“Just the letter from my wife. It’s not worth anything to you. You already saw it and gave it back.”
They were silent for a moment. The Iraqi reached forward to grab the letter and Mongoose felt anger well up inside him. For a half-second he thought he was going to dive into the man; his muscles tensed for what would have been a quick, suicidal fight.
Then the major snatched the letter from his hand and jumped back. Any chance of attacking him was gone.
“I haven’t read it yet,” said Mongoose.
“You’ll have plenty of time later. Let’s find something to make a sling,” said the Iraqi. “And then we will walk. It is better than sitting around waiting for your friends to come back, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER 49
Skull snapped the mike button as he acknowledged the airborne controller. Things were getting busy, but even with upwards of a hundred pilots trucking north no one had heard from Mongoose or picked up his emergency beacon.
The ground had an orange glow to it, and some pieces of vegetation near the horizon looked as if they were on fire. The buildings were dull black and silver, just starting to catch the light.
The wrecked overpass and its assorted debris came up on his right wing. Skull walked past it, indicated air speed down to one hundred and twenty knots— he could flop down the landing gear and put down on the roadway. Skull gave himself more throttle and took the Hog into a gentle climb, gradually working himself into a wide, lazy— considering where they were — turn while he scanned the ground for any sign of Mongoose or his parachute. It ought to be visible by now.
Assuming he’d gone out.
He gave a quick glance at the gas gauge on his right panel, then put his eyes back outside, moving ahead toward the wreckage of the A-10A, working out what had happened for the third or fourth time.
He was hit back there, the plane crashed up here. Somewhere in between, there ought to be a chute.
Or his chair at least, if everything screwed up.
Nothing.
Okay, so there’s a lot of wind. Still, he didn’t just disappear.
Skull kept the Hog climbing as he circled again, his eyes working the ground like a miner sifting for gold. A-Bomb had done all of this yesterday, the F-16s had done this— nothing.
What if the Iraqis picked him up right away? That would explain why there was no radio transmission. They might have taken the chute and seat. Most likely they would, either as evidence or souvenirs.
Passing over the Scuds, Skull reset the attack run that had gotten Mongoose nailed. Devil One was there, Devil Two there. Overpass was immense, got to give them that. Attack here, zoom in. Bam, bam, bam. Mongoose pulls up.
His head is still back with the front of the underpass, wondering why the hell he didn’t get a bigger boom. Maybe he’s figured out they’re decoys.
There’s no warning until the launch. The gunner must be using his eyeballs or something is screwed up.
Using his eyeballs? Shit. What the hell would the odds be on making that shot?
But something like that happened. The ECMs are useless against the Roland anyway. So let’s say he lets go and the missile takes up its own targeting. He starts pulling off here when he’s hit.
Okay, no, he didn’t quite make the turn. Which actually gives him this vector when the Roland comes out.
Yes, and the Hog kicked due north after the ejection, okay, he was going this way when he went out.
Mongoose has turned off, he’d be working himself back, momentum shifting around. Doesn’t see the shot.
Which hits him here? How?
No. He’s still moving. Has to be back over there, because otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten both trailers before he pulled off. But boy, this really doesn’t line up with the crash site.
Of course it doesn’t, because the missile takes out part of the wing, enough to make it spin back.
The plane was throwing them off. Damn, he knew from ‘Nam you couldn’t trust the stinking wreckage. Planes had a mind of their own once no one was watching them. Hell, he’d heard of one flew all the way back to its aircraft carrier and landed on its own.
Probably not a true story.
So Mongoose is fighting a yawl and leaning over like a sinking ship when he pulls the handles. Comes out like an artillery shot instead of a mortar, sideways.
And then you add the wind.
He was further south than they’d been looking.
Much. Beyond where they’d smoked those trucks.
Shit.
“A-Bomb, were you inverted when you saw Mongoose?”
“I was climbing.”
“Put your plane there.”
“The exact spot?”
“As close as you can. Slow it down.”
“I go any slower I’m going to be moving backwards.”
“Hogs can’t do that?”
The colonel watched Devil Two fly over the dead truck, then jerk upwards and around. “Saw it here out of the corner of my eye.”
“You sure you weren’t further south.”
“I might’ve been a little. My angle was sharper, that’s for sure. I saw him while I was jinking.”
“And he got both Scud decoys on his run?”
“Smoked ‘em.”
“Take my wing.”
“What are we doing?”
“Just crank up your music and follow me.”
CHAPTER 50
When the Iraqi major was sure the soldier was dead, he knelt near him and with his knife cut away a piece of his shirt. He worked roughly, keeping one eye on Mongoose the entire time. He knotted the strip of cloth with his teeth, then flung it toward the pilot.
The sling landed on the ground. Mongoose waited for the major to step back, then took a step and scooped it up.
He caught a strong whiff of the dead man’s sweat as he pulled it around his shoulder.
The pain had leveled off. He eased his arm into the sling, then pressed his fingers into a fist around the edge of the material. They were limp and starting to swell slightly.
“And now we start walking,” said the Iraqi. “You first.”
Mongoose turned and started toward the road. The sun was nearly up now. He knew the Hogs would come back; it was just a question of waiting long enough for them.
Had the Iraqi been lying about the soldiers coming for them? No matter; the Hogs would smoke them as they’d smoked the trucks.
They might smoke him, too. He’d have to wave a flag or something.
How?
If the planes appeared, he might be able to convince the Iraqi to surrender with him. Maybe that was why he was treating him so well— maybe he hoped an SAR team would pop up over the horizon.
He’d been trained as an engineer in America. Maybe he wanted to go back.
That was why he was being so nice.
“You’re going slow,” said the Iraqi. He sounded like he was ten feet behind him.
“I’m tired.”
“You’ll sleep soon enough.”
“What happened to the rest of your men? The planes didn’t kill them all.”
A sore point, obviously— the Iraqi didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was sharp and stern.
“That is not your concern.”
They walked more. Mongoose’s legs were starting to wear out, but his head raced with the pain and adrenaline. He needed some plan to get away, but his mind wouldn’t focus long enough on any one possibility. Run for it, turn around overpower the Iraqi, talk his captor into giving up with him— ideas flitted indiscriminately through his brain, each as likely as the next. He had no more judgment.