by Dale Brown
And for another, well, he hadn’t had to use his arms quite so much.
Sergeant Parsons held the wheelchair for him on the tarmac. Zen came off the side into it, managing to swing himself upward and fall perfectly—almost perfectly—onto the chair.
“I’m getting too heavy,” he told Parsons. “Have to lay off the ice cream.”
“You find ice cream here, you let me know,” said the sergeant. “Let me go check our birds.”
Parsons ducked under the wing to examine the Flight-hawks, which were attached to the inner wing spars of Raven. Zen pushed himself a few feet away, taking stock of the crowded air base. Tensions had continued to escalate during the night. There had been raids against bases in northern Somalia. The Iranians had sunk a ship in the Red Sea. Two U.S. aircraft carriers were steaming from the western end of Mediterranean. The Saudis and Egyptians were furious about U.S. overflights and reconnaissance missions, to say nothing of the President’s decision to use Israeli airports as refueling stops.
Four C-130 Hercules, two painted black and two in dark green jungle camouflage schemes, were lined up near the Megafortress. Beyond them were a parcel of Black-hawk and Huey helicopters, along with a pair of large Pave Lows. Three F-117’s and five F-16’s were also lined up at the edge of the strip, parked dangerously close together.
The runway had been expanded, but Cheshire had still had to dump fuel before landing. Taking off was going to be a bitch; Jeff wondered how the F-117’s managed it, since the bat planes typically needed a good long run to get off the ground.
“God, Zen, is that you?”
Zen spun his chair around and saw Hal Briggs, hands on hips, frown on face, standing behind him.
“Hey, Major.”
“You brought the Flighthawks?” said Briggs. “You’re here to fly them?”
“Who’d you think would fly them? Rubeo?”
Briggs frowned, but at least he didn’t offer the usual “sorry about your legs” routine. Zen waited while Briggs greeted Sergeant Parsons and the others. Major Cheshire came down onto the runway; Hal began filling her in on the situation, walking with her toward his Humvee. Zen followed, listening to Briggs explain why he believed the captured Americans were in the Sudan. They were mounting a comprehensive search mission, he told her; Raven would be an invaluable part. Briggs and Cheshire got into the vehicle. Zen pushed to follow.
“Whoa! Whoa!” he yelled as Briggs started without him. “Yo! I’m not in yet.”
“Uh, sorry, Major,” said Briggs. “There’s food and a lounge inside this building here. We’re going over to our command center.”
“Yeah, no shit. That’s where I’m going.” Jeff pulled open the rear door, working the wheelchair as close as possible. It was too long a stretch, but at this point he didn’t care.
“Well,” started Briggs. “No offense, but—”
“I’m in charge of the Flighthawks,” Zen told him. “Since I’m going to be working the major part of the mission, I sure as shit ought to be in on the planning, don’t you think?”
“First of all, the drones aren’t in the game plan.”
“They’re not drones,” said Zen. “They’re scouts and escorts.”
“I agree that Major Stockard ought to be involved,” said Cheshire.
Briggs, obviously pissed, said nothing. Zen pulled himself up into the Hummer, pushing and yanking his body along. Major Cheshire got out of the Humvee and folded his wheelchair for him, handing it inside. Zen answered her weak, apologetic smile with a curt nod, pulling the chair nearly on top of himself. He wasn’t exactly comfortable, but he would be goddamned if he was going to admit it.
This is better than pity, he thought to himself. I can deal with this.
When they stopped, Jeff managed to slam the chair out and then slide into it without any help. Not that it was pretty.
Nor was it easy getting into the building. Fortunately, there was only one step and it was barely two inches high. Zen managed to get up by coming sideways, building a little momentum, and practically jumping upward. For a moment he thought he was going to land on his head.
He took the fact that he didn’t as a good sign. He wheeled through the door, teeth grinding but determined to get past the frowns and stares. Moving quickly, Jeff followed Cheshire toward the large map tables where the commanders of the operation were clustered. Briggs introduced them, then turned over the briefing to a Navy commander, who was coordinating the search components.
