by Jim DeFelice
Wong rolled his eyes.
“Sorry girls,” said Sir Peter, waving his hand. “I’ll be with you presently.”
Wong followed Paddington through the thick brown drapes into a room made up like a private London club. Dark leather chairs sat in small clusters in front of Hunter green walls lit by soft lamps and barrister’s bookcases stacked with hunting guides and royal lineages. But the most impressive element of decor was the smell: a kind of tweedy dankness surely imported direct from Cambridge. A man stood before a portable bar at the far end of the room, looking at them expectantly. Behind him stood a pair of imposing portraits of unimposing kings.
“Spell yourself, my good man,” Paddington told him expansively, “after you supply me with a martini, of course.”
The bartender nodded. “And you, sir?” he asked Wong.
“My American friend doesn’t drink when he’s working,” said Paddington. “And as he is always working, he doesn’t drink.”
“A slight exaggeration,” said Wong. “But I do not wish a drink.”
The bartender mixed a martini, very light on vermouth, two olives, a sliver of lemon, then removed himself through a door somewhat disguised as a panel at the side of the room.
“So what brings the world expert on Russian weapons system to the notorious Club Habanas Saudi?” Paddington asked after the waiter had left.
“I need to confirm a theory,” said Wong.
“About Saddam, I suppose.”
“Perhaps,” said Wong cautiously. “We’re dealing with code-word material.”
“Naturally.” Paddington sniffed the air, as if the dampness had suddenly run out.
“Speculative code-word material,” added Wong.
“Quite.”
Wong knew that the MI-5 intelligence expert had all of the necessary clearances to receive Pentagon and CentCom briefings on every aspect of the war. He was also well aware that mentioning that the material was classified would insult Paddington somewhat, as it vaguely called into question his ability to keep a secret. But that was his point. In Wong’s experience, Sir Peter worked at his peak only when insulted.
The summary Wong proceeded with left out many details— including the existence of Fort Apache, the behind-the-lines support base recently abandoned by U.S. special operations troops. He was also vague about the exact location of Al Kajuk, the village in Iraq where he had been just a few hours below, noting only that it was near the Euphrates and within “a fifty mile parabola” west of Baghdad.
“You still like those big words,” said Paddington. “Why can’t you say, ‘circle’?”
“That would not be precise,” said Wong. “I was referring to the intersection of . . .”
“Yes, quite. I remember my grammar school geometry.” He swept his hand contemptuously. “You want to know if it’s within the area he uses to hide? Of course it is.”
Wong nodded and told him about the Iraqis he had come across outside the village. The men had been Christians and seemingly related— they looked like cousins if not brothers. The commander had been carrying documents that indicated someone or something named Straw would be at the site at midnight January 26.
At the word “Straw,” Paddington put down his drink. “I see. Yes.”
“I thought it was one of their code words.”
“I didn’t say it was,” noted Paddington.
“Of course not,” said Wong.
“This couldn’t have been a very elite unit if you escaped, eh, Bristol?” Sir Peter laughed and put down his martini glass on the bar. “Christians. Well, they are undoubtedly one of the small special groups Saddam uses, beyond doubt. Yes. You have unit identification?”
“They had sanitized uniforms.”
“Oh, quite interesting. Yes. But their purpose could be one of several. Not least of which would be guarding the Scuds which I presume you had actually be sent to investigate.”
“There was a regular unit and a Republican Guard attachment handling that,” said Wong.
“Eh,” said Paddington with a noncommittal swagger of his head. “The more the merrier, eh?”
“There’s been a marked pick up in coded radio transmissions from the area in the past twenty-four hours,” said Wong, who had checked before delivering his report to Knowlington. “And one with the word ‘straw’ in it.”
“Humph,” said Paddington.
“My question is this: If Saddam were planning on staying at the village, would an attack on the Scud missiles there deter him?”
