Hog Down

CHAPTER 38

Colonel Knowlington’s eyes were scratchy, straining in the darkness as they swept the cockpit instruments. His shoulder muscles were still a little tight, but otherwise he felt settled in the plane, the Warthog strapped around him. He couldn’t quite tell the performance by feel alone yet— part of his problem was that he expected things to happen faster than they did— but maybe that was just as well; it meant he took less for granted.

A-Bomb was in a combat trail not quite a mile behind him in the dark sky. They flew on silently, observing the general rule that unnecessary transmissions were almost always the ones the enemy used to home in on you.

One thing about the Gulf War that made it a hell of a lot different than Nam— Big Brother was definitely looking over your shoulder. There was an airborne controller working close-in and a fleet of AWACS charting everything but the pigeons from here to Berlin.

Pigeons probably had their own radar planes. Knowlington had always approved of the concept in theory— it greatly increased the odds of holding off enemy interceptors, which in turn meant better survivability for bombers. But it also chipped away at a pilot’s autonomy. Skull had been taught that individual initiative was the cornerstone of successful air combat— in contrast to the heavily orchestrated and ground-controlled Soviet system. The fact that information from the four AWACS on station was relayed back to the command center in Riyadh meant that it could easily be fed to Washington, D.C. Given what had happened in Vietnam, the colonel shuddered at the possibility of some White House janitor helping coordinate the air war on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

That hadn’t happened yet, at least. The two Hogs of Devil Flight had full autonomy to carry out their mission as an unscripted part of the search and rescue team.

Knowlington wanted a drink, but he could deal with that. It was like dealing with the SA-2s or -8s or -13s or Rolands, except that the launch warning was always sounding. You did your jinks, threw your chaff, lit your flares—

Belay the flares at night. Blind the shit out of you. And useless against a radar missile.

Skull rechecked his position on the INS, making sure he was precisely on beam. They were at eighteen thousand feet, which in his mind felt low though it was near the top of the Hog’s comfortable operating envelope. Fires burned in small sparkles in the distance; bulky shadows stretched out around them. Knowlington resisted the impulse to assign positions to the shadows; it was too easy to get the wrong idea stuck in your head. Better to stick to the abstract numbers.

His pulse hadn’t picked up yet. He figured it would, eventually. The adrenaline would start pushing into his stomach. There’d be a quick shock of fear, a motivator, not a paralyzer.

He could deal with fear. He’d been afraid before, plenty of times. Being afraid was familiar.

You took that whale breath, blew it out, let the muscle spasms pass through your system. You went through the wall and on the other side there was perfect clarity.

Usually.

Way point reached. Skull pushed the Hog gently, easing her left wing toward the earth as he brought her onto the prearranged course for the crash site. The plane slipped into the long, shallow glide as smoothly as a canoe edging onto a quiet lake.

The A-10A had two personalities. One was balls-out mud-fighting bitching, in Saddam’s face, screaming. The other, a surprise to Knowlington, was actually gentle. Partly it was her responsiveness to the controls, her tendency to go where you told her. Partly, too, it might have been her lack of top-end. But there was something else there, as if the plane were as human as he was. Maybe it too was trying to monitor the emergency frequency, listening for the piercing squeak of the rescue beacon or, better, Mongoose’s familiar voice.

Nothing but static.

Knowlington worked his controls carefully, putting his eyes around the cockpit and going through his paces, getting ready for the adrenaline. This was a marathon race, and they hadn’t even gotten to the start line yet.

There were sparkles far, far off in the distance. Somebody was taking flak.

Or more likely, an Iraqi gunner was spooked.

If the Hog’s navigational systems were working, they were now about two miles from the spot Mongoose and A-Bomb had been attacking when the plane went down. The colonel eased the Hog’s throttle off further; they were making two hundred and five knots and crossing seven thousand feet. The planes could not be heard above five thousand, and in the dark with their blackish green camo they were essentially invisible to anyone without radar. They’d trace out the attack route as closely as possible at this altitude, then gradually bring it down.

Skull definitely wanted to bring it down; while they were still in bad guy country and ought not push their luck too far, he figured the Hog sound would be instantly recognizable to Mongoose. If anything would provoke a flare, the hum of two Hogs would.

The seeker head in the Maverick found the wrecked overpass still hot from its pounding late yesterday; it was a fuzzy collection of wrecked debris in the small television monitor on the right side of the dash. Knowlington kept it on what passed for wide magnification, easing the Hog toward it with the fascination of a diver approaching an ancient wreck.

“How are we looking?” asked A-Bomb over the squadron’s common frequency as they pushed over the wreckage.

“I have the dummy missiles or what’s left of them,” said Skull. “Bunch of roadway. Maybe the two carriers, I think. A couple of trucks. There’s the Roland launcher. Broke it in half. Good shooting.”

“Wish I’d gotten it sooner.”

“You hear anything on Guard?” Skull asked.

“Nah. You?”

“No. Keep listening.”

“You, too.”

“I’m turning,” said Knowlington, moving to follow the path they believed Mongoose had taken when he was hit. He felt the prick of adrenaline in his stomach as the Maverick screen traced the ground into blankness.

CHAPTER 39

A-Bomb wanted a flare. A little Mark 79 pencil flare, shooting up to six hundred feet, sparkling for four or five seconds before dying out. A big Mark 13 would be even better. Those suckers lasted forever and you could see them from Washington, D.C.

Hell, he’d even settle for a strobe.

But the darkness gave him nothing back. The pilot gripped his stick tighter, following the colonel around the shoot-down area about three-quarters of a mile for another circuit. Scanning the ground with the TVM was slow work, a bit like panning for gold.

A shitload of guys had already been over this but they weren’t Hog drivers. Not that they lacked motivation or expertise or anything like that; they just weren’t part of the Hog brotherhood. Brothers felt stuff other relatives didn’t, simple as that. If he hadn’t been able to find him before, that was just because Mongoose was busy, maybe evading the enemy or something.

So give me a stinking flare, Goose boy.

“Let’s get low enough for him to hear us,” said the colonel, tilting the Hog’s nose downward as he spoke.

“Exactly what I was thinking,” said A-Bomb. He glanced at the radio controls, gave it more volume. The emergency band stayed silent; no chirp, no voice, no nothing.

Hot damn, Goose. Get your butt out of that pup tent and flag us down. My Big Mac’s getting cold, bro.

He ran his eyes around the ground. He’d have preferred having one of the Mavericks himself. Knowlington told him switching them around would have cost them too much time, and even laughed when A-Bomb told him he could set it up himself.

Which he could have, no sweat.

A-Bomb willed his eyes into full-blown owl mode as he stared from the cockpit. Maybe from now on he’d carry some carrots with him, get that extra night-light boost.

Hell, if only he had found an Apache pilot and made that trade. It was top priority when he got back.

Better yet, go mail order and buy himself a pair of starlight goggles. There’d be complications with the instrument glow but hell, Clyston or one of his guys could figure that out.

Maybe they could take whatever the gizmo was that worked the damn thing and expand it to fit the glass of the canopy. So you could have an entire panel of night vision.

That was what he was talking about.

Give me a flare, Mongoose. One lousy, stinking flare. That’s all I’m sayin’.

CHAPTER 40

By the time the Huey landed, Dixon had realized he wasn’t being clandestinely ferried back to the Home Drome, machinations or not. They had flown northwest, and at top speed; by his calculations Iraq was about half a stone’s throw away. He decided that clearance for the Special Ops Scud mission must have come through. His reward— or maybe punishment— was to be granted observer status on the first mission.

Not that he was objecting, but…

The Huey hulked in close to the dark hulk of a fat MH-53J. Originally drawn up as a heavy-lifter, the long-distance helicopter was bigger than a diesel locomotive and a couple of times more powerful. Something like fifty-five troops could crowd into the back, along with the three-man crew. Her real asset, however, were the powerful, long-range electronics and sensors that provided the “Pave Low” designation.

He wasn’t sure it was the right helicopter or even if he really, truly, should be here. But since he didn’t see any other helicopters nearby, Dixon jumped out and ran for it. He kept his head down though there was plenty of clearance.

“Hey, you Dixon?” said the sergeant at the door.

“Yeah?”

“Well come on, Lieutenant. We’ve been waiting for you.”

The sergeant grabbed hold of his arm and yanked him not only into the Pave Low, but practically through to the other side. At the last second, he managed to change his momentum and found himself stumbling toward the front of the big warbird. Just as he was about to steady himself on a bar near the cockpit, the big bird lifted off. Dixon bounced to his left then flew back to the right as the helo’s massive rotors beat the air. He slipped and rolled onto something hard.

It turned out to be the floor.

“What the hell you doin’ down there, BJ?” asked the pilot— his old root beer-drinking buddy, Major Greer.

“I heard the floors on these things were clean enough to eat off,” grunted Dixon, trying to get to his feet despite a fresh jink.

Dixon, who had been aboard a Super Jolly Green Giant before, knew that the choppers could fly relatively smoothly, even when they were moving fast. Apparently Greer hadn’t read that part of the sales brochure.

“About time you got up here,” said Greer. “I been waiting half the night for you.”

“Scud attack hung me up.”

“See? I told you. If we were going for them, you wouldn’t have to put up with that bullshit anymore.”

“We’re not going after the Scuds?”

“Hell no. At least, not tonight. We’re going to go fetch us a Hog driver. Nobody told you?”

“Mongoose?”

“That Major Johnson?”

“Yup.”

“That’s who we’re getting.”

“You found him?”

“I didn’t say we found him. I said we were going to go get him. I’ve been waiting for word that he was found. Lucky for you it didn’t come or we would have been gone.”

Dixon wondered to himself if the other half of that equation meant Mongoose had been unlucky.

“We’d like to make the pickup in the dark,” added the helicopter pilot. “Less people to shoot at us. Sun won’t come up until almost 0530. But we’ll have some fog after that, most likely, so we have some leeway.”

“Has he been spotted yet?”

“No. But we want to get closer so we can make a quick pick-up. Saddam won’t mind if we hang out over the fence, you think?”

“Nah.”

“Word is your colonel knows where he is. Went to mark the way for us.”

“Colonel Knowlington? No shit.”

“If we get lucky, we may smoke a stinking Scud launcher on the way back,” said the major. “Then we’ll all be heroes. Sergeant, fix him up, would you? And keep him calm. Dixon here blasted an Iraqi Hind the other day and word is he’s bucking for the Medal of Honor. I don’t want him falling out of my aircraft until we’re back home.”

CHAPTER 41

The trucks were old military model flatbeds— Soviet he thought, or maybe French—, though as far as Mongoose was concerned their most notable feature was the particularly uncomfortable ribbed metal bed in the back. He sat against the wall of the cab, opposite his two guards, who were crouched a short distance away. Five or six other soldiers clung to various parts of the open back. They didn’t have to grip too hard; the truck was moving at a snail’s pace, following in the dark behind the vehicle equipped with the searchlight. Neither truck seemed to have a muffler, and both were running rougher than the old Camaro Mongoose had owned in high school. Maybe the four hours they’d spent sitting idle as the Iraqis searched got his nonexistent copilot had fouled their plugs.

When they had captured him, Mongoose assumed the men were part of the Iraqi Republican Guard, crack troops equipped with the best weapons and generally regarded as the best disciplined soldiers in the army. Now he wasn’t so sure. He’d seen pictures of the Guards where they were wearing berets; there were no berets in sight, and in fact most of these men had fairly plain uniforms. Most seemed barely teenagers, not the hardened veterans who had fought the Iranians to a stand-still.

