“I hope so,” said Hawkins.
“Went on that rollercoaster three times in a row,” said the sergeant. “Didn’t want the kiddies to see I was scared. Turned the stomach inside out, that.”
“I imagine it would.” Hawkins laughed. “I don’t like rollercoasters myself.”
CHAPTER 29
TENT CITY
28 JANUARY 1991
2230
Rebecca Rosen floated in a pool of warmth, her body still trembling from making love with BJ. It hadn’t been what she thought – it was better, better, better. Her head vibrated; she’d fallen away from time, away from the war. The world outside no longer existed. Reality was here, on this tiny cot, BJ’s body pressed gently against hers, his face leaning against her breast, his breath brushing back and forth across her neck. His eyes were closed; she drifted toward sleep as well, lost, pleasantly, lusciously lost, finally oblivious to the aches and distresses of life.
But the world was a hard master.
“Knock, knock,” said a voice from beyond the bubble surrounding her.
“Knock, knock”— part-mocking, part-smirking, part-warning, part-censoring...
Colonel Knowlington entered the tent, standing over them. BJ jumped up, pulling the blankets with him to cover up. She rolled over, belatedly hiding her face. She considered diving to the floor, but didn’t dare.
“Lieutenant, I need you as a backup for Splash,” said Knowlington sharply. “I need you on the runway no later than 0400. I’ll brief you at 0230. Good night.”
The tent shook as the colonel turned sharply on his heel and left without acknowledging her presence or nakedness.
“Fuck,” said Dixon.
Becky turned over, then slowly pulled her hands away from her eyes. She gazed at him, pale and beautiful in the dim light of the tent. Then she began to laugh.
CHAPTER 30
TENT CITY
28 JANUARY 1991
2320
To be a first sergeant of any military organization is to be a philosopher. True, all first sergeants— all sergeants, period— are practical engineers, skilled in the sciences of organization and bureaucracy, to say nothing of bullshit. To reach the exalted level of master sergeant, a man— or woman— must master the twin arts of motivation and discipline; he or she must be more skilled at politics than any candidate for President. He or she must practice the art of war in a way that would humble Sun Tzu, though of course the best sergeants never needed to fire a weapon, for the enemy retreats at the mere hint of their approach.
In a chief master sergeant, genius exerts itself without appearing to sweat. Procurement, persuasion, prophecy— no Greek god or goddess ever had half the attributes of a chief master sergeant, whose very grunt or growl could send an army to glorious victory.
But a first sergeant, a leader of men and minder of officers— a first sergeant also had to be a genius of thought, a translator of the ethereal and timeless. For who but a first sergeant could properly frame the unending questions of life? Who but a first sergeant could say, with a straight face and great authority, This is this? Who but a first sergeant could look at a glass and declare that it was neither half full nor half empty, but rather, a symbol of man’s status in the universe.
And the best damn beer he’d quaffed in at least twenty-four hours.
“The best,” repeated the capo di capo from the armchair in his over-sized temp tent in the heart of Tent City.
“Better than that porter Elwell brought in from Czechoslovakia,” agreed Sergeant Melfi, sitting on the capo’s right. Despite being a mere staff sergeant, Melfi showed great promise— as did all of the capo’s hand-picked minions.
“Czechs don’t make porter,” said Technical Sergeant Luce dismissively.
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Clyston. “Blanket statements like that will get you in trouble every time.” He took a long sip from his glass savoring the bouquet. Since he was in a war zone, he limited himself to two beers each night, lingering far longer over each glass than he would do under any other circumstance. But self-restraint sharpened the palate.
“As a general rule, Czech porter is not the best porter,” said Luce, amending his pronouncement. “Now, you want to talk about pilsners— that’s a whole different kettle of yeast.”
Clyston snorted approvingly at Luce’s turn of phrase. “Gentlemen, I believe it’s time for a smoke,” he said, reaching for the humidor below his chair. He opened it and removed a large Cuban Partagas Lusitania, then offered the polished walnut box to Melfi, who selected a Punch in the robusto size. Luce, as was his custom, passed.
