Death Wish

CHAPTER 63

No way in the world was it possible to debrief a mission — to even think about a mission — without coffee. Hell, it was against Air Force regulations and probably the U.S. Constitution to even try that. The Geneva Convention probably even declared it punishable by hanging. The UN undoubtedly had a commission on it.

So as soon as A-Bomb touched down at the Home Drome — right after he parked and popped the hood and plopped down on the tarmac next to Sergeant Rosen, who was taking personal care of his aircraft this morning; right after he gave the rest of the crew a quick thumbs-up and pointed to the holes in the airframe (unnecessary, actually, due to the rather obvious gashes and dripping fluids); right after giving the appropriate shrug to an airman’s incredulous “You actually managed to get home like that?” remark — A-Bomb ambled over to the only place at King Fahd that could be relied upon for A-1 Debriefing Strength Joe: his quarters.

Regrettably, A-Bomb had not yet completed his plans to rig his commercial Bunn coffeemaker to an IFF device, which would allow the unit to begin grinding and brewing as his Hog approached the runway. He therefore had to wait an excruciating ninety seconds as the machine ground a choice selection of hand-picked African and Columbian beans before dripping distilled mountain water into the pot.

The interlude gave him time to contemplate a philosophical question: What should he have for breakfast, Freihofer’s or Entenmann’s?

Technically, neither of the famed Northeast bakeries was listed among the official military suppliers providing food at the mess. But A-Bomb had a direct line to outlet stores for both. With the help of several well-connected supply sergeants — there were no other kind of supply sergeants, after all — he had managed to schedule regular deliveries from both. In fact, a C-5A with a fresh load of cheese strudel and sticky buns ought to be due at any moment. Still undecided, he filled his thirty-ounce ceramic coffee mug and left the tent.

A-Bomb had walked about two sips’ worth toward the unloading area when one of the squadron pilots, Billy Bozzone, flagged him down.

“Coffee’s in my tent,” he told Bozzone, a lieutenant who had grown up on Staten Island but was otherwise a good sort. “Going over to grab some Entenmann’s, I think. Or maybe Freihofer's. Kind of waiting for inspiration to strike.”

“Intel guys are looking for you,” said Bozzone. “Delta major, too.”

“Yeah, I’m on my way,” said A-Bomb. “What’s the rush?”

“You haven’t heard? Preston’s dead. MiG malfunctioned and he fell out of the parachute harness.”

For the first time since he came to the Gulf, A-Bomb could find nothing to say.

CHAPTER 64

Sergeant Becky Rosen’s fingers betrayed her, fumbling everything from screws to cables, even slipping off the controls of an oscilloscope. She couldn’t staunch the adrenaline, couldn’t slow the thump of her heart as she worked.

Was BJ all right? What had happened north? Where the hell was he?

Every comment from someone in Oz threw her. Every roar of a jet or whistle of landing gear took her attention away from what she was doing. Finally, after nearly smashing a screwdriver through the radar unit in A-Bomb’s plane, she put down her tools and walked away.

“Sarge, what’s up?” called one of the crew.

“Gotta take a leak,” she told him mildly.

“You selling tickets?”

“You won’t make enough money in three lifetimes, Tommy,” she said. “Put that unit back together for me, will ya?”

“Gotcha, Sarge.”

Her legs began to shake as she walked toward the small restroom stall in the back of one of Oz’s hangars. By the time she pushed the door closed behind her, her knees were jelly. As she sat on the commode, her hands began to shake and she realized she was crying.

I can’t do this, she told herself. There’s no way I can do this.

Joining the military didn’t mean you had to give up being human. Nor did it mean that you had to stow your emotions.

But.

But.

Rebecca Rosen felt as if she’d slipped into someone else’s body. The limbs didn’t work quite the same way. The head seemed at a permanent tilt. The borrowed eyes made the light seem more yellow.

No. This wasn’t her. She wouldn’t do it. She couldn’t.

Feet scuffled along the floor a few yards away. Sergeant Rosen ran her fingers through her short hair and kneaded the skin behind her ears. She took a long breath, reached around and flushed the commode.

Outside, she scowled when a staff sergeant said something about A-Bomb’s plane needing an entire overhaul: new sumps, new fuel system, new skin..

“No fuckin’ way,” she said. “Just go get Tinman. He’ll tell you what to do if you can’t handle it.”

“Sump’s shot out,” said the sergeant.