His guards had rolled the cuffs of their khaki pants away from the heels of their boots. Even in the dim light, he could tell the ends were frayed. One of the men made an effort to frown every time he caught Mongoose looking at him. The other just stared.

The soldier who had tried to hit him was in the other vehicle. The men on this truck were more curious than angry, and if it weren’t for the roar of the poorly tuned truck motor he might have tried striking up a conversation. Mongoose figured their curiosity was more or less in his favor; it might make them less inclined, or at least less quick, to shoot him.

There had been no interrogation yet. The officer hadn’t seemed much interested in doing anything but making sure he was alone, and then taking him back to wherever they were going in one piece.

But the questioning would surely come. And it wouldn’t necessarily be pleasant.

Mongoose knew a great deal about the Hogs, their tactics and the general situation, but he hardly possessed any great military secrets. Even so, he wanted to give up as little as possible. He certainly wouldn’t volunteer information. But he had to be realistic; it would be impossible to say absolutely nothing if the Iraqis began torturing him. It was a question of how long he could hold out, and what information he could hold back.

Part of him wanted to jump up and dive over the side of the truck right now, make a desperate, foolhardy attempt to escape. But his job wasn’t to do something stupid; it was to survive.

Kath needed him to survive. So did Robby.

Every night before turning in, Mongoose sat in his tent and wrote a just-in-case letter, a last word to his wife in case he didn’t make it back. Knowlington would probably have it by now.

Knowlington. His opinion of the commander had changed somewhat since the fighting started. He actually had done a decent job pulling the unit together; only two months ago it had been organized only on paper, a discordant melange of planes destined for the junk heap with barely enough men to get them there. As Knowlington’s second-in-command, Johnson had done a lot of the work in Saudi Arabia himself, especially with the pilots, but he had to admit, ol’ Skull had a good way about him. He knew just about everybody in the air force. Between him and Sergeant Clyston— a man whose rating seemed to stretch into triple digits— the unit was the best supplied on the base, maybe in the entire air force. Plus, Knowlington just about glowed reassurance, spreading calm and patience wherever he went. Despite all his personal problems, the guy had seen this shit before; he put it in perspective. He thought before he spoke, and actually listened to what people told him.

Maybe too much, since he had been known to ask an airman what he thought and actually consider the advice. The colonel wasn’t by-the-book enough for Mongoose’s taste, not by a mile. And then there was the drinking, which wasn’t much of a secret, though he seemed to have knocked it off since coming to the war zone.

But Knowlington’s biggest knock was the fact that he was a low-timer in the Hog; some of the mechanics probably had flown more. He was an outsider, a fast-mover pilot and commander who ended up heading the A-10 squadron— technically, it was a wing, though only at squadron force— completely by accident. If it hadn’t been for a last minute request by Schwarzkopf himself, Knowlington would have overseen these planes’ flight to the boneyard, not Iraq. Whoever had cut the original orders had basically intended him to be a junkyard foreman, not a combat commander.

But he was a combat commander, and not a bad one. Maybe a real good one. He’d gone through hell in Vietnam, with medals and scars to prove it. He was a real pilot, probably a hero once.

Shit, some day they might say that about him.

Assuming he made it back.

Checklist. Stay in the here and now.

Mongoose imagined himself with a sign around his neck that said he was a war criminal. For some reason, he also saw himself naked — and began to laugh.

The guards looked at him as if he was laughing at them. But he couldn’t stop himself. It seemed like the most hilarious thing in the world, him naked.

Ten or fifteen minutes later, Mongoose was jerked against the cab as the truck stopped short with a crash, rear-ending the one it had been following. The pain in his head, which had subsided almost to the point where he didn’t notice it, returned with a vengeance. His knee gave a fresh twinge of pain.

Both of his guards fell at his feet. They weren’t curious now— they grabbed him viciously and pulled him from the flatbed.

“I didn’t do it,” he said, holding out his hands. “Please. My leg.”

In the next moment he was tossed over the side. He couldn’t get his arms out in front of him quickly enough and the bottom of his jaw snapped upwards, barely missing his tongue, but hurting like all hell anyway. Arms grabbed him and hauled him to his feet; finally a shout from the captain made his captors ease up.

The truck ahead had blown a tire. He thought for a moment that they were going to put him to work changing it, but the soldiers did that themselves after pulling the two vehicles apart. The officer in charge passed by him, shaking his head.

He returned a few minutes later and asked if Mongoose wanted a cigarette.

“Don’t smoke,” said Mongoose.

“Bad for your health, right?” The man took a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and carefully removed a cigarette. “Very difficult to get these days,” he told Mongoose. “American-dog cigarettes. But we all need our luxuries.”

“How do you know English?”

“Everyone knows English.” As he lit the cigarette, the man’s face glowed red. It was not a gentle face, despite his manner. “I went to college at Midwestern. I am an engineer.”

“And you came back?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

No, he wouldn’t, thought Mongoose, and then he realized that of course he would— he would return to his home and family and soon as he could, just as he would when this deployment ended.

“A materials engineer. I could be in great demand in Europe. But there are always complications,” said the officer. “Yourself?”

“I’m just a pilot.”

“Where did you go to school?”

Mongoose hesitated, considering whether the information might somehow help his captor. Probably not, only in the vague way of helping to build rapport. But that probably cut both ways; it might make the man more trusting, and easier to lie to.

“RPI,” he told him. “I was an engineering major, too.”

“Really? Very good. Very good.” The officer nodded, then took a long drag from his cigarette. He seemed as if he was going to say more, but one of his men called him over to the truck.

They’d taken his watch with everything else, so Mongoose wasn’t sure what time it was. From the sky, he guessed that it might be an hour before dawn, somewhere in the long twilight before the sun rose.

If these guys were Moslems— and that seemed a damn good bet— they’d stop for morning prayers. Might be a good time to try running for it.

Why not try now, then? The ground sloped off from the road. The shadows thickened a short distance away.

The running lights of the nearby truck flashed on as the motor came to life.

He caught some low-slung shadows ahead in the strands of moonlit night fog. Buildings, maybe a city, or just a unit headquarters of some type.

His destination?

The truck at the front coughed a few times but refused to start. The motor ground out an incessant whine.

The sound reminded him of a moment two years before, during winter, of his wife having trouble and flooding the car.

He pushed the idea away. Here and now. Checklist mode.

The officer shouted to his men as the battery’s charge ground down. A group went to the back of the truck, as if they were going to push it, and then jump-start it.

That’ll never work, Mongoose thought to himself. But then the AAA probably didn’t offer roadside assistance out here.

As he watched them grunt and groan the vehicle forward, he heard a low, almost guttural hum in the distance.

A Hog.

Was he dreaming it? He looked toward the sky.

The truck engine sputtered and coughed, then somehow caught. He strained to hear over the sound. For undoubtedly the first time in his life he cursed the fact that the A-10A’s turbofans were relatively quiet.

The truck drowned out whatever he had heard. If he had heard anything.

Run for it?

One of his guards put his rifle into Mongoose’s side and prodded him toward their vehicle. He kept his eyes trained toward the sky for another second, desperate to see something.

The guard pushed him forward.

“Into the truck, let’s go,” the Iraqi captain told him. “Now, Major.”

“I have to take a leak,” said Mongoose, desperate to hear the noise again.

“You can relieve yourself when we arrive at our headquarters. It won’t be long.”

“But— ”

“I should not like to shoot you, but I will certainly do so if you do not get on the truck.” The captain had his hand on his pistol.

Mongoose held his hands out. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning and repeating the words to his guards. Then he pulled himself up onto the truck, hesitating for just a second as he got his legs under him, wincing because of his knee, and willing the Hog to return.

CHAPTER 42

Skull leaned into the Maverick’s screen, trying to sort out the shadow. It was small and faint, but wouldn’t that be what a body would look like? It was about a half mile east of a trio of abandoned, probably burnt-out buildings. That was exactly where a pilot hoping to vector a rescue helicopter in might end up— close enough to give the helicopters an easy landmark, but not too close to be found when the enemy searched the obvious hiding places.

Colonel Knowlington pitched the plane around and had it move through the bank quicker than he expected; he fought the impulse to snap back, letting himself ease onto the new course. He was right about the similarities with the old Spad. Not that you flew it the same, of course; it was more the way you thought about it, more the mindset. You saved those hard turns for when you were walking through shit.

“We got something?” A-Bomb asked.

“Not sure. Something warm, but I can’t tell yet. East of the buildings.”

“This is still a little south of where he’d be,” said A-Bomb. “But he could have walked down. Makes sense.”

Skull was too busy trying to wish the shadowy fuzz into focus to answer. The seeker head in the Maverick had been designed to home in on hot engines, and in fact all the experts said it could absolutely not be used as a night-vision device. As much as Knowlington would love to prove them wrong, he had to admit they had a point.

“Hey, we got something moving on the road ten, maybe twelve miles south,” said A-Bomb. “Uh, nine, ten o’clock.”

Skull immediately changed course. This time, there was no question what he was looking at — though it still felt a little like staring at an X-ray machine on monochrome acid.

“Yeah, okay,” he told A-Bomb. “Two trucks. Not very fast.” He glanced back at the artificial horizon, made sure he was level— without real points of reference and your eyes on the TV screen, it was very easy to get discombobulated. But his sense of balance was still at spec— his wings were perfectly paralleling the ground.

“They must be coming for him,” said A-Bomb.

The IR seeker glowed with the two vehicles moving slowly along the highway. The Hogs were approaching from seven o’clock at about eight thousand feet, moving at 320 knots. He flicked the viewer into narrow mode, increasing the magnification to six times but temporarily losing the trucks because the view was narrower. He held his course and they reappeared, fat and slow.

They might be going for Mongoose, but only if that shadow was really him. They might also just be passing through. They were still pretty far off; odds were they’d miss him, even if they searched the buildings.

Attack them and anyone in range of their radio might put things together.

Or not. Best just to splash them. Odds were they were working alone.

“We’ll do a quick circuit, see what else is around,” Skull told him. “You hear the beacon yet?”

“Negative. I keep trying.”

“Me too.”

They passed over the two trucks and rode out about three miles before banking back. There didn’t seem to be anything else out here.

Plinking the truck with the Maverick was child’s play. You flagged the crosshairs onto the target and locked it; the missile took care of the rest. Skull pushed the nose of his Hog down, accelerating slightly as he came back around toward the truck from the northeast. He had 5,500 feet, no wind to speak of, a nice smooth ride and a good view of the trucks on the screen. He was lower than he probably had to be but that would only increase his accuracy.

Skull locked on the engine and ready to fire.

As he closed, the reconsidered the situation. There were only two Mavericks aboard. He had to keep one if he was going to use it to see. That meant he had only one shot, and it seemed like a waste to take out such a soft target with it.

Better to use the cannon. Except that it was dark and they’d have to go even lower.

“Whatchya doin’, Skip?” asked A-Bomb.

“I don’t think these guys are worth a missile,” said Skull.

“They’re heading toward Goose. I can feel it,” said A-Bomb.

Skull pulled the Hog’s nose up, breaking his approach and swinging back to the north. “Want to get some shooting in?” Knowlington asked his wingman.

“Shit yeah.”

“Here’s the game plan. We’ll go back, fly a trail, you behind me. Get good separation. I’ll hit a flare; you come in and smoke ‘em. If we time it right, you should be able to splash both trucks on one pass. I’m pulling up and to the left; you go right.”