They had just lit up when Aaron Racid, an E-4 ordnance loader or candyman, rushed into the tent without knocking— a violation of protocol so serious that it could only be caused by a crisis.
Which it was.
“Devereaux’s sitting on a Maverick and won’t get off,” the black weapons specialist told his capo. “Swear to God, Chief. Lost his fucking mind. Lost his fuck-ing mind.”
Clyston put down his beer and unfolded himself from the chair. “I’ll be back,” he told his men, stoking the flame of his double corona with a big puff of his cigar before following Racid out toward Oz.
Seven Hogs sat in various stages of dress in and around the hangars. The day’s bombing runs had been relatively easy for the Devil Squadron, and none had been damaged or even nicked. With no major maintenance tasks and hours before most of the squadron needed to be at the flight line, only a light crew was on duty. The candymen were supposed to be loading up a pair of Hogs that Colonel Knowlington wanted to use to support a covert deep-strike mission.
Racid’s description had not been entirely accurate— Devereaux sat on two Mavericks, his butt on one and his legs on the other. Both missiles were on low-slung trolleys directly in front of Devil Five. Two other bomb loaders stood several feet away, throwing worried looks at Racid.
“Devereaux, what the F is going on?” said Clyston, looking not at Devereaux but the others. The men took half-steps backwards as he stopped, hands on his hips. “You guys find some coffee.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” they said in unison, disappearing.
Clyston turned toward Devereaux. The E-4 weighed at least 220 pounds. While the AGMs were safed and designed for semi-rough handling, it was never a good idea to treat any ordinance lightly, let alone as a couch.
“You resting?” Clyston asked his man.
“No, Sergeant.”
“You intending on loading these?”
“I’d prefer not to.”
Now in theory, there were a million ways to handle a situation like this. The capo could ask for a clarification of what the hell “prefer not to” meant. Or he could skip the bull, give a direct order, and wait for it to be fulfilled. If it wasn’t— as seemed somewhat likely— he could have Devereaux forcibly removed, even placed under arrest. Charges could be brought or the man could be removed to medical care.
But the capo, mindful that the head on his perfect beer back at the tent was steadily dissipating, did not have time for anything so involved. He took a thoughtful puff on his cigar, and went to his ordie.
“Mind if I sit down?”
Devereaux shoved over slightly. Clyston gingerly placed himself on the Maverick next to him.
“Thinking of what these suckers can do, huh?” Clyston said.
Devereaux, who obviously had been, said nothing for a moment. Then he asked if the capo had ever heard Mozart’s “Requiem.”
“I was just listening to it, as a matter of fact,” said Clyston, who firmly believed that fibs in the line of duty were not fibs at all.
“Shows you how puny we are.”
“Not really,” said Clyston. “Shows what man is capable of— giving the angels a voice.” He hummed a small piece from the overture— the chief did, in fact, have a recording of the masterwork in his tent, along with many of Mozart’s other works.
Devereaux jerked his head around for a moment, then looked at the ground. �
��I don’t want to kill anybody, Chief.”
Funny, this kind of stuff never came up at the recruitment office. Clyston took a long puff on his cigar. One thing he had to give the Marxist bastard Cubans— they sure as shit knew how to roll tobacco.
“I know I’m not pulling the trigger,” continued Devereaux. “But no man’s an island.”
Donne and Mozart in the same conversation. Almost made flat beer worthwhile.
Not really. Still, it was an elevated sort of conversation. Bomb loaders as a class weren’t generally given to classical music and poetry, unless you numbered the Beastie Boys among the great masters.
Clyston exhaled the smoke from his cigar.
“Fate’s a funny thing,” he told his senior airman. “Puts you places you never thought you’d be.”
Devereaux nodded, then looked toward the sky. Clyston folded his left arm under his right, taking another long, slow drag on the cigar.
