“What happens now?” Leary asked Matt.
“We kick the tires and light the fires and go do it again.” Matt shrugged.
“Is that all there is to it?”
“No way,” Matt explained. “We’ve got to help Maintenance do an over g inspection on the bird when we get down. We’ll be up all night and at it most of tomorrow.” He gave Leary a hard look. “This time do it right and eat Martin’s shorts. Got it?”
The lieutenant got it and once they were airborne performed faultlessly. After they had landed the second time, a much more confident Leary walked into the squadron for the mission debrief. Martin and Furry both sat quietly while Matt recapped the mission in a briefing room. When he was finished, he asked if there was anything else.
Martin stood up and leaned across the table at Leary. “Lieutenant, you flew two ways today. The first time you had your goddamn head in the map case and almost pranged. You heard that ‘Oh fuck’ call over the radio?” He was jabbing his finger into the lieutenant’s forehead. “That’s the ‘Oh fuck’ I always use when I see some dumb shit diggin’ a new hole in the countryside with one of my jets. We lost sight of you in the rooster rail of dust your afterburners kicked up from the ground. I prefer not to see assholes commit suicide, so the next time do it when you’re alone.
“The second mission was nothing to brag about in the bar but at least you brought the jet back in about the same shape as when you got it. Now get the hell out of here and chase your body over to Maintenance and stay there until the over g inspection is finished.” He glared at Matt. “You too, Fumble Nuts.”
Martin stood there as Matt and Leary rapidly left the room. His lips compressed into a thin line. Then he threw Furry a hard look and gave a sharp nod with his head. “He’ll do fine,” he said.
“Leary?” Furry asked.
“No. Pontowski.” He banged out of the room, careful not to let Furry see a crooked grin split his face. He headed for his office in wing headquarters, content with a good day’s work.
Mustapha took his time covering the 160 miles to their next safe house. They worked their way down back roads, slept in the car, and avoided roadblocks and soldiers. Occasionally, they would double back to find a way around a checkpoint. But Mustapha always returned to their original course as they headed for the northwest comer of Iraq. On the seventh night, Mustapha found them a room at a makeshift inn outside the city of Mosul. He dropped into an overstuffed chair and fell into an instant sleep. Shoshana covered him with a blanket, concerned about his obvious fatigue, and then crawled into the narrow bed and fell asleep.
Loud voices outside the inn jolted her awake. She could barely see Mustapha in the dark as he rummaged in one of the battered suitcases that had been waiting for them in the car. Then he was sitting on the bed beside her. “Put this on,” he ordered. “It’s my wife’s.” She sat up in bed and peeled off her dress while Mustapha undressed. She fumbled at the nightgown he had thrown at her and then slipped it on. She was still trying to arrange it when he crawled into bed beside her naked and threw his arms around her.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Quiet,” he ordered. She lay there against him, her body rigid, and was surprised to feel his heart pounding. But there was no lust in the young Kurd, only fear. The voices outside grew louder and she heard footsteps echoing through the inn. The door to their room banged open and a young soldier, no older than Mustapha, barged in and turned on the light.
Mustapha jumped out of bed and yelled in Arabic, much too fast for Shoshana to catch the invective. The soldier laughed and called for this sergeant. Two other soldiers hurried over to the room and stood in the doorway and stared at Shoshana. She was sitting up in bed and the covers had fallen away. In the light, she could see the nightgown was flannel and very demure. Hurriedly, she pulled up the covers, afraid of the men.
An older man pushed through the door, obviously the sergeant in charge of the soldiers. “Identification,” he snapped. While Mustapha dug their identification booklets out, he pulled the covers back from Shoshana, took a long look, and then ripped them completely away. He was more interested in her than the papers or the naked man standing in the middle of the room. Then Mustapha yelled in Arabic, dove at the open suitcase, and pulled out a small knife. He waved it around and shouted even louder. The sergeant started to laugh, threw their identification papers on the floor, and walked to the door. “We are good soldiers,” he said. “Not like those other pigs.” The look on the three younger soldiers indicated otherwise. Then he closed the door and they could hear him order the soldiers out of the inn.
Mustapha pulled his pants on, sank back into the chair, and took a deep breath. “I told them we had been married less than six months and soldiers had raped you twice. I swore that I wouldn’t let it happen again.”
“That was a foolish thing to do,” she said, her voice soft and thankful. “But that knife against their guns?”
He looked at her and snorted. “I’m not crazy. I swore that I would kill you before I let it happen again.”
The duty officer glanced up from his seat behind the scheduling desk when Matt walked into the squadron. “Call Major Furry at his office,” he said and went back to reading the latest edition of Stars and Stripes, the newspaper published for the armed forces overseas. Matt used one of the phones at the desk to call Furry at wing headquarters.
“Hey, boy,” Furry said, “you see the message that came in this morning from USAFE?” USAFE, United States Air Force in Europe, was their higher headquarters at Ramstein, Germany. Matt told him no. “Then you better chase your young ass over here ‘cause it’s got your name on it and Mad Mike is not a happy camper.” Matt could hear amusement in his wizzo’s voice.
Five minutes later, Matt and Furry were standing at attention in front of Martin’s desk. There was nothing in the DO’s face to indicate amusement. “You know what PI is, Captain?”
“Yes, sir. It’s been explained.” Matt was puzzled. He had been very careful to avoid anything that smacked of using political influence since the accident with Locke.
“This has got PI pecker tracks all over it,” Martin said. He threw a message at Matt to read. Headquarters USAFE directed the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing, RAF Stonewood, U.K., to send one F-15E Eagle to Israel for a sixty-day exchange visit with the Israeli Air Force. The purpose of the visit was to demonstrate the capabilities of the F-15E weapon system. Captain Matthew Zachary Pontowski III was to lead the team.
“Sir, I had nothing to do with this,” Matt protested. “I’d never pull—”
“Captain, if I had my way, you’d only pull duty as a nighttime latrine orderly. I suppose some paper-pushing, pencil-necked asshole on the staff at USAFE just happened to pull your name out of a hat.” Martin was on a roll. ‘ ‘An exchange visit like this one is normally headed by a full bull, not a captain. Now you tell me how it happened.”
“Sir, I don’t know. I don’t want the damn thing …"He heard a groan from Furry who did want to go. “Someone at USAFE is playing politics and probably thought it would be a good idea to send me because of my grandfather.”
“Yeah.” Martin was leaning across his desk, a shark about ready to tear his dinner apart. “That’s a possibility. But I think it sucks.” He shot a hard look at Furry. “Stifle yourself, Furry. You know I’m pushing formed crews and if Fumble Nuts here goes, you go.”