“No.”
“I can have him call you.”
“That would be fine.”
“Is it urgent?”
“It’s important,” Knowlington said, carefully choosing the word.
“He’ll get back to you, Colonel.”
Still standing in front of his desk, Knowlington hung up the phone.
He’d spent his entire adult life in the Air Force. What would he do now? Take up one of the countless offers from old cronies to take a cushy job with a contractor?
Why not? Good money. Free booze.
He wouldn’t drink. He couldn’t stand it.
Who was he kidding? It took everything now not to bolt for the Depot.
He stared down at the phone. He should talk to his sisters, tell them.
He’d have to tell them sooner or later. He’d probably have to stay with one of then— Susan, probably. Debbie was always busy with her kids.
He called Debbie, surprised that he got a line, surprised to hear the phone ring, surprised to hear her voice on the other end.
“Michael. It’s about time you called,” she said, as if she’d been waiting for him all day. “I’ve been thinking of you.”
“Yeah?”
“I ran into Simona yesterday,” His sister laughed. “She was talking about her son Jimmy wanting to be a pilot. I told her you would talk him out of it, of course.”
Another time, he might have laughed. He’d gone out with Simona way back in high school, knew her now only as a vague acquaintance. She had two kids, Jimmy was the youngest. He husband— what the hell did he do? Accountant or something for a large corporation. Kept track of toilet-paper orders for factories all across America.
“You’d be surprised, she’s lost a lot of weight,” said Debbie. “She looks a lot younger. I mean, we all look old.”
“I’m coming home,” Michael told his sister, the words rushing out.
There was no answer. He hadn’t seen his sister in months, but he saw her clearly before him, as if she were in the room. He imagined her pushing her head back, narrowing her eyes, considering how to respond, running her hand through her light reddish-brown hair.
“What’s wrong, Michael?”
“I’m letting people down.”
She understood the code as well as he did; knew what it referred to without having to use the words.
“So you’re going to quit?”
Her voice was as cold as their mother’s. Colder.
“I don’t want to hurt these kids.”
“And you wouldn’t be hurting them by quitting?”
“I’m not quitting.” He paused, looking around the room, as if the explanation were a notice or bulletin tacked to the wall. “I can’t trust myself.”
She was silent. She’d have nothing more to say, would stand there in her kitchen, waiting for him to change the subject, as always.
So he did.
“How’s Bobby?” he said, asking after his nephew. He turned and sat on the edge of the desk.
“Growing like a weed. Jack wants to take him hunting, but I say no.”
“Isn’t it out of season?”
“Maybe.” She gave a forced, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m not really sure how that works.”
“Chris okay?”
“She may make valedictorian.”
“Smart girl.”
“Very.”
“Well, I have to get going here.”
“Michael. . .”
“I love you, too,” he said, though he knew that wasn’t what she was going to say. “I’ll be talking to you.”
Knowlington slipped the phone back onto its cradle. It was all too much. He had to get a drink.
He hunched his shoulders and opened the door, moving quickly into the hallway. He ignored the framed photos slightly off-kilter on the wall— pictures of old war birds in their prime: a Mustang, the original Thunderbolt, a toothy Tomahawk, two different Phantoms, and a Sabre. He pulled open the door and trotted down the steps outside, resigned to his fate.
“Colonel Knowlington, a word, sir,” snapped Captain Wong, materializing at this side just as he hit his stride.
Knowlington nearly jumped back, surprised by the intelligence specialist.
“Wong, what the hell are you doing?”
“Coming to get you on a matter of some urgency.”
“I have to tell you, Captain, I’m not really in the mood for joking tonight.”
“I’m not in the habit of making jokes, sir.”
Wong. His voice was so distressed, so sincere, so straight, Knowlington couldn’t help but laugh.
“You’re a first-class ball-buster,” he told the captain. “Shit, Wong. What the hell? What’s up?”
“I’d like you to take a look at a photograph,” said the captain. “It’s not very high quality, but I believe you would be extremely interested in its subject.”
“Its subject,” echoed Knowlington, pointing the captain back in the direction of his office. “Wong, you crack me up.”
CHAPTER 25
KING KHALID MILITARY CITY
28 JANUARY 1991
2145
Hack collapsed into the chair of the borrowed office at KKMC, sighing now that he was finally alone after a tedious and largely pointless debriefing with three difference intelligence specialists in the base commander’s office suite down the hall. His body felt like it had been pummeled by a dozen heavyweights. What wasn’t bruised was cramped into jagged slabs of slate; his neck and shoulder muscles had more knots in them than a Persian rug.
One of the debriefers, a weaselly looking Army guy from the CinC’s staff, had implied that Hack wasn’t aggressive enough. Hack had kept his cool, his Pentagon training coming to the fore— he hinted displeasure without making it absolutely explicit, emphasizing the “fluidity of the combat situation” in a way that strongly implied his guys had put their necks out damned far, thank you very much. The jerk finally nodded and left.
Of course, the Air Force guys had implied just the opposite, wondering why the hell they had gone for the Roland. Neither seemed terribly impressed when A-Bomb said, “Because it was there,” and walked out in exasperation.
