Death Wish

CHAPTER 24

Every conceivable chore done, paperwork in order, contingencies prepared for, Lieutenant Michael Knowlington stood up from his desk and took a laboriously lone, slow breath, filling his lungs from bottom to top with the recirculated Saudi air. He exhaled the breath twice as slowly as he had taken it in, pushing the air gently from his lungs, pushing until his stomach muscles flexed far toward his back.

Then he picked up the phone and, still standing, called his commanding general.

I want to resign, he planned to say.

Or, I’m resigning.

Or, I’m quitting.

Or, I’m unfit for duty.

His mind flitted back and forth among the possibilities, unsettled. The exact choice didn’t matter: what was important was to hold his voice calm and to speak distinctly and to get it started. He waited for the connection to be made, waited in the static limbo where he’d been since the flight took off to support Splash this afternoon.

“General is at dinner,” said an aide’s voice, breaking through the white noise.

“Excuse me?” said Knowlington, though he’d heard clearly.

“Not sure precisely when the general will be back,” said the aide. “Can I help you with something, sir?”

“No.”

“I can have him call you.”

“That would be fine.”

“Is it urgent?”

“It’s important,” Knowlington said, carefully choosing the word.

“He’ll get back to you, Colonel.”

Still standing in front of his desk, Knowlington hung up the phone.

He’d spent his entire adult life in the Air Force. What would he do now? Take up one of the countless offers from old cronies to take a cushy job with a contractor?

Why not? Good money. Free booze.

He wouldn’t drink. He couldn’t stand it.

Who was he kidding? It took everything now not to bolt for the Depot.

He stared down at the phone. He should talk to his sisters, tell them.

He’d have to tell them sooner or later. He’d probably have to stay with one of then — Susan, probably. Debbie was always busy with her kids.

He called Debbie, surprised that he got a line, surprised to hear the phone ring, surprised to hear her voice on the other end.

“Michael. It’s about time you called,” she said, as if she’d been waiting for him all day. “I’ve been thinking of you.”

“Yeah?”

“I ran into Simona yesterday,” His sister laughed. “She was talking about her son Jimmy wanting to be a pilot. I told her you would talk him out of it, of course.”

Another time, he might have laughed. He’d gone out with Simona way back in high school, knew her now only as a vague acquaintance. She had two kids, Jimmy was the youngest. He husband — what the hell did he do? Accountant or something for a large corporation. Kept track of toilet-paper orders for factories all across America.

“You’d be surprised, she’s lost a lot of weight,” said Debbie. “She looks a lot younger. I mean, we all look old.”

“I’m coming home,” Michael told his sister, the words rushing out.

There was no answer. He hadn’t seen his sister in months, but he saw her clearly before him, as if she were in the room. He imagined her pushing her head back, narrowing her eyes, considering how to respond, running her hand through her light reddish-brown hair.

“What’s wrong, Michael?”

“I’m letting people down.”

She understood the code as well as he did; knew what it referred to without having to use the words.

“So you’re going to quit?”

Her voice was as cold as their mother’s. Colder.

“I don’t want to hurt these kids.”

“And you wouldn’t be hurting them by quitting?”

“I’m not quitting.” He paused, looking around the room, as if the explanation were a notice or bulletin tacked to the wall. “I can’t trust myself.”

She was silent. She’d have nothing more to say, would stand there in her kitchen, waiting for him to change the subject, as always.

So he did.

“How’s Bobby?” he said, asking after his nephew. He turned and sat on the edge of the desk.

“Growing like a weed. Jack wants to take him hunting, but I say no.”

“Isn’t it out of season?”

“Maybe.” She gave a forced, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m not really sure how that works.”

“Chris okay?”

“She may make valedictorian.”

“Smart girl.”

“Very.”

“Well, I have to get going here.”

“Michael…”

“I love you, too,” he said, though he knew that wasn’t what she was going to say. “I’ll be talking to you.”

Knowlington slipped the phone back onto its cradle. It was all too much. He had to get a drink.

He hunched his shoulders and opened the door, moving quickly into the hallway. He ignored the framed photos slightly off-kilter on the wall — pictures of old war birds in their prime: a Mustang, the original Thunderbolt, a toothy Tomahawk, two different Phantoms, and a Sabre. He pulled open the door and trotted down the steps outside, resigned to his fate.

“Colonel Knowlington, a word, sir,” snapped Captain Wong, materializing at this side just as he hit his stride.

Knowlington nearly jumped back, surprised by the intelligence specialist.

“Wong, what the hell are you doing?”

“Coming to get you on a matter of some urgency.”

“I have to tell you, Captain, I’m not really in the mood for joking tonight.”

“I’m not in the habit of making jokes, sir.”

Wong. His voice was so distressed, so sincere, so straight, Knowlington couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re a first-class ball-buster,” he told the captain. “Shit, Wong. What the hell? What’s up?”

“I’d like you to take a look at a photograph,” said the captain. “It’s not very high quality, but I believe you would be extremely interested in its subject.”

“Its subject,” echoed Knowlington, pointing the captain back in the direction of his office. “Wong, you crack me up.”

CHAPTER 25

Hack collapsed into the chair of the borrowed office at KKMC, sighing now that he was finally alone after a tedious and largely pointless debriefing with three difference intelligence specialists in the base commander’s office suite down the hall. His body felt like it had been pummeled by a dozen heavyweights. What wasn’t bruised was cramped into jagged slabs of slate; his neck and shoulder muscles had more knots in them than a Persian rug.

One of the debriefers, a weaselly looking Army guy from the CinC’s staff, had implied that Hack wasn’t aggressive enough. Hack had kept his cool, his Pentagon training coming to the fore — he hinted displeasure without making it absolutely explicit, emphasizing the “fluidity of the combat situation” in a way that strongly implied his guys had put their necks out damned far, thank you very much. The jerk finally nodded and left.

Of course, the Air Force guys had implied just the opposite, wondering why the hell they had gone for the Roland. Neither seemed terribly impressed when A-Bomb said, “Because it was there,” and walked out in exasperation.

Preston had been seriously tempted to join him. They’d saved the Tornado crew, killed a potent SAM site. They out to get pats on the back, not questions.

The Army guy truly boiled him. What the hell else did he expect?

But what did Hack expect of himself? He felt, he knew, he’d screwed up a couple of times today, big-time.

Hack shifted uneasily in the chair, trying to position his legs so the cramps might ease. Still technically on alert for Splash, Devil Squadron had been loaned the small nondescript as temporary operational headquarters, rest area, and bus station. The furnishings included four metal folding chairs, a very lop-sided card table, and an empty footlocker that looked and smelled as if it dated from World War I.

