They were still in view when he heard something move on the hillside behind him. He swung around, pulling up the submachine gun, cursing himself for not keeping a better guard.
He just barely avoided putting half-dozen rounds through Leteri’s face.
“Thought I’d see how you were making out,” said Leteri, ducking down to cover.
“That’s twice today I almost shot you,” said Dixon.
“Put me out of my misery.” Leteri unclenched his teeth and smiled briefly before his expression once more surrendered to the pain of his wounds. “I’m all right,” he told Dixon. “Took me forever to realize there was only one guard watching the whole back end of the quarry. I got around him easy but I was worried about running into someone else. Guess they don’t know we’re here, huh? How’s Winston?”
“He goes in and out.”
“That plane ours?”
“Yeah. He was checking for damage,” Dixon told him. “They’ll hit the bunker again. But before they do, we have to remove a slight impediment.”
“What’s that?” asked Leteri.
“Two of our friends over there just hauled something up the hill with them. I didn’t get a good look, but my bet is that it was a shoulder-fired missile, probably an SA-16. Anything comes back, it’s going down.”
CHAPTER 63
“You’re out of your gourd, Wong. No way anybody can guarantee those shots,” said A-Bomb. He shook his head and jerked his thumb back toward Doberman. “I don’t even think the Dog Man could do it, and he’s the best Mav gunner in the stinking Air Force. Mr. AGM.
“I attempted to point out the difficulty involved,” said Wong. “But the colonel…”
“I can do it,” said Doberman. “I set up on the way in and hand off without firing, get both nailed down, dial back, and bing-bang-bam.
“Two seconds?”
“Precisely 1.8 would be optimum,” said Wong.
And you’re going to get a solid aim point with the infrared?” said A-Bomb. “Exactly three quarters of the way up?”
“Don’t sweat it,” Doberman said. Part of him knew that even physically hitting the buttons quickly enough to get the shot off fast enough was nearly impossible.
Another part of him knew that he was going to do it. And fuck everybody else. Including and especially Klee.
A-Bomb, for maybe the first time he’d known him, was temporarily speechless. And Wong…
Wong was incapable of such a condition, unfortunately.
“There is a significant error coefficient,” Wong said. He had a pained expression that made it look like he was about to barf up a dissertation.
“Tell me about it later,” said Doberman. He turned toward the Hog pit area. “Let’s go talk to Rosen and make sure the planes get a last-minute tweak.”
“I’m afraid she won’t be available,” said Wong. “The sergeant and I are relocating.”
“Where you going?” asked A-Bomb.
“North,” said Wong. “Very far north.”
“I am going to do you the biggest favor of your life, Captain, and forget every fucking word you just told me.” Colonel Klee pushed his words out in a perfect imitation of the Big Bad Wolf blowing down one of the pig’s straw houses. “You get your fanny in gear and you do your job. I’ll worry about who else goes where, why, and how.”
Doberman didn’t bother biting his teeth together, or taking a breath, or counting to ten, or any of the one million things he’d done in his life to try and keep his temper under control.
They never worked anyway.
“Squadron personnel are my responsibility,” he said. “And Rosen…”
“I expect that door down before 11oo hours. You got that?”
“Screw you.”
“What?”
“Screw you.”
Doberman stormed out of the command post so hot his head probably would have melted metal. A-Bomb, who’d been waiting outside, had to run to keep up.
“Colonel didn’t appreciate you pointing out to him that Rosen’s female, huh?” said A-Bomb as Doberman passed him outside.
Doberman didn’t answer.
“Kind of funny if she becomes a war hero, don’t you think?” A-Bomb began trotting to keep up.
Doberman wasn’t quite sure where he was going to go. He wanted to hop into the Hog and take it straight north to Baghdad and give Saddam a Maverick enema.
Then he’d come back and do the same for Klee, the shithead.
“You sure you want to take both shots? I mean, I know you can make them, that’s not what I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb. “Hey, for a little guy, you sure walk fast.”
“Who says I’m little?”
“I do.”
“Screw yourself,” said Doberman, picking up his pace.
“You got to play cards with me tonight,” said A-Bomb, trotting behind him. “I figure we can win enough for a couple of nightscopes. These guys think Baseball’s something you do with a bat.”
Doberman had known A-Bomb for a long time, and there was no one he would rather fly with. O’Rourke was the best wingman in the Air Force, period. But there were times when he was just too much to take. He was always making a joke about something, or finding some way to bend the rules in his favor, or just ignoring them. Not only did he flout convention, he thought the laws of physics were optional.
“Screw you, A-Bomb,” Doberman said, his legs cranking faster. “We got to get in the air, right now, and I don’t want any more of your bullshit.”
“Hey Dog Man, hold up,” said A-Bomb, trotting beside him. “Yo man, you got to calm down a bit.”
“I am calm.”
“Listen, Dog.” A-Bomb’s fingers grabbed his biceps like a vice. Doberman swung around, ready to slug his friend away for joking around.
But the look on his face stopped him. A-Bomb’s words were flat and calm and cold, as direct as the arc of a bomb on a ninety-degree drop.
“Your job now is to stay level,” said Captain O’Rourke. “You’re going to be the squadron Director of Operations when we get back to the Home Drome. You and I both know it. Everybody’s going to depend on you. You can’t let your anger go like you used to. Shit, Dixon and these Special Ops guys are depending on you. Me, too.” A-Bomb’s fingers tightened. “I got your six. No matter what. But you level off.”
Doberman nodded. “Yeah, I know.” He pulled his arm free. “Damn. I’m pissed.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” said A-Bomb.
“You’re looking at me like you got a question.”
“Yeah, I got a question. You sure you can make those shots?”
“In my sleep,” said Doberman.
A-Bomb nodded deeply. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Doberman started walking again. It was hard for him to stay pissed at A-Bomb. It was hard for him to stay pissed at anyone. Except Saddam and Klee.
He could do the shots. It was physically impossible, but who the hell cared? Line ‘em up and spin the bottle. One-two, bing-bang-bam.
He’d have to lose the thumb thing, though. Bad habit anyway. Just a tic. Where had it come from, anyway? It was a superstition— bullshit.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Doberman told A-Bomb as they walked. “We get the Hogs gassed and we support the helos at their cow field or whatever the damn pickup is.
“Cornfield.”
“Yeah, good. We load up for bear, help them get their helo, and make sure Dixon’s okay. Then we nail the motherfucker door.”
“You sure we have the fuel to do all that?” A-Bomb asked.
“No problem.”