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 you 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 of 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 are 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 of 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. He 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’a 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 heavier 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 what 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 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 government 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.
“We will be leaving at dusk,” said the Iranian. His hands were folded in front of him; it was possible, probable, that he had his pistol in his sleeve, but it was not visible. In fact, he gave the impression not merely of being unarmed, but of being far removed from any conflict – far removed from here, as if he were in a mosque, preparing to pray or more like to preach.
“How did it feel?” Smith asked.
The Imam’s eyes gave nothing away, yet he obviously knew that Mack was talking about shooting Jackson, for he answered. “Within Allah’s grasp, all is justified.”