Gunny and Doberman were catching some Z’s in a “guest” building across the way. They had to prep a separate mission at 0400; at least as far as Hack was concerned, they were no longer part of the operation. A-Bomb, meanwhile, had gone in search of real coffee, claiming Dunkin’ Donuts had set up a franchise near the mosque not far from the hangar area.

It might very well be true. Guys didn’t call KKMC the Emerald City for nothing. The massive mosque and fancy buildings surround the airstrip enhanced the Las Vegas image. They were close to Iraq and Kuwait, but this wasn’t the usual austere forward operating area. If there was Dunkin’ Donuts coffee anywhere in the Gulf, it’d be here. And if there was Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, A-Bomb would find it.

Hack realized his legs were only going to get stiff sitting down. He got up and began pacing the room. He probably out to just bag it and go get some sleep. The Splash mission would definitely be called off; no way they’d go ahead with it now that the Iraqis knew they were interested in the base.

On the other hand, it might take the Iraqis a while to reinforce the place. They might be scared shitless to move during the night, with American bombers in such absolute control. Or maybe they would only move at night, and have to wait until orders came from Saddam in the morning.

No way to know, no way to predict. The Spec Ops and SAS wizards were cooking it all up in their pot of stew right now. The backup had been to attack at dawn, so maybe it was still on.

Preston stopped walking and did a few squats, legs creaking like those of an eighty-year-old trying to take the stairs in the nursing home.

A bleary-eyed Air Force lieutenant appeared at the door. “Major Preston?” he asked.

“That’s me.”

“Delta and the SAS want to set up a talk at 2400, sir. They’re arranging a satellite slot.”

Great, thought Hack — a conference call at midnight. He’d have to wait around now, no way he’d get back up in time if he took a nap.

“We’ll handle the arrangements, sir,” added the lieutenant. “Base commander’s office will be available. You can come on down a few minutes beforehand. We’ll make some extra-strength coffee,” added the lieutenant, trying but failing to inject some cheer into his voice. Poor guy looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Said Hack. “I’ll come looking for you if I need anything.”

The lieutenant grimaced slightly as he smiled: it was obvious he hoped Hack wouldn’t add to his workload.

As he walked from the room, the lieutenant’s shoulders sagged. Hack couldn’t help remember the advice one of his mentors had given him in the early days of his Pentagon assignment: Somebody piles more work on you than you can handle, smile and ask for more.

Then pass it off to someone else.

Obviously the lieutenant worked for someone who took the advice to heart.

Might as well go find some real coffee, he thought, and maybe see what O’Rourke was up to.

As he stepped into the hallway, Major Preston heard the muffled strains of music. It happened to be coming from the direction of the building’s foyer, or at least seemed to, growing louder as he walked. The notes strained unevenly; they came from a keyboard of some type, played by someone who didn’t have much sense of tempo. The sound reminded Hack of some of his high school music classes; his band teacher had been a particularly poor keyboardist but nonetheless went at it every day before class.

The music abruptly stopped as he reached the steps leading down to the front door. Hack noticed another small flight off to the right that led down to a well-lit hallway. Curious, he jogged down them. There he spotted a black board with white letters announcing ecumenical Christian services.

Today was Sunday; he’d completely lost track.

Curious about the music and feeling a little guilty that he’d missed his first Sunday service in more than a year, Hack poked his head into the room. A preacher stood at a wooden lectern, reading from the scripture to an audience of six. The words immediately struck Preston — they were from Ecclesiastes, a section of the Bible his mother and grandmother had often cited when he was growing up. Hack had even pasted a line from a section of the biblical book to his flight board: a reminder to do what was wise and just, always.

Easy in theory, he thought now, listening to the reverend. Difficult in reality, especially in war. Hack walked into the room, sitting in the last of the twelve rows. The empty chairs made the space seem cavernous. An electronic keyboard sat near the reverend’s lectern; one of its stilt legs had been repaired with a thick tangle of duct tape.

“Who is the wise man? A man’s wisdom makes his face shine, and the boldness of his face shall be changed.” The minister nodded his head, pausing for effect.

But you couldn’t tell who was wise and who wasn’t by looking at his face, Hack thought. You couldn’t guess what people were worth by looking at them. They changed. Look at Knowlington — take him out of Washington, and the guy was actually wise, or damn close to it.

What about himself? Take him out of an F-15 and put him in an A-10 and he was worthless.

Worthless? Just because he’d flubbed the wind correction on his bombing run?

Or locked on an armored car instead of a missile launcher?

Or hadn’t been aggressive enough? How much more aggressive could he have been? Aggressive enough to get shot down? What if the helicopters had been hit?

What was wisdom? What was folly?

The minister continued on, his thin voice as earnest as any Hack had ever heard. The man’s eyes shone like faceted glass as he spoke, clearly lost in the advice he was giving..

Preston had listened to many sermons like this in his life, sometimes with rapt attention, more often with indifference as he daydreamed about something else. The minister’s voice evoked something different in him tonight — he thought about how naive the reverend must be, how innocent of his surroundings.

He knew it wasn’t fair, and he knew he ought to get up and find A-Bomb, let him know what was going on. But he stayed listening, watching the reverend speak. He remained when the service ended and the others filed out. He remained sitting as the minister closed his book and walked to the electronic keyboard and turned it off; he watched as the man walked toward him.

“Can I help you, son?”

“I’m as old as you, maybe older,” Preston told him.

The minister laughed, nodding his head. “Age comes with the collar, I’m afraid. I saw you listening to the sermon.”

“I have a line from Ecclesiastes on my flight board. I carry it with me every flight. ‘Wisdom exceeds folly.’ ”

“It does.”

“But you can’t always tell what’s wise, and what’s stupid.”

The reverend bit his lower lip, nodding his head slowly. The lids of his eyes squeezed together slightly, as if he were considering the quote for the first time. “I think that may be the point of the passage,” he said finally.

“No,” said Hack. “I don’t think so. No one ever said that,” he added, thinking of all the discussions he’d heard.

“Maybe they were wrong?”

“You think what we’re doing here is right? I mean, we could be fooling ourselves and wouldn’t know it.”

Hack felt his throat contract as the words ran out of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say anything like that — he hadn’t been consciously thinking of that, and even if he were, he’d never raise the question with a stranger.

He stood, surprised at himself, a little embarrassed even, waiting for the minister to reassure him, to say something like: “Of course it’s right, justice must be done.”

It was the sort of thing that chaplains tended to say. But this one looked at him and said nothing for a moment.