“I’m with you, Colonel. Let’s do it.”

“Watch your eyes. If you’re blinded, pull off and take another turn. I’ll be spinning around for your six.”

“Sounds good.”

Skull brought his Hog onto the course and reached for the throttle, pulling it out and bringing the nose down at the same time. The plane jumped downward, air shrieking around her as she bolted into the attack. He used the Maverick screen to help measure the distance, one finger up on the panel to kick out the LUU-2 flare. The Hog was low enough now to be heard and he expected ground fire at any second. It wouldn’t amount to anything but an annoyance— unless, of course, one of the Iraqis was packing the silver bullet.

Silver bullet came and got you no matter what. So you couldn’t waste your worry on that one.

Knowlington focused on the screen. He pushed himself down into the seat, trying to melt himself into the plane, make his muscles merge with it. The trucks glowed brighter and brighter in the TVM. He was just about to pass them and he yanked the stick— too hard he could tell— but he caught it quick, fired the flare, and now had his hands full, the Hog bucking above the flash. Temporarily he was lost. There was light everywhere and something popped in his head— a light snap and a burst, a thin string breaking— and he was in control, flying the plane, pushing up through five and then six thousand feet, going faster than he expected and banking into a turn, positioning himself to watch A-Bomb’s butt but also step in if he missed.

CHAPTER 43

This time, he knew it was a Hog, and he knew it was coming back. It came at him close and sudden, and he jumped to his feet in the moving truck, as excited as if a guardian angel had suddenly appeared in the sky. He pitched around toward the front of the truck, looked over the cab into the darkness, up at the crescent moon. He thought he saw the plane’s shadow pass in front, the moon winking at it as it dove to rescue him; thought he felt the thick wings of the Hog swoop to grab him and pluck him to safety.

In the next second, an LUU-2 parachute flare exploded overhead, the light of two million candles turning the desert brighter than a ballpark during the World Series. His whole face stung with the sudden light. Rifles next to him started to fire.

Then he realized what was happening:

The Hogs were going to smoke the truck.

Head down, still temporarily blinded, he pushed to get away, leaping and flailing toward the side of the vehicle. The earth roared behind him, hell opening up and spitting sulfur. Major James “Mongoose” Johnson felt himself lifted up, then flying through the air, brimstone and molten metal stinging his nostrils.

CHAPTER 44

When she’d told them she’d speak at nine p.m., it had seemed like a very long time off. But it was here, and even though she had nothing to say, nothing more than she could have said a few hours ago, or even days, Kathy Johnson felt as if she had to keep her commitment. She pushed the palms of her hands across her freshly laundered blue skirt and stood up from the couch.

Jean, her mother-in-law, turned her face from the television screen and looked up from her side.

“It’s time,” Kathy told her.

None of the others moved, not her father-in-law Bob on the small upholstered chair, or the two Air Force officers on the love seat at the far end of the room. Major Barbara Figundio, an information specialist and PR troubleshooter, stood in the door frame to the kitchen, where she had been helping herself to a sandwich.

“I’m ready,” Kathy said.

“You don’t have to go out there if you don’t want to,” said Figundio.

“I told them I would.”

“It’s still your call. You’re in charge.”

Kathy had no idea who might really be in charge of this thing, but it wasn’t her. “How’s my makeup?”

“Perfect,” said Jean.

“Looks good,” said the major.

She walked toward the door, pausing to catch her reflection in the mirror that hung near the far hallway.

She was still heavy from the baby. The knit sweater, a light blue, hid a bit of her midsection. Her hair needed to be cut, but she looked presentable.

The news people on the front lawn let out a shushing noise as she came out from the house, a cross between a sigh and a deep breath. They stood back a moment as she stepped forward, as if they were surprised she had remembered she said she would come out. Kathy gave a half-wave to the policeman, then beckoned the media people forward as if she were signaling to a shy child.

No shy child would have moved so quickly up the lawn. By now, there were more than two dozen reporters from all media, as well as their assorted camera crews and assistants. They came right up to the steps, barely leaving her six inches worth of personal space as they jostled to get their microphones and cameras into position. She smiled as best she could, waiting for them to settle in. When one or two pushed forward a little too close, she held her hand out, motioning them back like Halloween trick-or-treaters who’d gotten a little too eager for their candy.

She waited until everyone stopped fussing. It was remarkable what good manners they actually had.

She saw her breath in front of her as she opened her mouth to speak.

“My name is Kathleen Johnson and obviously you know why I’m here,” she heard herself say.

It was a good start. She remembered tricks from her college speech class: look people in the eye, be upbeat, replace the ums and uhs with pauses. When in doubt, silence looked smart.

“I really can’t say anything beyond what the Air Force has told you. My husband was a pilot when I met him and I’ve understood the risks since before we were married. He has an important job to do and… the, uh, the other members of the squadron are professionals and they have a job to do, too.”

Her voice wavered. All of a sudden she wasn’t sure what she was talking about— professionals? Well of course they were, but what was the point?

She could feel her lips starting to waver.

She was out here not just to answer questions, but to inspire others who might be in the same position. She couldn’t break down; that wouldn’t inspire anyone, except maybe the people who had shot down her husband.

She wanted to call an end to this quickly, but stopping would just make it worse. She ducked her head ever so slightly the way a horse might during a tough part of a race. “I’m sure Jimmy will be back in one piece very, very soon,” she said. “In the meantime, I’m fine and the rest of the family is fine. We appreciate the country’s concern.”

She smiled. Good enough.

She reached behind her for the door handle.

“You have no information on where your husband went down?” asked a reporter.

It caught her slightly off-guard. “Of course not,” she said. “And if I did, do you really think I would broadcast it to Saddam? He’s sure to be watching these reports. The man is a murderer; I’m not going to lead him to my husband.”

“The Air Force won’t tell you?”

The major bristled beside her; Kathy squeezed her arm before she could say anything. “The Air Force has been exceedingly helpful. They’re family,” she said, her voice sharp. “Are there other questions?”

“How is your little boy?” asked a woman reporter on her left. She recognized the voice— it was the person who had left the phone message.

“Well, almost sleeping through the night these days,” Kathy told her.

It was the same thing she told all the relatives— but the reporters took it as a joke and laughed.

“I remember those days,” said the woman.

“Could we have his age?” asked a man near her.

“Three months. Almost four.”

“Wow. That’s tough.”

“A lot of military families have more children and are in the same position as I am— well almost the same,” Kathy said. “What about you? Do you have children?”

“Two. And the first one had colic. I don’t think my wife or I slept for the first six months.”

“He took after his dad,” quipped one of the reporters. The others laughed.

“Well, Robby doesn’t have colic, thank God,” said Kathy. “But I really should get back to him. Are there other questions?”

“Has the President called yet?” said a man on her right.

“Why would the President call?” she asked him. His face looked vaguely familiar; Kathy believed she had seen him on TV but couldn’t quite place him.

“He said he would.”

“Could we listen in?” asked the jerk who had wanted her to direct Saddam to her husband.

“I’m sure anything he’d have to say would be private,” said Kathy. “And anything I’d say would be trivial. I don’t think he’s calling; I mean, I wouldn’t think he would. Not for this. It’s not, it’s not necessary.”

She felt her lip quivering. The Air Force people hadn’t told her about the President.

She didn’t think he’d be calling if it was good news.

The moon, a flat yellow crescent, caught her eye. Its glow seemed to brighten for a moment, twinkling with an obscure reflection. It warmed her, helped her catch her lip. She stared at it for a moment, wondered at how far away it was, how it hung there, constant.

“All right,” she said, feeling exactly how heavy and cold her hands had become. She wrapped them together across her chest. “I’m going back now. Thank you for coming.”

Thank you for coming? But what else would you say? She gave one last smile, then turned to the door.

“When will you talk to us again?” asked the jerk.

Never to you, she thought. But the cameras were still rolling; she didn’t want it to look as if she were running away.

“In the morning, unless I need you to watch the baby,” she said.

“Hey, I’m good at burping kids,” said the reporter whose child had been colicky. “Let me know if you need help.”

The others laughed and she smiled, squeezing back through the door.

Kathy took two steps inside before she began to shake. A moment later, she found herself crying on her father-in-law’s shoulder, nearly out of control even as he told her she had done real fine.

CHAPTER 45

The first truck frothed beneath the weight of the bullets, crackling into dust as A-Bomb stood on the rudder pedals, walking the cannon back and forth through the son of a bitch like he was working a drill into a piece of diseased wood. His eyes stung a bit from the flare and the world had a bit of a washed-out tint to it but he wasn’t pausing even to blink them now. Keeping the A-10 in her dive, he eased off the trigger, giving the gun a brief rest before picking up the second truck. The bullets skipped out of the plane again, the kick pushing the Hog back as if the force of the gun alone could keep the plane in the air.

A-Bomb started to drift off target and realized he was running out of space; he held on for just a half-second more, squeezing off a good burst before yanking into his escape. He pushed the plane for all she was worth, vulnerable now; he’d wiped the trucks but there was always a chance, remote but there, that some patriotic Iraqi had scrounged an SA-16 and managed to survive the on-rush of uranium and high-explosives. The plane’s nose sniffed for the darkness, welcoming the cover like a real warthog escaping into the bushes.

Somebody was aiming at him. He felt a flash from behind, small for a rocket and well behind him, but coming for him nonetheless. Without hesitating or waiting for Skull’s warning he goosed off some decoy flares and gave the Hog all the throttle she would take. A-Bomb closed his eyes against the new flare’s light but even when he opened them the glare was worse than flying through a blizzard with a pair of arc lamps strapped to the fuselage. It took an eternity for the plane to climb away. His eyes struggled to regain their night vision; he couldn’t even see his instruments.

Not that he needed them. This morning the Hog was just about flying herself. She did that, when the stakes got high enough. The plane wagged her fanny in the air as she climbed, now out of range of any shoulder-fired heat-seeker. From her point of view, it hadn’t taken long to get away at all. Her pilot said go and she went.

As A-Bomb brought the plane around and began looking for his lead, he saw that one of the two trucks had caught fire.

He decided he’d get the other on his next swing.

“What was with the flares?” asked Skull.

“I felt something.”

“I had your six. Bring your course around another forty degrees.”

“I was thinking another pass.”

“Negative,” snapped the colonel. “You wiped their asses on your first pass. No sense wasting any more bullets. You see me yet, or you need me to key the mike?” he added, offering to use the radio as a crude direction finder, since the A-10A’s gear could show the direction of transmission.

“No, I got you,” said A-Bomb.

“We’re going over that spot near the buildings with a fine tooth comb.”

“Listen, I didn’t mean that I thought you wouldn’t warn me if someone was shooting at me. I just had a hunch, like I felt something coming off the ground for me.”

Knowlington didn’t bother answering.

CHAPTER 46

Mongoose landed arm first and felt a bone in his forearm snap.

His head blanked. His whole body moved away from him. Dirt pushed into his nose and mouth. He bit the inside of his lip, felt the dizziness come, and rolled.

The pilot remembered the flares tucked inside his flight suit. He got to his knees and reached for the bandoleer. Halfway there the pain overwhelmed him and his right arm fell limp; he fell forward onto his head, scraping against the dirt. Bent into the earth, resting on his shoulder, he reached for the flares with his good hand, tearing at his suit to retrieve them.

There was shouting and moaning and crying behind him. The A-10s had pulled off, probably to line up for another pass. They’d see the flare if he fired.

The gas tank on one of the trucks exploded. He felt the heat on his back, felt himself pitched to the side. He rolled, loosing the bandoleer with the flares before he stopped against something large and soft.

