“And the rest of your men?”
Wong had considered how to answer the question and decided that a lie was most expedient, even if it wasn’t believed. It would at least give the rest of the team a chance to escape.
“There are no other men,” he said.
“American spies do not travel alone,” said the captain. “Especially when they are part of Delta Force.”
An interesting gambit, Wong thought. The patrol’s uniforms were unmarked, and in theory there was no way to know that they were Delta Troopers or Green Berets. But of course Delta was famous, and it was no secret that they were in the Gulf. Any Iraqi would guess that clandestine operations would be carried out by them. And it would certainly bring cachet to claim to have captured some.
“I myself am Air Force,” said Wong. “My sergeant is a soldier. We do have ambitions, however.”
“Ambitions?”
“It is an honor to join Delta Force,” said Wong, watching to see how the man reacted. “And perhaps someday, after we prove our worthiness, we will achieve that stature.”
“That day will be in another life,” said the Iraqi commander.
One of his men shouted from the other side of the ridge, calling the commander his captain and urging him to come and inspect something they had found. The Iraqi told one of the soldiers guarding the sergeant to come with him; the others were to make sure the sergeant and Wong didn’t move.
“And watch this one,” added the captain, pointing his gun at Wong before going. “He speaks Arabic, though he pretends not to. Very clever for a spy.”
CHAPTER 26
Doberman cursed as he heard the controller at Al-Jouf give priority to a battle-stricken Tornado, freezing the landing queue so the British jet could make an emergency landing. While the long stretch of Saudi concrete had been envisioned as a forward operating area for Hogs and Spec Ops troops, the base had quickly become a life raft for battle-damaged Coalition planes. It made for a busy pattern. Besides the Tornado— a two-seat recon type that could use ground-following radar for a quick and hard run over enemy territory— a French Jaguar and an Australian C-130 were slotted between another Hog and an F-16 ahead of Doberman in the aerial traffic jam.
Even less patient than normal, Doberman considered declaring a fuel emergency to get himself pushed to the head of the line. He had plenty of fuel, however, even though he’d goosed the Hog well over four hundred knots all the way back. And he had to give the crew of Special Operations air controllers and support personnel handling Al Jouf their due; they were clearing planes in quicker than O’Hare on Christmas Eve.
Once upon a time, landing had been fraught with anxiety for him. But now it was routine, or as close to routine as he’d allow anything to become, afraid that if he got too used to it he’d take it for granted.
He settled into his seat as he rounded onto the last leg of the approach pattern. The Hog’s indicated air speed plummeted toward double digits. Gear came out. Air brakes deployed. He surveyed the long splash of concrete in his windshield. He pushed his chest forward and head up as the wheels made a whumping sound, nudging against the pavement. He peered out of the cockpit like a kid watching a baseball game over a picket fence.
A fuel truck headed a line six planes deep at the far end of the access ramp; he cursed when he saw that, convinced that he’d be stuck here until nightfall. He turned off the runway onto the ramp, treading past a parked MC-130, a black-painted Hercules used for Special Ops missions, then spotted another Hog off to his right; the dark DS on the tail told him it was A-Bomb’s. He couldn’t see his wingman, but two Delta troopers were standing at full attention near it. That gave him an idea. He pulled on his rudders and wheeled next to the plane, spinning around so his nose was pointed for a quick getaway. He powered down and popped the canopy, whipping off his helmet and restraints.
“Yo, you guys work for Klee, right?” he yelled down to the troopers. Klee was the Delta Force colonel in charge of most of the American Special Operations troops at Al Jouf as well as those working with Apache.
The soldiers couldn’t hear him with all the noise at the base. Doberman was in such a hurry he didn’t bother cranking down the cockpit ladder— he rolled himself right off the side of the plane, his hands gripping and then slipping off the fairing at the side of the cockpit. He landed on his feet, but just barely, the shock of the concrete reverberating through his legs.
Not that he was about to let that stop him.
“Yo!” he yelled again, running to the troopers. “You guys work for Colonel Klee, yes?”
One of the troopers began to nod.
“I’m Doberman. I need fuel,” he told them. “There’s a Delta patrol in deep shit up north. I don’t care what you do, you get me some jet fuel. Go. Before your friends get fried.”
Doberman’s last words were unnecessary— the troopers had bolted away. He ran to the port “kneecap”— the housing for the wheel on the left side of the plane. He popped the cover on the refueling controls and gave the gear a quick inspection. Before the war, he’d taken part in two or three exercises where troopers refueled his Hog; in theory everyone on the base could handle it, though he was more than willing to do it himself if it came to that. In the meantime, he needed some candy — bombs, preferably Mavericks. He had just turned to scan the area for ordies, when a bull rammed him from behind.
Not a bull, just A-Bomb, pounding him on the back.
“About time you got your butt back here,” said A-Bomb. He was stuffing a wedge of what seemed to be a birthday cake into his mouth.
Doberman knew better than to ask for details. “I need some candymen,” he told A-Bomb.
“On their way,” A-Bomb said. “Two Maverick G’s good enough for you?”
“Just two?” Doberman asked.
“All I could steal for you,” said A-Bomb. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve while reaching into a pocket with his other hand. He pulled out a pair of Hostess cupcakes, wrapped in plastic and somehow not crushed. “You want one?”
“I want some CBUs,” said Doberman.
“Cluster bombs are on their way,” A-Bomb assured him. “Now don’t get picky. All we have are standard issue Mark 20 Rockeyes. I know there’s some CBU-71 frag/incendiaries somewhere out here, but they’re harder to find than Dunky Donuts coffee. Which is still pretty fresh, by the way, if you’re interested.”
“No thanks,” said Doberman, spotting a quartet of bomb loaders pushing a pair of bomb-laden trucks in his direction.
“Sure you don’t want one of these cupcakes?” A-Bomb asked. “Got the yellow-goo frosting. Over-sized models some Delta chef special ordered. It’s what I’m talking about. Serious treats.”
“I’ll pass,” said Doberman, trotting to the candymen. The ordinance specialists were part of the enlisted backbone of the Air Force, generally unrecognized professionals who picked up their lunch pails every morning or night, and went out to do their job with the practiced precision of a championship football team. The men nodded to the captain and started positioning their deadly payload on the Hog’s hardpoints. The weapons were safed— still, a mistake, even a moment’s inattention, could very possibly destroy half the base. Still, the crew moved faster than hotel workers positioning boardwalk chairs on a pleasant summer’s day. Doberman took a deep breath, his anxiety diminishing. His stomach growled and he realized he might actually be hungry— not surprising since he hadn’t eaten anything since taking off from Fort Apache.