“I don’t know. Honestly, I’m not sure,” said the reverent. “I struggle with it. To see someone die must be a horrible thing.”

“I’ve never actually seen anyone die,” said Hack. “But I have killed a man. Or probably. I shot down a MiG.”

“Does it weigh on your conscience?”

“No. It doesn’t,” he said honestly. “I hadn’t really thought of it. Not in that way. Not that I killed someone.”

How did he think of it? He thought of it as a contest, a game almost.

No, as a job. Like the one he’d had in high school, cutting grass. Something he had to do.

Surely the other pilot would have killed him if he had the chance. Did that make it right, or wise?

Why had he held back on the Splash mission?

But he hadn’t held back at all. Screw the Army briefer, screw Hawkins, screw anyone who suggested that. His guys saved two men’s lives and that was worth something. No matter what you measured it against.

“It is a struggle, deciding what is wise and what is folly,” agreed the minister. “Would you like to get a drink?”

“A drink?” Hack laughed. “No.”

“Ministers drink.”

“I know that,” Preston told him. “But I have a, uh, a kind of thing I have to do.” Splash was top secret and he couldn’t give any details. “I’m on standby.”

“Oh,” said the chaplain, clearly disappointed. “Coffee?”

“Nah,” said Hack. “Thanks anyway. Nice service.”

CHAPTER 26

BJ Dixon stared at the canvas ceiling of his tent, trying to remember what it felt like to fly. Wind rattled the fabric, a whispery hush that made it seem as if he’d fallen into a void. He couldn’t remember how to fly — he could barely remember how to walk. The yellow air of the tent pressed against his chest like Iraqi dirt; the rumbles in the distance were the groans of men dying, of the grenade exploding against the little boy’s stomach.

“BJ?”

He turned his head toward the door.

“Lieutenant?”

Dixon sat up and swung his bare feet off the cot. He had on dress uniform pants; they were the only pants clean enough to wear. Cold, he’d layered all four of his clean T-shirts on. “It’s okay,” he said.

Becky Rosen slid slowly inside, holding the door open only far enough to let her slender body through.

“I saw your light,” she said.

“Can’t sleep,” BJ told her.

“I…” She shrugged.

“What?”

“I was wondering how you were, after everything up there.”

“Okay. Cold.”

“I heard you were going home.”

“No.” He folded his arms around his chest, a wave of cold air hitting him. “They said I could. I don’t feel like it. I want to be here.”

She nodded. “Get back on the horse? Fly again?”

“It seems like it’s been forever since I flew, you know?”

“Those your dress pants?”

“Yeah.” He laughed — briefly, barely, but still, it was a laugh. “Nothing else is clean.”

“I know the feeling.”

They’d kissed once, in the dark, by accident really. Her lips had been warmer and deeper and softer than anything he’d ever felt. But it had been so long ago now, before he’d known anything, before going north, before the kid.

Rosen shifted her body, her head moving backward. Dixon realized he didn’t want her to leave, but could think of nothing to get her to stay.

“You were in Iraq?” he blurted out. Wong had told him about the mission she’d volunteered for.

Yes.” She laughed, a tiny little laugh. “I parachuted in with Captain Wong. He’s some sort of skydiving specialist. A regular James Bond.”

“Saved my life,” said Dixon.

“Thank God.” She flexed her fingers, rubbing them together. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful.

“Cold in here,” he said.

“Really? I feel warm.”

“Yeah.” He worked his tongue around his dry mouth, trying to work up some moisture. “It was so cold in Iraq, I’m still frozen.”

“You’re a hero.” She blurted the words out.

“Nah.”

“That helicopter you shot down.”

“That was luck.”

“Well, you saved that sergeant’s life. I saw that ridge and the quarry you were in. It must’ve been hell.”

“You saw that?”

“I was in one of the helicopters. The AH-6. Captain Wong didn’t tell you?

“No.”

“Yeah, I was.”

“Yeah,” he repeated. His head became hollow again; he remembered climbing along the rock face, the wind rushing around his body as he waited for his chance to kill a man — three men, as it turned out, one with his bare hands.

“They wouldn’t have, they wouldn’t have sent you to Iraq if they, they didn’t think you were — brave,” said Rosen.

Her words jerked him back to the present.

“I got tangled up with Delta on my own,” he said. “Ground FAC. I volunteered. I ended up working with Doberman and A-Bomb.”

“Captain Glenon saved us, our helicopter.”

“Good guy.”

Rosen’s cheeks turned red. She said nothing. Surprised, Dixon looked at her, waiting for her eyes to glance upwards from the floor. He hadn’t thought she liked Doberman, not that way at least.

He’d thought, in fact, that she liked him.

She must. Otherwise, why was she here?

“Was it bad?” she asked.

He wanted to tell her about the boy. He saw the boy and he saw the grenade as he began to speak. But instead of telling her about the kid, instead of talking about Iraq and the howl in his head and how much he’d forgotten and how bad his stomach hurt, his tongue found a different story altogether.

“My mother died about a year ago, a little more now,” said Dixon. His head seemed to pull back from the words, as if they were physical things filling the air between them. “I sat by her side for a long time, just waiting.”

The words stopped. Rosen nodded, then stared at him.

Nothing else had ever seemed so beautiful.

“I better go,” she said abruptly, turning for the door.

He caught her arm. The biceps was harder than he expected, a thick tree branch.

“Don’t,” he said.

The kiss was softer, way softer, than he expected, and way longer than he could have hoped.

CHAPTER 27

“The hangar roof makes positive identification difficult, admittedly,” Wong told Colonel Knowlington. “And the enhancement technique that has been applied to the simple infrared rendering has been known to distort images under similar circumstances. Nonetheless, the pitot head at the nose confirms the identification. It is a Mig-29. No other plan in the Iraqi inventory would cast such a shadow.”

Knowlington took the paper and held it less than an inch in front of his eyes, trying to distinguish the black shadow from the rest of the black shadows on the thermal-print paper. The image had started as an infrared videotape of the Splash airfield taken by the Tornado shortly before it had been shot down. British intelligence had analyzed and enhanced the image with a computer program that could separate objects of different primary heat characteristics — in other words, find objects hidden beneath tarps or, in this case, thinly roofed buildings. According to Wong, the aircraft had either been recently flown, or had been heated by the exposure of a day’s worth of sun before being moved into the relatively small hangar building at the Splash airfield. Since it definitely hadn’t been there yesterday, it must have recently arrived.

Knowlington saw only a vague and dark arrow inside a gray rectangle.

“You might prefer viewing this image,” said Wong, removing another sheet from his folder. This was an even blurrier photocopy of the same image, with a portion outlined in fine red pen.