“The Antonov was tracked approximately to this point,” he said, dispensing with preliminaries as he poked his thumb on a topo map of northeastern Africa. “We estimate the plane’s range before refueling at one thousand miles, which gives us this semicircle here. You’ll note that’s a wide area. A lot of Sudan is involved. We have relatively high confidence that the aircraft did not take off after landing. We believe they’re waiting for nightfall. F/A-18’s and a Hawkeye from the Kennedy will be responsible for this area here,” he added, his pinkie circling a crosshatched swatch of northern Sudan near Egypt. “Another flight will patrol Libya. That leaves southern Sudan, below the Libyan Desert. It’s a low-probability area, but it has to be covered.”
“What about Egypt?” said Zen.
The commander made a face. “We don’t have permission for overflights.”
“All the more reason to watch it.”
“Zen, please,” said Briggs.
“We’re aware of the possibility,” said the Navy commander. “We’re compensating to some degree, but obviously there are limits. We have some under-the-table help from the Israelis.”
“Where’s the Kennedy?” Cheshire asked.
“That’s one of our problems,” admitted the commander. “All of these planes are operating at the far end of their range. It’s dicey, I don’t deny that.”
“Major Cheshire, you have this swatch here,” said Briggs, pointing to the southernmost area of the Sudan. He then turned to the F-16 commander. “Havoc Flight’s F-16’s will patrol here and here. We’re waiting for a KC-135 inbound to refuel you.”
“Excuse me,” said Cheshire, “but with our range, it would make a hell of a lot more sense for us to take that area. Then Havoc won’t need to tank.” She grinned at the F-16 flight leader. “Unless you want to try refueling off a C-130.”
“We’ve done it,” he said.
“I’ve pissed in my pants, but I wouldn’t want to repeat it,” said Zen. The C-130 in question was rigged for helicopter refueling. The type’s extreme versatility and the pilots’ attitudes couldn’t make up for the fact that the Herky Bird was considerably slower than the F-16.
“We may have the KC-135 on board by then,” said Briggs. “In any event, I don’t want to risk the Megafortress anywhere near Libya.”
“That’s a good six hundred miles south of Libya,” said Zen. “And with all due respect to the F-16’s, they’d be ten times as vulnerable as Raven and the Flighthawks.”
“We’re not sending the Flighthawks,” said Briggs.
“What are Flighthawks?” asked the Navy commander.
“UM/F-3’s,” said Zen. “They’re unmanned fighters that can be used as reconnaissance craft. They’ll widen the search cone exponentially.”
“They’re experimental drones,” said Briggs. “Unpiloted craft.”
“They are piloted. They fly by remote control. They’re as capable as F-22’s,” Stockard told the naval officer, aware that he was violating the protocol about the program’s classified status. “The Flighthawks can beam real-time video and electronics back to Raven. They’re armed with cannons and can shoot down anything Qaddafi can throw at them. The only difference between sending them and the F/A-18’s is that no one’s risking their life.”
“If we have unmanned aircraft that we can use, I’m all for it,” said the naval officer. “That is serious Indian country out there.”
“Those are experimental aircraft,” said Briggs.
“No, they’re developmental aircraft,�
�� said Jeff. “There’s a big difference.”
“I think they can do the job,” said Cheshire.
“What do we do if one goes down?” Briggs’s voice made it seem more a certainty than a question.
“It’s not going down,” Zen said.
“I can’t afford to be optimistic.”
“If there are problems, I blow it up. Look, the classified stuff is all aboard Raven anyway. That’s the plane we have to won-y about. The fact that it’s here—shit, don’t you think we have to use the best stuff we have? Why let anyone—anything, I mean—go to waste?”
“I don’t think there’s much of an argument,” said the Navy commander. “If you’re confident these craft can do the job, I say go for it. I’ve seen what Pioneers—”
“These are nothing like Pioneers,” snorted Zen.
“I’m on your side, Major,” the commander snapped. “I say we slot them north, Hal.”