“A reasonable question,” admitted Paddington. He stared at the wall, as if visualizing the Iraqi leader. Then he reached to the bar and took up his drink, draining it. “Let me tell you something about this area of Iraq.” Paddington frowned at the empty glass. “Saddam has had trouble ensuring the loyalty of some of his, shall we call them lesser government ministers? And so he taken to holding some of their families hostage. And in other cases, not bothering to hold them hostage. He has also had revolts among his Shiite brethren, and is treating them with even less delicacy.”
“I saw no signs of a slaughter,” said Wong.
“You wouldn’t, would you? Unless you knew what to look for. And in any event, I suspect you were occupied with other matters. He uses units from diverse areas, basically as far away and as uninvolved as possible. He is not, as you Americans would put it, a schmuck. That would be my first suspicion here. Though I admit the area, so close to Baghdad, makes me suspicious. Most of the Shiites are located elsewhere, and the ministers are in Baghdad and to the north. But, of course, generalities. From the intercept and these notes, yes, it is possible.”
“How likely?”
“Always looking for your percentages, eh?”
“You’re the one who calculates the odds.”
“Fifty-fifty. Perhaps higher in your favor. But I would say it is also possible that it is a decoy. He has several and the procedures are exactly the same.”
“What would you look for?”
“His Mercedes,” said Paddington. “And then, if you find it, I would look in exactly the opposite direction. He doesn’t use the official car outside the capital— except when he does. No schmuck, as I say.” Paddington got up and went over to the bar, where he opened a bottle of dry vermouth, set it down on the bar top, then carefully ran his overturned martini glass around the mouth of the bottle to catch the fumes. Satisfied, he plopped in two olives from a tray and filled the glass to the rim with gin. He waved a lemon peel over it and then held the glass to his lips.
“Cheers,” he told Wong.
“Your health.”
“Nothing like a martini,” Paddington said after a long sip. “I would look for a station wagon with a red crescent, international aid vehicle, inside a small military convoy. That will be where he is, ordinarily. No tanks, perhaps an armored car or two. Mostly he fears a single assassin or a demonstration, an attack that would be best handled by foot soldiers traveling in trucks. He has experience.” Paddington took a delicate sip from his glass, not quite finishing it. “He might travel with upwards of a company’s worth of men. He does not want to draw too much attention to himself, of course. On the other hand, there would be forces where he was going.”
“Would he avoid a place that had just been bombed?”
Paddington smiled. “The key question.”
“And the key answer?”
“You don’t mean that as a joke, do you Bristol?”
“No,” said Wong.
“Pity.” Sir Peter finished his martini. “My estimation is that Saddam would think that was just the place to be. He is very superstitious. And, I must say, the pattern of your bombing so far bears him out, except in Baghdad itself. The more you attack a place, the safer he feels it is. Logical, in a way.”
“What about the ambush of his advance people?”
“That is trickier.” Paddington stepped back to the bar. “The Iraqis seem to be aware that there are commandos operating in their territory, but their r
esponses are a puzzle. Unfortunately, one of the consequences of bombing the C-3 network so efficiently is that there are fewer broadcasts to intercept. Human intelligence is worthless. I’m honestly not sure. He might think it a good sign, he might not. It would depend on whether the Iraqis felt it was related. If they thought it was part of an earlier attack, it might not change things.”
“To the best of my knowledge we wiped out the unit. They don’t know who attacked.”
“Even the Iraqis would realize it wasn’t Mickey Mouse,” said Paddington.
“You’ve told me in the past that these units have their own enemies,” Wong said. “An attack on them might be classified as an uprising.”
Sir Peter was unimpressed. As he began mixing a fresh drink, he detailed more of Saddam’s highly variable routine. Despite all of the efforts being made to track him— and the British as well as the Americans had devoted a great deal of resources to the project— Saddam disappeared for long stretches. He was maddeningly unpredictable.
“My personal suspicion is that he is as apt to turn up at a spot like your village as anywhere. I can tell you, greater odds have been tried.” Paddington took another sip. “But that is not an official estimate.”
“Understood,” said Wong.
“I’ll have to pass some of this along,” said Sir Peter. “I’m afraid the chaps above me will feel it interesting.”
Wong nodded. “Would you like to be involved?”
