The official attitude toward the club was difficult to gauge. On the one hand, it was the epitome of everything prohibited in Saudi Arabia. On the other hand, at least one two-star general was known to be among the frequent “guests.” The Devil Squadron Commander, Colonel Knowlington, didn’t approve but didn’t censure, either. The other squadron commanders were equally ambiguous.
“I’ll see Wong’s raise, and go five more,” snapped the player to Doberman’s left, Kevin Sullivan. Captain Sullivan had three fours on the table. Normally, his cherubic expression could be counted on to give his hold cards away. But he had worn a consistent scowl from the very first hand, and for the past hour had growled nearly as sharply as the plane he piloted, an AC-130 mean-ass gunship armed with a variety of cannons and a very nasty temper. Sullivan was a particularly poor loser, and like everyone else at the table except Captain Bristol Wong, was down heavily to Doberman.
Who had been advertised as the night’s pigeon.
“You guys are too rich for me,” said A-Bomb, folding. Richie Stevens did the same. Wong, who was showing two pair, aces high, pushed forward five chips. The intelligence officer, on loan from the Pentagon G2 staff, had been advertised as the night’s pigeon. He’d proven anything but: only Doberman’s incredible string of luck had held him in check.
Not that Doberman thought it was luck exactly.
“Out,” said Hernandez, throwing down his cards.
The bet was back to Doberman. Statistically speaking, his best hope was to land another three, and that wouldn’t even beat what Sullivan was showing. The way he read the table, Sullivan and Wong were both riding full houses; all he was doing was making the pot fatter for them, something he’d been doing all night.
And yet, if he pulled a jack of spades, how sweet that would be. The odds on getting a royal flush were astronomicaclass="underline" well into the millions. On the other hand, having been dealt the four cards to start with, the odds really weren’t that ridiculous. In fact, they were no worse than 1 out of 32, since Doberman already knew the card he needed wasn’t lying face up on the table.
Still a long shot. But he’d never had a night like this before.
“Call,” he said, pushing forward a five-dollar chip.
“Feeling lucky?” mocked A-Bomb. “Oh, I forgot, you don’t believe in luck. So how come you’re in?”
“Just deal the cards,” Doberman told him.
“For somebody that doesn’t believe in luck, he’s sure riding high,” said Sullivan.
“I got the luck of Job,” said Doberman.
“Anybody want a beer?” Hernandez asked.
“I’ll take one,” said A-Bomb. “See if you can get some of those scorcher wings. I showed Manny or whatever his name is in the back how to pep them up with that hot sauce I got the other day.”
“When did you have time to do that?” asked Hernandez. Like A-Bomb and Doberman, he was a Devil Squadron Hog driver. “Don’t you sleep?”
“Shit, I sleep all the time,” said A-Bomb. “Hell, we’re flying and things are slow, I take a nap in the cockpit. Right, Dog Man?”
“The snores are unreal,” said Doberman. “Now deal the fuckin’ cards.”
“You want a beer, Wong?” asked Hernandez.
“He ought to pay for a round,” suggested Sullivan. ”He’s the new guy.”
“I am not drinking beer,” said Wong. “And I will not contribute to your dereliction by purchasing any. It is against the custom and law of the country.”
“Shit, Wong, are you for real?” asked Hernandez.
“He’s busting your chops. Go ahead, it’s on him,” A-Bomb said. “He’s got a tab.”
“Why does everyone on this base think I’m making jokes?” Wong asked. “And since when do I have a tab here?”
“I set it up,” said A-Bomb. “You can thank me later.”
“Hey, are we playing cards or what?” demanded Doberman.
“You’re pretty antsy for somebody who’s got butkus,” said Sullivan. “Or do you suddenly believe in luck?”
“Fuck you.”
“Dogman ain’t lucky at planes or cards,” said A-Bomb.
“Shit, yeah, he is,” said Sullivan. “Nobody in the world could take so many bullets and keep flying.”
“Hell, that ain’t luck. Hog loves to take bullets,” said A-Bomb. “Holes in the wing make it fly faster.”
“Just because I know what I’m doing and you don’t, doesn’t mean I’m lucky,” said Doberman.
“Yeah, right,” Sullivan said.
“You ever fly your crate home without hydraulics?”
“Last card down,” said A-Bomb, dishing Wong’s card to begin the final round.
The plastic beads walling off the room parted, revealing Lieutenant Jack “Happy Face” Gladstone, who, contrary to his nickname, perpetually frowned.
“Colonel needs to see you right away, Captain,” he told Doberman. “Wants you, too, sir,” he told Wong.
Wong immediately pushed his chair back and rose.
“Whoa! Wait a second. We got a hand to finish here,” said Sullivan.
“Guess I might as well come, too,” said A-Bomb, putting the deck down and standing. “What’s going on, Smile Boy?”
“Hey come on, let’s finish the hand,” said Doberman. “Where the hell are you guys going? Wong, get back here. A-Bomb.”
“Colonel’s pissed about something,” said Gladstone. “The capo told me he was over in the Bat Cave a little while ago. That’s all I know.”
“Uh-oh,” said A-Bomb. The “capo” was the wing’s top sergeant, Chief Master Sergeant Allen Clyston, a man wise in all things and with more sources than the CIA. A-Bomb scooped up the pot.
“Hey,” said Sullivan. “We can finish the hand.”
“Colonel wouldn’t be asking to see us this time of night unless it was real important,” said A-Bomb. “I’ll cash out everybody on the way over to Hog Heaven.”
“Shit, he doesn’t want all of us,” said Doberman. He had already decided this must be an administrative thing; the squadron DO was due to be shipped home, and Doberman was among those in line for the job.
Not that he wanted it.
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere without your wingman watching your butt,” said A-Bomb. “I’m trusting you guys to remember what you bet that last round,” he added, stalking away.
Sullivan cursed and tossed his cards down. Doberman took a deep breath and rose, the last one in the room.
His next card was lying face down on the top of the pile.
He hesitated for a second.
More than likely, it was a five or a seven or even another king or queen, something in diamonds or hearts.
More than likely, Gladstone had just saved him a bundle.
He started to walk out the room, got as far as the beads, turned back. Doberman reached down and flipped over the card.
Jack of spades.
CHAPTER 4
The first thing Dixon felt was overwhelming numbness.
The next thing he felt was a severe yank against his chest.
The chute had opened.
Already? It should have taken at least twenty seconds to fall down to 30,000 feet. He’d only just stepped out of the plane.
Dixon glanced upwards, aware that he was supposed to check the canopy to make sure it was properly deployed, but damned if he could remember what the hell it was supposed to look like.
It was too dark to see anyway. He had a flashlight somewhere, but he wasn’t supposed to use it unless it was an emergency.