“Yeah. Fate,” said the ordie. “Can’t live with it. Can’t live without it.”
Now that was a candyman’s philosophy.
“Excuse me, Sergeant,” said the E-4, slipping his feet off the Maverick. “You don’t mind, but I have to get these suckers loaded. And uh, no offense, but this isn’t the safest place to be smoking a cigar.”
“Good point, Devereaux,” said Clyston. “Carry on.”
CHAPTER 31
KING KHALID MILITARY CITY (KKMC)
29 JANUARY 1991
0002
Hack pushed the receiver closer to his ear, trying to pick up the others through the static. There were more than a dozen British and American officers on the line, and all of them sounded like they were underwater or they had filled their mouths with sand.
“Neither Tension nor Hercules produced anything,” said the British SAS major reviewing the search operations. “Light resistance, including some SAM activity, was encountered at both sites.”
Hack took that as a slap, but kept his mouth shut as the major continued. The British RAF general ultimately responsible for the missing men had opened up the phone conference by tossing Devil Squadron a bone, saying that the two RAF fliers credited the Hogs with saving their skins. If anyone criticized Preston directly, he’d throw that back in their faces. In the meantime, it was best to keep quiet.
“Splash remains our only possibility,” said the major after detailing some other leads that had washed out. “Granted, it is still a long shot.”
Hack started to say that he and A-Bomb were ready as well, but he was cut off by Captain Wong.
“The small base we are calling Splash may be more significant than original estimates surmised,” said Wong.
It was obvious from the background noises that he was speaking from an aircraft, though he didn’t bother to explain why he was aboard one, let alone how he had managed the link.
Wong launched into a long and somewhat muffled dissertation on what the tapes from the Tornado overflight and recent satellite snaps showed. Unable to follow Wong amid growing static, Preston dug his nail into the Styrofoam coffee cup— real Dunkin’ Donuts, as A-Bomb promised. As the unintelligible filibuster continued, Hack glanced at the box of donuts on the desk, which lay just out of reach. He considered putting the phone down and grabbing another Boston Kreme. As implausible as it seemed, the treats were authentic. O’Rourke could probably find a McDonald’s in downtown Baghdad.
If he ever took command of the squadron, he’d make A-Bomb one of the flight leaders. Not because of the donuts— the guy was a damn good pilot, a kick-ass pilot, even though personally he looked like a slob. Glenon— Glenon had too much a temper to be a front-line jock, in Hack’s opinion, though he obviously must do well in peacetime exercises and the like.
Wong— Wong could go back to the Pentagon or wherever he came from. He kept talking and talking, even though all he seemed to be saying was that there were now two very short-range missile launchers at Splash, SA-9s.
Preston gave into temptation and stretched for the donut. When he picked the phone back up, Wong was still detailing the point defenses, noting that four more trucks with antiair artillery had been seen on the road nearby. The SA-2 site they had identified earlier remained a potent threat, even though it had not come up on the aborted mission.
“They’re probably defunct,” said Preston harshly. “They’re not a factor.”
Despite his hope that his comment would cue someone else to take over the conversation, Wong kept right on talking.
“There is a building at garshawl eastern gergawsh.”
Wong’s words trailed into an swirl of echoing static, scrambling the sentences as effectively as a 128-byte encryption key. The words Hack could make out sounded something like “shadows inside a building,” although that didn’t make much sense..
“Hey, hold on,” interrupted A-Bomb, shouting into his headset a few feet away. Hack pulled the phone away from his ear, but not before his eardrum felt like it had been shattered. “What you’re saying is there’s a plane in the hanger?”
“Affirmative,” said Wong.
“What kind of plane?” said Hack.
“That is what I intend to find out.” Wong said. “I believe it is a MiG-29, variant unknown. My task will be to examine the plane and gather as much detail about it as possible.”
“A MiG?” asked one of the British officers.
“We think there’s a MiG-29 in the old hangar building at the northeast side of the airfield,” Knowlington cut in. His voice came over the scrambled line sharp and direct; the snap in it reminded Hack of his father. “Wong wants to have a look at it.”
