Snake Eaters

CHAPTER 23

Air Force Technical Sergeant Rebecca “Becky” Rosen plopped her tired body down against a Spec Ops rucksack and leaned against the inside wall of the shelter. For the first time since parachuting into Fort Apache, she had nothing to do— no Hog to fix, no Army helicopter to rebuild.

Fatigue surged over her like the green-blue waves of the Atlantic, salty and cold, numbing her feet and stinging her nostrils. But as tired as she was, Rosen couldn’t allow herself to fall asleep. The unit was evacuating south as soon as night fell; she was afraid if she dozed off now she’d never manage to wake herself when needed. So she reached beneath her jacket and pulled out the small spiral-bound notebook she’d carried with her since coming to Iraq some weeks back. Rosen had been intending to keep a journal of the deployment but until now had only made three one-word notes, each for a different day, and each confined to the weather — rain, cold, clear, in that order. Folding the book open to a blank page, she retrieved a silver-plated Cross pen from her breast pocket, sliding her callused fingertips across the smooth metal.

The pen had been a present from a college professor, and she thought of him now, thought of his classes in Shakespeare and his funny pronunciations of words, a mix of British and down-home Texas. Shoehorning her studies around her duties as an Air Force NCO, Rosen had managed to earn a degree in English literature. She didn’t care about the degree; she wasn’t going to do anything with it. But that was the point. Poetry and big books tickled a side of her she hadn’t realized existed until a friend talked her into signing up for a continuing-ed class so it wouldn’t be canceled for lack of students.

Becky Rosen was a mechanic. She saw things with her hands, whether they were Hog avionics systems or busted AH-6 engines. She’d been fixing things since she helped her uncle rebuild a Ford high compression 302 when she was seven. The real world was physical, in your face; Becky Rosen had overcome a for-shit childhood and done well, but she’d also had her fingers mashed, and a hell of a lot of worse, along the way.

Literature, poetry especially, seemed like an exotic vacation of dreams, relief from the real world’s fumes and acid. Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Donne, Pound, Whitman, Elliot — they were far-away lands she could disappear to. The harsh rhythms of Gerard Manley Hopkins, the delicate balance of Byron, the false bravado of Dylan Thomas— all offered shelter.

“Do not go gentle into that good night,” Dylan Thomas had told his father on his deathbed.

Rage against it. Rage against the finality. Scream against your fate.

Had Lieutenant Dixon screamed in that final moment before he’d been shot?

She saw Dixon now in the dirt on the hill next to Sugar Mountain, face-down, body limp, limbs askew. He’d been such a nice kid, quiet but brave. Or foolish, maybe— he’d volunteered as a forward ground controller, working with Delta Force behind the lines.

No more foolish than she’d been, volunteering for this mission. In her mind at the time, there was no choice— she had been the only person at Al Jouf capable of getting the Special Ops helos back together. But a lot of people might think it foolish.

Definitely. To say nothing of being against regulations and probably the law.

Not the time or place to worry about it. Rosen twisted the pen carefully so the point extended. She began to write:

Jan. 25.

Iraq. How I got here is a long story. It started —

She held the pen up from the paper. There was always a possibility of being captured. She had to watch what she said.

Rosen scratched out the words and began again:

Jan. 25.

Iraq. How I got here is a long story, to be told later. All I can say is it was a hell of a trip.

I saw a dead man today, my first, believe it or not.

I loved him.

Tears erupted from her eyes and she began to shake uncontrollably.

She loved him?

Yes. She’d never admitted it until now, let alone told him or anyone else. But they’d kissed once, a moment stolen in the dark back at King Fahd.

They’d kissed.

The only time in the Air Force that she’d really, truly felt something like that, felt the steel hooks in her gut, felt love.

One kiss, all she had.

CHAPTER 24

Dixon knew it was a Hog the instant he heard the sound, even though the plane was so far away the sound was less than a whisper. He froze, eyes upward, exposed near the highway he’d been following. The sound faded completely, a tease or a delusion.

Except he knew it wasn’t. He saw a dot passing in the sky overhead, far overhead.

A Hog. One of his squadron mates. Had to be.

And then it was gone. He stared upwards for a long time, more than a half hour, until he heard another sound, this one much closer. He turned his head and realized it was a truck, driving toward him.

Dazed by hunger and fatigue, it took forever for him to get his legs in motion. Dixon took a step in exactly the wrong direction, toward the highway. In agonizingly slow motion he twisted his body back, clutching the rifle to his belly. He spotted a clump of low trees ahead. The ground sloped upwards behind it into a large, squat hill, half-covered with vegetation. Another hill, this one much lower and nearly all rock and dirt, lay to the left. He could see the roof of a building beyond the trees as he ran, and realized the dirt included a dusty, primitive roadway.

His side hurt, but there was no choice but to keep running. He could hear the truck on the highway behind him slowing to a stop. He threw himself down as it whined into reverse.

Had they seen him? Dixon twisted around to look. The truck was coming in his direction over the dirt road, but it was still a good way off.

He had to assume they had seen him. In any event, if he stayed here very much longer they surely would. Perhaps with the shadows he might make the low trees without being seen.

Dixon pushed himself back to his feet, stooping forward as he ran. He made the trees, still unsure if he’d been seen. The truck was on the road, moving slowly, but still coming. A small house made of painted clay or cement lay on his right, ringed by upright stubs that could be parts of old trees or perhaps abandoned fence posts. The doorway was open; it looked empty. Dixon considered running for it but changed his mind. If they’d seen him, it would be the first place the people in the truck would stop.

The dirt road veered between the large hill on the right and the smaller one on the left. Fifty yards ahead up a bald slope on the left, an old car sat near a dilapidated stone wall. Dixon pushed his rifle but into the stitch in his side and ran for it. The ground flew behind him. Pain and confusion narrowed his vision as he dove head first over the rocks, rolling in the dust, out of breath. His chest and throat heaved. He fought against the reflex and swung around, checking the AK-47’s clip as he leaned low against the rocks.

The truck, a pickup, steered gingerly along the road, dodging rocks. It was not only new, it looked immaculate, the white body gleaming as if freshly waxed. It stopped in front of the house.

Dixon saw that there were only two men inside. He might have a chance if they came for him.

They didn’t. The truck lurched forward, resuming its slow crawl around the rocks in the road. It began picking up speed as it followed the path around the base of the hill to the left.