“Agreed,” said Briggs finally. He looked up at Cheshire. “Major, we’d like you off the runway as soon as possible. We want you in the area before dark.”
“We’ll be there,” said Cheshire.
Zen followed her out of the conference area. “Hey, Nancy,” he said as she reached the door. “Thanks.”
“No problem, Jeff. I agree with you—it’s safer to risk the Flighthawks than a pilot.”
“I meant thanks for standing up for me.”
“Oh, you stand up for yourself just fine. Where do you figure the rest rooms are around this place?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to guess they won’t be handicapped-accessible.”
“And I won’t be surprised if there’s only a men’s room.”
“I’ll guard the door for you, if you do the same for me.”
“Deal.” Cheshire grinned.
SINCE SHE WAS A WOMAN, THE SPEC OPS SUPPORT team had offered Breanna a separate room to sleep in—a closet down the hall from the large, open warehouse room that had become an ad hoc dormitory. She’d turned them down. Not because she didn’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else, but because she was so damn tired she couldn’t contemplate taking one more footstep than necessary. She took off her boots and dropped onto the narrow cot fully dressed, hunkering under a blanket without a pillow. She fell right to sleep.
And woke less than two hours later. The place was quiet, except for Chris, snoring several cots away. A dull blue light filtered through the windows high on the wall, but it wasn’t the light or the snores that distracted her. The mission kept playing over and over in her head, bits and pieces of it swelling her mind with ideas of what she might have done differently. She felt the hard seat of the Megafortress pinching her butt as she took the g’s ducking from the MiGs. She saw the flames on the ground, felt the air rumbling with the cannon fire. She saw the small airplane they’d all missed until it was too late.
So close. She could have rescued Mack and the others.
After an hour of tossing and turning, Breanna finally gave up and went in search of food. Besides MREs, the makeshift kitchen was offering two specials of the day: instant oatmeal and fresh boar.
“Boar?” Bree asked the Green Beret sergeant who was standing over the tin pots.
“Boar, ma’am. I caught it, I skinned it, I cooked it.”
“You bullshitting me, Sergeant?”
“Ma’ am?”
“Okay. I’ll take some.”
“You won’t be sorry.” He removed a steel lid on one of the pots, sending an acrid smell into the air. “And you can trust the water too. Treated and boiled for good measure. Sweet potato?”
“Why not?” said Bree, momentarily wondering if she should resort to the MREs.
“Full complement of your vitamins, ma’am. Nice flyin’, by the way. Heard you did a kick-ass job.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” she said, still dubious about the food as she walked to the nearby table area.
Her opinion remained in flux through three or four bites. The meat had a taste somewhere between fresh pork and week-old beef. And the sweet potatoes: Forget about it.
The water, at least, was good. She took a long sip—then almost spat it out as her husband wheeled into the room.
“Jeff?”
“Hey, Bree,” said Zen, rolling toward her. “How you doing?”
“I’m fine. What the hell are you doing here?”
“The Flighthawks are going to join in the search.”
“You’re crazy,” said Breanna.
Major Cheshire appeared at the front the room with the rest of the crew from Raven, as well as her navigator and weapons operator. Breanna managed to hold her disbelief in check while the others went for food.
“Jeff? The Flighthawks?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re pushing them past the limit. Not to mention yourself.”
“I don’t think so,” he snapped. “I slept the whole way over.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I heard you were in action.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Listen, Captain.” Jeff had his major’s face on, and it wasn’t pretty. “You’re cute and all, but I don’t answer to you.”
“Jeff. Come on, be realistic.”
“This chair has nothing to do with my abilities.”
“I’m not talking about your abilities.” Breanna heard her words echoing harshly in the room. Her face flushing hot, she repeated the sentence, though softer this time.
“I’m not talking about your abilities.”
“I’m hungry. That was a great dinner, by the way. We’ll have to do it again sometime.”
ZEN WHEELED UP TO THE END OF THE LINE, SMIRKING at the Green Beret chef’s obvious discomfort. Hell, he was starting to like being a one-man freak show attraction.