It was one of the Iraqi soldiers. Reaching to push himself away Mongoose felt the man’s uniform. It was wet; he’d been so scared he’d peed himself.

Shuffling himself to his knees Mongoose, realized the man was dead. It wasn’t piss, it was blood. His left hand was smeared with it.

He turned away, looking for the bandoleer. The flare the Hogs had launched was still descending but its light was becoming fitful. One or two men moved on the far side of the road. He heard crying. His own arm hurt so bad he couldn’t be entirely sure the moans weren’t his own.

He saw the flares and pushed his body down for them as if he were a snake, not a man, curling in the cold fog and fine dirt. He made an effort to keep his right hand close to his body and immobile, but firing the flares was more important. He grappled with the holder and the small gun, had to use his bad arm, and might have screamed with the pain, but his head was swimming now with adrenaline. He managed somehow to push the jackhammering throb to one side. He rolled back on his haunches into a seated position, cradling the launcher on the ground, and fired.

Nothing happened.

He started to move his head forward to take a look when the rocket hissed upward, streaking toward the sky like a July 4th firework. Shocked, he jerked backward, dropped the launcher, and fell onto his back as the rocket climbed quickly to nearly six hundred feet, where its small warhead ignited with a red burst.

Did they see it? The LUU-2 was still burning, and now there were other flares just north of them, decoys probably; whoever was flying the Hogs was worried about ground missiles.

They hadn’t seen him. He would have to fire another. Mongoose scooped up the bandoleer and forced it into his right hand. His fingers had numbed but he managed to hold it steady enough to remove another of the small, cylindrical metal cartridges. There were like mini-thermoses, filled not with water but life-giving fire.

“No,” said a voice behind him.

Mongoose turned and saw the Iraqi captain, his pistol aimed at his face. The man’s uniform was singed and tattered; fog and smoke swirled around him. But his mouth and eyes looked calm and determined despite the chaos.

“If you try to fire another flare, Major, I will kill you. Put the launcher down.”

The jets had moved off. Their engine noise was gone; they’d missed him.

“Put the launcher down. Now, Major. I will not tell you again.”

Slowly, carefully, Mongoose complied.

CHAPTER 47

Colonel Knowlington pushed the stick hard, felt the world drop away. His brain split into two halves. One contained the fuzzy TVM image, and the other the blur of dark earth in front of the Warthog’s nose. He wanted to be low so Mongoose would be sure to hear them. He wanted to make this fast, just in case someone other than his pilot was down there.

He also wanted not to plow into the earth.

But he worked the roll and dive well, pushing the plane over, then around, and finally into a majestic swoop as pretty as poetry, pulling out and starting to recover just as the altimeter touched two hundred feet. He rocked across the path he’d mapped above as perfectly as if he were drawing it on paper.

The TVM was blank. The dirt here was cold and dead, without so much as an old log on the surface. He pushed around, checked his altitude, checked the screen, looked outside. Nothing.

The Warthog loved it down here. She felt like a horse finally released from the paddock.

Most likely, A-Bomb hadn’t meant the flares as a vote of no-confidence.

Knowlington nudged the Hog into another turn. He made four more low-level circuits, scanning the entire area as carefully as a miner working an old stream.

The TVM stayed blank. He couldn’t get the shadow back, not even a hint of one.

“See anything?” he asked his wingman.

“Negative. I was hoping for a strobe, but nada.”

“I’m going to do it again.”

“Gotcha.”

He got his airspeed down even further for the second low-level pass, dropping down toward a hundred knots, slower than a car on a highway. Plane didn’t seem to mind; she seemed capable of just about stopping in midair.

He knew Mongoose wasn’t here but he made a complete circuit anyway. Where the hell could he be?

Most likely, the Iraqis had gotten him already. That explained why there were no radio transmissions.

There could be another explanation. The pilot’s body could be lying back there in the wreckage, mangled beyond recognition. They could be wasting their time, and risking their own necks for nothing.

He was going to catch holy shit when Glosson found out about this little adventure. It’d be worth it if he came back with Mongoose.

What the hell. At his age, the only thing he was really good for was getting yelled at.

No. He could still fly. Damn Hog proved that. For all the bad things he’d once said about her, she didn’t hold even the barest of grudges. She might be smirking a little bit, just around the edges, but otherwise she did what he asked, real smooth and professional.

Knowlington began pulling up as he returned to his starting point. This time A-Bomb asked him if he’d seen anything.

“Negative,” Skull told him. “Maybe that shadow wasn’t anything, or maybe he heard all the commotion and started heading north. Let me come up a bit and then let’s follow the highway.”

“Gotcha.”

“Say A-Bomb, I have a question for you. Is that music I hear behind your transmissions?”

“The Boss. Bruce Springsteen.”

Knowlington snorted into his mike. “You planning on blasting the Iraqis with it?”

“I told Clyston it would be a good idea,” said A-Bomb. There was no question he was serious. “A couple of speakers mounted below the wings and I could scare the piss out of them while I was taking a bomb run. Like a Stuka’s siren. That’s what I’m talking about.”

Hog drivers.

But hell, Knowlington thought, I’m one of them.

“Don’t let it break your concentration,” he told his wingman, fixing his eyes back on the TVM as he swung onto the new course.

CHAPTER 48

His arm hurt like all hell. The pain seemed to push his whole body off at a strange angle, twisting his movements into a tortured caricature as the various muscles and nerves tried to compensate for the imbalance the injury had caused.

Mongoose had sprained his wrist twice in high school playing football, but this was a million times worse. His stomach felt as if he’d swallowed a bowling ball. His temples were cold and sweaty. It might be because he was tired and hungry and thirsty, drained from the ordeal of the last twenty-four hours, or maybe it was just the way broken bones felt. He sat with his head against his knees, eyes closed, as the Iraqi captain surveyed the remains of his command. The bandoleer with its flares was only a few yards away, but it might as well be miles now. Mongoose mouthed a piece of his flight suit into his teeth, gritting against it as if it might offer some sort of relief.

“Your arm,” said the Iraqi, standing over him. “What happened?”

“When I fell off the truck. It broke, I guess.”

“You friends did that to you.”

He didn’t answer. The captain didn’t know how right he was. The attackers had definitely been Hogs, and they must have been looking for him. He would bet anything that A-Bomb had been one of the pilots.

Pretty damn ironic.

“My division headquarters will send troops to pick us up. You will not escape.”

Mongoose nudged his head back toward his knee, bit again. The ground was tilted to his left, keeling over on its axis.

He wondered how long he could remain conscious.

“All right, Major, let us move back to the road. There is more light there. Come on now, get up.”

Mongoose flinched when the man touched him under the shoulder, but once again his grip was light, not quite gentle but not wrenching either. He stumbled, aware that the captain had his pistol drawn.

“Go, ahead of the trucks. I am right behind you.”

Mongoose began walk. They were alone. Four or five bodies were scattered near the trunk, including that of the man he had landed against when the gas tank exploded.

There had been at least a half-dozen more, but they were nowhere around. It was possible they were biding their time in a defensive position up the road, or had regrouped with an NCO. But Mongoose didn’t think so; he thought they had run off. They were mostly kids, after all, and it was a good chance that this had been their first real combat.

He’d heard a lot of things before the war about how tough the Iraqis were; the country had sustained a long conflict with Iran, after all. But the Iraqis didn’t seem to be living up to their advance billing.

“Ahead of the truck and onto the road,” said the major. “Keep moving.”

Mongoose corrected his course. Walking along the highway had its advantages; it would make it easier for the Hogs to find him.

They’d be back soon. The sun was starting to peek up at the far edge of the horizon. They’d have an easy time spotting him once it was light.

What would the major do then?

Shoot him most likely.

They walked together for no more than five minutes, Mongoose leading the way slowly, holding his damaged right arm but not looking at it.

“Stop now. We’ll rest here. Let me see your arm.”

“It’s fine,” Mongoose told him.

“Let me see it,” said the captain. He held his pistol in his left hand, close to his body. Mongoose eyed it, thought of trying to wrestle for it. The Iraqi didn’t seem particularly powerful, but of course Johnson had only one good arm. And he was too far away; he’d get off at least two shots before Mongoose even came close.

Bile welled in his throat as he held his right arm out. If he’d had anything in his stomach besides water he would have puked.

“Undo your shirt sleeve. This is as close as I’m getting.”

As Mongoose reached to his sleeve, he realized it was covered with blood. His first thought was that the blood had come from the Iraqi he’d stumbled over earlier, but as he curled his fingers beneath the cuff he realized it was wetter beneath the sleeve. The involuntary startle sent a fresh wave of nausea and pain through his body. He dropped his arm with a groan and sank slowly, finally overwhelmed. Everything beyond the immediate confines of his body disappeared into a hazy buzz.

“Do not move,” said the captain from inside the haze. Mongoose felt the barrel of the pistol against his cheek. A knife appeared at his sleeve and he felt the fabric being torn away. The pain he felt in his arm made Mongoose shriek. He stumbled against the captain, then cringed, his eyes closed, expecting the man to shoot him.

But he did not. The Iraqi waited for Mongoose to catch his balance with his good arm, then calmly took two steps backwards. He slipped the knife back into its sheath.

“You have a compound fracture. It will have to be set as soon as we get back. There will be a doctor. Just be sure to say that I did not do that to you when we reach my headquarters.”

Mongoose stuttered a yes. The buzz began to subside, the pain receding or his ability to deal with it growing. He leaned back from his three-point stance, resting in a crouch.

It seemed inconceivable that the officer would be this kind. Surely, if their situations had been reversed and his own men were lying dead nearby, at least some of his anger would have shown through. He might even have shot the son of a bitch. No one would blame him, and he could always say the guy was trying to escape.

If anyone even bothered to ask.

Maybe it was a duty thing, the major under orders to fetch the pilot back alive. Maybe there was a reward, and it would only be paid if he was unharmed. Still, to act so mildly toward him— it seemed incredible.

And yet he was the enemy, not a friend. He had meant it when he said he would shoot him if he tried to escape; there seemed no doubt about that.

“I’m going to put a canteen on the ground. When I step back, you can have a drink.”

“Thank you, Major.”

“You’re welcome, Major.”

Mongoose focused his eyes on the ground in front of him, waiting for the canteen. His tongue was dry in his mouth, brittle; he wanted water so badly, his heart started pounding.

It could be a trick, he thought when the canteen failed to appear. Maybe perverted revenge.

But no, he had only been unscrewing the top. The Iraqi stepped back and motioned for Mongoose to come forward.

He did quickly. The water felt incredibly delicious. He knew he shouldn’t have too much— more than a few mouthfuls on an empty, parched stomach and it would all come shooting back, leaving him more dehydrated than before. But it took great effort to stop. He squatted with the canteen between his legs and fixed the cap with his good hand.

“Very creative,” said the Iraqi after retrieving the canteen. “You must have been a good engineer.”

“Actually, I probably sucked. All I’ve ever really wanted to do was fly. Engineering was just a backup.”

“Too bad you didn’t choose it.”

“I’ve done all right.”

As Mongoose finally rose, a fresh breeze scratched at his face. He didn’t feel its chill; instead, it seemed to push more of the pain away.

He remembered Kathy’s letter and reached for it involuntarily.

“Stop!” demanded the Iraqi.

“It’s nothing. Just the letter you gave me back before. From my wife.”

It was too dark to read his face clearly, but the major’s tone said that he would no longer completely trust him. “Empty your pocket slowly,” the Iraqi told him.

