“Come on … ” Now he was shouting. He glanced at Pullman. The big sergeant’s left arm was bent at the elbow and his palm was up, making a slight upward pushing motion. Further down the ramp a sergeant was standing beside a small tug, leaning to the right. Jack realized both he and Pullman were also leaning, trying to will the right wing of the C-130 to lift.
Slowly, slowly, the wing came up as Kowalski increased her airspeed. Then, finally, she touched down and rolled to a halt. And Jack could feel the tension drain.
The pain would come later.
“Your attention please.” The major was making her last announcement to the command center. “Scamp One-One has safely recovered. Operation WARLORD is now terminated.” The reaction on the floor was more subdued this time as people congratulated each other on what “they” had done.
Cunningham was certain that most of them had been more than willing to write off Task Force Alpha once the POWs were safe. He stood up and looked at the major. She was still sitting, gathering her code books and getting ready to leave. She nodded at him and turned back to her work. Cunningham glanced at the Command and Authority room. The President was standing, accepting congratulations from his staff. The two men stared at each other for a moment.
Cunningham turned away. “Miss Rahimi, thank you.” He jammed a fresh cigar into his mouth. “Dick,” he snapped to his aide, “what the hell’s on the agenda?” And then he was out of there.
EPILOGUE
Colonel Rafe Thompson, Holloman’s wing commander, sat behind his desk glaring at the staff sergeant standing at attention in front of him. The colonel was, for perhaps the first time in his career, at a loss for words. The sergeant’s eyes kept darting from the colonel to the canvas bag sitting on the desk. It looked like his scrounge bag, but it couldn’t be. He had left it behind at Kermanshah.
“Goddamn it, Byers …” The colonel stood up and started to pace. “I don’t know what to do with you.” He was building momentum now. Byers braced for the rush. “Captain Jack Locke has been credited with five confirmed kills and one probable … Which makes him an ace. A certified card-carrying aerial assassin.”
“Sir, that’s great.”
“No, it’s not great. According to Air Force regulations the back-seater is usually given equal credit for those kills.” The colonel’s face was turning beet red. “It’s unofficial, but that means … I have on my base … under my command … the only staff sergeant ace in the entire goddamn world.” He flopped back into his chair, driving it against the back wall.
“But, sir, I didn’t do nothin’. Hell, I was knocked out—”
“Locke claims different.”
“There’s something else …” The colonel stood back up, leaned across his desk and shoved the canvas bag toward the sergeant. “This is your scrounge. I ought to court-martial you …”
“Sir, that ain’t mine. I left it behind at—”
“Byers, the Air Force Chief of Staff, one General Lawrence Getthe-hell-out-of-here-by-sundown Cunningham, says it is. My chief of supply says there are over twenty thousand dollars worth of parts …” The colonel fought for control. “Take it and get the hell out of here.” Byers grabbed the bag, saluted, and spun around.
The colonel’s voice stopped him. “Sergeant Byers, General Cunningham sends his thanks. Also … there’s a letter and a medal in the mail.”
“Congratulations on your third star,” Cunningham said, scarcely able to maintain his civility. He motioned for his aide to leave and close his office door.
Simon Mado decided to play gracious and not push the general. Anyone could feel the hostility below Cunningham’s surface, ready to break out. “Thank you, sir, it was totally unexpected …”
Cunningham chomped his cigar, bit the end off without intending to. He decided to indulge himself. Just a little. “Yes, it was, you pigfucker.” His voice was nicely calm.
“Sir?”
“How about shit … you got promoted because the President and a clutch of generals thought you did a great job in Iran. Everything I’ve seen tells me you were the highest-paid radio operator in the Air Force. I had a major in the command center doing the same thing you were doing. You look like a hero because a gutsy AC-130 crew wasn’t afraid to press the real fight, Thunder Bryant never blew his cool, and Rupe Stansell was able to function as the task force commander — which was your job. You bought your promotion on their backs.” Cunningham leaned across his desk. “Why don’t you think about retiring, General?”
Mado squelched a slight smile building across his mouth. Time for you to get the message, you old bastard … “I don’t think that’s necessary at this time.”
It wasn’t over. Cunningham pointed at the door. “You’re going to need a hell of a lot of help to survive in my Air Force,” he promised. Mado saluted deadpan and left.
Outside, Mado allowed a smile at Cunningham’s aide, even whistled a tuneless song as he went back to his office. The old S.O.B. is right about one thing, he thought. I am going to need help.
He went off to place calls to his divorce lawyer, and then to Barbara Lyon.
The two buck sergeants marched into the command sergeant major’s office and reported in. The sergeant major kept them standing at attention. “Lieutenant Jamison tells me you two were fighting at the Service Club last night after the awards parade.” The CSM’s voice was quiet. “He’s asked me to handle it. Why the fight?”
“Sergeant Major,” Wade answered, “there were four pukes out of the First Battalion telling everyone how rough it was at Grenada—”
“It was,” Kamigami interrupted. “I was there.”
“We know that,” Baulck said, “but those four assholes were still in junior high school when Grenada went down …”
“You two only fight when I tell you to,” Kamigami said, ending the discussion. “Be here at 0500 tomorrow morning. We’re going for a little run. Dismissed.” The two men retreated out of the office. Kamigami watched them go and made a mental note to find out who won the fight. Everything would be okay if Baulck and Wade had cleaned up on the other four…
The small church in the inner city slowly filled as the relatives and friends attending the memorial service found places in the wooden pews. The patina on the altar and pulpit, the well-worn pews, the carefully polished candlestick holders all reflected the loving care of the church’s congregation. Most were surprised to see the Air Force colonel sitting in the front pew next to the family. His immaculately tailored uniform could not hide the gaunt frame beneath it. His was the only white face in the church.
When the time for the eulogy came the colonel stood up before the congregation and clasped his hands in front of him.
“I’m Colonel Clayton Leason and I was Macon Jefferson’s commander while we were in captivity at Kermanshah. You have all heard of Macon’s sacrifice and how he volunteered to pass a message to a fellow POW in an effort to save that man’s life. Macon was successful, but at the price of his own life. I’m not here to praise him, his actions have done that far better than anything I could say, but to ask for your help. When it happened I made a promise no one could hear — that I would make it right. But I don’t know how to make it right, and that’s why I’m here — to ask your help …”