“You want me to fuckin’ kiss it and make it better?”

The sergeant scurried back under the plane.

“Getting on them kind of hard this morning, no?” said Sergeant Clyston from behind her.

“There’s no fucking way we’re losing an airplane because it has a dent,” Rosen told him. “It can be fixed. I checked it myself.”

Clyston nodded, but said nothing.

A half-hour later, Lieutenant Dixon and Gunny landed. By then, details of the mission had spread through Oz. Rosen and the others knew that the SAS men had been rescued and the MiG stolen. They also knew that Dixon’s radio had been shot out — and that Major Preston had been killed when the MiG malfunctioned and he had to bail.

Sergeant Rosen stayed back in the hangars when Dixon landed. With any other pilot, on any other day, she would have among the first to inspect the plane. Instead, she busied herself with a balky INS unit, working at a bench at the furthest end of Devil Squadron Hangar 1.

Still, her hands trembled when she heard his voice behind her.

Still, her heart seemed to stop when he touched her shoulder gently.

She let herself step back into the borrowed body for a brief moment, turning and hugging him. It was a warm hug, and even though the world sat at a slant, even though the light seemed all wrong, there was a certain comfort — maybe a great comfort.

“Gotta work,” she said, pushing away sharply, regaining herself. “Gotta get this done ASAP. Sorry.”

Silent, Dixon stood watching her. How long he stood there, she couldn’t say, but she knew when she turned that he would be gone; and he was.

CHAPTER 65

“You did a goddamn good job,” the general told Knowlington after he picked up the phone in his office. “You hit a grand slam.”

Knowlington pulled out his chair and sat down as the general continued. The British were ecstatic, the Delta people were ecstatic, even the CinC, the man himself, was ecstatic.

They all knew that he’d lost a pilot. They weren’t being insensitive; they were putting it in perspective.

Actually, they were being insensitive, but that was the way it was. Skull would have expected no less if he had bought it and Preston managed to get the MiG back to the base intact.

He’d circled the wreck while the SAR people came in. The pararescuers told him Preston had been ripped from the parachute by the force of the ejection. The Iraqi gear had been damaged somehow; one of the clasps had come loose, the strap ripped, or both. Even so, it was a freak accident, a one in a million shot.

“Just unlucky,” said the pararescuer.

The plane had crashed in the desert about a mile away. A team had already secured it for transport. There had been no fire. Wong, who was en route to the scene, suspected that the plane’s fuel system had malfunctioned and the tanks had run bone dry.

Maybe one of the gauges on the dash had malfunctioned. Maybe Hack had miscalculated by using the afterburners. Maybe they’d made a mistake on the ground when they loaded the fuel in. Any of those things could have happened. Maybe all of them had.

Even so, it shouldn’t have been fatal. Worst case, Hack should have been able to float down to earth, cursing the whole way.

A freak, unlucky thing.

There’d be a thick report circulated around the Pentagon and Congress and even the White House.

“Preston deserves a medal,” said the general.

“Absolutely,” Knowlington agreed.

“We want that in high gear. We may go for the big one. I think it’s worth it. Risked his life under fire. Honor for us all.”

“Okay,” said Knowlington.

The line went silent for a moment. “Preston wasn’t a friend of yours, was he?”

“Hated my guts, I think.”

“Word is he wanted your job.”

“Wouldn’t want a DO who didn’t.”

“We’ll get you a replacement. Say Mike, did you call to give me a backdoor on the mission? Or was something else up?”

To quit, to walk away — it would be like leaving a job half done. It would be like letting down his guys, his kids, his boys.

Damn, he wanted a drink. He wanted it so bad his tongue burned and he could feel anger rising inside. He wanted it so bad he felt like yelling into the phone, screaming: “I just lost a goddamn pilot! And why? Why? Because grabbing a plane out from Saddam’s nose was just too cool a thing to pass up!… Because I felt sorry for myself and wanted to go out in a blaze of glory… Because Hack wanted my job and figured he could get it by pulling off the impossible… Because of some freak, uncontrollable accident.”

Because that’s the way war was.

He wanted a drink, and somehow that was enough to make him stay.

“Yeah,” he told the general. “I knew you weren’t in the loop.”

“I appreciate it, Mikey. Commendation in this for you, too. Maybe a medal.”

If he’d had just a little more strength, or been a little less tired, or needed a drink a little less badly, he might have told the general what he could do with the medal. Instead he just hung up the phone.