by Dale Brown
“You said yourself there’d be a transition,” said Breanna.
“I was optimistic.”
“Jeff — sooner or later, there are going to be other pilots in the program.”
“You think I’m giving him a hard time on purpose?”
Breanna gave him one of her most severe frowns — her cheeks shot inward and her brow furrowed down — before pretending to study the menu.
Zen didn’t consider Fentress a bad sort, really; he was smarter than hell, with an engineering degree and several published papers on complicated computer compressions that Jennifer Gleason said were quite good. But he also had a certain lapdog quality to him, an I’ll-do-anything-you-want thing that irked Zen.
Plus he’d screwed up on the flight today.
So had he, Zen knew, on his first few flights.
Still, the kid — he was a kid, not even twenty-five yet — pissed him off.
Fentress wanted his job. He’d said something like that the first day they met, during one of the bullshit orientation “talks,” actually an informal job interview.
Still, he had gone ahead and selected Fentress for the program anyway. What the hell was he thinking?
That Curly was better than one of the jocks who wanted his job.
Less threatening?
Bullshit.
“You havin’ fish?” Zen asked his wife.
“With Chianti? No,” said Bree.
The waiter approached. “Buona sera,” he said, using Italian to say good evening.
It was the sort of thing Breanna ate up. “Buona sera,” she replied lightly. “Per piacere, un po’ d’acqua fresco,” she said, asking for water, then added in Italian that he could bring it later, after they ordered.
The waiter treated her like a long lost cousin. They began debating the merits of several dishes. Zen watched sourly. He loved Bree — truly he did — but she could act like such a jerk sometimes. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see her get up and start dancing with the buffoon.
Finally the waiter turned toward him. “E signor?”
“Yeah, spaghetti,” said Jeff.
“Just spaghetti?” asked the waiter.
“Yuppers.”
The man took the menu and retreated quickly.
“You know, you used to be fun,” said Breanna.
She meant it as a joke, but there was something serious behind it.
“When I walked, right?” he snapped.
“Jeff — baby, that’s not what I meant. Jeffrey. Jeff.” She reached her hand across the table and gently touched his face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m all right,” he said.
“Jeff.”
She rubbed her forefinger lightly against his cheek.
He tried to will away the anger and resentment, realizing that, of all people, she shouldn’t bear the brunt of it.
He remembered her face on the stretcher a few weeks ago when they’d come back from Brazil. She’d crash-landed the plane after saving them from an altimeter bomb.
He’d said a prayer then, probably the first he’d uttered since his own crash.
“Don’t let her be crippled,” he’d prayed. “It would be better for her if she died.”
He’d meant it.
“Jeff?”
“I’m sorry, Bree,” he said. “Bad day. I’m just — just a tough day. You going to give me some of your veal?”
“I ordered braised lamb in a port reduction sauce with sorrels and shaved truffles.”
“Yeah, that’s what I meant,” he said.
Chapter 10
Incirlik Air Base, Turkey
27 May
0413
The hour of sleep Torbin caught after the lengthy mission debrief had served only to increase his restlessness. He came back to the base and wandered back and forth between his ready room and the hangar area, alternately checking on his aircraft and plans for a morning mission. The downed pilot hadn’t been found yet, but they now had a fix on the wreckage of his plane. Two planes were orbiting the area and a full-blown search package would launch a half hour before first light.
Torbin planned to be in it, even if he had to fly Glory B himself.
The debriefers had grilled him pretty hard about the Iraqi missile sites. Their questions were nothing compared to the single one he’d asked himself over and over since the Falcon had been hit:
How the hell had he missed the missile?
The answer was that he hadn’t. The Iraqis had fired a bunch of missiles from long range without guidance, and somehow, some way, they had gotten the F-16.
Nailed it. Clipped the sucker. Waxed his fanny.
But there was no way, no way in the world, that it had been one of the missiles he’d had on his gear. Not possible.