Dixon waited until he could breathe normally again. Then he eyed the house carefully. He saw something move around the back, then realized there were animals there, two dogs and a goat. The dogs seemed to be tied to one of the stubby trees; the goat moved freely, though hardly at all, grazing on slivers of vegetation.

Food.

Someone would be inside the house.

The ground went up sharply behind the building, climbing through brush. There didn’t seem to be an easy way, though, to circle around. He’d have to expose himself by walking along the road where the pickup truck had gone.

Better off going for it. Come straight in the front door, Hog style, gun ready.

He’d kill whoever was in there. No one was a civilian as far as he was concerned. No one. That was the way he had to think, had to act, if he was going to survive long enough to blow up those missiles. Otherwise, he might just as well shoot himself now and be done with it.

He’d never do that.

Dixon slid to his knees, stretching his arms out before him. A few low bushes and some sort of dilapidated plow lay between the road and the house. Neither they nor the narrow stubs of sticks would offer real cover.

If it he were back home in Wisconsin, there’d be a farmer, a wife, a kid or two inside. Cat to match the dogs, maybe two. They’d be preoccupied, getting dinner.

Dixon pushed himself to his feet, rifle propped in the crock of his elbow. He had the gun and his wits and his hunger. He moved slowly at first, then realized it was better to go quickly; he began to trot forward. If the open field gave him no cover, it meant none for his enemies either. He pointed the AK-47 at the doorway, eyes scanning back and forth across the front of the building, aware he could be attacked from the corners or the lone window.

Twenty yards from the house, he stopped. The dogs began to bark, but he could tell they weren’t barking at him. They’d run behind the house, had seen or smelled something more interesting than him.

Dixon crouched, waiting for something to happen. The small house had no telephone wires, no power lines, no antenna that he could see. No house in America would be this small. Its walls were the color of the dirt— light brown with tinges dark brown, streaks of blood that had dried.

Something moved behind the window. Dixon raised his rifle, waited.

Nothing.

A shadow, or his imagination.

He got out of the crouch, began walking forward, gun moving slowly back and forth across the face of the building, ready.

Nothing.

The dogs had stopped barking around the back.

A figure appeared in the doorway.

It was a woman in a long, dirty white dress. She looked across the yard directly into his eyes, locking him with his stare.

Part of him truly meant to shoot her. Part of him truly realized that he had no friends here, that he could not afford to think of anyone as a civilian.

A larger part could not find the will to squeeze the trigger. He stood stock still, gun lowered to the ground.

The woman raised her right hand. His first thought was that she had a gun. Then he saw she was simply gesturing, raising both arms as if to plead with him.

For help? To come? To go?

In the next instant, Dixon dove to the ground, ducking as gunfire erupted from behind and inside the building.

CHAPTER 25

As varied and multi-faceted as his career in the armed forces had been, Bristol Wong had never once been captured. He hadn’t even studied the phenomenon thoroughly. While he could cite to within a centimeter the target envelope of any Soviet-made missile from Scud to SS-25 ICBM, he had only the dimmest notion of the Geneva Conventions governing prisoners. The various survival courses he had taken, including both Navy and Air Force SERE School, provided relatively skimpy background; it was difficult to duplicate the experience of cold metal being pressed against the side of your neck nearly two hundred miles inside enemy territory.

Actually, the metal, which belonged to the business end of an AK-47, seemed a little warm. The man holding the gun had just finished searching him, efficiently removing his ammunition as well as his personal weapons. He now jerked the barrel of his assault rifle against Wong’s neck, motioning that Wong should kneel on the ground next to the Satcom.

Wong glanced at the Iraqi commander, a squat man in light brown khakis holding a pistol a few feet away. Then he slowly lowered himself to the ground, unsure what the Iraqis intended. The Delta Force com specialist stood two yards away to Wong’s right, three Iraqi AK-47s in his chest. Even if he’d been wearing body armor, any twitch would end the sergeant’s life.

The Iraqi commander told him in Arabic to contact his base and say there was no problem. Wong pretended not to understand.

“What exactly do you wish done?” Wong said in English.

“Tell whomever you were communicating with that there is no problem,” said the man in flawless English.

Wong nodded and bent to the com unit, but before he could touch the Satcom’s controls, a bullet zipped into the dirt about a foot away. He froze, calling on an old Yoga breathing exercise to empty his lungs slowly.

“There is an emergency beacon on your radio, I assume,” said the captain.

“I’m unaware of any,” said Wong.

“Back away from it,” said the man.

Wong straightened and took a step back. The Iraqi’s game intrigued him; he’d obviously had no intention of allowing Wong to use the device but wanted to study his reactions.

“I will shoot you if I wish,” said the captain.

“Naturally.”

“Your job is to make me not wish to do that,” said the Iraqi. “Why are you here?”

“I am a spy,” said Wong.

The captain began to laugh. He told his men in Arabic what Wong had said. An honest spy, he called him. Then he turned back to Wong.

“We shoot spies at dawn,” the captain said.

“I would expect so.”

“What were you spying on?”

“Your defenses,” said Wong.

“And what did you find here?”

“They appear formidable.”

The captain raised the barrel of his AK-47 so that it was aimed at Wong’s head. Technically speaking, that was not as intimidating as it would have been had it been pointing toward his chest; he held the gun with only one hand, unbraced, and Wong realized that even at this range it was likely to jerk off-target. Still, it delivered the appropriate message.

“What are you really looking for, Captain?” asked the Iraqi. “Who are you looking for?”

Who — significant, undoubtedly.

“If I came here knowing what I would find, there would have been little sense in coming,” said Wong.

“How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

The Iraqi captain jerked the gun away and fired into the dirt in front of his feet. The ground was soft enough for the bullets to penetrate and there were no ricochets, but Wong saw that the men who were holding their weapons on the sergeant jumped with the sound. All had their fingers on the triggers of their weapons; the odds against an accidental firing were not particularly good.

“I ask you again, how did you get here?”

“As I said, I hiked here. I would have liked to have run but as you can tell, I am not in particularly top condition; it was more like a walk.”

“You walked from Saudi Arabia?”

“Of course not.”

The Iraqi smiled again. Wong thought he could place the accent in the man’s English around Chicago. He guessed the Iraqi had gone to college or university in Illinois.

