“To the best of my knowledge we wiped out the unit. They don’t know who attacked.”
“Even the Iraqis would realize it wasn’t Mickey Mouse,” said Paddington.
“You’ve told me in the past that these units have their own enemies,” Wong said. “An attack on them might be classified as an uprising.”
Sir Peter was unimpressed. As he began mixing a fresh drink, he detailed more of Saddam’s highly variable routine. Despite all of the efforts being made to track him — and the British as well as the Americans had devoted a great deal of resources to the project — Saddam disappeared for long stretches. He was maddeningly unpredictable.
“My personal suspicion is that he is as apt to turn up at a spot like your village as anywhere. I can tell you, greater odds have been tried.” Paddington took another sip. “But that is not an official estimate.”
“Understood,” said Wong.
“I’ll have to pass some of this along,” said Sir Peter. “I’m afraid the chaps above me will feel it interesting.”
Wong nodded. “Would you like to be involved?”
“What? Go over the border?” Paddington blanched. “Do you think I’m mad?”
“Just wanted to make sure.”
“I’m not like you, Bristol. I purged my system of that sort of silliness years ago. Years ago.”
“If we had a briefing, would you be available?”
Paddington sighed. “You know how I detest meetings.”
“There is another wrinkle,” said Wong.
“Being?”
“An American is on the ground near the village.”
“You left one of your men?”
“No. He’s officially listed as KIA. But I believe he’s alive.”
“That isn’t like you, Bristol,” said Paddington. “Leaving a man behind?”
“He wasn’t in my unit,” said Wong, realizing this was a rather lame excuse. “He had been in action several miles away the day before. His team was overrun and he was seen dead from a helicopter.”
“Lazarus.”
“I believe the initial report was exaggerated.”
“And he just materialized at Al Killjoy? Quite a story, Bristol.”
“Kajuk,” said Wong. “He could have walked from the area where he was last seen. It’s less than ten miles and along a highway. I did not actually see him; I surmised his presence from some unaccounted-for gunfire.”
Sir Peter’s eyes flashed. “You want an excuse to look for him.”
“No,” said Wong. “Saddam is the primary mission.”
“Already declared dead?” Paddington pursed his lips, thinking. “A Lieutenant Dixon, I believe. Working with one of your Delta Force teams. Oh, now I understand — he was with your A-10A squadron. Ah. Very sentimental of you, Bristol. Uncharacteristic. Hmmm. Happens in a war zone, I suppose.”
“If the opportunity presents itself, I will look for him,” said Wong. “But that would not be the focus of the mission.”
Paddington shook his head and concentrated on his martini. This time he merely passed the glass in front of the vermouth bottle.
“Will you participate in a planning session with CentCom?” asked Wong.
“Surely I don’t owe you that, do I?”
“There was Rumania.”
Paddington sighed. “If my commander orders it.”
“He already has,” said Wong.
“As I feared.” He eyed his freshly poured drink, then took a sip. “Pity,” he said, addressing the glass. “I seem to have put in a touch too much vermouth.”
“Happens in a war zone,” said Wong.
“Quite.”
CHAPTER 3
Captain John “Doberman” Glenon stepped back from the nose of his A-10A Thunderbolt II fighter-bomber, preparing to administer a preflight up-and-at-‘em good luck slap to the business end of its 30 mm Avenger Gatling gun. Before he could do so, however, he was thrown off balance by a blow to his shoulder blades so severe it could only have come from a concussion grenade.
Or his wingmate and best friend, Captain Thomas “A-Bomb” O’Rourke.
“Yo, Dog Man, you ready to kick this dump or what?” demanded A-Bomb, grinning behind a steaming cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.
And it definitely was Dunkin’ Donuts, since it was in an oversized Big Gulp cup.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that, especially this early in the morning,” said Doberman, shaking off A-Bomb’s chuck.
“Touchy,” said A-Bomb, gurgling his coffee. “Gotchya good luck charm, I see,” he added nodding at the small silver cross Doberman had pinned to the chest of his flightsuit.
Doberman felt his face flush. Until a few days ago, he wouldn’t have been caught dead believing in good luck charms, let alone pinning one to his chest. But the last few days had taught him not to spit Fate — or superstition — in the eye.
Still, he didn’t like to admit that he might actually believe in luck or good fortune, not even to A-Bomb.
“Ain’t nothing,” he said.
“Shit, Tinman says its voodoo. Or whatever the hell he says in that accent of his. His own personal language.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s good luck and maybe it’s not,” said Doberman. “I’m not taking any chances.”
“What I’m talkin’ about,” said A-Bomb.
“Looks good to go, yes sirs?” said Tech Sergeant Rebecca Rosen, ducking out from under the wing on the other side of the plane.
Sergeant Rosen, a technical wizard and crew chief of considerable standing, posed the question as a stated and accepted matter of fact. Indeed, though Rosen was operating with a minimal support team — and even less sleep — she had thoroughly examined the aircraft prior to the pilot’s arrival at the maintenance pit, which amounted to a small piece of tarmac nudged against the sand at the forward operating area in northwestern Saudi Arabia. “We’re going to schedule that right engine for a complete overhaul when you get back to the Home Drome,” she added. “But it’s fine for now, assuming you don’t do something stupid like suck some sand through it. You won’t, will you?”
Coming from the mouth of any other sergeant in the Air Force, the words would have seemed like an insult to Doberman, whose temper was even shorter than his five-four frame. But the captain was hopelessly in love with this sergeant, though he hadn’t been able to tell her yet. And in fact, he was increasingly tongue-tied around her — which explained why all he could do was stare into her eyes.
“I’ll set up the maintenance on it myself,” added Rosen. “I’m supposed to be catching a flight back to Home Drome in a few hours. Assuming I can’t talk the Capo out of it.”
“Capo” was Chief Master Sergeant Allen Clyston, capo di tutti capi, and wizard of wizards. He ran Devil Squadron. The unit was commanded by Colonel Knowlington and staffed by a fine collection of officers, but like any efficient military organization the chief master sergeants ran things. And Clyston was the CHIEF, with all capital letters — the squadron’s master of fate and minder of souls.
Rosen smiled, and Doberman felt his knees starting to tremble.
No shit.
“Relax, Captain. I’m just being cautious,” she said. “Plane can go at least another hundred hours without fiddling with the motor or anything else. I promise. Honest. It’s showroom pretty.”