The pen had been a present from a college professor, and she thought of him now, thought of his classes in Shakespeare and his funny pronunciations of words, a mix of British and down-home Texas. Shoehorning her studies around her duties as an Air Force NCO, Rosen had managed to earn a degree in English literature. She didn’t care about the degree; she wasn’t going to do anything with it. But that was the point. Poetry and big books tickled a side of her she hadn’t realized existed until a friend talked her into signing up for a continuing-ed class so it wouldn’t be canceled for lack of students.
Becky Rosen was a mechanic. She saw things with her hands, whether they were Hog avionics systems or busted AH-6 engines. She’d been fixing things since she helped her uncle rebuild a Ford high compression 302 when she was seven. The real world was physical, in your face; Becky Rosen had overcome a for-shit childhood and done well, but she’d also had her fingers mashed, and a hell of a lot of worse, along the way.
Literature, poetry especially, seemed like an exotic vacation of dreams, relief from the real world’s fumes and acid. Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Donne, Pound, Whitman, Elliot — they were far-away lands she could disappear to. The harsh rhythms of Gerard Manley Hopkins, the delicate balance of Byron, the false bravado of Dylan Thomas— all offered shelter.
“Do not go gentle into that good night,” Dylan Thomas had told his father on his deathbed.
Rage against it. Rage against the finality. Scream against your fate.
Had Lieutenant Dixon screamed in that final moment before he’d been shot?
She saw Dixon now in the dirt on the hill next to Sugar Mountain, face-down, body limp, limbs askew. He’d been such a nice kid, quiet but brave. Or foolish, maybe— he’d volunteered as a forward ground controller, working with Delta Force behind the lines.
No more foolish than she’d been, volunteering for this mission. In her mind at the time, there was no choice— she had been the only person at Al Jouf capable of getting the Special Ops helos back together. But a lot of people might think it foolish.
Definitely. To say nothing of being against regulations and probably the law.
Not the time or place to worry about it. Rosen twisted the pen carefully so the point extended. She began to write:
Jan. 25.
Iraq. How I got here is a long story. It started —
She held the pen up from the paper. There was always a possibility of being captured. She had to watch what she said.
Rosen scratched out the words and began again:
Jan. 25.
Iraq. How I got here is a long story, to be told later. All I can say is it was a hell of a trip.
I saw a dead man today, my first, believe it or not.
I loved him.
Tears erupted from her eyes and she began to shake uncontrollably.
She loved him?
Yes. She’d never admitted it until now, let alone told him or anyone else. But they’d kissed once, a moment stolen in the dark back at King Fahd.
They’d kissed.
The only time in the Air Force that she’d really, truly felt something like that, felt the steel hooks in her gut, felt love.
One kiss, all she had.
CHAPTER 24
Dixon knew it was a Hog the instant he heard the sound, even though the plane was so far away the sound was less than a whisper. He froze, eyes upward, exposed near the highway he’d been following. The sound faded completely, a tease or a delusion.
Except he knew it wasn’t. He saw a dot passing in the sky overhead, far overhead.
A Hog. One of his squadron mates. Had to be.
And then it was gone. He stared upwards for a long time, more than a half hour, until he heard another sound, this one much closer. He turned his head and realized it was a truck, driving toward him.
Dazed by hunger and fatigue, it took forever for him to get his legs in motion. Dixon took a step in exactly the wrong direction, toward the highway. In agonizingly slow motion he twisted his body back, clutching the rifle to his belly. He spotted a clump of low trees ahead. The ground sloped upwards behind it into a large, squat hill, half-covered with vegetation. Another hill, this one much lower and nearly all rock and dirt, lay to the left. He could see the roof of a building beyond the trees as he ran, and realized the dirt included a dusty, primitive roadway.
His side hurt, but there was no choice but to keep running. He could hear the truck on the highway behind him slowing to a stop. He threw himself down as it whined into reverse.
Had they seen him? Dixon twisted around to look. The truck was coming in his direction over the dirt road, but it was still a good way off.
He had to assume they had seen him. In any event, if he stayed here very much longer they surely would. Perhaps with the shadows he might make the low trees without being seen.
Dixon pushed himself back to his feet, stooping forward as he ran. He made the trees, still unsure if he’d been seen. The truck was on the road, moving slowly, but still coming. A small house made of painted clay or cement lay on his right, ringed by upright stubs that could be parts of old trees or perhaps abandoned fence posts. The doorway was open; it looked empty. Dixon considered running for it but changed his mind. If they’d seen him, it would be the first place the people in the truck would stop.
The dirt road veered between the large hill on the right and the smaller one on the left. Fifty yards ahead up a bald slope on the left, an old car sat near a dilapidated stone wall. Dixon pushed his rifle but into the stitch in his side and ran for it. The ground flew behind him. Pain and confusion narrowed his vision as he dove head first over the rocks, rolling in the dust, out of breath. His chest and throat heaved. He fought against the reflex and swung around, checking the AK-47’s clip as he leaned low against the rocks.
The truck, a pickup, steered gingerly along the road, dodging rocks. It was not only new, it looked immaculate, the white body gleaming as if freshly waxed. It stopped in front of the house.
Dixon saw that there were only two men inside. He might have a chance if they came for him.
They didn’t. The truck lurched forward, resuming its slow crawl around the rocks in the road. It began picking up speed as it followed the path around the base of the hill to the left.
Dixon waited until he could breathe normally again. Then he eyed the house carefully. He saw something move around the back, then realized there were animals there, two dogs and a goat. The dogs seemed to be tied to one of the stubby trees; the goat moved freely, though hardly at all, grazing on slivers of vegetation.
Food.
Someone would be inside the house.
The ground went up sharply behind the building, climbing through brush. There didn’t seem to be an easy way, though, to circle around. He’d have to expose himself by walking along the road where the pickup truck had gone.
Better off going for it. Come straight in the front door, Hog style, gun ready.
He’d kill whoever was in there. No one was a civilian as far as he was concerned. No one. That was the way he had to think, had to act, if he was going to survive long enough to blow up those missiles. Otherwise, he might just as well shoot himself now and be done with it.
He’d never do that.
Dixon slid to his knees, stretching his arms out before him. A few low bushes and some sort of dilapidated plow lay between the road and the house. Neither they nor the narrow stubs of sticks would offer real cover.