“And what did you do before you walked?”

“I parachuted.”

“You’re a parachutist?” The man laughed, as if genuinely questioning Wong’s qualifications.

“I hold a USPA Class D skydiving license, with gold wings, ruby badges and instructor certification,” said Wong. “If you wish I can recite my entire jump resume, beginning with my first free fall on a tethered jump at age ten— an illegal dive, incidentally, for which fortunately there were no repercussions.”

“What the hell are you, captain?” asked the Iraqi.

“I am a spy,” said Wong. “Captain Bristol Wong, U.S. Air Force.”

The Iraqi shook his head, then turned to the sergeant. “And you— are you a spy as well?”

The sergeant recited his name, rank, and serial number. The Iraqi moved his head slightly; one of the men guarding the com specialist crashed his rifle butt into his side, sending him to the ground.

“There is no need for that,” said Wong. “I will cooperate with you. The sergeant is merely an enlisted man of no importance.”

“And the rest of your men?”

Wong had considered how to answer the question and decided that a lie was most expedient, even if it wasn’t believed. It would at least give the rest of the team a chance to escape.

“There are no other men,” he said.

“American spies do not travel alone,” said the captain. “Especially when they are part of Delta Force.”

An interesting gambit, Wong thought. The patrol’s uniforms were unmarked, and in theory there was no way to know that they were Delta Troopers or Green Berets. But of course Delta was famous, and it was no secret that they were in the Gulf. Any Iraqi would guess that clandestine operations would be carried out by them. And it would certainly bring cachet to claim to have captured some.

“I myself am Air Force,” said Wong. “My sergeant is a soldier. We do have ambitions, however.”

“Ambitions?”

“It is an honor to join Delta Force,” said Wong, watching to see how the man reacted. “And perhaps someday, after we prove our worthiness, we will achieve that stature.”

“That day will be in another life,” said the Iraqi commander.

One of his men shouted from the other side of the ridge, calling the commander his captain and urging him to come and inspect something they had found. The Iraqi told one of the soldiers guarding the sergeant to come with him; the others were to make sure the sergeant and Wong didn’t move.

“And watch this one,” added the captain, pointing his gun at Wong before going. “He speaks Arabic, though he pretends not to. Very clever for a spy.”

CHAPTER 26

Doberman cursed as he heard the controller at Al-Jouf give priority to a battle-stricken Tornado, freezing the landing queue so the British jet could make an emergency landing. While the long stretch of Saudi concrete had been envisioned as a forward operating area for Hogs and Spec Ops troops, the base had quickly become a life raft for battle-damaged Coalition planes. It made for a busy pattern. Besides the Tornado— a two-seat recon type that could use ground-following radar for a quick and hard run over enemy territory— a French Jaguar and an Australian C-130 were slotted between another Hog and an F-16 ahead of Doberman in the aerial traffic jam.

Even less patient than normal, Doberman considered declaring a fuel emergency to get himself pushed to the head of the line. He had plenty of fuel, however, even though he’d goosed the Hog well over four hundred knots all the way back. And he had to give the crew of Special Operations air controllers and support personnel handling Al Jouf their due; they were clearing planes in quicker than O’Hare on Christmas Eve.

Once upon a time, landing had been fraught with anxiety for him. But now it was routine, or as close to routine as he’d allow anything to become, afraid that if he got too used to it he’d take it for granted.

He settled into his seat as he rounded onto the last leg of the approach pattern. The Hog’s indicated air speed plummeted toward double digits. Gear came out. Air brakes deployed. He surveyed the long splash of concrete in his windshield. He pushed his chest forward and head up as the wheels made a whumping sound, nudging against the pavement. He peered out of the cockpit like a kid watching a baseball game over a picket fence.

A fuel truck headed a line six planes deep at the far end of the access ramp; he cursed when he saw that, convinced that he’d be stuck here until nightfall. He turned off the runway onto the ramp, treading past a parked MC-130, a black-painted Hercules used for Special Ops missions, then spotted another Hog off to his right; the dark DS on the tail told him it was A-Bomb’s. He couldn’t see his wingman, but two Delta troopers were standing at full attention near it. That gave him an idea. He pulled on his rudders and wheeled next to the plane, spinning around so his nose was pointed for a quick getaway. He powered down and popped the canopy, whipping off his helmet and restraints.

“Yo, you guys work for Klee, right?” he yelled down to the troopers. Klee was the Delta Force colonel in charge of most of the American Special Operations troops at Al Jouf as well as those working with Apache.

The soldiers couldn’t hear him with all the noise at the base. Doberman was in such a hurry he didn’t bother cranking down the cockpit ladder— he rolled himself right off the side of the plane, his hands gripping and then slipping off the fairing at the side of the cockpit. He landed on his feet, but just barely, the shock of the concrete reverberating through his legs.

Not that he was about to let that stop him.

“Yo!” he yelled again, running to the troopers. “You guys work for Colonel Klee, yes?”

One of the troopers began to nod.

“I’m Doberman. I need fuel,” he told them. “There’s a Delta patrol in deep shit up north. I don’t care what you do, you get me some jet fuel. Go. Before your friends get fried.”

Doberman’s last words were unnecessary— the troopers had bolted away. He ran to the port “kneecap”— the housing for the wheel on the left side of the plane. He popped the cover on the refueling controls and gave the gear a quick inspection. Before the war, he’d taken part in two or three exercises where troopers refueled his Hog; in theory everyone on the base could handle it, though he was more than willing to do it himself if it came to that. In the meantime, he needed some candy — bombs, preferably Mavericks. He had just turned to scan the area for ordies, when a bull rammed him from behind.

Not a bull, just A-Bomb, pounding him on the back.

“About time you got your butt back here,” said A-Bomb. He was stuffing a wedge of what seemed to be a birthday cake into his mouth.

Doberman knew better than to ask for details. “I need some candymen,” he told A-Bomb.

“On their way,” A-Bomb said. “Two Maverick G’s good enough for you?”

“Just two?” Doberman asked.

“All I could steal for you,” said A-Bomb. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve while reaching into a pocket with his other hand. He pulled out a pair of Hostess cupcakes, wrapped in plastic and somehow not crushed. “You want one?”

“I want some CBUs,” said Doberman.