Granted, the outline looked vaguely like the outline of a MiG-29.

Or an F-15. Or a chipped piece of slate.

“It’s an aircraft, I assure you,” added Wong, as if reading Knowlington’s mind. “And it was flown, or at least exposed to the sun, within the past eight hours.”

“But why would they put it there?” the colonel asked.

“I can think of several reasons. The simplest would be to hide it, hoping that the base had been overlooked. It would be easier to get it there than Iran.”

Several Iraqi fighters had scrambled to Iran over the past several days, possibly for safekeeping, though it wasn’t entirely clear why they had gone or what they intended on doing. The Iranians had claimed the planes would be interred, but no one entirely trusted them.

“Maybe they’re staging to Iran,” suggested Knowlington.

“Possible, though once in the air their modus operandi has been to continue east.”

“Mechanical problems?”

“Possibly, though again, I can think of much better places to land.”

“Maybe they’re going to plumb it for bombs and send it south.”

Wong nodded grimly. “The so-called Death Wish scenario cannot be ruled out. It would not be difficult to adapt the plane for use as a bomber, especially if the mission were one-way. There are other developments that indicated this plane may fly again, very soon.”

The captain pulled out another sheet of paper from his folder. A satellite image taken around dusk, it was even darker than the Tornado pictures.

“The truck here arrived after the overflight, perhaps a few minutes before this was taken. It appears to be in motion, in fact, though that is difficult to tell here,” said Wong.

“What truck?” asked Knowlington.

Wong pointed to a black curlicue near the runway, which itself was barely discernible. “In this revetment. It is a tanker. And while it could carry any number of liquid cargoes, my best guess would be aviation fuel for the jet.”

“You see a fuel truck there?”

“The limitations of the available technology,” said Wong, sighing with regret. “But yes, that is what that is.”

“Well, if that’s a fuel truck, the plane may be gone already.”

“Possibly. But a night mission would be hazardous, and perhaps beyond the capabilities of both the plane and the pilot. Additionally, the airstrip is very short, even for a MiG-29. It’s unlit, and the falloff at the very end of the runway, combined with the nearby hills, makes the takeoff tricky.”

“None of that would be critical,” said Knowlington.

“I can’t argue decisively,” agreed Wong. “But as the fuel truck is in the revetment, not the hangar area, the soonest I would positively anticipate takeoff would be dawn.”

“Maybe they’re still working on the jet,” suggested Knowlington. Maybe it had engine trouble and set down.”

“Possibly.” It is not obvious from the intelligence. There are no indications of work crews, at least at present. There are several bunkers, nearby, however, which could house any type of weapon.”

“You think they’re going to use it to bomb Riyadh?”

The permutations are endless,” said Wong. “In my personal opinion, it is more likely that the plane will join others in a dash to Iran, or simply remain at the base. But the aircraft’s present location and the relative lack of defensive assets present a unique opportunity for intelligence gathering.

Knowlington reexamined the images. “These pictures are pretty lousy, Wong.”

“My intention is to gather intelligence first-hand.”

“First hand? You want to go in with Splash?” Knowlington was incredulous. “That’s what you’re saying?”

“It would be convenient.”

Skull scowled. “Convenient? We have to bomb this sucker right away. It’s an easy target.”

“CentCom has already been alerted to the presence of the aircraft, which can be easily interdicted if it takes off. The Splash team can destroy it as part of the operation to search for the missing SAS men.”

“Exactly,” Knowlington said.

“But prior to destroying the aircraft, however,” Wong added, “a few moments of inspection would confirm or contradict a number of theories regarding not only the plane, but the state of the Iraqi air force. It would also added considerably to our store of knowledge regarding Soviet-export MiGs. It is an opportunity, frankly, that one such as myself cannot afford to miss.”

Wong folded his arms in front of his chest, as Knowlington’s scowl deepened. “I have already arranged for a UH-1 to transport me to the area where the Splash team is spending the night. With your permission, I will leave within the hour.”

“And what if I don’t give you permission?”

Wong’s head snapped upright. Knowlington had the impression that it was the first thing he had said that Wong hadn’t already considered.

Knowlington realized that Wong could easily go around him if he chose; the intelligence officer was here only on temporary duty, and ultimately reported directly to an admiral in the Pentagon responsible for Joint Service Intelligence. Wong was considered one of the West’s leading experts on Russian weapons systems, and had dozens of covert actions and spy missions to his credit; this one would hardly seem outrageous.

“What about the SAS men who are supposed to be prisoners here?” Knowlington asked.

“As I noted earlier, I doubt the Iraqis would hold them here,” said Wong. “But it cannot be ruled out. Baghdad might have placed them here until a proper decision on how to best exploit or at least hold them was made; we cannot tell. At the same time, a unit commander deciding to exploit them for political gain or favor with the regime might indeed keep them at an out-of-the-way base while he contemplated the best way to capitalize on their presence. The base appears to be outside the Iraqis’ normal chain of command, or at least is not home to a large contingent of men.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

“Only in Iraq,” said Wong. “In any event, my inspection of the plane need not interfere with the search for the men, which would remain the primary objective. With your permission, Colonel.”

Knowlington turned his head toward the phone. He expected it to ring any second — expected to end his responsibilities within the hour, if not minutes.

Until then?

Giving permission to Wong was a no-brainer. The danger was clearly outweighed by the information that would be gained.

Was it, though? They knew plenty about MiG-29s, and the Iraqi air force had been a no-show to this point in the war. Sending a guy across the border wasn’t exactly the same as asking him to run down to the 7-Eleven for a gallon of milk.

“You think this is worth the risk?” he asked Wong.

The intelligence expert sighed in the manner of a physics teacher asked once more to explain the relevance of E=MC².

“Since the operation will go ahead in any event, the additional risk is infinitesimal. Obtaining firsthand information on the plane would be beneficial. There are the obvious questions of what changes, if any, have been made to the weapons systems and whether it has been adapted for ground attack. And then there are the more interesting questions. Has the full N-019 radar set, the so-called Slot Back 1, actually been installed? Has the cannon — ”

Knowlington put up his hand, stopping what promised to be a long list of questions. “All right. Go for it. You sure you don’t want to take a flatbed up there with you and haul it home?”

“That would be preferable,” said Wong. “In fact — ”

“I’m kidding. Jesus, you’re a ball-buster. Have you told Hawkins?”

