she had nothing to say, nothing more than she could have said a few hours ago, or even days, Kathy Johnson felt as if she had to keep her commitment. She pushed the palms of her hands across her freshly laundered blue skirt and stood up from the couch.
Jean, her mother-in-law, turned her face from the television screen and looked up from her side.
“It’s time,” Kathy told her.
None of the others moved, not her father-in-law Bob on the small upholstered chair, or the two Air Force officers on the love seat at the far end of the room. Major Barbara Figundio, an information specialist and PR troubleshooter, stood in the door frame to the kitchen, where she had been helping herself to a sandwich.
“I’m ready,” Kathy said.
“You don’t have to go out there if you don’t want to,” said Figundio.
“I told them I would.”
“It’s still your call. You’re in charge.”
Kathy had no idea who might really be in charge of this thing, but it wasn’t her. “How’s my makeup?”
“Perfect,” said Jean.
“Looks good,” said the major.
She walked toward the door, pausing to catch her reflection in the mirror that hung near the far hallway.
She was still heavy from the baby. The knit sweater, a light blue, hid a bit of her midsection. Her hair needed to be cut, but she looked presentable.
The news people on the front lawn let out a shushing noise as she came out from the house, a cross between a sigh and a deep breath. They stood back a moment as she stepped forward, as if they were surprised she had remembered she said she would come out. Kathy gave a half-wave to the policeman, then beckoned the media people forward as if she were signaling to a shy child.
No shy child would have moved so quickly up the lawn. By now, there were more than two dozen reporters from all media, as well as their assorted camera crews and assistants. They came right up to the steps, barely leaving her six inches worth of personal space as they jostled to get their microphones and cameras into position. She smiled as best she could, waiting for them to settle in. When one or two pushed forward a little too close, she held her hand out, motioning them back like Halloween trick-or-treaters who’d gotten a little too eager for their candy.
She waited until everyone stopped fussing. It was remarkable what good manners they actually had.