“Wong?” asked Preston.
“What if it takes off?” asked Hawkins.
“There is that possibility,” said Wong. “A fuel truck has been positioned in the L-shaped revetment at the northernmost point of the field. The aircraft should be targeted by one of the attack planes in the support package.”
“The revetment was empty yesterday afternoon, Bristol,” said Hawkins. “I remember it very clearly. We were planning to use it for cover.”
“Correct. As I was saying, there is a possibility the Iraqis are preparing the plane for an early morning takeoff.”
“CentCom has assigned a pair of F-15s to take out the MiG if it tries to come south,” said Knowlington. “The Iraqis may have a suicide bombing run in mind. Hard to tell. In any event, we’d like to try and have a look at the plane before we destroy it.”
“It presents a unique intelligence opportunity,” added Wong.
“What does Wong know about MiGs?” said Preston.
“I know a considerable amount about Soviet weaponry,” said the captain haughtily.
“You ever fly one?”
“I am not a pilot.”
“We’ll nail it,” said A-Bomb. “Maverick will slice through the hangar like a knife through a cheese danish.”
“The hell with blowing it up,” said Hack. “I’ll fly it out of there.”
“What are you saying?” asked one of the British officers.
What was he saying? Steal it?
The idea seemed to explode in his head, and adrenaline suddenly flowed into the muscles and bones that had been worn down by the day’s action.
Steal it.
“Let’s fly it out,” said Hack. “I can do it.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” said Hawkins.
Hack jumped to his feet. “We can get it. I’ll fly it. I can do it. Fuck, I know I can.”
“You’re going to fly a Fulcrum?” asked A-Bomb.
“I already have,” Preston said. “I was at Kubinka last year. Colonel, you know that. Shit. I can just walk off with it, assuming it’s fueled. Tell them, Colonel – I was at Kubinka. I’ve flown MiGs.”
“It’s true,” said Knowlington.
Kubinka was a Russian air base, where Hack and three other officers had visited as part of an exchange program. Knowlington did know, because Preston had come back to the Pentagon directly from t
hat assignment.
What he obviously didn’t know was that Preston had flown from the backseat, doing little more than take the controls at medium altitude, and then for only a few minutes.
But he could do it. He knew he could do it. The idea of it— the sheer, beautiful audacity of stealing the prize right out from under Saddam’s nose— he couldn’t resist! No one could.
“Let’s take it,” he said. “I’ll go in with the ground team. Bing. We’re off.”
“You’re talking about huge risk here,” said Hawkins. “Incredible risk.”
“Going that far north for two SAS guys who probably aren’t there isn’t risky?” demanded Hack. “You’re telling me that’s not fucking risky?”
“I’m telling you that if there’s a plane on the ground that’s being refueled, we have to rethink the whole goddamn mission,” said Hawkins.
“Don’t chicken out on me now,” said Preston.
“Hey, screw yourself, Major.”
“Okay, kids!” Knowlington’s voice was sharp. “Let’s take a big breath and think about this. What if the plane is damaged, Hack? Or you can’t get the fuel into it?”
“Then I jump back on the helicopter and go home. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“What about gear”
“I use the Iraqis’.” Hack remembered the cumbersome helmet he’d used in Russia. The flight suit, however, had been a little lighter than Western gear, and in some ways easier to use. “I take my gear as a backup, get someone to work up the connections, and hell, I just fly low and slow enough that I don’t need oxygen and don’t worry about pulling big-time g’s. Piece of cake, Colonel.”
“It’s not a piece of cake,” said Knowlington coldly. “Wong?”
“From an Intelligence point of view,” said Wong, “possession of an operational MiG would be valuable. Very valuable. I myself would prefer acquiring it. As I began to mention to you earlier, Colonel, I considered requesting an MH-130 and a team of men to dismantle the plane at the base, returning with it.”
HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Page 10