Central Command probably had him listed as being back at King Fahd, too.
“Captain?” asked the man from Riyadh.
“I’m just a little tired right now,” Doberman told him, finally feeling like he could fall asleep. “Whatever you guys want to do, that’s fine with me.”
CHAPTER 57
Final credit would have to wait for an exhaustive review of the tapes and AWACS data, but the rest of Piranha squadron welcomed Major Horace Preston as a conquering hero. They’d already gotten verbal confirmation from the AWACS controller that both of his Sparrows had nailed their targets.
He’d also come close to downing the first A-10 of the war, a fact he made clear as he and Johnny debriefed the mission. If the Warthogs were going to go so far north, they sure as hell better have their IFFs working properly. It had been just a freak thing that he got the ID before firing the Sidewinder.
“AWACS tried calling you,” Johnny told him when they were alone. “They had the A-10 ID’d.”
Hack bristled. He’d been surprised to find all four radar missiles on his wing mate’s wings when he returned. He had shrugged noncommittally at the captain’s explanation that he couldn’t lock up his targets; it was certainly possible that there had been some sort of mechanical screwup. But he planned on checking on it himself in the morning.
“The A-10 was still pretty lucky,” said Hack.
“Definitely. Still, guy must be a pretty good pilot,” said Johnny. “To nail a MiG with a Sidewinder.”
“Yeah,” said Hack grudgingly. Undoubtedly the shoot down had been due to luck, not skill. But he was too tired now to argue.
The Warthogs didn’t belong north of the border without heavy escort; he’d make that clear to the general when he talked to him tomorrow.
On the other hand, maybe he shouldn’t bring that up. The way his luck was running, he’d get stuck baby-sitting them.
A few hours later, Hack was woken from a fitful sleep by a sergeant who told him he had an important phone call. The sergeant claimed not to know who it was, which led Hack to guess it was an Air Force public relations liaison. He’d seen other guys interviewed after successful dogfights; now it was his turn.
He pulled on his boots and dressed quickly, shaking his head to wake up. The brass in D.C. would undoubtedly be listening in. This was definitely a career builder, a chance that wouldn’t come again.
The squadron commander met him at the door to his office.
“Come on, Hack. Don’t want to keep the general waiting too long.”
“General on the phone? Who?”
The squadron leader smiled, as if that were answer enough. Hack slipped down into his boss’s well-padded leather chair and held the receiver to his ear.
“Hack? This is Bobby Sherman. Congratulations.”
“Thanks, General. Thank you very much,” he said. Sherman, a two-star general with the Tactical Air Command back in the States, was one of several people who had helped mentor him through the ranks. It was flattering that he had called— still, it was a bit of a letdown. Hack had been hoping he would be on the Today Show, or at least CNN.
“It wasn’t that much, really,” Hack added. “It happened so fast.”
“So fast? What are you talking about?” the general asked.
Hack straightened in the chair. “The shoot down, sir? The two MiGs.”
“Hack, you son of a bitch— you splashed two MiGs?”
“They’re uh, not confirmed yet, sir.” He was confused. Why had the general called?
“That’s fantastic. Well listen, I have news for you. You’re now DO of the 535th Tactical Fighter Squadron. Which actually sets you up very nicely to become its new commander, especially with those MiGs to your credit.”
“Excuse me, General?”
“The papers are on their way. You’re to report ASAP. I knew you’d want to know. This is the big one, Hack. The 535th is technically a wing— you’ll be a wing commander as soon as it’s brought up to strength. I would expect things to fall in place very, very quickly.”
DO wasn’t exactly what he had in mind. At best, the director of operations was the second in command— the guy with all the crap work to do. And the 535th? Whose unit was that?
“Hack?”
“The 535th is an F-16 squadron?” he asked.
“No. A-10s. The word is, the CO’s on the way out. He’s a washed up old alchy past due for retirement. He’s got a few friends here and there, but they won’t be able to cover his ass much longer.”
Hack tried to think of a way to gracefully refuse the assignment. No position with an A-10 squadron, not even commander, was acceptable.
Warthogs! Shit.
“I didn’t realize you had so many hours in the Warthog cockpit until I went through your file,” added Sherman. “That made it simple. I could have done this last year if I’d known. Hack, you with me?”
“I, uh, I.” There was no way to be diplomatic about it. “I’d like to stay with F-15s,” he blurted.
“This is your career we’re talking about,” snapped the general. Hack could practically feel the fire.
“I, uh…”
“I woke you up, didn’t I?” said the general, sliding back into his good ol’ boy voice.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well go back to bed. Relax. You’ll be heading that wing in no time. Commander’s a guy named Michael Knowlington. You know him?”
“Oh shit,” said Hack, every muscle in his body sagging.
“Hack?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Stay on his butt and you’ll be commander and full colonel in a month.”
Hack slid the phone back onto the cradle without saying anything else.
CHAPTER 58
Colonel Knowlington had already talked to Rosen as well as the Special Operations command, so he had a pretty good handle on the official line— which, as he could easily have guessed, was that Fort Apache didn’t exist. Therefore, the airdrop of an unauthorized female tech sergeant behind enemy lines had never taken place. Still, he felt some trepidation when he stepped into his office to take the call from his commanding general. He would not lie, but he would also not volunteer information, at least until he had a good feel for what the general knew— and more importantly, felt— about the matter.
That would take several phone calls, all of which would have to wait for morning. He steeled himself to answer direct questions directly as he picked up the receiver and leaned back in his austere office chair.
But the general hadn’t called to talk about Rosen.
“Mikey, I have news for you that will stick in your craw, but you’re going to have to deal with it,” declared the general.
“What’s that?” Skull said. Few people had earned the right to call him Mikey; the general, with whom he’d never flown, wasn’t one of them.
“A new DO has been assigned to your squadron.”
He drew a breath. Bringing another officer into the squadron command structure was hardly unheard of, and given that Devil Squadron currently had no pilot above captain’s rank on its rolls, Skull had thought the matter might be broached. But this had a very dangerous smell to it.
“I had been led to believe that I was to choose from my own men,” he told the general. “I have several candidates. And if I can go outside the squadron…”
“No, Mikey, this isn’t a debate thing. Major Preston will join you in the morning.”