Breanna’s attitude didn’t surprise him. At least she’d finally come out and admitted it.
One of the Delta operators had told him while he was waiting to use the john that she’d kicked butt on her mission. He was happy for her, damn proud in a way, even if she hadn’t given him a chance to tell her so.
They could be friends. He wanted that maybe, or something like that.
“Wild boar,” the Green Beret behind the makeshift lunch counter was saying. “I caught it, I skinned it, I cooked it. Of course, you could have an MRE. Or oatmeal.”
“That boar. You catch it with your bare hands?” asked Zen.
“Sir? You think I’m nuts?”
“No, just making sure it’s sanitary,” said Zen. “Dish me up a heap. Come on, let’s go,” he added. “I have some planes to fly.”
“You fly planes?”
“Two,” said Zen. “At the same time.”
The sergeant spooned the food onto the dish carefully, undoubtedly convinced he was dealing with a psycho.
Which, Zen thought, might not be too far from the truth.
Sudan
23 October, 1540 local
THE RUSSIANS CALLED THE ANTONOV AN-14 “PCHELKA,” which meant, “Little Bee.” NATO called it “Clod.”
Both names were equally appropriate. The small but sturdy aircraft flew at just over a hundred knots, skimming the hills and rugged valleys of eastern Sudan. There were eight seats, including the pilot’s, but the Iranians had crammed seven soldiers in along with the prisoners, the pilot, and the Imam. The plane lumbered through the air, obviously complaining about its heavy load—which was all the heavier because it had been outfitted with bladder tanks in metal rigs that looked like blisters on the fuselage. Mack’s fatigue kept him from getting more than a rough idea of where they were; it was obvious they were flying west, but he couldn’t be sure whether they had gone beyond Ethiopia, and if so, how far. He kept dozing off, jostled back to consciousness by his guards and the pain in his side, though by now his ribs had hurt so long he was almost used to the ache. Finally they reached wherever they were supposed to reach; six soldiers in light brown uniforms met them as they taxied along wha
t seemed to be a dirt road in front of some tents on a flat plain well beyond the mountains they’d gone over. While Mack and the others were hustled out of the Antonov, brown camo netting was thrown over the plane. A nearby group of scraggly cattle were herded around. The emaciated animals—they weren’t cows, exactly, at least not as Mack knew them—poked their noses toward the men curiously, but quickly lost interest.
The prisoners were led to a tent. Gunny and Howland lay down on the dirt floor, immediately curling up to sleep. Mack sat with his arms huddled around his knees, watching the shadows outside. Two guards sat in front of the tent; two others sat at the rear corners. Men and animals moved around them, seemingly at random.
Land this flat probably meant they were somewhere in Sudan. If what Howland had said was true, their next stop would be Libya. Most likely, they were hiding out until night, when the small, low-flying plane would be harder to detect.
Once they got to Libya, they’d be put on trial in an attempt to whip up public support for the Greater Islamic League, perhaps fomenting revolutions in Egypt and Saudi Arabia, or at least intimidating their governments sufficiently to get them to join the Iranians.
Damn unlikely.
Maybe not. Impossible for him to know. In any event, what happened in the wider world was largely irrelevant; what happened to him was what mattered.
Knife pulled his arms around his knees, digging the chain into the flesh. It made no sense to think about things he couldn’t control. But what else was there to think about?
Dreamland. The JSF. His career. Breanna Stockard. Zen.
Poor dumb Zen. Crippled.
Maybe Stockard hadn’t screwed up. Maybe he had been a good enough pilot, and just been nailed by bad luck. Like Mack.
Was it just luck, though? He’d never put much stock in luck, preferring to trust ability and effort. What a shock now to find they might not matter at all.
“You should rest, Major,” said the Imam. “You and I have a long journey ahead.”
Startled, Knife jerked around. The Iranian had come into the tent without his guards. He’d moved so silently he seemed almost to have materialized there.