“What? Go over the border?” Paddington blanched. “Do you think I’m mad?”
“Just wanted to make sure.”
“I’m not like you, Bristol. I purged my system of that sort of silliness years ago. Years ago.”
“If we had a briefing, would you be available?”
Paddington sighed. “You know how I detest meetings.”
“There is another wrinkle,” said Wong.
“Being?”
“An American is on the ground near the village.”
“You left one of your men?”
“No. He’s officially listed as KIA. But I believe he’s alive.”
“That isn’t like you, Bristol,” said Paddington. “Leaving a man behind?”
“He wasn’t in my unit,” said Wong, realizing this was a rather lame excuse. “He had been in action several miles away the day before. His team was overrun and he was seen dead from a helicopter.”
“Lazarus.”
“I believe the initial report was exaggerated.”
“And he just materialized at Al Killjoy? Quite a story, Bristol.”
“Kajuk,” said Wong. “He could have walked from the area where he was last seen. It’s less than ten miles and along a highway. I did not actually see him; I surmised his presence from some unaccounted-for gunfire.”
Sir Peter’s eyes flashed. “You want an excuse to look for him.”
“No,” said Wong. “Saddam is the primary mission.”
“Already declared dead?” Paddington pursed his lips, thinking. “A Lieutenant Dixon, I believe. Working with one of your Delta Force teams. Oh, now I understand— he was with your A-10A squadron. Ah. Very sentimental of you, Bristol. Uncharacteristic. Hmmm. Happens in a war zone, I suppose.”
“If the opportunity presents itself, I will look for him,” said Wong. “But that would not be the focus of the mission.”
Paddington shook his head and concentrated on his martini. This time he merely passed the glass in front of the vermouth bottle.
“Will you participate in a planning session with CentCom?” asked Wong.
“Surely I don’t owe you that, do I?”
“There was Rumania.”
Paddington sighed. “If my commander orders it.”
“He already has,” said Wong.
“As I feared.” He eyed his freshly poured drink, then took a sip. “Pity,” he said, addressing the glass. “I seem to have put in a touch too much vermouth.”
“Happens in a war zone,” said Wong.
“Quite.”
CHAPTER 3
AL JOUF, SAUDI ARABIA
27 JANUARY 1991
0500
Captain John “Doberman” Glenon stepped back from the nose of his A-10A Thunderbolt II fighter-bomber, preparing to administer a preflight up-and-at-‘em good luck slap to the business end of its 30 mm Avenger Gatling gun. Before he could do so, however, he was thrown off balance by a blow to his shoulder blades so severe it could only have come from a concussion grenade.
Or his wingmate and best friend, Captain Thomas “A-Bomb” O’Rourke.
“Yo, Dog Man, you ready to kick this dump or what?” demanded A-Bomb, grinning behind a steaming cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.
And it definitely was Dunkin’ Donuts, since it was in an oversized Big Gulp cup.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that, especially this early in the morning,” said Doberman, shaking off A-Bomb’s chuck.
“Touchy,” said A-Bomb, gurgling his coffee. “Gotchya good luck charm, I see,” he added nodding at the small silver cross Doberman had pinned to the chest of his flightsuit.
Doberman felt his face flush. Until a few days ago, he wouldn’t have been caught dead believing in good luck charms, let alone pinning one to his chest. But the last few days had taught him not to spit Fate— or superstition— in the eye.
Still, he didn’t like to admit that he might actually believe in luck or good fortune, not even to A-Bomb.
“Ain’t nothing,” he said.
“Shit, Tinman says its voodoo. Or whatever the hell he says in that accent of his. His own personal language.”
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s good luck and maybe it’s not,” said Doberman. “I’m not taking any chances.”
“What I’m talkin’ about,” said A-Bomb.
“Looks good to go, yes sirs?” said Tech Sergeant Rebecca Rosen, ducking out from under the wing on the other side of the plane.