The APR-47 threat detection radar was an extremely capable piece of equipment — old, perhaps, but still a notch ahead of anything Iraq possessed. Assuming it was in operating order — and the technicians who swarmed over it after they landed assured him it was — the APR-47 could not have missed any Iraqi radar, certainly not one operating long enough or close enough to successfully target the plane.
Nor could he, Torbin thought.
Somehow the bastards had claimed the plane with a one in a million blind shot. Though he wasn’t even sure how they could have managed that.
Torbin folded his arms against his chest as he walked toward Glory B’s hangar. Possibly, the F-16 pilot had screwed up. Possibly. Still, he was pissed — he wanted to pound those bastards into the sand with his bare fists.
A Humvee barreled toward him as he turned the corner toward the maintenance area; he frowned at it viciously, as if that might make it miss him, then stepped off the macadam as the truck veered to a stop.
“Captain Dolk?” asked the driver, who was wearing civilian clothes.
“Yeah?”
“Hop in.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“My name’s Smith,” said the driver. “Come on.”
“Hey, no offense, but I’ve got a mission to prep.”
“Just get in,” said the driver.
A figure leaned forward from the rear. “Relax, Captain,” the man told him. “My name is Brad Elliott. General Elliott. I’d like to speak to you for just a second. We’ll give you a lift to wherever it is you’re going.”
“I have a mission, sir,” said Torbin.
“We won’t interfere with that.”
Torbin shrugged, then stepped around the vehicle to get in the other side. Elliott opened the door for him. He too was wearing civilian clothes.
“I gave a full briefing when I landed, sir,” said Torbin.
“Yes, we’ve seen the preliminary report and spoken to Colonel Hashek,” said Elliott. “I’d like to hear what happened in your own words.”
Torbin sighed. This figured to be a big fucking deal, even if they got the pilot back — no one had been shot down over Iraq since the Gulf War.
“A lot of flicks on and off,” said the general, summarizing the incident after Torbin finished. “And then a barrage of missiles.”
“Pretty much,” said Torbin. “Everything was out of range, except for that SA-2 site that I nailed. And maybe the SA-8. We hit both. The tapes bear me out.”
Elliott nodded. The driver had turned around at some point during the story; Torbin looked now into his face.
Even in the darkness he could see the frown.
“I have a job to do this morning, sir,” said Torbin.
“Understood,” said Elliott. “One more thing — did you see the missile that hit the F-16?”
“No, sir. We weren’t that close to the fighters and, uh, my eyes would have been on the scope at that point, sir.”
“I wasn’t implying they weren’t,” said the general mildly. “Can you think of anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s fine,” said the general. “Thank you, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
Torbin got out
of the vehicle. Before he closed the door, the general leaned toward him across the seat.
“Don’t worry about what happened yesterday,” Elliott told him. “Just do your best this morning.”
“Yes, sir,” said Torbin. “That’s what I figure.”
He closed the door, stood back and saluted as the Hummer sped off.
“What do you think, mack?” asked General Elliott as Major Smith geared the Hummer toward the command buildings.
“He blew it big-time and doesn’t want to admit it,” said Mack. When Elliott didn’t answer, he added, “That’s only my opinion.”
“Understood.”
“Maybe there was a gear screw-up,” said Mack. “Or maybe the Viper flew into flak and the other guys on the flight just got his altitude wrong. Things get tangled. It could even have been a shoulder-launched SA-14,” he added, though he thought all of those possibilities were fairly remote. “Just got lucky.”
“Possible.”
“Say, General, I want to be on the mission. Hook me up with one of the F-16s. I’ll find him. I promise.”
“We have our own job to do, Major.”
“No offense, General, but you can snag an airman to do your driving. Hell, I’m a better pilot than any of these guys. You know it, sir.”
“Mack, you haven’t changed one bit.”
“Thank you.”
“I didn’t mean that as a compliment.”