“Cluster bombs are on their way,” A-Bomb assured him. “Now don’t get picky. All we have are standard issue Mark 20 Rockeyes. I know there’s some CBU-71 frag/incendiaries somewhere out here, but they’re harder to find than Dunky Donuts coffee. Which is still pretty fresh, by the way, if you’re interested.”

“No thanks,” said Doberman, spotting a quartet of bomb loaders pushing a pair of bomb-laden trucks in his direction.

“Sure you don’t want one of these cupcakes?” A-Bomb asked. “Got the yellow-goo frosting. Over-sized models some Delta chef special ordered. It’s what I’m talking about. Serious treats.”

“I’ll pass,” said Doberman, trotting to the candymen. The ordinance specialists were part of the enlisted backbone of the Air Force, generally unrecognized professionals who picked up their lunch pails every morning or night, and went out to do their job with the practiced precision of a championship football team. The men nodded to the captain and started positioning their deadly payload on the Hog’s hardpoints. The weapons were safed— still, a mistake, even a moment’s inattention, could very possibly destroy half the base. Still, the crew moved faster than hotel workers positioning boardwalk chairs on a pleasant summer’s day. Doberman took a deep breath, his anxiety diminishing. His stomach growled and he realized he might actually be hungry— not surprising since he hadn’t eaten anything since taking off from Fort Apache.

“Hey Gun, maybe I will have a cupcake,” he told his wingmate.

“Sorry, Dog Man. All gone. How about a Devil Dog? Kinda poetic justice, don’t you think?”

The dark brown cake was scrunched, but Doberman took it anyway, swallowing it so quickly that even A-Bomb was impressed.

“Maybe you want to go find something to eat in one of the mess areas,” A-Bomb said. “One of the units has a pig roast going.”

“No time,” said Doberman, dodging out of the way as a fuel truck barreled up. The two troopers who’d been guarding A-Bomb’s Hog were on the hood. The truck looked suspiciously like the one that had been at the head of the refueling cue before, but he wasn’t about to ask any questions. A staff sergeant jumped from the rear before the truck came to a halt and ran forward with the refueling hose, fireman-style. The men were familiar with the procedure and had the nozzle connected before Doberman could say anything. He watched them start the pump and then went back to A-Bomb.

“So how’s your Hog?” Doberman asked. A pair of ladders stood against the plane’s right engine and wing. A gaunt figure loomed from the other side, appearing over the motor as if he had suddenly levitated there.

Tinman, Devil Squadron’s ancient mechanic. Doberman half-believed he had levitated there; the geezer was into some weird Louisiana voodoo witchcraft stuff. With Rosen north, Tinman was responsible for the two Hogs.

“Be up in the air in ten minutes,” A-Bomb said.

“Knock tenk,” shouted Tinman, shaking his head. The Tinman spoke in an indecipherable tongue rumored to be a cross between pigeon English and a deep Bayou dialect.

“Hey, come on Tinman, it’s only an oil leak,” A-Bomb yelled back. “You can fix that with your eyes closed.”

“Isk knock jester oil,” said the ancient mechanic, going back to work. The GE’s gizzards were exposed; from where Doberman was standing, they looked like a mess.

“Ain’t no thing,” A-Bomb told Doberman. “He just likes to complain. Old guys are like that. Hell, I can fix that motor,” he added. “Easier than tuning a Harley. That’s what I’m talking about. So what’s your story? You bounce the Scuds or what?”

Doberman gave him the executive summary.

“They’re going to hold their position and watch for the missiles,” he said, glancing at the sun sliding toward the horizon. “I ought to make it back right around the time they’re moving them.”

“You flying up there solo, Dog Man?”

“You got a better idea?”

“I’m talking ten minutes,” said A-Bomb.

Tinman slammed a piece of metal on the Hog.

“I can’t wait.”

“Wong’ll probably have somebody else splash the Scuds,” said A-Bomb.

“Maybe,” said Doberman. “But somebody’s going to have to cover the fire team. They pulled the helos back to Fort Apache.”

“Yeah,” said A-Bomb. “Sending an MH-60 Blackhawk to grab Wong and the gang after the Scuds are hit.”

“Why didn’t they use the Blackhawk to get the people out from Apache and keep the AH-6s there.”

“If it made a lot of sense, it wouldn’t be an Army operation,” said A-Bomb. “I think it had to do with the fuel. They were tight when we were there, remember?”

Doberman nodded. The Little Birds were small helicopters, with limited range.

“Don’t sweat it, Dog Man. Rosen and Braniac will get back okay. What I was figuring was, we go up, cover Wong, then help Apache bug out. Just, you know, be in the area. They’re doing a rendezvous with a Pave Low pilot about thirty or forty miles north of the border. The little Birds are going to shuttle back and forth. We can watch.”

“Yeah,” said Doberman. The ground crew had finished loading the bombs on the wings. There were four cluster bombs, one each on stations four, five, seven, and eight, straddling the wheels. The Mavericks were mounted one apiece at hard points three and nine, just outboard of the bombs. The Hog’s ECM pod sat at the far end of the right wing. On the left was a twin-rail with a pair of Sidewinder air-to-air missiles.

“Look A-Bomb, I got to go.” Doberman trotted toward his plane.

“I got a pizza comin’!” yelled his wingmate. “You sure you don’t want some for the road? Sausage, ‘shrooms, peppers, meatballs, extra cheese, onions, and anchovies.”

Doberman glanced back over his shoulder. A-Bomb was grinning, but you never knew I was talking to the Pave Low pilot’s going to meet them halfway. he might actually be telling the truth.

“No thanks,” yelled Doberman. “Anchovies give me heartburn. Don’t want to be burping when it’s time to pickle.”

“What I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb.

CHAPTER 27

Colonel Knowlington nodded absentmindedly as the young lieutenant finished briefing him on the squadron’s supply of Mavericks and bombs. The two men stood near one of the hangars on the outskirts of Oz, Devil Squadron’s maintenance area. A gray-green stack of Mark 82 iron bombs, oldies but goodies, sat nearby. The lieutenant’s name was Malory but he reminded Skull of an Israeli pilot he’d met during a liaison assignment in the 1960s. A fellow Phantom jock, the Israeli was the same age as this young man but had already shot down five Arab planes, the mark of an ace. Skull had kept in touch with him— and then written to his family when he went down MIA over Egypt in 1972. His body was never found.