Mongoose reached inside and took out the letter. He held it up.

“Just the letter from my wife. It’s not worth anything to you. You already saw it and gave it back.”

They were silent for a moment. The Iraqi reached forward to grab the letter and Mongoose felt anger well up inside him. For a half-second he thought he was going to dive into the man; his muscles tensed for what would have been a quick, suicidal fight.

Then the major snatched the letter from his hand and jumped back. Any chance of attacking him was gone.

“I haven’t read it yet,” said Mongoose.

“You’ll have plenty of time later. Let’s find something to make a sling,” said the Iraqi. “And then we will walk. It is better than sitting around waiting for your friends to come back, don’t you think?”

CHAPTER 49

Skull snapped the mike button as he acknowledged the airborne controller. Things were getting busy, but even with upwards of a hundred pilots trucking north no one had heard from Mongoose or picked up his emergency beacon.

The ground had an orange glow to it, and some pieces of vegetation near the horizon looked as if they were on fire. The buildings were dull black and silver, just starting to catch the light.

The wrecked overpass and its assorted debris came up on his right wing. Skull walked past it, indicated air speed down to one hundred and twenty knots— he could flop down the landing gear and put down on the roadway. Skull gave himself more throttle and took the Hog into a gentle climb, gradually working himself into a wide, lazy— considering where they were — turn while he scanned the ground for any sign of Mongoose or his parachute. It ought to be visible by now.

Assuming he’d gone out.

He gave a quick glance at the gas gauge on his right panel, then put his eyes back outside, moving ahead toward the wreckage of the A-10A, working out what had happened for the third or fourth time.

He was hit back there, the plane crashed up here. Somewhere in between, there ought to be a chute.

Or his chair at least, if everything screwed up.

Nothing.

Okay, so there’s a lot of wind. Still, he didn’t just disappear.

Skull kept the Hog climbing as he circled again, his eyes working the ground like a miner sifting for gold. A-Bomb had done all of this yesterday, the F-16s had done this— nothing.

What if the Iraqis picked him up right away? That would explain why there was no radio transmission. They might have taken the chute and seat. Most likely they would, either as evidence or souvenirs.

Passing over the Scuds, Skull reset the attack run that had gotten Mongoose nailed. Devil One was there, Devil Two there. Overpass was immense, got to give them that. Attack here, zoom in. Bam, bam, bam. Mongoose pulls up.

His head is still back with the front of the underpass, wondering why the hell he didn’t get a bigger boom. Maybe he’s figured out they’re decoys.

There’s no warning until the launch. The gunner must be using his eyeballs or something is screwed up.

Using his eyeballs? Shit. What the hell would the odds be on making that shot?

But something like that happened. The ECMs are useless against the Roland anyway. So let’s say he lets go and the missile takes up its own targeting. He starts pulling off here when he’s hit.

Okay, no, he didn’t quite make the turn. Which actually gives him this vector when the Roland comes out.

Yes, and the Hog kicked due north after the ejection, okay, he was going this way when he went out.

Mongoose has turned off, he’d be working himself back, momentum shifting around. Doesn’t see the shot.

Which hits him here? How?

No. He’s still moving. Has to be back over there, because otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten both trailers before he pulled off. But boy, this really doesn’t line up with the crash site.

Of course it doesn’t, because the missile takes out part of the wing, enough to make it spin back.

The plane was throwing them off. Damn, he knew from ‘Nam you couldn’t trust the stinking wreckage. Planes had a mind of their own once no one was watching them. Hell, he’d heard of one flew all the way back to its aircraft carrier and landed on its own.

Probably not a true story.

So Mongoose is fighting a yawl and leaning over like a sinking ship when he pulls the handles. Comes out like an artillery shot instead of a mortar, sideways.

And then you add the wind.

He was further south than they’d been looking.

Much. Beyond where they’d smoked those trucks.

Shit.

“A-Bomb, were you inverted when you saw Mongoose?”

“I was climbing.”

“Put your plane there.”

“The exact spot?”

“As close as you can. Slow it down.”

“I go any slower I’m going to be moving backwards.”

“Hogs can’t do that?”

The colonel watched Devil Two fly over the dead truck, then jerk upwards and around. “Saw it here out of the corner of my eye.”

“You sure you weren’t further south.”

“I might’ve been a little. My angle was sharper, that’s for sure. I saw him while I was jinking.”

“And he got both Scud decoys on his run?”

“Smoked ‘em.”

“Take my wing.”

“What are we doing?”

“Just crank up your music and follow me.”

CHAPTER 50

When the Iraqi major was sure the soldier was dead, he knelt near him and with his knife cut away a piece of his shirt. He worked roughly, keeping one eye on Mongoose the entire time. He knotted the strip of cloth with his teeth, then flung it toward the pilot.

The sling landed on the ground. Mongoose waited for the major to step back, then took a step and scooped it up.

He caught a strong whiff of the dead man’s sweat as he pulled it around his shoulder.

The pain had leveled off. He eased his arm into the sling, then pressed his fingers into a fist around the edge of the material. They were limp and starting to swell slightly.

“And now we start walking,” said the Iraqi. “You first.”

Mongoose turned and started toward the road. The sun was nearly up now. He knew the Hogs would come back; it was just a question of waiting long enough for them.

Had the Iraqi been lying about the soldiers coming for them? No matter; the Hogs would smoke them as they’d smoked the trucks.

They might smoke him, too. He’d have to wave a flag or something.

How?

If the planes appeared, he might be able to convince the Iraqi to surrender with him. Maybe that was why he was treating him so well— maybe he hoped an SAR team would pop up over the horizon.

He’d been trained as an engineer in America. Maybe he wanted to go back.

That was why he was being so nice.

“You’re going slow,” said the Iraqi. He sounded like he was ten feet behind him.

“I’m tired.”

“You’ll sleep soon enough.”

“What happened to the rest of your men? The planes didn’t kill them all.”

A sore point, obviously— the Iraqi didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was sharp and stern.

“That is not your concern.”

They walked more. Mongoose’s legs were starting to wear out, but his head raced with the pain and adrenaline. He needed some plan to get away, but his mind wouldn’t focus long enough on any one possibility. Run for it, turn around overpower the Iraqi, talk his captor into giving up with him— ideas flitted indiscriminately through his brain, each as likely as the next. He had no more judgment.

“Why have you stopped?” the captain asked him.

“I’m stopped?”

Mongoose turned around, genuinely surprised. The sky had lightened sufficiently now that they could see each other’s expressions from ten paces away, and the Iraqi must have realized that his prisoner was not trying to trick him.

“We cannot stop,” he said. “You may be too tired to keep moving.”

“I’m really tired. I’ve been up since very early yesterday.”

“If you cannot come with me, I’ll kill you. I’ll say that the planes did it, or that you were trying to escape.”

“My legs feel like they’re going to fall off. Let me sit a moment, then I’ll try again. Or we can wait for the men you said were coming for us.”

Reluctantly, the Iraqi motioned that he could rest. Jangled as he slipped down, Mongoose’s arm screamed with pain. In a way, he welcomed it— the Iraqi was right; he was dangerously close to falling asleep.

Not even sleep, oblivion. His body had been through so much in the past twenty-four hours, in the past week, since the war began, in the past two months— he just didn’t have anything left. Sleep was a warm, beckoning sauna, waiting to sweat the fatigue from his body.

He had to survive. Sleep was as much the enemy, more the enemy, than the Iraqi major.

“Why did you leave the States?” Mongoose asked.

“I told you. I came home,” said the Iraqi. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, savoring the nicotine.

“You married?”

“Yes. I have two children.”

“I just had my first. I was there when he was born. Pretty intense.”

The Iraqi took another long drag of his cigarette. He held his pistol straight down in his hand; it was a dull shadow against his leg.

“What are their names?” Mongoose asked.

“Names?”

“Your kids.”

“Amir and Sohrab. Boys.”

“Mine’s Robert. Robby. He’s three months old. Or three and a half by now. Almost four.”

The Iraqi didn’t answer. Maybe he was tired, too, or maybe he was thinking about the men who’d deserted him.

Or the ones lying dead a few hundred yards down the road.

I’m going to have to kill him, Mongoose realized. He’s not going to let me go when the Hogs come back. And he’s not going to surrender.

“Come on,” said the Iraqi. “Let’s move.”

“Won’t your headquarters people be coming soon? Can’t we just wait?”

“It’s better for you to walk. You have to keep blood circulating. Besides, you may go into shock.”

“I already am.” Mongoose tried to laugh.

“I don’t think so.”

“You a doctor?”

“I took an EMT class at the college.”

“Why’d you go to America for school if you were coming home?”

“I wasn’t coming home then.” The captain took one more serious breath from the cigarette, burning it down to its filter. He flicked it away just as the ember reached his fingertips. “I wanted to be an American.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to be rich. Come on, let’s go.”

“Are you going to give me back my letter?”

“Up!”

Mongoose had trouble getting up. The ligament in his knee had stiffened; the pain wasn’t much compared to his arm, but with the fatigue now it slowed him even further. The major was right— he had to keep moving or his muscles would just shut down.

“So I guess you didn’t get rich,” he told his captor as he started to walk.

“There are more important things.”

Maybe he didn’t shoot me because there are no bullets in his gun.

Mongoose had heard stories of troops not being issued ammunition for fear that they would revolt against Saddam. But were those stories true? And would an officer not be given ammunition?

Why else would he let me live? Because he’s a nice guy?

Because it was his duty to bring me back alive.

“You’re walking much too slowly.”

“I’m sorry. Everything’s tightening up on me. I slammed my knee when I parachuted. My body feels like it’s paralyzed. And my damn head is pounding like a jackhammer. Back of my neck.”

“Keep moving. It’s the best thing.”

“I’m trying. What made you change your mind?”

“About what?”

“About coming back here.”

The Iraqi didn’t answer.

“My son was born three months ago,” said Mongoose. Talking felt like taking a long sip of a very sweet drink, something sappier than a margarita. He was in shock, definitely. And he was so tired his mind was drifting into a dreamy unreality. He felt as if he might be on the verge of hallucinating. He felt as if he might be on the verge of dying.

And he had to kill this man if he was going to be rescued.

“I was there for his birth,” Mongoose said, feeling each thread of his consciousness slipping away.

“What was it like?” the captain asked.

What was it like?

Like something beyond comprehension. The moment standing there, seeing his head inching out, then all of a sudden bolting, almost flying forward.

Holding the baby, warm and sticky.

“I don’t know if I can describe it,” Mongoose told him. “It was very, surreal.”

As surreal as now, standing stock still in the middle of the Iraqi desert with a man who had a gun a few feet from his chest, pointed at the ground but easily raised?

It had to be empty or he’d be dead already.

Maybe not. But he’d never get the Iraqi to let him go or join him. For all the kindness he had shown, he had to be killed.

No. If he could overpower him he could just leave him here, make him walk away.

But what made him think they were coming back? By now the Air Force had probably concluded Mongoose was dead. They’d have seen the wreckage and not heard a radio. The Hogs had probably greased the trucks out of frustration and anger. They were mad because they had to give him up.

“I would have liked to see the birth of one of my children,” said the Iraqi.

“Maybe you will. The next one. Could I have some water? I really need a drink.”

The Iraqi reached to his belt for his canteen.

Now, Mongoose’s brain said. Now is your last chance. Jump him.

By the time he told himself it was a foolish move, he was already rolling on top of the enemy.