Sergeant Rosen, a technical wizard and crew chief of considerable standing, posed the question as a stated and accepted matter of fact. Indeed, though Rosen was operating with a minimal support team— and even less sleep— she had thoroughly examined the aircraft prior to the pilot’s arrival at the maintenance pit, which amounted to a small piece of tarmac nudged against the sand at the forward operating area in northwestern Saudi Arabia. “We’re going to schedule that right engine for a complete overhaul when you get back to the Home Drome,” she added. “But it’s fine for now, assuming you don’t do something stupid like suck some sand through it. You won’t, will you?”
Coming from the mouth of any other sergeant in the Air Force, the words would have seemed like an insult to Doberman, whose temper was even shorter than his five-four frame. But the captain was hopelessly in love with this sergeant, though he hadn’t been able to tell her yet. And in fact, he was increasingly tongue-tied around her— which explained why all he could do was stare into her eyes.
“I’ll set up the maintenance on it myself,” added Rosen. “I’m supposed to be catching a flight back to Home Drome in a few hours. Assuming I can’t talk the Capo out of it.”
“Capo” was Chief Master Sergeant Allen Clyston, capo di tutti capi, and wizard of wizards. He ran Devil Squadron. The unit was commanded by Colonel Knowlington and staffed by a fine collection of officers, but like any efficient military organization the chief master sergeants ran things. And Clyston was the CHIEF, with all capital letters— the squadron’s master of fate and minder of souls.
Rosen smiled, and Doberman felt his knees starting to tremble.
No shit.
“Relax, Captain. I’m just being cautious,” she said. “Plane can go at least another hundred hours without fiddling with the motor or anything else. I promise. Honest. It’s showroom pretty.”
“Planes look weird,” said A-Bomb.
“Captain?” asked Rosen.
“No bombs. No Mavs,” said A-Bomb, shaking his head sadly. “No rockets. Nothing. Naked. What I’m talking about here is nude. Out of unifo
rm. Obscene. Got to be a reg against it.”
“We’re flying straight to Fahd,” snapped Doberman. “What do you want to do, bomb Riyadh?”
“If it needs bombing, I’m up for it,” said A-Bomb. He slapped the front of Doberman’s Hog. “Even the Gat’s empty.”
“Begging your pardon, but your cannon has been reloaded,” said Rosen in a tone that suggested she wasn’t begging anything. “As is Captain Glenon’s. And he has fresh Sidewinders.”
Her voice softened ever so slightly when she mentioned the air-to-air missiles, and she glanced back at Glenon. Last night, Doberman had made Hog history by using the Sidewinder in a dogfight— even better, he had managed to nail a MiG in what had to rate as the most lopsided battle since open cockpit P-26s tangled with Japanese Zeroes at Pearl Harbor in 1941. Doberman had, in fact, saved Rosen’s life— as well as the lives of three other people aboard a small AH-6 fleeing Iraqi air space.
But as far as the world was concerned, Doberman’s exploit hadn’t occurred. Command had declared that the need to keep ground operations north of the border secret extended to the aircraft supporting those operations. In other words, Doberman’s flight hadn’t happened, and therefore the shoot-down hadn’t happened— officially.
Unofficially, every member of the A-10 community either knew about the shoot-down or would shortly. Glenon wouldn’t get a medal or headlines, but he’d be stood plenty of beers. And knowing he’d save Rosen felt loads better to Doberman than taking salutes from a dozen dumbass generals.
As for kissing her . . .
That would have to wait. Doberman sighed as the sergeant turned her attention back to A-Bomb, who was whining about not getting a full complement of Mavericks, or at least cluster bombs, beneath his wings for the routine ferry flight home. The tech sergeant demonstrated her experience in grade by restricting herself to a single smirk as she walked away, leaving the two jocks to saddle up and get on with the morning flight.
From a pilot’s point of view, flying the Warthog was a relatively straight-forward operation. The A-10A personified the concept of no frills flying. Its cockpit would have been familiar to the P-26 pilot.
Well, some of it, at least. No P-26 pilot ever dreamed of a heads-up display, and even though it was slightly underpowered and agonizing slow by contemporary standards, its twin turbos pumped Doberman into the sky at a pace that would have left the P-26 pilot gasping.