Preston had been seriously tempted to join him. They’d saved the Tornado crew, killed a potent SAM site. They out to get pats on the back, not questions.
The Army guy truly boiled him. What the hell else did he expect?
But what did Hack expect of himself? He felt, he knew, he’d screwed up a couple of times today, big-time.
Hack shifted uneasily in the chair, trying to position his legs so the cramps might ease. Still technically on alert for Splash, Devil Squadron had been loaned the small nondescript as temporary operational headquarters, rest area, and bus station. The furnishings included four metal folding chairs, a very lop-sided card table, and an empty footlocker that looked and smelled as if it dated from World War I.
Gunny and Doberman were catching some Z’s in a “guest” building across the way. They had to prep a separate mission at 0400; at least as far as Hack was concerned, they were no longer part of the operation. A-Bomb, meanwhile, had gone in search of real coffee, claiming Dunkin’ Donuts had set up a franchise near the mosque not far from the hangar area.
It might very well be true. Guys didn’t call KKMC the Emerald City for nothing. The massive mosque and fancy buildings surround the airstrip enhanced the Las Vegas image. They were close to Iraq and Kuwait, but this wasn’t the usual austere forward operating area. If there was Dunkin’ Donuts coffee anywhere in the Gulf, it’d be here. And if there was Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, A-Bomb would find it.
Hack realized his legs were only going to get stiff sitting down. He got up and began pacing the room. He probably out to just bag it and go get some sleep. The Splash mission would definitely be called off; no way they’d go ahead with it now that the Iraqis knew they were interested in the base.
On the other hand, it might take the Iraqis a while to reinforce the pla
ce. They might be scared shitless to move during the night, with American bombers in such absolute control. Or maybe they would only move at night, and have to wait until orders came from Saddam in the morning.
No way to know, no way to predict. The Spec Ops and SAS wizards were cooking it all up in their pot of stew right now. The backup had been to attack at dawn, so maybe it was still on.
Preston stopped walking and did a few squats, legs creaking like those of an eighty-year-old trying to take the stairs in the nursing home.
A bleary-eyed Air Force lieutenant appeared at the door. “Major Preston?” he asked.
“That’s me.”
“Delta and the SAS want to set up a talk at 2400, sir. They’re arranging a satellite slot.”
Great, thought Hack— a conference call at midnight. He’d have to wait around now, no way he’d get back up in time if he took a nap.
“We’ll handle the arrangements, sir,” added the lieutenant. “Base commander’s office will be available. You can come on down a few minutes beforehand. We’ll make some extra-strength coffee,” added the lieutenant, trying but failing to inject some cheer into his voice. Poor guy looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.
“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Said Hack. “I’ll come looking for you if I need anything.”
The lieutenant grimaced slightly as he smiled: it was obvious he hoped Hack wouldn’t add to his workload.
As he walked from the room, the lieutenant’s shoulders sagged. Hack couldn’t help remember the advice one of his mentors had given him in the early days of his Pentagon assignment: Somebody piles more work on you than you can handle, smile and ask for more.
Then pass it off to someone else.
Obviously the lieutenant worked for someone who took the advice to heart.
Might as well go find some real coffee, he thought, and maybe see what O’Rourke was up to.
As he stepped into the hallway, Major Preston heard the muffled strains of music. It happened to be coming from the direction of the building’s foyer, or at least seemed to, growing louder as he walked. The notes strained unevenly; they came from a keyboard of some type, played by someone who didn’t have much sense of tempo. The sound reminded Hack of some of his high school music classes; his band teacher had been a particularly poor keyboardist but nonetheless went at it every day before class.
The music abruptly stopped as he reached the steps leading down to the front door. Hack noticed another small flight off to the right that led down to a well-lit hallway. Curious, he jogged down them. There he spotted a black board with white letters announcing ecumenical Christian services.
Today was Sunday; he’d completely lost track.
Curious about the music and feeling a little guilty that he’d missed his first Sunday service in more than a year, Hack poked his head into the room. A preacher stood at a wooden lectern, reading from the scripture to an audience of six. The words immediately struck Preston— they were from Ecclesiastes, a section of the Bible his mother and grandmother had often cited when he was growing up. Hack had even pasted a line from a section of the biblical book to his flight board: a reminder to do what was wise and just, always.
Easy in theory, he thought now, listening to the reverend. Difficult in reality, especially in war. Hack walked into the room, sitting in the last of the twelve rows. The empty chairs made the space seem cavernous. An electronic keyboard sat near the reverend’s lectern; one of its stilt legs had been repaired with a thick tangle of duct tape.
“Who is the wise man? A man’s wisdom makes his face shine, and the boldness of his face shall be changed.” The minister nodded his head, pausing for effect.
But you couldn’t tell who was wise and who wasn’t by looking at his face, Hack thought. You couldn’t guess what people were worth by looking at them. They changed. Look at Knowlington— take him out of Washington, and the guy was actually wise, or damn close to it.
What about himself? Take him out of an F-15 and put him in an A-10 and he was worthless.