CHAPTER 51

Kathy was so drained she went right to bed after talking to the reporters. She drifted off right away, but then something stalled— her mind stuck and she couldn’t get to sleep. She lay under the blankets, thoughts plowing back and forth.

There had been plenty of sleepless nights over the past two months, and not because of the baby. Robby was really perfect.

What would it be like raising him alone? A boy without a father.

Kathy wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulder, pushing herself against the bed. It was nearly impossible to clear her mind of those thoughts. Most of the tricks she used to get to sleep— thinking about good times in the past, or to come— just brought her husband back sharply.

She tried thinking of Paris. They’d never been there, but they had talked about going. If they had had a real honeymoon, that’s where they would have gone.

When they had a real honeymoon, she corrected herself. Jimmy had promised they would go soon. He had leave coming up, and there was a little bit of money saved. Hell, why not charge the credit cards up like everyone else?

Kathy rolled herself out of the bed and sat on the edge for a second, wondering if she should just get up and get dressed. Maybe have some coffee, or maybe even a cigarette with the others.

She could hear her father — in — law’s voice in the kitchen. It sounded a little like her husband’s.

Jimmy’s was a little deeper. His words came quicker.

It had been ages since they’d talked. Ages since they’d last slept together. It had been in this bed. Her back and legs and arms ached to feel him curled around them.

She thought she heard the baby stirring. Kathy took two steps, peeked over. He lay on his back with his eyes closed, mouth open, arms casually flung apart.

A perfect little boy. She reached down and though he was sleeping, picked him up and held him tight against her chest.

CHAPTER 52

The man felt less substantial than he expected, his body lighter, thinner, yet he struggled viciously, writhing and snaking below Mongoose.

It was all or nothing. The Iraqi’s gun was surely empty, but he’d pound him with his bare hands if he won, kick him into unconsciousness and then go back and get one of his men’s guns. Mongoose fought despite the pain, flailing and shaking and punching and rolling, butting his head into his captor’s chest, working his legs and knees as if they were battering rams. Every cell in his body flared with inhuman anger. He heard himself screaming, felt himself being pushed over, bulled his shoulders and screamed again.

The gun was in his chest, between them. The Iraqi was screaming, too.

“I’ll let you go!” Mongoose yelled. “I’ll let you live because you let me live, but I’m escaping. I’m living.”

They rolled over twice. Pain was his whole body. He’d never known a time when he wasn’t pain. Mongoose kicked and crashed his head into his captor’s chin, felt the groan.

Fingers clawed at his eye. A nail gouged at the corner, burrowing into the edge of his nose. Fog and dirt and sweat and sand swirled around their bodies, consuming them with a fine, misty crud.

The gun was between them. Mongoose felt its barrel against his chest.

“I’ll let you go,” he told the Iraqi. “I’ll let you go, but my guys are coming back and I’m going with them.”

There was an explosion, and the pain that had taken over his body disappeared. The air turned to metal and hung in his nose.

The Iraqi let go of him. Dazed, Mongoose slipped backwards, lay on the ground a good while. The sky was lightening. It was dawn.

“I meant it,” he told the Iraqi, sitting up. “My guys are coming back. You can come with me if you want.”

Mongoose looked over and saw the major’s body prone on the ground, a large, black and red oozing hole covering three — fourths of his throat.

CHAPTER 53

A-Bomb pushed his plane to follow his boss.

The thing was, Knowlington was a different guy in the air. Not a bad guy, a good flier definitely, but different.

He was quicker with his words and used a hell of a lot less of them.

Plus, on the ground he let people toss their ideas in. Up here, wham-bang, this is what we’re doing. Follow along and keep your lip zipped.

And your cockpit music turned down.

Not that A-Bomb was the sensitive type. And hell, the old coot knew what he was doing, even if they were flying a good ten miles south of where A-Bomb was sure Mongoose had gone out.

The pilot shifted in his seat, feeling himself into a good position. One of these days he was going to figure out how to get some form-fitting thing going on. You couldn’t use a thicker cushion; the ejection force was so severe the metal base would slam up through a pad and hit you harder than a bullet. Still there ought to be some way of making the frame itself more comfortable. Kind of thing was done all the time. All it took was creative customization. Maybe old Tinman could handle it. Guy had a way with metal.

A-Bomb stretched his neck, working against a kink. His eyes slid around the Hog’s panels, making sure the numbers agreed with his gut. They did.

The idea to use the Mavericks was a damn good one. Hell, they should have found Mongoose by now.

Not that he wanted to think about that too much. He decided it was probably not a bad time for a Twinkie. Except that he didn’t have any left.

Have to go to the backup chocolate Twizzlers in his leg pack.

A-Bomb slipped his hand down toward the pocket’s zipper and retrieved the bag of candy. One thing about war— you could never get enough licorice.

The colonel was already pushing his Hog into the bushes as A-Bomb finished wadding the Twizzlers into his mouth. They were near the trucks they’d splashed on the way north before dawn. He could see them in the foggy haze, ghost trucks haunted by dead men.

Something was moving down there.

No way it could be anything but an Iraqi soldier, right?

Shit.

He gripped his stick tightly and leaned forward, his plane a dark green angel streaking toward earth.

CHAPTER 54

His eyes were open. They were a small part of the face, with brown irises glossy in the growing blue light.

The final trace of surprise lingered in the cheeks.

Mongoose did not want to touch the body, but he could not leave Kathy’s letter in the dead man’s pocket. He knelt, feeling his joints crack; suddenly dizzy, he reached out to steady himself and put his hand on the dead man’s chest.

The letter. I have to get the letter.

Mongoose fumbled with the button on the dead man’s shirt pocket. His chest was still warm.

The wrong pocket. He removed his hand as if he’d felt a scorpion, undid the other button, grabbed the folded envelope.

Something else slipped out of the pocket. He could tell from the slick backing back that it was a photograph. Mongoose bolted upright and began running away, back toward the burned out shells of the trucks the A-10As had smoked.

He didn’t get very far before finding himself almost out of breath. He told himself to relax, told himself he’d be rescued soon. He needed to get into checklist mode.

Checklist mode. First item ― make sure the rest of these bastards are all dead.

He needed a weapon. The closest body was about a hundred yards away, at the edge of the road. The man’s rifle lay in his out-stretched hand.

Dead? Or was he just pretending, waiting until the American dropped his guard?

Mongoose stopped, edged to his left, off the highway. He froze, scanning beyond the man for any movement.

Nothing.

He edged out further. The ground had a good layer of dust on it, but was hard-packed. He could step easily. It wasn’t like walking on a beach, with all its loose sand.

For just a second, he smelled salt water in his nostrils.

Checklist mode.

The Iraqi wasn’t moving, but something beyond him was. Mongoose pushed his legs and his lungs, started walking, heart-pounding. His muscles were stiff but they seemed to move easier the faster he went.

It was a Russian rifle, an assault gun. Mongoose snatched at it, ready to pry it from the man’s hand, but it came up so easily he nearly fell over.

Something was moving near the far truck. One of the bodies.

He pushed the gun up, cradling it against his ribs and squeezed the trigger, expecting a torrent of bullets. Nothing happened.

The body kept moving. It was coming toward him.

He looked at the unfamiliar rifle in his hand. The gun had a cocking handle on the right side.

Pull it back? Push it?

He had to steady the gun with his legs to get at the handle. He pulled it back, looked up and saw the Iraqi soldier less than twenty yards away, just reaching for a rifle.

He pulled up the gun and pulled the trigger again. The rifle barked ferociously, the ground ahead of the man erupting with bullets. For all the noise, the backlash from the gun was mild, no more than that from a .22 squirrel plinker.

But he missed. And now the soldier had reached the gun. Mongoose felt his legs go out from under him, he landed on his butt and rolled, his bad arm screaming.

Was he cocked? Did he have to reload?

Desperate, his finger flailed for the lever, reached back for the trigger. He heard gunfire but realized it was the other man shooting, not him. Finally, bullets began spitting from his gun. He pushed the barrel up and then over into the cloudy haze of the man, pressed his finger until he realized nothing more was coming out and the soldier had stopped moving.

Mongoose used the rifle to get back to his feet. It slipped from his hands as he got up and he let it fall; it was empty and no good to him now. He walked as quickly as he could to the man he’d just killed. He kicked him to make sure he was dead, kicked the gun away.

Maybe I ought to pray, he thought. Or better, play the lottery. Because I sure as hell have been one lucky son of a bitch. All these bastards lying around me, and I’m the only one left. God damn, I am one lucky son of a bitch.

The low whoosh of an approaching jet brought him back to reality. He stopped for a second, listening, realizing it was Hog, knowing it must be one of his companions.

And he had no way to signal them. They were still some distance off, low enough for him to hear. They’d skim the trucks and think he was an Iraqi.

Or worse, they’d miss him all together.

He’d flung away his flares somewhere around here. A desperate frenzy seized his brain as he trotted around, looking for it. Shadows and hallucinations poked at the corners of his vision, as if the dead were coming back to life, as if he were caught in the middle of a horror film. He tried to hold it all away, to stay in checklist mode. It wasn’t going to get to him. He was too goddamn lucky for it to get him.

Too many people were counting on him. The squadron. Kath. Robby.

He saw something in the dust, the bandoleer. He ran for it, tripped, stretched his arm out.

Not the bandoleer but a jacket, crusted with blood.

It was impossible to get to his feet. He could hear the planes getting closer, overhead. They’d leave. This would be his last chance.

The ground felt so damn good. Sleep.

Mongoose pushed to his knee, clawed at the earth. He finally reached his feet.

The bandoleer and the small flashlight-like flare gun lay on the other side of the Iraqi captain. It seemed to glow, catching the glint of the hidden sun. The wind kicked up and sprayed dust in his face, bits and pieces of debris clinging to his chest and face. He tried brushing them off with his good hand, waving at the air as if a swarm of flies had appeared to harass him.

One of the things that stuck to him was the photograph. He started to throw it aside before realizing what it was. Instead of letting go of it he pushed it into the fist of his wounded hand.

The bandoleer was at his feet. He knelt and scooped it up.

His fingers fumbled with the launcher as his mind began to float above his body, moving over the ground, far away to a place where he didn’t have to be lucky and blessed or just another sucker about to be done in by the most ironic ending Fate could imagine.

CHAPTER 55

Even before he saw the flare, Skull knew Mongoose was here. Call it intuition or ESP or stubbornness or just dumb luck, he knew his guy was there.

He wasn’t sure, though, whether he was still alive. Anybody could fire a flare. It would be a perfect way to lure them close enough for a good shoulder-launched missile.

There was only one way to find out. And it wasn’t a job he could give a subordinate.

A flicker of fear shot through the fingers of his left hand as he steadied the throttle.

Good, he thought. I can deal with that.

“Watch for a ground launch,” he told A-Bomb.

“I got it.”

Low and slow. Dangerous as hell, but there was no substitute. The flaps were out as airbrakes, he was nearly going backwards damn it, but he couldn’t tell. There wasn’t enough light and he was too far off.

And his eyes were failing him. That was the real story. He was old.

There were bodies, but none seemed to be moving.

Someone had fired the flares. He was going to call the search-and-rescue team in.

Hell, it was either that or land the plane.

“See him?” asked A-Bomb as he pulled up.

“I saw someone. I’m coming around again.”

“Go for it. I’m on you.”

He came in even lower and slower than he had the first time, but the truth was, he was still moving too damn fast for his eyes.

Bodies were strewn haphazardly. He couldn’t tell if one was wearing a flight suit; if one was different than the rest.

