“Preston?”
“Horace Preston. I can’t go into the politics; it’s just happening.”
“Thanks for the heads up,” said Skull. He put the receiver down.
The colonel knew Major Horace Gordon Preston well. During his last stint at the Pentagon, Preston had tried to get him canned for incompetence and alcoholism.
Skull sat at the desk for nearly an hour. He didn’t replay old missions or recite a Twelve Step mantra. He didn’t think about the young pilot he’d lost, or the other men, or the friends. He didn’t think about the dark cloud that sank around your head when things moved too fast and you lost yourself in the furball; the way your stomach disappeared when gravity pushed too hard; how your whole body squeezed into a narrow heartbeat when the enemy had you fat in his targeting screen.
He didn’t think about the hopelessness of watching a friend get nailed, or the sick, hollow sound in your head when you heard a man you’d sent up wasn’t coming back. He tried not to think about the burning sensation on your tongue the followed the first sip of whiskey, or the electricity in your throat.
He stared at the blank wall. He stared until finally there was a knock on the door.
“Come,” he said, his eyes still pasted on the wall.
“Colonel Knowlington,” said Captain Bristol Wong, pushing open the door. “Sir, I need a word.”
Knowlington turned and signaled with his hand that he should come in and sit down. Wong closed the door with one of his slow-handed gestures, shuffling his feet more than normal.
“You’re up late,” Skull told the captain.
Wong nodded. “I have to make a report,” he said. “I expect that portions, when officially prepared, will be code-worded.”
Knowlington waited. It was almost impossible to tell when Wong was being serious and when he was making some sort of sly, obscure joke.
He seemed to be doing both.
“I assume that by now you know that I was sent into Iraq,” continued Wong. “I assure you that I was ordered to accompany Technical Sergeant Rosen against my wishes, and only after fully reminding the commanding officer of the implications of his order. Nonetheless, given the extreme circumstances, I judged it a lawful order and therefore…”
“Don’t worry about it, Wong. Officially, it never happened.”
The captain nodded. “I expected as much. While in Iraq, I obtained information that appeared to indicate the presence of chemical warhead material associated with known Scud capabilities. I accompanied a fire team to assess the situation. The SS-1s were apparently destroyed, though at present we lack information regarding the content of the warheads. Regardless of what those warheads contained, we cannot rule out the possession of them at the mosque apparently used as a depot.”
Knowlington nodded. He’d heard about the mosque from the Delta commander.
“I will suggest that further investigation be undertaken,” said Wong.
“I’m sure Black Hole’s on it,” said Knowlington.
“U-2 and satellite surveillance will be insufficient.”
Knowlington sighed. “If you’re looking for me to lobby somebody for Delta Force, I have to tell you— I helped plan the Apache mission only under orders. I was against sending Hogs that far north, let alone basing them there. What’s with you, Wong? You told me the other day that going after the Scuds was a waste of manpower.”
“There are two additional factors, sir.” Wong’s head bobbed up and down like a dashboard Buddha. “While I was north, I had some extended interaction with a special unit of Iraqis.”
“What do you mean, interaction? Use English.”
“I was captured and held for a brief period of time by a small unit of non-Muslim Iraqis. They were obviously not part of the security unit guarding the Scuds and had access to considerable firepower.”
“You were captured?”
“It is irrelevant,” said Wong. “Except that it allowed me to obtain this.”
The captain unfolded two sheets of notebook paper. One page was completely blank; the other had what seemed to be some decorative scrollwork work along the top.
“This Arabic?” Knowlington asked.
“It is actually a code in Arabic,” said Wong. “It says, Strawman noon, January 27.”
“You know, the problem here Captain is that I can never tell when you’re fooling around.”
Wong drew himself upright in the chair, his cheeks puffing and then deflating as he drew a long breath.
“I assure you, Colonel,” he said. “I am not fooling around. The unit that detained me was obviously a special forces group, exactly the type employed as presidential bodyguards. I believe that the Strawman is Saddam, and that he will visit Al Kajuk in twenty-four hours — one and a half, if my watch is operating properly.”
“Saddam?”
Wong said nothing else. Knowlington pushed his fingers together, resting them on his taut stomach. It seemed a wild supposition, and coming from anyone else, Skull would never have believed it. Wong, though— that was something else.
“This isn’t one of your jokes?”
“Sir, I have never been so serious about something in my life.”
The colonel nodded. “I assume this will be in your reports.”
“Of course.”
“Well, it’s out of our hands then,” he told him, standing. “Fort Apache’s shut down, and our squadron’s going back to tank plinking near the border. Which, I don’t mind saying, is where our planes belong.”
Wong remained seated. “There’s one additional item you will want to hear, and which won’t appear in any of the reports,” he said. “I believe that Lieutenant Dixon is alive, or at least he was this afternoon.”
“What?” Skull leaned forward intently.
“Someone fired an AK-47 at the Iraqis,” Wong explained. “It was not a member of the Delta fire team, and could not have been an Iraqi. But there was definitely some other player involved, and he almost surely saved my life.”
“Another player meaning who?”
“As far as I have been able to ascertain, no coalition team, American or British SAS, was within twenty miles of Al Kajuk at the time. But the quarry where Lieutenant Dixon was last seen lies within an easy hike.”
“Dixon’s dead, Captain,” Skull reminded him. “He was seen lying on the ground in the quarry right before it was hit.”
“Perhaps,” said Wong. “But I believe he’s alive. It is the only explanation that makes sense to me. I truly believe it was him.”
For a long moment, Skull pictured Dixon as he had seen him last. “If you’re right,” he finally said, “we’re going to have to go back and get him.”
“I’m sure I’m right, sir.”
“Then you better go get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a very long day.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
While I hope I’ve told this tale in a way that allows new readers to join right in, Snake Eaters picks up where Hogs 3:Fort Apache left off. If you haven’t read it, I hope you’ll go back and read it when you get a chance.
While based on actual events and missions in the First Gulf War, this is a work of fiction and should be treated as such. Some things are more fictional than others. Technical Sergeant Rosen, for example, would never have been sent north of the border back in 1991. That would have been totally against regulations and procedure at the time. Even so, there were a few circumstances where women did get into combat during that war. Among them was Major Rhonda Cornum, who recounts her experience of being captured in The Rhonda Cornum Story, published by Presidio Press. You might want to check it out.