“I planned to do so after consulting with you,” said Wong. “There is an additional consideration for the Splash mission inherent in the presence of the aircraft. Regardless of whether the SAS men are being kept at the base or not, if the plane is there, and even more so if it is planning an actual attack, point defenses will be moved in certainly in response to the Tornado overflight. We should expect a half-dozen ZSU-23 chassis, and perhaps a lower-grade missile system. Indeed, I believe at least one SA-9 launcher has been reported en route, though I have not been able to coordinate the intelligence.”

The SA-9 was a short-range surface-to-air missile: while it posed more of a risk to helicopters than Maverick-bearing Hogs, it would have to be dealt with.

“We’ll have to tell Hack. It might be a stretch for two planes to hit all the guns and missiles besides,” added Knowlington. “Doberman and Gunny have a mission at 0600, so they’re coming out of the package.”

“That point was stated during the planning stage.”

“I would say four planes are the minimum neede4d to support the mission — more would be optimum.”

The hangar should be targeted by one of the Hogs. If anything went wrong, a Maverick could obliterate the MiG, whatever Saddam’s plans.

But to arrange for four planes, he’d have to go himself. There simply wasn’t another experienced pilot available who could lead such a hazardous mission.

No?

No.

He hesitated, remembering the idea that had occurred to him earlier, the cloud of 23mm slugs enveloping him.

His own death wish?

Knowlington glanced at the old-style phone on his desk. At any second its ring might change everything.

“All right, let’s get on this,” Knowlington told Wong. “Set up satellite time with the SAS and whoever else needs to be clued in. I’ll deal with the British command, and rejigger the duty rosters to finding two other planes and pilots.”

“Understood,” said Wong.

Aware that he was moving a bit too fast, but unable to slow down, Knowlington jumped from his chair and ran from the room, out of the telephone’s reach.

CHAPTER 28

“I say, have you a cigarette?”

Captain Hawkins jumped up from the wheel of the howitzer carriage where he’d been sitting, staring over the sandbags at the approaching shadow.

“Startled you?” asked Sergeant Burns, his face finally visible in the dark night.

“A little,” admitted Hawkins.

“Cigarette?”

“Don’t smoke.”

The SAS sergeant leaned against the gun, next to Hawkins. “I do. Have one.”

“No thanks.”

“Not even tempted?”

“No.”

“English cigarettes don’t cause cancer,” said the sergeant. He snorted, then clicked open a metal lighter. An odor of lighter fluid mingled with the smoke as he lit up.

“You did the right thing,” Burns told him. “Calling it off.”

Hawkins shrugged.

“Pilot has two kids.”

Everybody has someone, Hawkins thought. But he said nothing.

“Have another go at dawn?”

“I’d like to, yeah,” Hawkins told the Englishman. “Assuming your guys don’t find them before that. We won’t know until close to midnight. I’ve arranged for a phone conference.”

“Ring ‘em up,” said the sergeant, exhaling. “Ring ‘em up.”

Hawkins wasn’t quite sure what he meant or even what he might want. Probably just wanted to shoot the shit for a while.

The Delta captain sat back on the tire, shuffling his feet in the sand. The artillery base was a few miles from Iraq, used more for staging and supply than actual bombardment, though of course that could change in an instant. The team had been given a trio of bunkers to sack out in not far from the makeshift airfield where the helicopters were being serviced.

They’d be ready for another “go” by 0400, assuming the Brits gave the green light. His men would be tired, but so would the Iraqis. There wouldn’t be a last-second fly-by this time, but he’d have the benefit of the latest satellite data as well as the Tornado intelligence, which he’d already seen.

Damn blurry copy of a blurry image. The pilot and his crewman had been airlifted to an RAF base; the video had been processed and several faxed to him. As far as he could tell, there were still no serious defenses beyond the antiair artillery that had been there before.

“I’m a family man myself,” said the sergeant. “Don’t look it, I know,” he added. “Five kids, though. Five shiny faces. Had to join the squadron just for peace.”

“You have five kids?”

“Almost a football team.” The sergeant took a long draw on his cigarette. “Took the family to Blackpool just before we came. Adventure.”

The SAS commando began recounting the trip to the amusement park, which Hawkins took it was the English equivalent to Coney Island, only better. There was a mammoth rollercoaster there, supposedly the highest in the world. Cars reached eighty-five miles an hour on the downhill.

“Scared shitless, I don’t mind saying. Nearly threw up right in the seat. Did on the ground,” said the sergeant. “Scariest thing I ever did.”

“Scarier than this?”

“Oh much. Scarier than Belfast, and I served there eighteen months. And Londonderry.”

“I have relatives there.”

“Oh.” He sucked the cigarette down to its filter. “Catholic, I imagine.”

“That’s right.”

“Hmmph,” said the sergeant. He threw the cigarette down, took out another. “Hard life.”

“Probably is.”

Burns lit his cigarette. He shifted his weight, but didn’t move off the big gun. “I expect we’ll get the go.”

“I hope so,” said Hawkins.

“Went on that rollercoaster three times in a row,” said the sergeant. “Didn’t want the kiddies to see I was scared. Turned the stomach inside out, that.”

“I imagine it would.” Hawkins laughed. “I don’t like rollercoasters myself.”

CHAPTER 29

Rebecca Rosen floated in a pool of warmth, her body still trembling from making love with BJ. It hadn’t been what she thought — it was better, better, better. Her head vibrated; she’d fallen away from time, away from the war. The world outside no longer existed. Reality was here, on this tiny cot, BJ’s body pressed gently against hers, his face leaning against her breast, his breath brushing back and forth across her neck. His eyes were closed; she drifted toward sleep as well, lost, pleasantly, lusciously lost, finally oblivious to the aches and distresses of life.

But the world was a hard master.

“Knock, knock,” said a voice from beyond the bubble surrounding her.

“Knock, knock” — part-mocking, part-smirking, part-warning, part-censoring…

Colonel Knowlington entered the tent, standing over them. BJ jumped up, pulling the blankets with him to cover up. She rolled over, belatedly hiding her face. She considered diving to the floor, but didn’t dare.

“Lieutenant, I need you as a backup for Splash,” said Knowlington sharply. “I need you on the runway no later than 0400. I’ll brief you at 0230. Good night.”

The tent shook as the colonel turned sharply on his heel and left without acknowledging her presence or nakedness.

“Fuck,” said Dixon.

Becky turned over, then slowly pulled her hands away from her eyes. She gazed at him, pale and beautiful in the dim light of the tent. Then she began to laugh.

CHAPTER 30

To be a first sergeant of any military organization is to be a philosopher. True, all first sergeants — all sergeants, period — are practical engineers, skilled in the sciences of organization and bureaucracy, to say nothing of bullshit. To reach the exalted level of master sergeant, a man — or woman — must master the twin arts of motivation and discipline; he or she must be more skilled at politics than any candidate for President. He or she must practice the art of war in a way that would humble Sun Tzu, though of course the best sergeants never needed to fire a weapon, for the enemy retreats at the mere hint of their approach.

