“Out at Al Jouf keeping our Hogs in the air, no?”
Clyston shook his head. The capo’s ability to remain calm in the most adverse circumstances was legendary. He had withstood countless Vietnamese shellings during Nam and probably as many inspections by Pentagon bigwigs. But his face was red, and though balled into fists his fingers trembled.
“You okay, Allen?”
“She’s in Iraq!” blurted the sergeant.
“Iraq?”
“It’s not bad enough we have to lose a pilot in a bullshit ground exercise where he had no f’ing business being. That’s a woman, God damn it! She shouldn’t even be over here. Anything happens to her, I’m killing the sons of bitches myself! And then I’m strangling fucking Klee or whoever it was who sent her there. God damn it. God f’ing damn it.”
“All right, let’s find out what the hell is going on here,” said Knowlington. It didn’t seem possible that Rosen was actually in Iraq. He took the capo by the arm and began walking him toward Hog Heaven. Clyston’s body heaved as he walked; Skull worried he might have a heart attack.
It took a while for the gray-haired chief master sergeant to calm down enough to explain what he’d heard. The information had come backchannel via a landline from one of Devil Squadron’s own maintenance geeks at Al Jouf. Basically, the team holding down Fort Apache had lost a helo and needed someone to fix it. With no one else available, Rosen had volunteered— and been parachuted in from 30,000 feet with Captain Bristol Wong, the Devil Squadron’s intelligence specialist.
“What the hell does Rosen know about helicopters?” Skull asked.
“Nothing,” said Clyston. “F’ing nothing.”
Knowlington suspected that wasn’t entirely true; Technical Sergeant Rosen was in fact qualified as an expert in several areas outside of avionics, her primary specialty for Devil Squadron. After Clyston and perhaps one or two of the other top sergeants, she was the best mechanic on the base— huge praise, given the Hog community’s tough standards.
But she was a woman, and no way in hell should she be in Iraq. Klee or whoever was responsible had gone too far.
Knowlington picked up the phone and called a friend, the general in charge of the operation over at the special ops Bat Cave.
“I want an explanation,” he started, calm as ice. When the general asked what the hell he was talking about, Knowlington spoke in slow, measured tones, repeating the bare bones of what Clyston had told him.
It was all news to the general.
“We’re pulling the Apache team out tonight, Mikey,” the general told him. “This is the first I’ve heard about your people being up there on the ground.”
“I expect to see Rosen and Wong standing in front of my desk here at 0600,” Skull said calmly.
“You can count on it,” answered the general. “Excuse me, I have some heads to chop off.”
Clyston’s large frame hung over the sides of the small metal chair across from him as Skull put down the phone. The capo had calmed down some and his fingers had stopped shaking, but he looked old. Knowlington wondered if he looked that old himself sometimes.
Probably worse.
“What’d the general say?” asked the sergeant.
“They’ll be back in the morning.”
“That was a two-star you were trashing?”
“I thought I was pretty calm.”
Clyston smiled— it was weak, but at least his spirits were moving in the right direction. “Thanks.”
Skull nodded. Clyston didn’t say anything else or make a move to get up. It was senseless telling Clyston that Rosen would be all right— they’d both been around too long to feed each other feel-good lines. So he changed the subject, telling Clyston he was thinking of making Captain Glenon the squadron DO.
“He’s got seniority and he’s a good pilot,” Skull told the squadron’s first sergeant. “What do you think?”
The capo nodded. “His temper’s the only problem.”
“I know,” said Knowlington.
“Crew respects him. He’s fair. I think he’s only hot headed with people who out rank him.”
Knowlington smiled. At the moment, he was the only one who outranked the short, fiery Hog driver. But he didn’t mind aggressive subordinates; on the contrary— he liked someone with an edge to keep him sharp.
“I think he’s a good choice,” added Clyston. “A lot better than bringing someone in from the outside.”
“I don’t disagree,” said Knowlington. He waited a moment, but Clyston still made no sign of being ready to leave. “We going to be ready for tomorrow’s frag?” he asked.
“Oh yeah, all the planes are set. Something was flaky with the landing gear on Devil Seven, but I had Harvey overhaul it. I think Smokes just landed too hard because he had to take a leak.”
Clyston grinned, but he still wasn’t back to normal. Skull wanted to say something else reassuring, but couldn’t think of what that would be. Some commanders had a knack for the right word; he always felt tongue tied.
“Well, hell, I guess I got some work to get to,” said the sergeant.
“Me, too,” said Knowlington, rising.
But Clyston lingered a moment longer. He had a question— and Skull suddenly realized it wasn’t about Rosen but about him.
Clyston wanted to know if he was drinking again. He’d smelled the Depot on him earlier, maybe saw him coming from that direction. There might even be rumors.
He wanted to tell him he wasn’t. He wanted to admit, too, that he’d been tempted. That he was still tempted, that he’d always be tempted. That maybe he was only a short walk away from plunging back into the numb hole he’d so recently escaped from.
Skull opened his mouth, not sure exactly what the words would be. But before any came out, the sergeant nodded and began walking away.
CHAPTER 28
Captain Hawkins watched as the two AH-6 Little Birds skimmed along the desert terrain toward the landing strip. The two helos were flying maybe three feet from the ground, moving at over a hundred and thirty miles an hour. Tornadoes of dust whipped behind them, as if they were chewing up the dirt and spitting it out.
Hawkins wanted to do something like that, maybe punch and kick it, though he was far too disciplined a soldier to reveal anything approaching the frustration he felt in front of his men. He wanted to ignore the order to withdraw, wanted to grab the phone and call Riyadh or Washington or wherever the damn order originated, yell and scream and tell them how stupid it was to leave now that they were just getting settled.
But he wouldn’t. He wasn’t even going to share his opinion. He was going to get the two dozen people here, and their equipment, out safely.
“Captain?”
Hawkins turned to Rosen. The diminutive tech sergeant had a bag of tools in her hand that looked to weigh more than she did.
“Yes, Sergeant?”
“I’d like to make sure my fixes are holding,” she told him.
“As long as you can do it while they’re refueling.”
“Yes, sir. How did the strike at Al Kajuk go? We get the Scuds?”
“Not yet,” he told her. “They ran into some targeting problems. I had to order the helos back so we can bug out. Blackhawk’s going to pick them up later on.”
Rosen nodded.
“You’re in the first team out,” he added. Because the helicopters were so small— fitting five people in them was nearly impossible— Hawkins had divided up the base contingent into three shifts. They’d fly fifty miles south, although the course was actually more like seventy-five miles, because of two jogs to avoid possible Iraqi encampments. A Pave Low would be waiting to meet them there. It had better be, since they had exactly enough fuel left to get there and no further. Klee didn’t want to risk detection by sending the large Air Force Special Operations helicopter directly to the base.