She saw her breath in front of her as she opened her mouth to speak.
“My name is Kathleen Johnson and obviously you know why I’m here,” she heard herself say.
It was a good start. She remembered tricks from her college speech class: look people in the eye, be upbeat, replace the ums and uhs with pauses. When in doubt, silence looked smart.
“I really can’t say anything beyond what the Air Force has told you. My husband was a pilot when I met him and I’ve understood the risks since before we were married. He has an important job to do and… the, uh, the other members of the squadron are professionals and they have a job to do, too.”
Her voice wavered. All of a sudden she wasn’t sure what she was talking about— professionals? Well of course they were, but what was the point?
She could feel her lips starting to waver.
She was out here not just to answer questions, but to inspire others who might be in the same position. She couldn’t break down; that wouldn’t inspire anyone, except maybe the people who had shot down her husband.
She wanted to call an end to this quickly, but stopping would just make it worse. She ducked her head ever so slightly the way a horse might during a tough part of a race. “I’m sure Jimmy will be back in one piece very, very soon,” she said. “In the meantime, I’m fine and the rest of the family is fine. We appreciate the country’s concern.”
She smiled. Good enough.
She reached behind her for the door handle.
“You have no information on where your husband went down?” asked a reporter.
It caught her slightly off-guard. “Of course not,” she said. “And if I did, do you really think I would broadcast it to Saddam? He’s sure to be watching these reports. The man is a murderer; I’m not going to lead him to my husband.”
“The Air Force won’t tell you?”
The major bristled beside her; Kathy squeezed her arm before she could say anything. “The Air Force has been exceedingly helpful. They’re family,” she said, her voice sharp. “Are there other questions?”
“How is your little boy?” asked a woman reporter on her left. She recognized the voice— it was the person who had left the phone message.
“Well, almost sleeping through the night these days,” Kathy told her.
It was the same thing she told all the relatives— but the reporters took it as a joke and laughed.
“I remember those days,” said the woman.
“Could we have his age?” asked a man near her.
“Three months. Almost four.”
“Wow. That’s tough.”
“A lot of military families have more children and are in the same position as I am— well almost the same,” Kathy said. “What about you? Do you have children?”
“Two. And the first one had colic. I don’t think my wife or I slept for the first six months.”
“He took after his dad,” quipped one of the reporters. The others laughed.
“Well, Robby doesn’t have colic, thank God,” said Kathy. “But I really should get back to him. Are there other questions?”
“Has the President called yet?” said a man on her right.
“Why would the President call?” she asked him. His face looked vaguely familiar; Kathy believed she had seen him on TV but couldn’t quite place him.
“He said he would.”
“Could we listen in?” asked the jerk who had wanted her to direct Saddam to her husband.
“I’m sure anything he’d have to say would be private,” said Kathy. “And anything I’d say would be trivial. I don’t think he’s calling; I mean, I wouldn’t think he would. Not for this. It’s not, it’s not necessary.”
She felt her lip quivering. The Air Force people hadn’t told her about the President.
She didn’t think he’d be calling if it was good news.
The moon, a flat yellow crescent, caught her eye. Its glow seemed to brighten for a moment, twinkling with an obscure reflection. It warmed her, helped her catch her lip. She stared at it for a moment, wondered at how far away it was, how it hung there, constant.
“All right,” she said, feeling exactly how heavy and cold her hands had become. She wrapped them together across her chest. “I’m going back now. Thank you for coming.”
Thank you for coming? But what else would you say? She gave one last smile, then turned to the door.
“When will you talk to us again?” asked the jerk.
Never to you, she thought. But the cameras were still rolling; she didn’t want it to look as if she were running away.
“In the morning, unless I need you to watch the baby,” she said.
“Hey, I’m good at burping kids,” said the reporter whose child had been colicky. “Let me know if you need help.”
The others laughed and she smiled, squeezing back through the door.
Kathy took two steps inside before she began to shake. A moment later, she found herself crying on her father-in-law’s shoulder, nearly out of control even as he told her she had done real fine.
CHAPTER 45
The first truck frothed beneath the weight of the bullets, crackling into dust as A-Bomb stood on the rudder pedals, walking the cannon back and forth through the son of a bitch like he was working a drill into a piece of diseased wood. His eyes stung a bit from the flare and the world had a bit of a washed-out tint to it but he wasn’t pausing even to blink them now. Keeping the A-10 in her dive, he eased off the trigger, giving the gun a brief rest before picking up the second truck. The bullets skipped out of the plane again, the kick pushing the Hog back as if the force of the gun alone could keep the plane in the air.
A-Bomb started to drift off target and realized he was running out of space; he held on for just a half-second more, squeezing off a good burst before yanking into his escape. He pushed the plane for all she was worth, vulnerable now; he’d wiped the trucks but there was always a chance, remote but there, that some patriotic Iraqi had scrounged an SA-16 and managed to survive the on-rush of uranium and high-explosives. The plane’s nose sniffed for the darkness, welcoming the cover like a real warthog escaping into the bushes.
Somebody was aiming at him. He felt a flash from behind, small for a rocket and well behind him, but coming for him nonetheless. Without hesitating or waiting for Skull’s warning he goosed off some decoy flares and gave the Hog all the throttle she would take. A-Bomb closed his eyes against the new flare’s light but even when he opened them the glare was worse than flying through a blizzard with a pair of arc lamps strapped to the fuselage. It took an eternity for the plane to climb away. His eyes struggled to regain their night vision; he couldn’t even see his instruments.
Not that he needed them. This morning the Hog was just about flying herself. She did that, when the stakes got high enough. The plane wagged her fanny in the air as she climbed, now out of range of any shoulder-fired heat-seeker. From her point of view, it hadn’t taken long to get away at all. Her pilot said go and she went.
As A-Bomb brought the plane around and began looking for his lead, he saw that one of the two trucks had caught fire.
He decided he’d get the other on his next swing.
“What was with the flares?” asked Skull.
“I felt something.”
“I had your six. Bring your course around another forty degrees.”
“I was thinking another pass.”
“Negative,” snapped the colonel. “You wiped their asses on your first pass. No sense wasting any more bullets. You see me yet, or you need me to key the mike?” he added, offering to use the radio as a crude direction finder, since the A-10A’s gear could show the direction of transmission.