In a chief master sergeant, genius exerts itself without appearing to sweat. Procurement, persuasion, prophecy — no Greek god or goddess ever had half the attributes of a chief master sergeant, whose very grunt or growl could send an army to glorious victory.

But a first sergeant, a leader of men and minder of officers — a first sergeant also had to be a genius of thought, a translator of the ethereal and timeless. For who but a first sergeant could properly frame the unending questions of life? Who but a first sergeant could say, with a straight face and great authority, This is this? Who but a first sergeant could look at a glass and declare that it was neither half full nor half empty, but rather, a symbol of man’s status in the universe.

And the best damn beer he’d quaffed in at least twenty-four hours.

“The best,” repeated the capo di capo from the armchair in his over-sized temp tent in the heart of Tent City.

“Better than that porter Elwell brought in from Czechoslovakia,” agreed Sergeant Melfi, sitting on the capo’s right. Despite being a mere staff sergeant, Melfi showed great promise — as did all of the capo’s hand-picked minions.

“Czechs don’t make porter,” said Technical Sergeant Luce dismissively.

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Clyston. “Blanket statements like that will get you in trouble every time.” He took a long sip from his glass savoring the bouquet. Since he was in a war zone, he limited himself to two beers each night, lingering far longer over each glass than he would do under any other circumstance. But self-restraint sharpened the palate.

“As a general rule, Czech porter is not the best porter,” said Luce, amending his pronouncement. “Now, you want to talk about pilsners — that’s a whole different kettle of yeast.”

Clyston snorted approvingly at Luce’s turn of phrase. “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time for a smoke,” he said, reaching for the humidor below his chair. He opened it and removed a large Cuban Partagas Lusitania, then offered the polished walnut box to Melfi, who selected a Punch in the robusto size. Luce, as was his custom, passed.

They had just lit up when Aaron Racid, an E-4 ordnance loader or candyman, rushed into the tent without knocking — a violation of protocol so serious that it could only be caused by a crisis.

Which it was.

“Devereaux’s sitting on a Maverick and won’t get off,” the black weapons specialist told his capo. “Swear to God, Chief. Lost his fucking mind. Lost his fuck-ing mind.”

Clyston put down his beer and unfolded himself from the chair. “I’ll be back,” he told his men, stoking the flame of his double corona with a big puff of his cigar before following Racid out toward Oz.

Seven Hogs sat in various stages of dress in and around the hangars. The day’s bombing runs had been relatively easy for the Devil Squadron, and none had been damaged or even nicked. With no major maintenance tasks and hours before most of the squadron needed to be at the flight line, only a light crew was on duty. The candymen were supposed to be loading up a pair of Hogs that Colonel Knowlington wanted to use to support a covert deep-strike mission.

Racid’s description had not been entirely accurate — Devereaux sat on two Mavericks, his butt on one and his legs on the other. Both missiles were on low-slung trolleys directly in front of Devil Five. Two other bomb loaders stood several feet away, throwing worried looks at Racid.

“Devereaux, what the F is going on?” said Clyston, looking not at Devereaux but the others. The men took half-steps backwards as he stopped, hands on his hips. “You guys find some coffee.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” they said in unison, disappearing.

Clyston turned toward Devereaux. The E-4 weighed at least 220 pounds. While the AGMs were safed and designed for semi-rough handling, it was never a good idea to treat any ordinance lightly, let alone as a couch.

“You resting?” Clyston asked his man.

“No, Sergeant.”

“You intending on loading these?”

“I’d prefer not to.”

Now in theory, there were a million ways to handle a situation like this. The capo could ask for a clarification of what the hell “prefer not to” meant. Or he could skip the bull, give a direct order, and wait for it to be fulfilled. If it wasn’t — as seemed somewhat likely — he could have Devereaux forcibly removed, even placed under arrest. Charges could be brought or the man could be removed to medical care.

But the capo, mindful that the head on his perfect beer back at the tent was steadily dissipating, did not have time for anything so involved. He took a thoughtful puff on his cigar, and went to his ordie.

“Mind if I sit down?”

Devereaux shoved over slightly. Clyston gingerly placed himself on the Maverick next to him.

“Thinking of what these suckers can do, huh?” Clyston said.

Devereaux, who obviously had been, said nothing for a moment. Then he asked if the capo had ever heard Mozart’s “Requiem.”

“I was just listening to it, as a matter of fact,” said Clyston, who firmly believed that fibs in the line of duty were not fibs at all.

“Shows you how puny we are.”

“Not really,” said Clyston. “Shows what man is capable of — giving the angels a voice.” He hummed a small piece from the overture — the chief did, in fact, have a recording of the masterwork in his tent, along with many of Mozart’s other works.

Devereaux jerked his head around for a moment, then looked at the ground. “I don’t want to kill anybody, Chief.”

Funny, this kind of stuff never came up at the recruitment office. Clyston took a long puff on his cigar. One thing he had to give the Marxist bastard Cubans — they sure as shit knew how to roll tobacco.

“I know I’m not pulling the trigger,” continued Devereaux. “But no man’s an island.”

Donne and Mozart in the same conversation. Almost made flat beer worthwhile.

Not really. Still, it was an elevated sort of conversation. Bomb loaders as a class weren’t generally given to classical music and poetry, unless you numbered the Beastie Boys among the great masters.

Clyston exhaled the smoke from his cigar.

“Fate’s a funny thing,” he told his senior airman. “Puts you places you never thought you’d be.”

Devereaux nodded, then looked toward the sky. Clyston folded his left arm under his right, taking another long, slow drag on the cigar.

“Yeah. Fate,” said the ordie. “Can’t live with it. Can’t live without it.”

Now that was a candyman’s philosophy.

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” said the E-4, slipping his feet off the Maverick. “You don’t mind, but I have to get these suckers loaded. And uh, no offense, but this isn’t the safest place to be smoking a cigar.”

“Good point, Devereaux,” said Clyston. “Carry on.”

CHAPTER 31

Hack pushed the receiver closer to his ear, trying to pick up the others through the static. There were more than a dozen British and American officers on the line, and all of them sounded like they were underwater or they had filled their mouths with sand.

“Neither Tension nor Hercules produced anything,” said the British SAS major reviewing the search operations. “Light resistance, including some SAM activity, was encountered at both sites.”