Worthless? Just because he’d flubbed the wind correction on his bombing run?
Or locked on an armored car instead of a missile launcher?
Or hadn’t been aggressive enough? How much more aggressive could he have been? Aggressive enough to get shot down? What if the helicopters had been hit?
What was wisdom? What was folly?
The minister continued on, his thin voice as earnest as any Hack had ever heard. The man’s eyes shone like faceted glass as he spoke, clearly lost in the advice he was giving..
Preston had listened to many sermons like this in his life, sometimes with rapt attention, more often with indifference as he daydreamed about something else. The minister’s voice evoked something different in him tonight— he thought about how naive the reverend must be, how innocent of his surroundings.
He knew it wasn’t fair, and he knew he ought to get up and find A-Bomb, let him know what was going on. But he stayed listening, watching the reverend speak. He remained when the service ended and the others filed out. He remained sitting as the minister closed his book and walked to the electronic keyboard and turned it off; he watched as the man walked toward him.
“Can I help you, son?”
“I’m as old as you, maybe older,” Preston told him.
The minister laughed, nodding his head. “Age comes with the collar, I’m afraid. I saw you listening to the sermon.”
“I have a line from Ecclesiastes on my flight board. I carry it with me every flight. ‘Wisdom exceeds folly.’ ”
“It does.”
“But you can’t always tell what’s wise, and what’s stupid.”
The reverend bit his lower lip, nodding his head slowly. The lids of his eyes squeezed together slightly, as if he were considering the quote for the first time. “I think that may be the point of the passage,” he said finally.
“No,” said Hack. “I don’t think so. No one ever said that,” he added, thinking of all the discussions he’d heard.
“Maybe they were wrong?”
“You think what we’re doing here is right? I mean, we could be fooling ourselves and wouldn’t know it.”
Hack felt his throat contract as the words ran out of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say anything like that— he hadn’t been consciously thinking of that, and even if he were, he’d never raise the question with a stranger.
He stood, surprised at himself, a little embarrassed even, waiting for the minister to reassure him, to say something like: “Of course it’s right, justice must be done.”
It was the sort of thing that chaplains tended to say. But this one looked at him and said nothing for a moment.
“I don’t know. Honestly, I’m not sure,” said the reverent. “I struggle with it. To see someone die must be a horrible thing.”
“I’ve never actually seen anyone die,” said Hack. “But I have killed a man. Or probably. I shot down a MiG.”
“Does it weigh on your conscience?”
“No. It doesn’t,” he said honestly. “I hadn’t really thought of it. Not in that way. Not that I killed someone.”
How did he think of it? He thought of it as a contest, a game almost.
No, as a job. Like the one he’d had in high school, cutting grass. Something he had to do.
Surely the other pilot would have killed him if he had the chance. Did that make it right, or wise?
Why had he held back on the Splash mission?
But he hadn’t held back at all. Screw the Army briefer, screw Hawkins, screw anyone who suggested that. His guys saved two men’s lives and that was worth something. No matter what you measured it against.
“It is a struggle, deciding what is wise and what is folly,” agreed the minister. “Would you like to get a drink?”
“A drink?” Hack laughed. “No.”
“Ministers drink.”
“I know that,” Preston told him. “But I have a, uh, a kind of thing I have to do.” Splash was top secret
and he couldn’t give any details. “I’m on standby.”
“Oh,” said the chaplain, clearly disappointed. “Coffee?”
“Nah,” said Hack. “Thanks anyway. Nice service.”
CHAPTER 26
TENT CITY
28 JANUARY 1991
2145
BJ Dixon stared at the canvas ceiling of his tent, trying to remember what it felt like to fly. Wind rattled the fabric, a whispery hush that made it seem as if he’d fallen into a void. He couldn’t remember how to fly— he could barely remember how to walk. The yellow air of the tent pressed against his chest like Iraqi dirt; the rumbles in the distance were the groans of men dying, of the grenade exploding against the little boy’s stomach.
“BJ?”
He turned his head toward the door.
“Lieutenant?”
Dixon sat up and swung his bare feet off the cot. He had on dress uniform pants; they were the only pants clean enough to wear. Cold, he’d layered all four of his clean T-shirts on. “It’s okay,” he said.
Becky Rosen slid slowly inside, holding the door open only far enough to let her slender body through.
“I saw your light,” she said.
“Can’t sleep,” BJ told her.
“I. . .” She shrugged.
“What?”
“I was wondering how you were, after everything up there.”
“Okay. Cold.”
“I heard you were going home.”
“No.” He folded his arms around his chest, a wave of cold air hitting him. “They said I could. I don’t feel like it. I want to be here.”
She nodded. “Get back on the horse? Fly again?”
“It seems like it’s been forever since I flew, you know?”
“Those your dress pants?”
“Yeah.” He laughed— briefly, barely, but still, it was a laugh. “Nothing else is clean.”
“I know the feeling.”
They’d kissed once, in the dark, by accident really. Her lips had been warmer and deeper and softer than anything he’d ever felt. But it had been so long ago now, before he’d known anything, before going north, before the kid.
HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Page 8