There was no good reason for thinking of him— or the bottle of vodka they’d demolished the first night they met.

“Colonel?”

“Go, ahead Lieutenant,” said Skull, pretending his attention had been drawn by a battle-damaged Hog rumbling past on its way to its hangars. The Hog’s nose art — a toothy shark’s grin— declared it was a member of the proud and venerable 23rd Tactical Fighter Wing, descendants of the famous Flying Tigers led by Claire Chennault during World War II.

All of the one-hundred-some Hogs in the combat theatre shared King Fahd as their home drome. On paper, Knowlington’s 535th made up an entire wing, though it was currently only at squadron strength. The unit had been cobbled together back in the States bare weeks before the air war began and consisted of planes originally designated for the scrap heap. The pilots and crew dogs were a mixed bag of high-time Hog drivers, green newbies, and hangers-on.

“Riyadh may ask for strict rationing,” said the lieutenant, poking himself back into his commander’s consciousness. The young man was worried the 535th would run out of Mavericks before the ground war began. The AGMs came in several varieties, with either optical or IR guidance, and were a Hog driver’s weapon of choice against tanks and most other meaty targets. They didn’t miss and went boom with authority.

“You don’t worry about Riyadh,” Knowlington told him. “If we start running short, let me know. I’ll make sure we have plenty.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” snapped the lieutenant. He was so new his uniform smelled of wrapper.

Knowlington’s indulgent grin waned as he spotted his capo di capo approaching. Sergeant Allen Clyston tended to amble rather than walk, except when he was angry about something— which he obviously was now, because he looked like a bull elephant on a charge.

“Anything else, Lieutenant?” Skull asked.

The young man followed his boss’s glance toward the capo. “No, sir,” he said, quickly retreating.

“You ain’t going to believe this shit,” said Clyston, drilling his meaty fists into his sides as he halted in front of his commander. The earth shook as he stomped his feet beneath him.

“What shit are we talking about?”

“You know where Rosen is?” demanded Clyston.

“Out at Al Jouf keeping our Hogs in the air, no?”

Clyston shook his head. The capo’s ability to remain calm in the most adverse circumstances was legendary. He had withstood countless Vietnamese shellings during Nam and probably as many inspections by Pentagon bigwigs. But his face was red, and though balled into fists his fingers trembled.

“You okay, Allen?”

“She’s in Iraq!” blurted the sergeant.

“Iraq?”

“It’s not bad enough we have to lose a pilot in a bullshit ground exercise where he had no f’ing business being. That’s a woman, God damn it! She shouldn’t even be over here. Anything happens to her, I’m killing the sons of bitches myself! And then I’m strangling fucking Klee or whoever it was who sent her there. God damn it. God f’ing damn it.”

“All right, let’s find out what the hell is going on here,” said Knowlington. It didn’t seem possible that Rosen was actually in Iraq. He took the capo by the arm and began walking him toward Hog Heaven. Clyston’s body heaved as he walked; Skull worried he might have a heart attack.

It took a while for the gray-haired chief master sergeant to calm down enough to explain what he’d heard. The information had come backchannel via a landline from one of Devil Squadron’s own maintenance geeks at Al Jouf. Basically, the team holding down Fort Apache had lost a helo and needed someone to fix it. With no one else available, Rosen had volunteered— and been parachuted in from 30,000 feet with Captain Bristol Wong, the Devil Squadron’s intelligence specialist.

“What the hell does Rosen know about helicopters?” Skull asked.

“Nothing,” said Clyston. “F’ing nothing.”

Knowlington suspected that wasn’t entirely true; Technical Sergeant Rosen was in fact qualified as an expert in several areas outside of avionics, her primary specialty for Devil Squadron. After Clyston and perhaps one or two of the other top sergeants, she was the best mechanic on the base— huge praise, given the Hog community’s tough standards.

But she was a woman, and no way in hell should she be in Iraq. Klee or whoever was responsible had gone too far.

Knowlington picked up the phone and called a friend, the general in charge of the operation over at the special ops Bat Cave.

“I want an explanation,” he started, calm as ice. When the general asked what the hell he was talking about, Knowlington spoke in slow, measured tones, repeating the bare bones of what Clyston had told him.

It was all news to the general.

“We’re pulling the Apache team out tonight, Mikey,” the general told him. “This is the first I’ve heard about your people being up there on the ground.”

“I expect to see Rosen and Wong standing in front of my desk here at 0600,” Skull said calmly.

“You can count on it,” answered the general. “Excuse me, I have some heads to chop off.”

Clyston’s large frame hung over the sides of the small metal chair across from him as Skull put down the phone. The capo had calmed down some and his fingers had stopped shaking, but he looked old. Knowlington wondered if he looked that old himself sometimes.

Probably worse.

“What’d the general say?” asked the sergeant.

“They’ll be back in the morning.”

“That was a two-star you were trashing?”

“I thought I was pretty calm.”

Clyston smiled— it was weak, but at least his spirits were moving in the right direction. “Thanks.”

Skull nodded. Clyston didn’t say anything else or make a move to get up. It was senseless telling Clyston that Rosen would be all right— they’d both been around too long to feed each other feel-good lines. So he changed the subject, telling Clyston he was thinking of making Captain Glenon the squadron DO.

“He’s got seniority and he’s a good pilot,” Skull told the squadron’s first sergeant. “What do you think?”

The capo nodded. “His temper’s the only problem.”

“I know,” said Knowlington.

“Crew respects him. He’s fair. I think he’s only hot headed with people who out rank him.”

Knowlington smiled. At the moment, he was the only one who outranked the short, fiery Hog driver. But he didn’t mind aggressive subordinates; on the contrary— he liked someone with an edge to keep him sharp.

“I think he’s a good choice,” added Clyston. “A lot better than bringing someone in from the outside.”

“I don’t disagree,” said Knowlington. He waited a moment, but Clyston still made no sign of being ready to leave. “We going to be ready for tomorrow’s frag?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, all the planes are set. Something was flaky with the landing gear on Devil Seven, but I had Harvey overhaul it. I think Smokes just landed too hard because he had to take a leak.”

Clyston grinned, but he still wasn’t back to normal. Skull wanted to say something else reassuring, but couldn’t think of what that would be. Some commanders had a knack for the right word; he always felt tongue tied.