He couldn’t tell whether they were all dead. Nothing had moved.

But hell― he knew Mongoose was down there. The flare had definitely been one of theirs.

Skull refused to consider any other possibility. The only thing he worried about now was bringing the helicopter into an ambush.

But wouldn’t anybody looking to grease an American take him out? Ducks flew slower than he did.

Another shot of fear in his fingers. Skull turned the Warthog around for a third circuit. This time, he wasn’t looking at the ground. Instead, he concentrated on holding the plane a half-knot over stall speed as he made his tail as fat a target as possible.

A water pistol could have nailed him.

“Mark the location so we both have it,” said Skull. “I’m calling in the helos.”

“Kick ass.”

A pair of Special Ops Pave Low helicopters, call signs Big Bear and Little Bear, had been waiting not far from the border to make the pickup. But it was going to take them and their escorts at least a half hour to get here.

“We’ll wait,” Skull told the controller.

The rescue choppers were part of a full-blown “package” or group of airplanes that undertook rescues behind the lines. F-15 Eagles were tasked for combat air patrol, Weasels were watching for SAMS, a fresh pair of A-10As flew close support escorting the choppers in, and tankers were available to keep everyone topped off. Combat might come down to one-on-one, but there were a ton of guys and gals behind the scenes making it happen. Part of Colonel Knowlington’s brain mapped the different elements out as if on a dry-erase board, plotting and planning like a squadron commander.

The other part focused on the desert, scanning the ground for possible resistance.

Two halves, commander and pilot. The pilot was younger, more primitive Knowlington― one with better reflexes and a cast-iron gut. He was damn sure Mongoose was down there, and alive.

The commander wasn’t quite so positive. Sure be nice if one of the bodies down there got up and started doing a jumping jack or something.

The two Hogs patrolled the area in a large orbit at about eight thousand feet, giving themselves a decent vantage to check for movement on the roads. There had been none in the five minutes or so since Skull had called for the pickup.

“Looking at a dust bunny comin’ out of the north,” said A-Bomb. “Shit. Somethings heading down the road, beyond the buildings.”

Skull immediately cut short his leg of the circle and the two planes winged into a combat trail, A-Bomb offset on the right side of the lead and back a half-mile.

“Let’s bring this out to the west then take a fast turn to head back,” said Skull. “I don’t want to billboard Mongoose’s location.”

“Gotcha.”

“Take it up to fifteen, give us a little more margin for error.” He quick-checked his instruments as the Hog began climbing, making sure he was ready for action. He considered calling for reinforcements but decided to hold off until he knew what they were up against. The helicopters were still a good ways off, and A-Bomb’s dust bunny might turn out to be a jeep dragging a screen ― he still hadn’t spotted it.

Even without a lot of ordnance to weigh her down, the Hog took its time going uphill. Take an Eagle and put her nose at the sun and bam, she was there. Same with an F-16.

Thud could climb with the best of them, unless she had a full load. Even then she could go like all hell. The Pratt & Whitney J75 turbojet was a brand new engine at the time, with huge thrust ― nearly 25,000 pounds in afterburner, which could carry the plane over Mach 2. A bear and a half to service, and from the early days there were problems with the autopilot, the computer, and the fire control system. But damn he loved to fly the Thunderchief, a lot more than the Phantom. They said the F-4 was a better plane, but you couldn’t prove it by him.

He’d had his worst days in a Phantom.

Leaving his wingman. Chickened out.

Negated everything else.

“Looks like there’s a whole convoy or something. Be almost nine o’clock, north there.”

For just a second the voice sounded unfamiliar, as if Skull had been expecting Bear to be talking to him from the backseat.

“How the hell did you see that through the ground fog and all?” Skull asked A-Bomb when he finally spotted it. He took the Hog further east, pushing to come at the convoy from the side.

“Got X-ray eyes,” said A-Bomb.

The airborne controller checked in with the SAR helicopter’s time to pickup― twenty minutes. By the time Skull acknowledged, he was close enough to A-Bomb’s dust bunny to see that wasn’t a jeep.

Or rather, it wasn’t just a jeep. There were at least two dozen vehicles on the road. They were moving fast, in the direction of their flier. Skull was up to ten thousand feet, flying a bit slow but in a reasonable position for a Maverick attack. He kept coming, deciding to make his approach angle as steep as possible.

“Looks like we’re going to have to smoke these guys,” he told A-Bomb.

“Hot damn.”

“They must think Mongoose is the fucking President. All right, we freeze the column first. I take the lead truck and whatever else I can get at the head. Put your cluster bombs about a third of the way back if you can. Shit, they may see us ― column’s starting to break up.”

The AWACS controller broke in before A-Bomb could acknowledge. “Devil Flight, snap one-eighty. Snap one-eighty.”

It was a dire warning telling him to take evasive maneuvers by jumping quickly to a new course― enemy interceptors were coming for them.

Ordinarily, Skull would have complied immediately. He was supposed to comply immediately; the warning was meant to save his plane and his life. Taking evasive action was the prudent thing to do.

But he wasn’t being prudent. He was saving his guy. No way he was turning around and running for home with his tail between his legs, not this time.

He ignored the controller.

The AWACS, with its powerful radar, knew instantly that its order had not been followed.

“Devil leader. This is Abracadabra. We have a pair of MiGs taking off from Al Nassiriya. Take evasive action.”

“Noted,” he told the controller. He didn’t bother communicating with A-Bomb; he knew he would stay with him.

“Repeat?” asked the AWACS.

“Noted. We are engaging a troop column approximately ten miles north of our pickup area.”

“Devil Leader, the MiGs are off the field and are vectored in your direction. Snap one-eighty. Repeat, snap one-eighty!”

The first vehicle looked like some sort of armored personnel carrier, wheeled, not tracked. A good, easy target for a Maverick.

Even a greenhorn like him ought to be able to splash the damn thing. Problem was, he couldn’t get the crosshair to move. And all of a sudden he was feeling disoriented, eyes not knowing where to look, TVM or windscreen.

Stick to the monitor, damn it.

The personnel carrier was fat in the middle of the targeting screen, and the cursor sat at the bottom. He switched from the narrow to wide and back to the narrow view but better magnified view, losing his target momentarily. He eased the plane’s nose just a tad and had his target back, juicy and hot. And now the cursor had it right in the middle.

Didn’t make sense, but hey, there it was.

“Devil Leader? The MiGs!”

“Noted,” he told the controller, locking his cursor.

“Sir?”

“Noted!” he said, and in the same second the Maverick thumped off the wing, hiccupping in the air before her motor kicked into high-gear.

CHAPTER 56

The flak vest the sergeant had given him was way too big, and no matter how Dixon tried adjusting it he couldn’t get comfortable in it. For the Special Ops troops used to it, the gear was a lightweight second skin, but for him the damn thing felt more awkward than wearing a parka at July Fourth picnic.

He shifted under it and tried to get a fix through the window on where they were. They had come in over the border more than an hour ago, sitting here so they would be ready to grab their guy once he was found. As far as the air commandos were concerned, squatting in enemy territory was no more dangerous than waiting on line for a roller coaster ride.

The chopper’s massive turboshafts cranked with an immense fury; they didn’t seem to lift off so much as vibrate forward, the big Pave Low lifting off gracefully. The air force crew chief emerged from the pilots’ station and announced that they had a good fix on Major Johnson, even though his radio was out. Shouldn’t be much of a problem snatching him from the jaws of death this time around.

The rest of the men, all well-versed in behind-the-lines operations, grinned and rechecked their M-16s. Most had been completely silent since Dixon came on board.

Iraq passed by ten feet below. The helicopter rushed forward with an angry beat, its powerful rotors churning the sky.

The pilot called back that they were ten minutes from their man. And there was a column of Iraqi Republican Guards racing them for him.

The sergeant chucked him on the shoulder. “No offense, sir, but you just hang back the first few seconds, make sure the area is secure before you go jumping out of the aircraft. Okay?”

“No sweat.”

“Good.” The sergeant stuck an M-16 in his hands. “It’s loaded and ready to rock.”

Dixon’s stomach flipped over backwards as he grabbed the rifle.

“Thanks,” he yelled.

“Don’t mention it. But, uh, sir, again, no offense, but I’d be obliged if you didn’t point it in my direction.”

CHAPTER 57

Skull edged the stick ever so slightly as he got ready to launch his second missile. The plane was right there, right with him, as tight to his body as anything, even his old Thud. Better than that, really, and truer, without having to worry so much about your muscles giving out. He was well into his dive, coming steep as if he were dropping unguided munitions— old-school habits— but this wasn’t a problem. He had the number three truck dead-on. The pilot punched out the Maverick, then turned his attention back to his windscreen. His cannon was loaded and ready to chew. An armored personnel carrier rumbled into his aim and he pushed the button on his stick. The force of the seven-barrel Gatling’s ten-thousand pound recoil seemed to hit him in the face, slamming his head back away from his eyes. His eyes didn’t move because they were fixed on the HUD and windscreen, guiding the steady stream of metallic death into the metal. He still had altitude and a good angle as he found another APC toward the end of the line and squeezed the trigger for three short bursts. The bullets sliced through the front and then the top of the lightly armored personnel carrier as easily as if it were made of tin.

Skull let go of the trigger and the plane bucked so sharply he thought he had flamed the engines. His stomach kicked some familiar juices up toward his chest and he recovered, knew where he was, realized the plane was fine. He lit the gun again, this time for a much quicker burst, lining up on a truck at the very end of the column, but missing it. He was by it and pulling off, his rhythm back, his heart pounding. Damn! It had been twenty-something years since this feeling of weightlessness and heartburn and adrenaline had wrecked his stomach. Twenty-something years since the rubbery plastic in his nose turned nauseous, and the straps pushed against his chest like the restraints on an electric chair. He’d missed it badly; missed the smell of sulfur that somehow whipped into his nostrils, and the suggestion of brimstone and Judgment Day he felt when dealing death to the enemy.

“We got flak coming up on your right wing,” said Bear in his ear. “Coming off a second column. You see them?”

It wasn’t Bear, it was A-Bomb. And he was telling Knowlington that one of the tracked vehicles off to the flank of the main column was a self-propelled anti-aircraft gun, the Zsu-23-4. But Skull’s brain blurred, put him in his Phantom, put him back to the last time he was trying to protect a downed squadron mate. He saw the flash of the gun out of the corner of his eye, and remembered the ridge in Laos.

The acid had burned through his stomach into his lungs that day. A whole ridge of fire came at them, unguided; a whole wall of lead. There was no way around it— just get the pedal to the metal because he was out of energy. As he nosed past, the plane seemed to be in slow motion. He heard Bear gasping for air through the open mike, trying to tell him something. His own mask was sucked up tight to his face. He was yanking the Phantom’s stick. For one of the few times since learning how to land, he was praying, realizing he actually might eat shit today.

An entire division’s worth of anti-aircraft guns. All set into the ridge. Shells were whizzing past unexploded, big shells, huge things, 57mm suckers that looked like streamlined piranha coming at him. Some moved fast and some moved slowly; all ran straight at him and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to get away from them except hang on tight.

It had taken maybe three seconds to clear the wall of lead, and no more than five seconds beyond that to push the airplane into a completely safe space. But the time passed like weeks, slower than the dark spot of a fur ball, the moment in a dogfight when the opponent is unsighted and quite probably behind you.

Bingo fuel, Bear was saying.

Bingo fuel. They’d been low on fuel even before the anti-air lit up.