Mack steered the Hummer into a parking spot near the small, squat building headquartering the squadron in charge of the operations. Elliott jumped out, breezing by the air policemen and striding into the building. Mack followed along as Elliott headed back to Colonel Hashek’s office. By the time Mack caught up, Hashek was already laying out the game plan for the morning search and rescue mission.
“I have a pair of MH-53 Pave Lows at this forward area here,” he said, jabbing at a large topo map showing southeastern Turkey and northwestern Iraq. “They’ll wait at this old airstrip in the mountains. From there they can jump into Iraqi territory in two minutes, maybe less. I’m going to bring in a Combat Talon and fly it back and forth over the wreckage — if that radio comes up, he’ll hear it.”
“He’ll also be a sitting duck,” said Elliott. The Combat Talon was a specially modified MC-130E Hercules, a four-engine aircraft designed to fly over hostile territory.
Despite its many improvements, it was unarmed, relatively slow, and would be exceedingly vulnerable, especially during the day.
“I need ears,” said Hashek. “And that old Herk has to be very close. Now the plane you came in—”
“It’s not my plane, so it’s not my call,” said Elliott.
“But frankly, it’s not worth the risk.”
Mack had been thinking along the same lines as the colonel, and was nearly as surprised as Hashek at Elliott’s response. Granted, the converted 707 carried a wide range of highly sensitive electronic spy equipment, most of which wouldn’t be much help in locating the pilot. But the damn thing could pick up all manner of radio communications a hundred miles out. Not worth the risk?
Mack looked at Elliott. Was this the same general who’d defied Washington and half the Air Force to get DreamStar back? The general who’d personally flown a suicide mission to Russia to prevent World War III?
The General Brad Elliott?
He looked tired, face white, pockmarked with age and fatigue, maybe even fear.
“I want to fly one of the F-16s,” Mack told Hashek. “I want to be in on this.”
Hashek turned toward him. “Thanks, Major, but we’re full up.”
“No offense to your guys, but I can fly circles around them. I can.”
“Sorry,” said Hashek. Two other men entered the office, both in flight suits. The colonel nodded at them. “I’m sorry, General, I have some business to attend to.”
“I want to be on the mission,” insisted Mack. “I don’t really feel like twiddling my thumbs back here. Hey, Colonel.” Mack caught Hashek’s arm as the colonel started to leave with the other men. “Give me a break, huh? Anything. I’ll go on the Herk even.”
“Mack, you will be in the middle of things,” said Elliott. “I want you on a Pave Low.”
“A Pave Low?”
Mack let go of Hashek’s arm. The colonel looked at him like he was an ant before stalking out, his pilots in tow.
“I’ve never flown an MH-53, General,” said Mack, who in all honesty had never even sat in the front seat of a helicopter. “But I’ll figure it out. Hell, I can fly anything.”
“I don’t want you to fly it,” said Elliott. “I’m assuming they didn’t send you to Brussels to give that seminar on missile damage just because they wanted to get rid of you.”
“Um, well, no,” said Mack, not quite sure what the point of the general’s sarcasm was.
“There should be a Huey waiting to take you to the helicopters. Find a camera and anything else you need, then get there.”
Chapter 11
Over Iraq
0701
Torbin hunkered over the radar display in the backseat of the Phantom, every cell in his body sensitive to its flicker. Traditional Weasel missions contained a fairly short stay over hostile territory, generally organized around a ten-minute spiral to low altitude as the pitter tracked radars and then launched missiles against well-briefed targets. Today’s mission was far more open-ended and demanding, even compared to the freelancing gigs they’d been doing for the past few weeks. Overflying the area where Falcon Two had gone down, they would fire on anything that turned on during the hunt. They’d stay in the air for as long as it took to find the pilot and drag him back to safety. That meant three or more hours of staring at the small tube in front of him.
Four Iraqi SAM sites had been targeted for attack in strikes set to be made at the moment Glory B crossed the border. In theory, those attacks would remove the major threats the searchers faced. But reality had a way of differing from the nice crisp lines and lists of call numbers drawn on maps. Those attacks might simply stir the hor-nets’ nest.
