The Vipers were all-purpose F-16 fighter-bombers, most likely carrying dumb bombs and air-to-air missiles. The kill box was an arbitrary grid in the sky that included Al-Kajuk; the F-16s would be tasked to standby until needed. Unlike the Hog, the pointy noses could fight off enemy interceptors, if any were so foolish to appear. And unlike the Hog, they’d been designed to fly this far behind enemy lines.
What Doberman couldn’t puzzle out was why Wong hadn’t contacted the AWACS, at least to update the situation. But the controller didn’t seem too concerned.
Bottom line: Wong would have called in if the erector had moved or if the Scuds had appeared. So Doberman should just go on in and take out the erector in the bomb-shelter hideaway under the road. Blow it up and the missiles in the mosque were useless.
No, they’d still be important targets— Saddam could turn this little party into World War III with them. But the erector was his priority target.
Piece of cake with the Mavericks— he could launch both and never get close to the SAMs.
Take out the erector, go for the SA-9s with the cluster bombs. Wouldn’t want the pointy noses getting hurt when they came in to admire his handiwork.
CHAPTER 33
Wong touched his thumbs to his pinkies, then his ring fingers, then the others, again and again, controlling his breathing as he did. He’d begun the meditational exercise when he first heard the AK-47s below. It helped him maintain his poise, but it did not change the basic calculus of the situation: since there had been no answering fire by M-16s or MP-5s, he had to assume the worst. The three remaining Delta troopers had been ambushed and were dead. He and the sergeant kneeling on the ground nearby were on their own.
They were guarded now only by the Iraqi captain and one soldier. The others had gone to investigate the gunfire. The Iraqi commander surely recognized that the gunfire had come from Russian-made weapons, but he did not exhibit overconfidence, keeping his pistol trained on Wong the whole time. If nothing else, his enemy’s endurance was admirable.
The sun was at the horizon. The Scuds would be moving soon.
Captain Glenon would undoubtedly be on his way back. But a lone A-10A faced difficult odds against the SAM batteries, especially if Wong were not available to give him guidance.
Given the circumstances, it was time for a gambit.
“I wonder,” Wong asked the Iraqi captain, “if you would care to play chess.”
“Chess?”
“Why not?” said Wong. “I assume that we are not going anywhere for the time being.”
“I don’t see a chess set.”
“Pawn to queen four,” said Wong, giving the standard nomenclature for a time-worn opening move. It pushed the pawn in front of the white queen ahead two squares.
The captain laughed. “Thank you, no.”
“Perhaps you prefer white,” offered Wong. He nodded, as if sizing up the Iraqi. “You do seem like someone who would seize the initiative.”
“You think that you could play an entire game out in your head?”
“You couldn’t?”
The sharpness of his tone brought the desired response.
“Pawn to king’s four,” snapped the Iraqi.
“Queen’s bishop four,” replied Wong, mentally pushing a pawn out in front of his bishop.
Within three moves, he was well embarked on a Sicilian defense; he set his bishop on move six, castled on seven, and spotted his knight boldly on the eighth — the modern Dragon variation that was an aggressive, though tricky, defense that sought to turn the attack to black.
The Iraqi competently met the attack, though he hesitated over the moves, his eyes burrowing into the ground as he considered the invisible board. Wong studied his clean-shaven chin, trying to fit the accent and mannerisms into a profile. The man and his squad were obviously not Muslims, and were just as obviously members of an elite unit. That surely limited the possibilities.
A bodyguard unit?
For whom?
Wong took a step to left, contemplating the possibilities. He was appalled by his severe lack of knowledge regarding the Iraqi order of battle. It was a deficiency that would have to be rectified when he escaped.
As he was now confident he would do, for he could see the butt end of his M-16 in the shadow next to the rock.
“Where are you going?” snapped the Iraqi captain.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Wong said contritely. “I have a tendency to move around as I think. The combinations beyond this point are complex.”
“You’ve obviously played this opening many times,” said the man dryly.
“That’s why the next move is difficult,” said Wong. “Did you play very much in America?”
“I will play chess with you to amuse myself,” said the Iraqi. “But I will not be drawn into conversation.”
“Not even with a spy?” Wong glanced toward the Delta Force sergeant, who was sitting on the ground with his knees up. His fingers were curled together against his kneecaps. Wong hoped that the man had a concealed weapon in one of his boots or taped to his leg; that would, after all, be the Delta way.
But no matter. It was enough now that the sergeant caught his glance.
“I realize that you are contemplating a trick,” said the Iraqi captain.
“Absolutely,” said Wong cheerfully. “I’m playing for a pawn advantage. Properly played, the Sicilian Defense allows… ”
“Not in the chess game. Why do you think you’re so much more intelligent than I am? Why are Americans so arrogant?”
Wong might have made any number of replies starting with the fact that he was not arrogant, merely naturally gifted. Before he could speak, he heard a truck motor from the village side of the hill. He couldn’t be sure it was a Scud carrier— the odds were probably against it— but he had to assume it was.
In the next second he heard something else: an explosion at the foot of the hill, a quarter of a mile away, maybe less. The Iraqi captain turned in his head in that direction.
“Knight takes pawn! Check!” shouted Wong, diving for the gun.
CHAPTER 34
Dixon heard the commotion as he ran up the hill. It was a distant, disorienting dream— American voices playing chess, followed by shouting, then gunshots.
The house flamed below. He fell forward like a soul tossed into the swirl of hell, momentarily removed from the raging torment. He rolled over to his back, then onto his stomach, realizing one of the voices was familiar— he grabbed at his rifle but saw nothing. There was a loud thud behind him, near the house— the thud of a light cannon, pumping a second shell into the ruined house. Dixon saw three or four rocks to his right. He pushed himself there on his elbows, dragging his gun and his legs. For a moment he worried about being captured. Then he coughed, his lungs filled with the dirt of the hill, choking. He dove behind the rocks, then noticed a branch a few yards below— a large, broken trunk that offered better protection. Jumping up, he ran to it, surprised when he made it without being shot. It seemed to him that he was surrounded, with bullets flying everywhere.
He thought of the woman in the house. The baby.
Had it died because he left the burner on the stove on?