The med techs were on Waldo and Rockne in a flash and loaded them both into the ambulance. It sped away as the fireman hosed down the back of the Warthog with fire retardant. It was over.
Pontowski walked around the aircraft with one of the firemen. “That was quick thinking, sir,” the fireman said. “Towing us like that.”
“I’ve never seen one of those stall before,” Pontowski said.
“Budget cuts,” the fireman said. “Maintenance sucks.” He examined the pickup. “Well, that’s one way to stop. But I don’t think you’ll be driving this anywhere soon.”
Pontowski agreed. “No kidding.” He looked around for a ride and saw Maggot with the chief of Maintenance, a Reserve colonel, examining the A-10. “How bad is it?” he called.
“I’ve seen worse,” the colonel replied. “We’ll know better when we get it in a hangar.”
“So we deploy without it,” Maggot said. “While you were out having fun and games on the runway here, we got orders to deploy.” He automatically answered the next questions. “Advance team tomorrow, the Hogs on Sunday. Personnel to follow on Monday.”
“So we go to war with nineteen jets,” Pontowski grumbled.
“Maybe not,” the colonel said.
Pontowski and Maggot walked through the main hangar where one group of technicians tore into the damaged Warthog while others swarmed over four other A-10s being prepped for the long flight to Malaysia. “This is organized chaos,” Pontowski said.
“We’ve seen it before,” Maggot replied. “These guys are all professionals and know what to do.” They went into the Maintenance offices, but it was just as hectic. “Let’s check the ramp,” Maggot suggested. They walked outside and stood by the cargo pallets and mobility bins that were rapidly accumulating. “The support we’ve been getting is fantastic,” Maggot said.
“That’s an understatement if I ever heard one,” Pontowski allowed. The buildup for their deployment wasn’t pretty or by the book, but it was effective. He made a mental note to make sure the generals in the Pentagon knew what the men and women of Lackland had done. They stood there, comparing notes as the sun set. “It always hits the fan on Fridays,” Pontowski observed.
“An immutable law of nature,” Maggot replied. A minivan drew up by the operations building, and three men got out. “I think that’s Waldo.” He snorted. “I’ll be damned, that’s the Rock.”
“You know Rockne?”
“From Whiteman. A great cop.”
“He’s the guy who pulled Waldo out,” Pontowski said. “Let’s go talk to them. Who’s the other guy?” Maggot didn’t answer and only shook his head. They followed the three men into the building.
Inside, Maggot stared at Waldo. “Cheated death again, Walderman?”
Waldo grinned. “Hey, you got your jet back.” He turned serious. “I want to go.”
“Are you okay?” Pontowski asked. He knew how physically and mentally punishing even a minor crash could be.
“Other than a stiff neck, I’m fine. The doc here can verify.”
The major introduced himself. “Bob Ryan. I’m a flight surgeon. Lieutenant Colonel Walderman is fine.”
“It’s up to Colonel Stuart,” Pontowski said, deferring the decision to Maggot.
It was an easy decision. “We got work to do,” Maggot said. “Can’t stand around here all day and yak.” He gave Walderman a little shove and followed him out the door.
Pontowski turned to Rockne. “Chief, I can’t thank you enough. I’ll make sure your boss hears about it. But like the colonel said, we’ve got work to do.”
Rockne didn’t hesitate. “I want to go.”
Pontowski was confused and it showed. “But you said—”
“I said ‘shit,’ sir, because I wanted to go to the Gulf. But what the hell, if this is the only action available, I’ll take it.”
“Can you get clear by Monday?”
“If I can’t, then it’s time to retire.”
“I don’t suppose,” Pontowski said, going for broke, “that you could also get a security team together?”
Rockne’s face was impassive. “I’ll shake the tree until someone falls out. Excuse me, sir. But I’ve got some heads to crack, arms to twist.” He spun around and was gone. Only the flight surgeon remained.
“Doctor,” Pontowski said, “thanks for the help, but you didn’t need to make a special trip.”
“You need a flight surgeon,” Ryan said. “I want to go.”
Pontowski thought for a moment. His eyes narrowed into a squint. “Weren’t you at Okinawa during the blockade?”*
Ryan never hesitated. “Yes, sir, I was. I’m that Ryan.” The look on Pontowski’s face told him he wasn’t going. But he had to try. “I was an asshole and screwed up big-time. After it was over, General Martini told me everyone benefits this earth; some do it by living, others only by dying and freeing up space. I still had time to make a choice.”
“I can hear Mafia saying that,” Pontowski murmured. “Sorry, I’m not convinced.”
Ryan knew he was begging, but he didn’t care. “Martini told me something else. He said the Air Force is not about making money or getting your name in lights. It’s about accomplishment, and we do it by placing service, sacrifice, and obligation over the individual. I didn’t understand that then. I do now.” He pulled himself to attention. “Sir, I’m asking for another chance.”
Pontowski sat down behind his desk. “You said the right words. You’ve got your chance.”
Ryan snapped a sharp salute. “You won’t regret it,” he promised.
I hope not, Pontowski thought. But beggars can’t be choosers.
Seventeen
The dark green minivan pulled to a halt on the taxiway, still under the jungle canopy and well short of the wide highway that also functioned as a runway. The driver parked under the camouflage netting that covered an entrance to a hardened aircraft shelter, and Lieutenant Colonel Janice Clark got out. She motioned for the driver, who also served as her interpreter, to join her. “Let’s talk to the guard,” she told him. Together they approached the guard post, a sandbagged observation bunker at the edge of the tree line. The guard, a very nervous teenage Malay, fingered his M-16 as they approached. “Do you need food or water?” Clark called. The driver translated.
The boy held up his canteen, top down, cap off. “Damn,” Clark growled. “Why don’t they take better care of their people?” She sent the interpreter back to the minivan for water and a meal packet. She chafed at the delay, but there was little she could do about it — yet. The guard grinned at her. “Just a kid,” she said to herself. “Ask him if there’s been any activity,” she told her driver. Again she waited as the two carried on an interminable discussion in Malay.
“He say nothing happening here, Missy Colonel,” her driver said. She suppressed the urge to strangle him. For some reason he couldn’t get her name and rank right. But rather than fight it, she went with the flow. “He’s been here two days and wants to go back to barracks.”