“Well, hell, I guess I got some work to get to,” said the sergeant.

“Me, too,” said Knowlington, rising.

But Clyston lingered a moment longer. He had a question— and Skull suddenly realized it wasn’t about Rosen but about him.

Clyston wanted to know if he was drinking again. He’d smelled the Depot on him earlier, maybe saw him coming from that direction. There might even be rumors.

He wanted to tell him he wasn’t. He wanted to admit, too, that he’d been tempted. That he was still tempted, that he’d always be tempted. That maybe he was only a short walk away from plunging back into the numb hole he’d so recently escaped from.

Skull opened his mouth, not sure exactly what the words would be. But before any came out, the sergeant nodded and began walking away.

CHAPTER 28

Captain Hawkins watched as the two AH-6 Little Birds skimmed along the desert terrain toward the landing strip. The two helos were flying maybe three feet from the ground, moving at over a hundred and thirty miles an hour. Tornadoes of dust whipped behind them, as if they were chewing up the dirt and spitting it out.

Hawkins wanted to do something like that, maybe punch and kick it, though he was far too disciplined a soldier to reveal anything approaching the frustration he felt in front of his men. He wanted to ignore the order to withdraw, wanted to grab the phone and call Riyadh or Washington or wherever the damn order originated, yell and scream and tell them how stupid it was to leave now that they were just getting settled.

But he wouldn’t. He wasn’t even going to share his opinion. He was going to get the two dozen people here, and their equipment, out safely.

“Captain?”

Hawkins turned to Rosen. The diminutive tech sergeant had a bag of tools in her hand that looked to weigh more than she did.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“I’d like to make sure my fixes are holding,” she told him.

“As long as you can do it while they’re refueling.”

“Yes, sir. How did the strike at Al Kajuk go? We get the Scuds?”

“Not yet,” he told her. “They ran into some targeting problems. I had to order the helos back so we can bug out. Blackhawk’s going to pick them up later on.”

Rosen nodded.

“You’re in the first team out,” he added. Because the helicopters were so small— fitting five people in them was nearly impossible— Hawkins had divided up the base contingent into three shifts. They’d fly fifty miles south, although the course was actually more like seventy-five miles, because of two jogs to avoid possible Iraqi encampments. A Pave Low would be waiting to meet them there. It had better be, since they had exactly enough fuel left to get there and no further. Klee didn’t want to risk detection by sending the large Air Force Special Operations helicopter directly to the base.

“Begging your pardon, sir, and no disrespect,” said Rosen, who unlike some of his men sounded as if she meant the words when she said them. “But it would make better sense if I flew with the helicopters the whole time. Something goes wrong, sir, I’m the only one who can fix them. I’m worried about Two. Slim Jim and me just curled the wires together in that harness. I mean, I can’t guarantee they’ll hold forever.”

“Too risky,” snapped Hawkins.

“Riskier than parachuting down here strapped to Captain Wong? Sir?”

Hawkins had to smile. Now that could have come from any of the troopers in his unit.

“You want to fly on every trip?” he asked her.

“I can work the weapons,” Rosen said.

“Rosen, I’m going to marry you someday,” he shouted as the helos came in.

CHAPTER 29

Wong had managed to ease about ten feet closer to the rifle on the ground before the Iraqi captain returned with one of his men. Apparently they had been unable to find the rest of the team, though that did not convince the Iraqis that Wong was telling him the truth about being there alone.

“You may sit,” the commander told him.

“I’d rather stand,” said Wong.

“A stoic spy,” laughed his captor. Then he said in Arabic that it would be wise for Wong to sit, or he would take out his pistol and shoot him without further warning.

Wong knew that it was another of the Iraqi captain’s tests, this one designed to see if he spoke Arabic. He decided he would gain more by letting his captor think he had won the round.

“Why is it so important that I sit?” Wong asked in English.

“It’s not important,” replied the captain in Arabic. “If you wish to stand, then you will stand. Forever. Your sergeant, too.”

Wong made no reply, but shifted his feet slightly, once again edging in the direction of his weapon. He was still a good five or six yards below the rocks where he’d put it.

The sun had gone behind the hill, and the ground where he’d left his weapon lay in the shadows. That made it less likely the Iraqis would spot it, but it might also cost him a second or two locating it.

Wong wondered how long they would stay here. Perhaps until they gave up looking for the rest of the team.

Then what would they do? The easiest thing would be to execute him, though a self-admitted American spy had enormous value, even if he offered no tactical or strategic information. If they did not kill him, they would either relocate him immediately or go to a place where the captain would contact superiors for directions.

Beyond that, their specific course was impossible to predict but easily outlined. Information extraction was likely to be primitive but relatively effective. Wong’s real value was not to the Iraqis but the Russians, who would be highly interested in knowing exactly what he, and thus the Pentagon, actually knew about their weapons. The captain had a cyanide implant in his leg near the groin; he would use it when and if appropriate. Until then, he would proceed with a hierarchical set of goals. Escape lay at the top of his grid, followed by destruction of the Scuds, and finally information-gathering about the Iraqi command and control structure, methods, and operations.

“So you see that you are checkmated,” said the Iraqi, speaking again in English.

“An interesting choice of vocabulary,” said Wong. “Do you play?”

“Chess? It happens that I do.”

Wong nodded.

“Why is that of interest to you?”

“I am always looking for worthy opponents,” said Wong.

The Iraqi captain made a snorting sound, then climbed back to the top of the hill, barely two feet from the rocks where the M-16 lay. Wong took the opportunity to sidle up another two steps. As he did, he glanced at the Delta trooper captured with him. The sergeant gave him a half wink, showing that he knew what Wong was up to.

“I am beginning to think that you were telling the truth about coming alone,” said the captain, turning around.

“There is little sense in lying,” said Wong. “When precisely do you plan on killing me?”

“Would I kill a fellow grandmaster?” The Iraqi’s clean-shaven lip was well suited to ironic grins, turning itself up and outwards at the corner. Wong wondered if the physical feature and personality preference were linked in the DNA.

“I am hardly a grandmaster,” said Wong. “My rating is merely 1900.”

“And I a mere hundred points higher,” said the Iraqi. The quickness of his response betrayed the fact that he was padding his rating— unlike Wong, who’d subtracted a thousand points.

“It’s a pity that we don’t have a board,” said Wong.