The evasive maneuvers had only made things worse. By the time he recovered, there was barely enough in the tanks to get home.

So no matter what he’d done, he would have had to leave.

He was still to blame for mismanaging his fuel.

Truth was, you could always blame yourself, because you were never perfect. And you were always afraid, somewhere, somehow. Fear was always in your stomach; it was a question of whether you let it control you.

It had that day. And every time he went for the bottle after that.

No more.

No, that wasn’t true. He couldn’t say that. What he could say was that he wasn’t going to win today.

He could also say that he would come back, no matter what. He’d get back in the cockpit and head north again, feel the acid in his gut. And the next time the choice came between the prudent thing and the right thing, he would choose the right thing. Or try to.

Truth was, there were VC all over the place where Crush went down. The ridge was just the worst example. The flash Little Bear saw had more likely come from one of them than the Phantom’s crew.

His real mistake wasn’t the fuel, or even leaving his friend. His real mistake was letting fear win that night, and every night. That was his fuck up. It was something he knew, after all, but something he had to keep relearning.

“Repeat?”

It was A-Bomb.

“Repeat what?” he said, barely remembering to key the mike.

“Did you say you’re bingo fuel?”

He quick glanced at his gauges— he had enough gas to get up to Baghdad and back.

Well, almost.

“Negative.” Skull pushed through his orbit, climbing back for another run at the line of trucks. He’d flown out nearly five miles. Reorienting himself he saw some good, distinct column of smoke rising from the highway. He could see no more flak.

“Waxed the anti-air, but I think there’s another truck or two at the end of the column,” said A-Bomb. “Bastards all look the same to me.”

Skull saw A-Bomb’s A-10 above him. His wings were clean, except for the Sidewinders and ECM pod. It was all cannon-play from here on out.

“Let’s dust these guys,” Skull told him. “I don’t want anything moving.”

“My feeling exactly.”

“You got your stereo on?”

“It’s turned down.”

“Well crank it up,” said Skull, pushing into his attack.

CHAPTER 58

A-Bomb leaned back and looked at the remains of the convoy, scattered in disarray on and along the road. No way those suckers were bothering anybody for a long, long time. He pushed the Hog to continue its climb into what was now a crowded sky— a pair of F-15s had screamed overhead, chasing the MiGs off far to the north, while a four-ship of F-16s had pulled into the neighborhood to see if they could join in the fun. Behind them two big, dark-colored grasshoppers— big ol’ MH-53J Pave Lows— were skimming toward the spot where they’d located Mongoose. Alongside them came an A-10A from another squadron, one of the SAR team’s guardian angels.

Fuckin’ Goose. He’d laid out half the stinking Iraqi army and was just hanging out having a smoke, right? Or just about. Because damn straight the guy waving down there was Mongoose, no way it was anybody else. Maybe A-Bomb was at a thousand feet and moving over three hundred knots, but his eyes were still sharp as hell. There was no way, absolutely no way, he could mistake his ol’ section leader. There was a guy standing alone down there— well, kneeling maybe— and it had to be Mongoose. Could only be.

Son of a bitch probably be flying tomorrow. Plus, A-Bomb was going to have to stand him a whole slew of drinks for letting him get waxed.

Only fair.

Probably have to throw in some Micky D bags, too.

One thing he had to say— for a guy who hadn’t sat in a Hog cockpit all that long, Knowlington had kicked butt. You could tell Skull liked to wallow in the mud the way he laughed at the flak on that last run, just went in and kissed it, got three stinking APCs and a truck on one run— not bad for a rookie.

Or an old coot, come to think of it.

Of course, he’d probably flown against those same guns in Viet Nam, and in something not nearly as good as a Hog. So he’d had practice.

“We’re going back south and make sure their flank is clear,” Skull told him. “I don’t want nothing screwing us up now that we’ve worked up a sweat.”

“I’m right behind you,” said A-Bomb. He nudged his stick to get a slightly better angle off his wing, scanned his wedge of the world, and reached into his survival vest for his reserve cache of Good & Plenty. They weren’t his favorite candy to eat while flying. The slick little torpedoes could shoot down your throat if you didn’t pay attention, and then you lost all that flavor. But this was war and you had to take some chances.

CHAPTER 59

He was played. He could feel the desert warming into daylight around him, felt the relentless approach of his enemy, but Mongoose could do nothing but stare upwards at the emptiness. He’d tried to stand but got no further than his knees; he leaned back on them, wanting to collapse back but unable even to do that.

He no longer felt any pain. His consciousness was squeezed into a two inch by two inch rectangle, the space defined by his eyes, which saw only the blank sky.

When the Iraqis found him, they would shoot him. It was only fair.

He hadn’t had a chance to read the letter. He regretted that. It was the only thing he regretted.

Maybe he would die before the soldiers found him. His knee was twisted and his arm broken. He was probably dehydrated beyond belief, and who knew what other injuries he had. He certainly didn’t. All he knew was the blank space above.

Blank space filling with a dark angel.

Death.

The earth roared at the end, he thought, just like he’d heard it would.

Someone shouted at him over the din.

The angel was asking his name.

“James Johnson,” he said.

“Major, you just ease back now, sir; we want to hop you into a stretcher just as a precaution. We got all the time in the world. Your colonel’s blasted the shit out of half the Iraqi army to save you,” said the para-rescueman, squatting with him and helping him move his legs into a sitting position. “We’ll have you home faster than you can say, ‘Kiss my ass Saddam.’”

CHAPTER 60

Skull heard the Pave Low pilot practically yahoo as he got the thumbs-up from the rescue crew. Mongoose was alive.

“Shit yeah,” he acknowledged.

Not precisely military, except that it was, totally.

“Shit yeah,” said A-Bomb.

Knowlington checked the Hog’s dials as he ran a lazy arc south past the two choppers. At spec and with plenty of gas. Damn, he loved this plane.

Two Super Jolly Greens squatted in the hardscrabble terrain, fetching his pilot and making sure the Iraqis were dead.

Big, beautifully-ugly choppers, just like in Nam.

Except, they weren’t the same. They might look it from a distance, but they’d been rebuilt from the ground up— stronger, meaner, much more capable.

More considered. More deliberate. Living by intelligence, not sheer brute force or instinct.

The facts were just the facts, back there, obscured by memory and smoke, fog of war, and all that bullshit. It didn’t change or get negated by the present; it stayed back in the past.

You had to deal with the present. It wasn’t fair to blame his drinking on that ride over Laos. He’d been drinking before that. Laos was what it was— a bad day with bad decisions and some luck for him, not for his buddy. It was back there now, squashed with the remains of bridges and guns and MiGs and APCs he’d wrecked or managed to evade. He had to deal with what was in front of him in the windscreen.

Fact was he still wanted a drink. Fact was the sting of whiskey in his throat would feel great.

But he wasn’t going to taste it. Not today. Today he was going to struggle against it, and find a lot to do back at the base to take his mind off it.

It’d be hard, though.

Knowlington checked his instruments again. He was just a mediocre pilot now, compared to most of the others in the squadron. Hell, this was going to look damn good, but the reality was it had been a turkey shoot; poor slobs had only one AAA gun, and they hadn’t even set it up right.

More time in the cockpit wouldn’t help. His reflexes were a touch slower. And his eyes— his eyes were just normal eyes now.

Probably still had his share of luck, though. Must have, to have gotten the chance to get back up here.

The thing was, he’d traded some of his flying ability for experience, for leadership. He’d figured out where Mongoose was, walked his head through it like a commander should. He didn’t have to prove himself in the cockpit anymore; that wasn’t his job. His job was to get these guys up here— and back.

“Hey, we got a knot of soldiers down here near those trees,” radioed A-Bomb over the squadron frequency as the two planes passed the area. “Kinda huddled down like maybe I won’t see them.”

“What are they doing?”

“Beats me. Maybe they’re having breakfast. Shit, they’re waving.”

“Waving?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

Knowlington began circling back. He gave the plane a smidgen of rudder as he settled on a precise line to the trees.

They were waving all right. And they made a show of tossing away their guns.

“They want to surrender,” Knowlington told A-Bomb.

“Hot damn. Hog-tied prisoners. That’s what I’m talking about. You cannot do this in any other plane. You ever see anybody surrender to an F-16? I don’t think so. F-15. Ha, there’s a joke.”

Skull suppressed a laugh. But sure as hell, those soldiers did want to surrender.

“I accept your surrender in the name of the President of the United States, the commander in chief, and Kevin Karn,” announced A-Bomb.

“Who’s Kevin Karn?” Skull asked.

“My homeroom teacher in tenth grade. He said I ought to go into the Air Force.”

“I don’t know what we’re going to do with these guys,” Knowlington told him. “It’s a hell of a long walk back.”

“Hell, stash them in one of the choppers. If they can’t take ‘em, I’ll land and lash ‘em onto the wings,” said A-Bomb.

I’ll bet you will, Skull thought. “Stand by while I talk to the Pave Low.”

CHAPTER 61

Dixon jumped from the helicopter into a whirl of dust and sand, running behind one of the soldiers. He’d meant to stay aboard, but something about the adrenaline of the others pushed him out.

The one thing he hoped was that he didn’t need to use his gun. Because sure as shit, then he was going to fuck up.

No one was firing, though. He ran forward a few steps, then stopped as he caught the silhouette of a Hog low and slow to the south. He turned and saw a second Pave Low landing about fifteen yards south of the chopper he’d just left; one of the commandos on the ground was waving its team out to help secure the area.

He turned back and saw the men from his Pave Low huddled around a man kneeling ahead.

Major Johnson.

He ran forward, the gun almost slipping from his hands. He slid onto his knees and stopped right at Johnson’s chest.

“Mongoose, it’s Dixon. Hey, Major, you okay?”

Mongoose groaned.

“Got a broken arm,” said the sergeant. “Not sure what else. We’re putting him on a stretcher.”

Dixon nodded, leaned back over Johnson. “You’re gonna be okay, Major.”

Johnson blinked his eyes. Dixon looked him over, saw him move his feet. One of the para-rescuemen came up with a med kit; Dixon stepped back and let the man do his job.

“Looks like he shot that guy there,” said the sergeant. He pointed to an Iraqi captain. “Maybe the rest of them, too. Your Hogs must’ve smoked the trucks.”

“No shit.”

“Yeah. You fucking Hog drivers. Jesus, you guys want to win the whole war by yourselves, don’t you?”

Dixon stood back and watched the Special Ops troops secure the area, checking over the dead Iraqis. He trotted over to the truck; he’d never seen the damage an A-10A could do to an enemy before.

The destruction was amazing. The vehicle looked as if it had been ripped in two by a school of metal-eating sharks.

“Hey, you Lieutenant Dixon?” asked one of the helicopter crewmen, running up to him. “Major needs you to take care of something.”

“I’m Dixon.”

The soldier pointed toward the road. “Your guys captured a squad of Iraqis. You have to accept their surrender.”

“What?”

“’Cause you’re an officer and part of their squadron. Major Greer says the pilots wants to make sure the air force gets full credit. Don’t sweat it, these guys’ll go with you.”

Dixon looked over to the highway, thinking that Greer had somehow arranged a practical joke.

Six unarmed Iraqi soldiers, each one fluttering a piece of white cloth above their heads, approached slowly, huge smiles on their faces. A pair of Hogs crisscrossed above them, wagging their wings.

“Fucking Hogs,” said the sergeant, sidling up next to Dixon as the Iraqis came forward. “What the hell are you guys going to do next?”