Hack took that as a slap, but kept his mouth shut as the major continued. The British RAF general ultimately responsible for the missing men had opened up the phone conference by tossing Devil Squadron a bone, saying that the two RAF fliers credited the Hogs with saving their skins. If anyone criticized Preston directly, he’d throw that back in their faces. In the meantime, it was best to keep quiet.

“Splash remains our only possibility,” said the major after detailing some other leads that had washed out. “Granted, it is still a long shot.”

Hack started to say that he and A-Bomb were ready as well, but he was cut off by Captain Wong.

“The small base we are calling Splash may be more significant than original estimates surmised,” said Wong.

It was obvious from the background noises that he was speaking from an aircraft, though he didn’t bother to explain why he was aboard one, let alone how he had managed the link.

Wong launched into a long and somewhat muffled dissertation on what the tapes from the Tornado overflight and recent satellite snaps showed. Unable to follow Wong amid growing static, Preston dug his nail into the Styrofoam coffee cup — real Dunkin’ Donuts, as A-Bomb promised. As the unintelligible filibuster continued, Hack glanced at the box of donuts on the desk, which lay just out of reach. He considered putting the phone down and grabbing another Boston Kreme. As implausible as it seemed, the treats were authentic. O’Rourke could probably find a McDonald’s in downtown Baghdad.

If he ever took command of the squadron, he’d make A-Bomb one of the flight leaders. Not because of the donuts — the guy was a damn good pilot, a kick-ass pilot, even though personally he looked like a slob. Glenon — Glenon had too much a temper to be a front-line jock, in Hack’s opinion, though he obviously must do well in peacetime exercises and the like.

Wong — Wong could go back to the Pentagon or wherever he came from. He kept talking and talking, even though all he seemed to be saying was that there were now two very short-range missile launchers at Splash, SA-9s.

Preston gave into temptation and stretched for the donut. When he picked the phone back up, Wong was still detailing the point defenses, noting that four more trucks with antiair artillery had been seen on the road nearby. The SA-2 site they had identified earlier remained a potent threat, even though it had not come up on the aborted mission.

“They’re probably defunct,” said Preston harshly. “They’re not a factor.”

Despite his hope that his comment would cue someone else to take over the conversation, Wong kept right on talking.

“There is a building at garshawl eastern gergawsh.”

Wong’s words trailed into an swirl of echoing static, scrambling the sentences as effectively as a 128-byte encryption key. The words Hack could make out sounded something like “shadows inside a building,” although that didn’t make much sense..

“Hey, hold on,” interrupted A-Bomb, shouting into his headset a few feet away. Hack pulled the phone away from his ear, but not before his eardrum felt like it had been shattered. “What you’re saying is there’s a plane in the hanger?”

“Affirmative,” said Wong.

“What kind of plane?” said Hack.

“That is what I intend to find out.” Wong said. “I believe it is a MiG-29, variant unknown. My task will be to examine the plane and gather as much detail about it as possible.”

“A MiG?” asked one of the British officers.

“We think there’s a MiG-29 in the old hangar building at the northeast side of the airfield,” Knowlington cut in. His voice came over the scrambled line sharp and direct; the snap in it reminded Hack of his father. “Wong wants to have a look at it.”

“Wong?” asked Preston.

“What if it takes off?” asked Hawkins.

“There is that possibility,” said Wong. “A fuel truck has been positioned in the L-shaped revetment at the northernmost point of the field. The aircraft should be targeted by one of the attack planes in the support package.”

“The revetment was empty yesterday afternoon, Bristol,” said Hawkins. “I remember it very clearly. We were planning to use it for cover.”

“Correct. As I was saying, there is a possibility the Iraqis are preparing the plane for an early morning takeoff.”

“CentCom has assigned a pair of F-15s to take out the MiG if it tries to come south,” said Knowlington. “The Iraqis may have a suicide bombing run in mind. Hard to tell. In any event, we’d like to try and have a look at the plane before we destroy it.”

“It presents a unique intelligence opportunity,” added Wong.

“What does Wong know about MiGs?” said Preston.

“I know a considerable amount about Soviet weaponry,” said the captain haughtily.

“You ever fly one?”

“I am not a pilot.”

“We’ll nail it,” said A-Bomb. “Maverick will slice through the hangar like a knife through a cheese danish.”

“The hell with blowing it up,” said Hack. “I’ll fly it out of there.”

“What are you saying?” asked one of the British officers.

What was he saying? Steal it?

The idea seemed to explode in his head, and adrenaline suddenly flowed into the muscles and bones that had been worn down by the day’s action.

Steal it.

“Let’s fly it out,” said Hack. “I can do it.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” said Hawkins.

Hack jumped to his feet. “We can get it. I’ll fly it. I can do it. Fuck, I know I can.”

“You’re going to fly a Fulcrum?” asked A-Bomb.

“I already have,” Preston said. “I was at Kubinka last year. Colonel, you know that. Shit. I can just walk off with it, assuming it’s fueled. Tell them, Colonel — I was at Kubinka. I’ve flown MiGs.”

“It’s true,” said Knowlington.

Kubinka was a Russian air base, where Hack and three other officers had visited as part of an exchange program. Knowlington did know, because Preston had come back to the Pentagon directly from that assignment.

What he obviously didn’t know was that Preston had flown from the backseat, doing little more than take the controls at medium altitude, and then for only a few minutes.

But he could do it. He knew he could do it. The idea of it — the sheer, beautiful audacity of stealing the prize right out from under Saddam’s nose — he couldn’t resist! No one could.

“Let’s take it,” he said. “I’ll go in with the ground team. Bing. We’re off.”

“You’re talking about huge risk here,” said Hawkins. “Incredible risk.”

“Going that far north for two SAS guys who probably aren’t there isn’t risky?” demanded Hack. “You’re telling me that’s not fucking risky?”

“I’m telling you that if there’s a plane on the ground that’s being refueled, we have to rethink the whole goddamn mission,” said Hawkins.

“Don’t chicken out on me now,” said Preston.

“Hey, screw yourself, Major.”

“Okay, kids!” Knowlington’s voice was sharp. “Let’s take a big breath and think about this. What if the plane is damaged, Hack? Or you can’t get the fuel into it?”

“Then I jump back on the helicopter and go home. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

“What about gear”

“I use the Iraqis’.” Hack remembered the cumbersome helmet he’d used in Russia. The flight suit, however, had been a little lighter than Western gear, and in some ways easier to use. “I take my gear as a backup, get someone to work up the connections, and hell, I just fly low and slow enough that I don’t need oxygen and don’t worry about pulling big-time g’s. Piece of cake, Colonel.”

“It’s not a piece of cake,” said Knowlington coldly. “Wong?”