“Yes, since we will be here for some while.”

Why, Wong wondered. To prevent Wong from observing the Scuds? But that would mean they would be walking down the hillside in the dark, a time when it would be easier for the prisoners to escape.

What of that earlier reference to “who” rather than what? Surely the Iraqi knew English too well to confuse his pronouns. And what of the curious identity of his unit? The men were all obviously well-trained, but were clearly not Republican Guards. Perhaps the chemical-warhead Scuds had been given special units?

“You may sit, Sergeant,” the Iraqi told the com specialist.

“I will stand with my captain, sir.”

The Iraqi took out his pistol. Wong edged another step up the hill toward the M-16A.

He couldn’t see it, but the rock was at least four yards away. Two and a half steps, a full second and a half. Add another to pick up the rifle or even to kick it, get the grenade to go off.

Three seconds, optimistically. The sergeant would be dead and so would he.

“You may sit, Sergeant,” Wong told him.

“No! You sit, Captain,” said the Iraqi. “I’m not sure why you want to stand, but I want you to sit. Or your man will die.”

The Delta trooper straightened, a calm air rising with his spine. He intended to die enshrouded with honor.

No need for that now. Not yet.

“We will both sit then,” said Wong. He bent slowly and then, as if losing his balance, fell over into the dirt.

Another yard and a half.

The barrel of a pistol slammed hard into his cheekbone as he rose.

“You will stop flailing around,” said the captain, leaning so close Wong was nearly suffocated by the stale tobacco scent of his breath. “Or the next movement you make will be your last.”

As if to underline his statement, an automatic rifle began firing in the distance, somewhere down the hillside.

CHAPTER 30

As Dixon dove into the dirt, the woman in the doorway of the house began to spin. For a moment she was a ballerina, performing an unworldly dance. She was an angel, fluttering on a stage, a frenetic whirl.

Then she became a person again, then a body falling forward into the dirt.

By the time her face smashed into the ground, Dixon had lifted the barrel of his gun from the dirt and aimed at a figure coming around the left-hand corner of the building. He emptied the entire clip at the thick shadow, firing even as the shadow crumpled and fell off to the side. When his clip clicked empty, he grabbed for a fresh one and at the same time began sliding backwards toward the dilapidated plow, a few yards away.

He could hear shouts as he reloaded. There were at least two Iraqis at the back of the house, maybe more inside. He huddled behind the plow, prone, gun next to the blackened blade.

Nothing.

The dogs were quiet. Probably they’d been shot when the woman was.

How many Iraqis were there? Two? Three? Enough to outflank him, certainly. Enough to rush him from different directions.

Kill him easily here. He was better off taking it to them. Get close to the building, hope to catch them by surprise.

Dixon jumped up and ran to the corner of the house where the dead soldier lay. A clip fell off his belt but he didn’t stop for it, sliding in against the hard front of the house, crunching downwards to look around the corner.

Nothing.

He heard something behind him, spun.

Nothing.

The woman lay a few feet away in the dirt. Dixon began to slide along the ground on one knee, inching along the rough front wall toward her. As he approached, he saw a shadow edge against the doorway.

He froze, watching as an Iraqi in fresh, tan fatigues slowly emerged in a crouch, gun aimed toward the opposite hill. He had a clean-shaven face and no insignia on his uniform; his combat boots were black and shiny, as if they’d been polished that morning.

Dixon must have stared at him for four or five seconds before realizing he had a clean shot.

His first bullet missed. The man jerked his head around, stunned by the next five rounds. His chest and shoulder percolated with small explosions as he tried to straighten. Dixon jumped up, firing a last burst to finish him as another soldier came around the far corner of the building. He lifted the AK-47 toward the new target, the stream of bullets dancing in the dirt and then up through the second man’s leg and torso and face. Dixon saw the pain and then the bones splattering and giving away, the man rolling backwards. He saw the pain, and then the death rattle, and then the relief as the man died.

Or he thought he saw it. Dixon took a step, and realized the first man was still moving in the doorway, right next to him. He pulled his rifle back and fired into his head pointblank, except that he didn’t— the clip was gone. He froze, staring at the rifle in the man’s hand, watching as the Iraqi struggled to raise it. He got it about two inches off the ground, grimacing, willing himself to fire, but he had no strength left, not even enough for vengeance. Slowly, he lost the battle, the rifle sinking to the floor as his eyes rolled in his head. A faint odor of aftershave wafted up from the body as Dixon stared down at him.

If there had been any other soldiers, Dixon would have been an easy target, framed by the doorway, rifle empty and hanging down from his side. Finally he turned and walked back to the clip he had dropped, stooping down deliberately, placing, not shoving, the fresh ammunition into the gun. Then he went to the woman.

He didn’t have to lean over to know she was dead. Blood soaked the back of her dress; her eyes were agape, staring at the corner of the house.

She was in her twenties, no older than he.

The Iraqis had killed her, not him. But he felt guilty somehow, as if he had pulled the trigger when she came out of the house.

“I have to do whatever it takes,” he told himself aloud. “There are no civilians. There are no civilians. It’s me or them.”

But even as turned to go into the house, he knew the words were lies. He couldn’t change who he was, even if he could manage to do what duty told him he had to do.

As he stepped over the dead man in the small room at the front of the house, he thought he heard something in the next room. He threw himself to the floor, rolling and crashing against the leg of a wooden table, sending it into the wall.

He was in a kitchen. A pot of vegetable stew or something similar percolated on the primitive stove.

Food.

He jumped to his feet, grabbed the pot then yelled as it burned his hand. It splattered over the small gas jet, putting out the fire; the pot fell to the floor and he went down after it, spooning the hot mush out with his hands. His mouth and throat burned but his hunger forced him on, forced him to gulp it down. He couldn’t tell what it tasted like, had no idea what it might be, knew only that it was food and he was starving.

He’d eaten halfway through the pot when he heard the noise from the other room. A creak, followed by a crack.

Someone sneaking up on him.

He could escape, run away.

He’d be pursued.

He pointed the AK-47 at the doorway. Slowly, Dixon slid his knee forward, edging around the leg of the table. He leaned his torso down, the gun’s stock close to his ribs.

The view into the room was blocked off by an overturned chair. A trunk or large box sat beyond it.

Probably a bedroom.