“We’re on track,” said Fitzmorris. “Zero-three to Box able-able-two.”
“Zero-three,” acknowledged Torbin. They’d been like that the whole flight, nothing but business.
Fitzmorris obviously thought he’d fucked up somehow.
Probably because he was a pilot — they stuck together.
“Scope clean,” Torbin said as they reached the grid area where the Falcon had gone down. The blue-gold tint of dawn would shade the mountains a beautiful purple, but he kept his eyes on his radar screen.
The other planes in the flight checked in, the Herky bird driver nonchalantly trading jibes with one of the F-16s escorting him. The transport plane was a spec ops version equipped for deep penetration of enemy lines, but that usually occurred at night and at low altitude. He was now at roughly twenty thousand feet, above flak but an easy target for a SAM.
Not today. Not with Torbin on the job, he thought. He blew a wad of air into his mask, then pushed his neck down, trying to work out a kink. He tracked through his instruments quickly, then glanced to his right console, double-checking his key settings out of habit. His eyes strayed briefly to the small toggle beyond the telephone-style keypad. Long ago the thin thumb had safed — or unsafed — nuclear stores.
We ought to just fry the sons of bitches and be done with it once and for all, he thought.
He jerked his eyes back to his job, pushing his face down toward the blank radar scope.
“What?” asked Fitzmorris.
“Scope’s clean.”
“Copy that.”
The static-laced silence returned. Torbin pushed himself up against his restraints. Inevitably his attention began to drift; inevitably he thought of the construction job that waited if he quit the Air Force.
Or if they forced him out as a scapegoat.
It’s what he got for wanting to be where the action was.
Should have stayed in the Pentagon, o
r used his stinking engineering degree at NASA like they suggested.
Screw that. And screw getting out. He didn’t want to build houses.
“Falcon Two to any allied aircraft.”
The transmission sounded like a snippet of dialogue from a TV in another room.
“Glory B to Falcon Two,” said Torbin. “Falcon Two?
I’m reading you, boy. Acknowledge.”
As Torbin clicked off, the frequency overran with six or seven other voices, all trying to make contact with their downed comrade.
“Radio silence! Radio silence!” shouted Fitzmorris.
“Falcon Two, identify yourself.”
“Captain Terry McRae,” came the answer. “I’m sure glad to hear you guys.”
“We’re glad to hear you,” said Torbin. “Give us a flare.”
“Slow down — we have to go through authentication first,” said Fitzmorris.
“Copy that,” said McRae from the ground. “But let’s move, okay? I am freezing my butt off down here.”
Torbin knew no Iraqi would have said that, but Fitzmorris dutifully checked with the AWACS controller and began relaying personal questions designed to make sure McRae really was McRae.
“I can see you and your smoky tailpipe, Glory B,” the pilot told them as they finished. “And by the way, you guys must have missed an SA-2 or something yesterday.
Smoked the shit out of me. I never saw the damn thing.”
“We’re sorry for that,” said Fitzmorris.
“Why do you think it was an SA-2 if you didn’t see it?”
asked Torbin, his voice sharper than he wanted.
“What else could it have been?”
Torbin bit his lip to keep from answering. The pilot had enough to worry about for the time being.
Chapter 12
Over Iraq
0750
Mack Smith tried to steady himself on the seat across from the minigun station as the big Pave Low whipped through a pass in the mountains, rushing toward the spot where the pilot had been sighted. The big helicopter tucked sharply left, the tip of its rotors about ten feet from a sheer wall as it hunkered through a pass. The low altitude tactics made it nearly impossible for an enemy radar to detect them, but at this point Mack would have traded a little safety for a smoother ride. It was one thing to jink and jive when you had the stick yourself, and quite another to be gripping the bottom of a metal ledge in the back of a flying pickup truck.
