Alien bugs looked more human than the small tech sergeant, who eased feet first into the black hole with a pair of tiny Special Ops flashlights in each hand. Doberman’s heart pounded harder than it ever had; harder than when he’d been chased by the SAM, harder than his first solo. This was worse than flying, a hell of a lot worse. Flying, he could do something. When you were driving a Hog, or piloting any plane for that matter, there was a checklist. You did A, then you did B, then you did C. When you hit shit, you just moved through the list faster. But this— all he could do was watch.
He was seriously hooked on Rosen, he knew that. And the fact that he couldn’t do anything about it up here was almost as hard to take as standing by helplessly as she disappeared inside the tanker.
The Hog pilots were wearing special ABC underwear beneath their flight suits and theoretically could have gotten by with booties, gloves and headgear, but both Doberman and A-Bomb donned full suits borrowed from the commandos. He couldn’t see all that well through the hood’s small visor. He was tempted to whip it off as Rosen emerged with what looked like an oversized purse.
Wong, next to her on top of the back of the truck, took it and threw it to the ground. Rosen returned twice more with two more purses.
Doberman walked around to the back of the truck to look at them. He got about five feet away before Wong jumped in front of him, waving his hands like a flagman waving off traffic. Doberman cursed but stopped, watching as Wong poked the bags with a wand from a small device the commando team had supplied. He poked and prodded for about ten minutes before straightening. He gestured for Rosen to stay near the bags, then walked back to Hawkins.
“The bags are empty. The seals were never implemented,” said Wong after lifting the hood off his head.
Wong had to be the only guy in the Air Force who actually looked natural in the chem suit. The bulky gear made his head seem almost normal-sized.
“What does that mean?” Hawkins asked.
“These weren’t used. This device is primitive,” he added, holding up the meter in his hands, “but it should be sufficient to detect traces of most toxins the Iraqis might use. It’s clean. But we should wrap the bags according to full protocol. We should also proceed as if the tanker itself was contaminated.”
“Why?” Doberman asked.
Wong frowned, as he always did when asked to explain. He held out his gloved hand and counted the points. “One: The Iraqis are not renowned for their safety precautions. Two: The bags were in the open compartment, absurdly foolish, even for the Iraqis. Three: the tanker was oriented in a western direction. Four…”
“What does the fact that it was going west have to do with anything?” asked Doberman.
“I surmise that it was returning rather than arriving at its destination,” said Wong.
“You’re telling me that it delivered chemicals somewhere?” said Hawkins.
“That would be a leap in logic that I am not prepared to make, especially since we are speaking about the Iraqis,” said Wong. “But it would be foolish not to consider that a distinct possibility. The most likely theory is that these bags were never filled. Rather, they accompanied similar bags, which have now been deposited at some destination further west.”
“Maybe they were on their way to get filled,” said A-Bomb.
“Admittedly a possibility,” said Wong. “I would note, however, that the ambient temperature of the liquid they were submerged in was the same as the truck, which suggests the liquid had been in the truck a long time. Such would be the case certainly if the truck were making its way back after a morning delivery, but not if it had only just taken on the milk in preparation for its mission.”
“What do we now?” asked Hawkins.
“I suggest we examine the map your sergeant discovered and see where the truck has been,” said Wong. “And then we attempt to act on that information.”
“I knew we’d get around to blowing something up eventually,” said A-Bomb.
The Iraqis were not so cooperative as to have marked their drop-off with an X, but Wong worked over the map like a forensic scientist— or, as A-Bomb put it, a witch doctor summoning the dead. He claimed that the folds and pen impressions in the paper showed that the truck had followed a course from somewhere near or in Jordan, continuing west into some hills about fifteen miles from Sugar Mountain, where Doberman and A-Bomb had blown up a storage bunker that morning.
Had it stopped at the bunker? Wong couldn’t say. Had it made a delivery or picked something up there? Wong couldn’t say. What had it done afterwards? Wong couldn’t say.
And somehow, everybody nodded and called him a genius.
Doberman nodded as Hawkins said he would authorize a recon mission to the village where the truck had apparently turned around. It was called Al Kajuk on the map. None of the Delta teams Scud hunting up north were close enough to check it out. Fort Apache would have to send its own people.
“There are three or four buildings large enough to be storage facilities there,” Hawkins told Wong as they examined the maps and some satellite photos near the truck. “It’s pretty close to Sugar Mountain. Maybe the buildings there house Scuds.”
“The facility at Sugar Mountain may well be related,” said Wong. “They might have kept the chemicals there, then moved them with this or another vehicle. Or it could be a coincidence. It could conceivably be a decoy.”
“Doubt it,” said Hawkins.
“So this could be a wild goose chase,” said Doberman. It seemed to him they were jumping to way too many conclusions here. Hawkins glared at him; the Army guy definitely had a stick up his butt, Doberman decided. Tall guys always did.
“If it’s a wild good chase,” said Hawkins sharply, “it’s my wild goose chase.”
“Not if we’re giving you air cover,” said Doberman.
“Bullshit.”
“What do you mean bullshit?” said Doberman. “What the hell do you think we’re doing here?”
“One of your planes is still grounded,” said the Delta Force captain. “And as for you…”
“Captain O’Rourke’s plane is good to go,” announced Rosen, joining the small group huddled in Hawkins’ command post.
“You found a patch?” asked A-Bomb.
“I borrowed a few things from the tanker truck. I don’t think the Iraqis will be needing brakes anytime soon, do you? Or hose clamps?”
“Will the patch hold?” Doberman asked her.
“As long as he doesn’t stop for candy. I even got the pressure up, borrowing off fluid from the other… uh… I made it work.” Something caught in Rosen’s throat as they looked at each other. Rosen’s face flushed and then became very serious. “Yes, sir, I think it will.”
Sir?
Why had her face flushed?
“We don’t need air cover. I have my helos,” said Hawkins. “Thanks for the report, Sergeant.”
“Here’s what I’m thinking,” said A-Bomb. “Dog Man and me ride out there and see what’s going on. We find something moving, we shoot it up. We don’t, you guys sneak in at night.”
“We can’t wait for night,” said Hawkins. “We have to be out of here by then.”
“You’re bugging out?” said Doberman.
“That’s right, Captain. If it’s okay with you.”
“So why are we having this discussion?”
“We are not having this discussion,” said Hawkins. “I am talking about the situation with Captain Wong.”
“Wong works for me.”
“Begging your pardon,” said Wong, who was crossing his legs like he was standing on a ten-hour pee, “but in fact I am assigned to Admiral…”
“Yeah, yeah, my point is, why are we wasting our time talking about this if you guys are going home?” said Doberman.