Dixon slid to his stomach and began crawling. The smeared food on his finger made the trigger feel sticky. The place smelled of dirt and something sweet.

He reached the doorway. Curling his legs beneath him, Dixon put his shoulder against the jam and edged upwards. Then he jumped full into the room, leaning on the trigger, sweeping across. An open doorway led to the backyard, where he could see the bodies of the two dogs lying in the dirt. He pushed his head to the side, looking out the window at the empty hillside and its low brush, then scanning the small room slowly.

Nothing.

No, something, on the floor beyond the bed.

Crying.

He jumped up onto the rope mattress, lost his balance, fell back.

A boy no older than two raised his head, wide brown eyes staring at him. The child began to babble, but didn’t move.

Dixon pulled the gun back. He went back to the kitchen, grabbed the pot and found a spoon. He shoveled food into a small plate he’d found on the floor, then walked it with it back to the bedroom, setting it down in front of the toddler. The kid darted forward with a smile and began spooning the food into its mouth.

In twenty years, the kid would be a soldier, one of Saddam’s minions.

Better to kill him now. It might even be merciful— if no one found him within a few days, he would surely die.

Dixon stared at the little boy gobbling the food. There was no way he could harm him, no matter the circumstances. And yet he knew he had just done the boy irreparable harm, helped deprive him of his mother. Twenty years from now the kid would hate all Americans, and why not? An American had killed his mother.

Even if he knew the truth of what happened, he’d see it that way. He’d be right.

There was a sound from the roadway, a truck or a car. Dixon jerked his head toward the front of the house as the vehicle braked to a halt. He grabbed his gun and for a second thought of going to the front of the house. But that would be suicidal.

He thought, too, that he might take the boy with him— a stupid thought gone in the instant it occurred to him.

He pushed up and jumped through the open back door, gripping the AK-47 and running up the hill.

He was about a third of the way to the top when the house exploded in flame.

CHAPTER 31

Rosen jumped down from the weapons spar on Apache Two and gave the helicopter a good-luck pat. Then she took a few steps back, admiring the small black hulks in the dimming twilight. The Little Birds were all muscle, nothing wasted for show or ostentation; what you saw was what you got. She liked that. And what she saw now were two helos about as ready as they would ever be.

Rosen was not an expert on AH-6s; she hadn’t a clue about bolt tolerances or even routine maintenance items, like when or even if the hydraulic lines should be flushed and tested. But the two helos were working, and that answered the number one rule of technicians the world over— Ain’t Broke, Don’t Fix. Routine maintenance and touch-ups would have to wait until the helicopters returned south.

Actually, they needed more than touch-ups; Apache Two in particular. Gashes and dents covered the sheet metal. A large crack and several bullet holes decorated the cockpit bubble. But the rotor and motor were intact and the wires she had field-stripped and twisted together at the start of this insanely long day were holding. She was good to go.

Or wait, since there was no sense leaving until the Pave Low was en route to meet them. They weren’t taking off for another hour and a half.

The wind kicked up. The sand felt like sleet in her face. With nothing left to do, Rosen went back to the bunker and took out her notebook again, thumbing past the page she’d filled earlier.

It did no good to brood on the past. Her grandma told her that a million times, raising her. So forget about Lieutenant Dixon. BJ. For now at least.

She turned her pen in her hand, thinking what she might write about. Some of the characters she worked with.

The pilots. What a bunch.

A-Bomb:

I guess every unit has its own one-of-a-kind pilot type. Well, A-Bomb— aka Captain O’Rourke— is one of a kind for the whole Air Force. He’s probably unique in the world.

I don’t know how he flies but he must be pretty good because he always gets the tough assignments. And Chief Clyston says he’s pretty good, which is praise right there.

But the thing about A-Bomb is— he’s like a walking junk food store. He’s always eating candy or Big Macs or something. And I mean always— you should see the crumbs on the floor of his airplane. He drinks coffee while he’s flying. I know because I’ve seen the coffee stains!

I don’t know how he manages it. I mean, the Hogs aren’t exactly 747s.

She stopped. She was going to add that the A-10As didn’t have automatic pilots, but that was the kind of information that could conceivably help the enemy. So she went on to other pilots.

Captain Glenon:

Everybody calls him “Doberman.” He probably got the name because of his bark— he has a pretty sharp temper and is very impatient. On the other hand, he’s been very nice and professional to me.

Maybe the best pilot in the bunch. Supposed to be the best at using the Mavericks and dropping bombs, but I’m not sure how you measure that exactly. They’re all pretty good here.

Nice guy. If I had had a brother, the kind of guy I’d want him to be.

Captain Hawkins:

Macho Spec Ops Army captain. Okay for an officer, because all he wants is for you to do your job. Likes to drink tea. Earl Gray tea.

Rosen put her pen down and reread her notes. They were bare descriptions, nothing that really would tell anybody who these men were. Brave. Good pilots. Decent men.

Wasn’t everybody?

No. No way. If you watched the movies or TV, sure— everybody was brave on television, everybody always did the right thing. War, life, weren’t really like that.

If she was going to write a book about her experiences, if she was even going to write a journal, that was what she had to get down.

Her fingers had cramped with the cold. She brought them to her mouth and blew on them as she thought about how difficult it was to communicate what really went on.

Would anyone really want to know?

Sure, they would. The problem was, a lot of what really happened was boring. You got up, you pulled an antenna off a Hog because it was nicked by shrapnel, put a new one in. That was your day.

Boring. Important as all hell, but boring.

Even if you were doing it in Iraq, a hundred miles from any sizable allied force, closer to Baghdad than Oz. Even if any second an enemy artillery shell or a Scud could wipe you out.

You didn’t think about that part. Not that you escaped it, exactly: You carried it around in your tool kit along with the wrenches and Mr. Persuasion, the extra-large ballpeen hammer at the bottom of the bag. It weighed the case down but you couldn’t get rid of it.

She started writing again.

I can’t get BJ out of my mind. He was such an innocent kid. Captain Glenon said he didn’t even curse when he was first assigned to Devil Squadron, and probably hadn’t had more than three beers in his life. A true fact. He was tall for a Hog driver, over six feet, with brushy blond hair and movie-star eyes. Real blue. He looked strong.

But innocent. Like a baby, almost. His lips were so soft.

Why do the good ones die first? Why is innocence the first victim?