“From an Intelligence point of view,” said Wong, “possession of an operational MiG would be valuable. Very valuable. I myself would prefer acquiring it. As I began to mention to you earlier, Colonel, I considered requesting an MH-130 and a team of men to dismantle the plane at the base, returning with it.”

“Much too hazardous,” said the British general in charge. “Given the proximity of other Iraqi units, no more than sixty minutes can be allotted to a ground operation.”

“Potty,” said another of the Brits.

“Granted, stealing the plane would require a considerable coefficient of luck,” said Wong. “Nonetheless, its possession would be desirable. And the fallback situation would still result in considerable benefit: the expertise of a pilot’s firsthand review of the systems would be beneficial.”

“So let’s get it then,” said Hack. He glanced at the donut in his hand — he’d squeezed it so hard that its filling had burst from the sides.

“You think the Iraqis are just going to let us take it?” said Hawkins, as sarcastic as ever.

“If Wong can get close enough to look at it, I can get close enough to steal it,” said Preston, putting the donut down. “Let’s do it.”

“This isn’t a game,” snapped the Delta commander. “It’s not rah-rah go-for-it.”

“Major, how familiar are you with the MiG-29?” asked the British general.

“Very,” said Preston, staring at the cream on his fingers. “I was on the team that reviewed the Zuyev MiG in Turkey. I flew one at Kubinka in the Soviet Union last year. It was a very limited program, General. Admittedly, I would have liked more time at the stick, but I can do this. I’ve flown F-15s, F-16s, and a dozen other fast-movers,” he added. “I’m not just an A-10 driver. Pilot.”

“Was the MiG a one- or two-seater?” asked Wong.

“A two-seater,” admitted Hack.

He glanced at A-Bomb, who was not only uncharacteristically reticent, but had stopped sipping his coffee. His wingman had a frown so serious on his face, it made Hack look away, focusing his attention momentarily on his cream-laden fingers. He considered licking them clean, but reached for a napkin instead.

“I saw the Zuyev plane myself,” Wong was said. “It does supply a baseline.”

Russian pilot Alexander Zuyev had defected to Turkey in a Soviet MiG-29 in May 1989. His Fulcrum was thoroughly studied; so had other examples over the past year and a half, notably those possessed by Germany and India. A great deal of intelligence had been gathered on the various export variants. But there was something about possessing an actual example. Stealing a plane from out of the pocket of the Iraqi air force — that was irresistible.

It was an exploit that would make anyone involved instantly famous, instantly important, even if it failed.

A quick ticket to squadron commander, and not of A-10s.

“I believe purloining the aircraft would not be worth the risk,” said Paddington. “A plane too far, as it were.”

“Major Preston’s familiarity with the aircraft would be an asset in examining it, even on the ground,” said Wong. “His expertise would indeed be valuable. Mine extends to the weapons systems only, and of course I am not a pilot.”

“If — when we get it,” said Hack, “we’ll compromise everything the Iraqis do.”

“That would be an overstatement,” said Wong.

“Kevin, what do you think?” Knowlington cut in, addressing the Delta Force captain.

“With all due respect, I think stealing the plane is a long shot, Colonel. It’s a short field, and where are we going to find a mechanical crew and a helicopter to put them in?”

“We don’t need a mechanical crew,” said Hack. “Not if the Iraqis are already planning to fly the plane. They’ll have done it all. There’s auxiliary power. I go through the sequence, bring on the right engine — I can take off on just one engine, start the other in the air.”

“It does have that capacity,” concurred Wong.

“Long shot,” said Hawkins.

“What’s the worst case scenario?” said Hack. “I take a look, maybe some pictures, then you blow up the plane.”

“The worst case scenario is you get killed,” said Hawkins.

“I’ll take the risk.”

“Who’s taking the risk for everyone else?”

“Our commandos remain the priority for this mission,” said the British general. “Nonetheless, I agree with the major. There is a certain élan to taking the aircraft. We can supply some additional men from the squadron for the operation. We may also be able to find a mechanic with some expertise, though it is short notice.” The general paused, perhaps consulting with one of his aides for a moment before returning to the line. “It is, as you say, a long shot, Captain, but one perhaps worth taking as a subset to the main objective.”

“You sure you can get it in the air, Hack?” asked Knowlington. His voice sounded soft; this time it didn’t remind him of his father’s at all.

“Piece of cake,” said Hack, as forcefully as he could. In truth, he wasn’t familiar with the precise procedure for using the auxiliary power. But that was the sort of thing you could figure out on the fly.

Wasn’t it?

“We’ll have to replace Hack in the support package,” added Knowlington. “That’s a problem in and of itself.”

Preston suddenly felt a twinge of doubt. What if he was with the Delta team and the MiG took off before they got there? Then he’d look like a first-class boob, twiddling his thumbs on an operation that came back with nada. Or worse — the helicopters would be easy pickings, even for an Iraqi pilot.

Instead of being a hero, he’d look like a fool.

But you had to take risks; you had to push it. He’d been wrong to hesitate last night. He should have pushed in, not held back. War was about risks.

To steal an Iraqi plane — hell, he had to take the chance, no matter what the odds were. The payoff was just too immense, too beautiful.

Hack Preston, the man who stole Saddam’s MiG. Shit, what a set of balls that guy must have.

Made general before he was thirty.

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. President.

President?

“That’s not Disneyland you’d be going into,” Knowlington was saying. “It’s not Kubinka either. They’re going to shooting real bullets at you.”

“If the Delta people can do it, I can,” said Preston.

“Yeah, right,” said Hawkins.

Hack had meant to say Captain Wong, not Delta, but for some reason the words had just come out like that. He let them stand.

“Colonel, your final assessment,” the British general asked Knowlington.

Hack’s doubts suddenly reasserted themselves, and he found himself wishing, wanting, hoping that Knowlington would call it all off, say it was crazy and couldn’t be done.

“If my guys think they can do it, and the D boys are up for it, then we’ll take a shot,” said Knowlington. “I’m going to have to hustle another pilot up to KKMC to fly Hack’s plane. Lieutenant Dixon. A-Bomb, you take the lead on that flight, nail the defenses the way you laid out the mission originally. I’ll take the second pair and target the MiG, back you up and support the landing.”

Preston looked at A-Bomb across the room as the British officers began debating what additional forces could join the mission package. O’Rourke, his face as serious as a statue in the Vatican, held his hand over the mouthpiece. “You sure about this?”

“Damn sure,” said Hack.

A-Bomb held his stare for a long time.

“Damn sure,” Hack repeated stubbornly. “Damn, damn sure.”