“Yes, Sergeant. Right away, Sergeant,” she’d say.
And so she did. She pushed her arms down to her side and took a huge breath, ending the shaking for good. Then she took out a small makeup mirror and checked her eyes and face.
She took another breath and got off the cot.
The two Devil Squadron Hogs— her Hogs— were ready to go. But there would be something else for her and her men to do, plenty. And in the meantime, she’d try to come up with something to wring more time on station for the Hogs. Tinman might have something; he was always good for something that had worked in the Dark Ages before screwdrivers were invented.
Actually, there was an even simpler solution: The A-10As had three hard-points plumed for external fuel tanks. While the idea of using them to extend range had been rejected for several reasons at different points, it might be worth reconsidering, assuming they could get a few tanks out here. Rosen decided to check with Sergeant Clyston about it before going to Doberman. No use making a pitch for something she couldn’t do. She headed for the command bunker, hoping that one of the colonel’s men could set something up for her.
She found the colonel himself, frowning at an Army captain. Even though the two men were still talking, the colonel motioned her forward.
“Sergeant?” he said.
“Sir, begging your pardon, I was wondering if we could arrange a landline back to my chief. I, we, I’m sorry to bother you with this but I was hoping to squeeze more time on station out of the Hogs and wanted to get his ideas, sir. He had mentioned a modification that conceivably could do the trick, sir, and I’d like to spec it out with him.”
Rosen had thrown more than the mandatory number of “sirs” in the air, and the colonel seemed at least partly amused.
“You have to run down Major Mosely,” he told her. “He’ll set you up. Sergeant, let me ask you something— any of your crew know anything about helicopter electronics?”
“What electronics?”
The Army captain gave the colonel a look Rosen knew all too well — it meant, see what happens when you ask a girl a serious question?
She stifled her urge to forearm the bastard. “Sir, I’ve worked on the Pave Low systems, if that’s what you have in mind,” Rosen said, her eyes fixed on the idiot captain. “I’ve served as an instructor.”
“What do you know about AH-6Gs?” asked the colonel.
“Based on the McDonnell Douglas 500M, they’re powered by Alison gas turbines. The electronics suite is contemporary.”
“Contemporary?” said the captain.
“It will do. It’s Army,” she shrugged. “You can’t expect perfection. The power plant’s actually a nice piece of machinery, though.”
The captain started to say something that would undoubtedly have not been very pleasant, but the colonel stopped him. She could tell that he was the sort of officer who didn’t smile much; nonetheless, he had the beginnings of a grin on his face.
“You know a lot about that aircraft?” the colonel asked.
“A fair amount, sir. It’s not my specialty.”
“You think you could help get one of those things in the air?” the colonel asked her.
“Sir, I’ll bust my butt doing anything you want.”
“That’s not the question, Sergeant. Can you fix helicopters?”
“If there’s a problem with the electronics I can take a shot at it. I don’t know much about the weapons suite at all. That’s army, and I’m not meaning that disrespectfully. As far as the rest, I helped overhaul Kawasaki license-built models in Japan. I can fix the engine, that’s nothing. Engines were where I started, and like I say, that’s a nice piece of work, that one.”
The colonel nodded.
“So where is it?” Rosen asked.
“Two hundred and fifty miles north of here,” said the captain with a snide grin. “In Iraq.”
“All right— Apache,” she said, making a fist and swinging it in the air. “Let’s go!”
The captain had undoubtedly expected her to faint if not burst into tears. But even the colonel was surprised by her reaction.
“Sergeant, did you understand what the captain just said?” he asked.
“Oh, he’s just an asshole who thinks women don’t belong in the service,” she said. “Don’t worry about him. He probably couldn’t fix a flat tire. When am I leaving?”
CHAPTER 60
Doberman tried to work off his frustration by taking a walk around the base, but that was about as effective as using gasoline to douse a fire. When he realized he was starting to rant at an F-16 that was landing with battle damage for no other reason than the fact that it was a pointy-nose fast-jet, he decided to take a different tack and went over to the Special Ops mess area.
Masters of the fine art of combat supply, the troopers had laid out an extensive breakfast spread that included fresh eggs and what at least smelled like fresh ham. Doberman helped himself to a bagel and pineapple jelly and then sat at a small table. He had managed only a single bite when the gaunt figure of Tinman appeared before him, wagging a finger.
“A caul isk signk,” said the crewman. His lips were bluish and his cheeks caved in; his white hair flared up as if an invisible wind blew through it. He looked like a portrait of the Ancient Mariner, tied to a lost ship’s bowsprit.
Make that, the Ancient Mechanic.
“A caul isk signk,” he repeated.
“What the hell are you talking about?” said Doberman.
“He’s telling you you were born with a caul,” said a Special Forces sergeant, coming over with a tray. The man, not quite as tall as Tinman but nearly as lean, smiled and said something to the Air Force technician. Tinman’s eyes widened and the two began a conversation that Doberman swore was encrypted with a 64-byte key.
“So what the hell are you two talking about?” Doberman finally asked.
The sergeant gave him an apologetic smile. “Like I said, he says you were born with a caul.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, for one thing, it means you fight demons. Well, you know.”
Tinman nodded approvingly.
“No, I don’t know,” said Doberman. “What the hell language are you talking with him?”
“It’s not really a language. Kind of a patois. Name’s Joe Kidrey. I’m from Louisiana. Bayou country. Backwoods, though, even for there.” The sergeant sat down across from Doberman.
“Is that where you’re from, Tinman?”
Doberman’s question drew an indecipherable response.
“He says not exactly. Apparently it’s a long story,” Kidrey said. “I assume you don’t want to hear it.”
“No. But what’s this caul all about?”
Kidrey scratched his eyebrow and gave Doberman an embarrassed smile. “It’s this birth membrane thing, comes out sometimes on a baby’s face when he’s born. My mom’s a midwife. I guess you see it every so often.”
“And I had one?”
The sergeant nodded.
“How the hell would he know?”
“Oh, the old-timers know.”
“What about you?”
Kidrey gave a half-shrug. “Sometimes there’s a birth mark.”
“I don’t have a birthmark.”
The sergeant did the shrug again. “Anyway, the old-timers, I guess the thing is in the old days it was rare to survive that, you know, at least without problems, so these myths built up. You ever hear of Santeria?”
“What are we talking about here, voodoo?”