There were also a lot of rocks. Coors didn’t miss one, jostling A-Bomb’s head against the tubular steel backrest. They stopped next to what seemed to be a large pile of shifting sand, but which proved to be a yellow-brown tarp on a row of sandbags when A-Bomb jumped on it from the top of the FAV. He’d never have thought sandbags could be so hard.
“This is a fallback position,” Coors explained, gesturing with the MP-5 he had slung over his shoulder with a long strap. The bags made a slight arc that would provide cover for one or two men. He thumbed northward. “Where we’re going is closer to the road.”
A gray black line edged in front of a series of low hills about three miles away. “We leave the FAV here so it can’t be seen. Remember where this is— there’s a radio and weapons if you need them.”
“You got a little ol’ M-16 in there I can borrow?”
“Sorry, sir, but the idea here is not to do anything that’s going to attract attention, if you know what I mean. The idea is just to watch what’s going on, not to start firing willy-nilly. No offense.”
Coors obviously meant to offend him, but A-Bomb let it pass. He’d dealt with this sort of prejudice before. People assumed that because you were a Hog pilot you liked to blow things up, and because you liked to blow things up you wouldn’t exercise proper judgment when a fat target presented itself. You’d just go blasting away and worry about the consequences later.
Which was true enough, now that A-Bomb thought about it.
The sergeant took a large rucksack from the FAV and began trudging along the top of the wadi in the direction of the road. About three hundred yards from the FAV, Coors stopped in front of a group of small boulders.
A-Bomb stooped down, trying to find an opening in the dirt. He had to hand it to the commandos— this hide was even better than the last one. It was completely invisible, even up close.
“I give up,” he said, straightening. “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“The hide.”
“Right here,” said Coors with a grin. He dropped the rucksack and pulled a small folding shovel from the side. “Have fun,” he said, handing it to A-Bomb. “I’ll be back in a half-hour.”
“Hold on, Beerman,” said A-Bomb. He grabbed the trooper by the arm and spun him back as he started away. “What’s with the truck?”
“Truck?”
“A hundred yards past that bend,” A-Bomb said, pointing. “Down the dip in the road. See the edge of the roof?”
Coors couldn’t see the roof, but his whole manner changed instantly from sardonic to professional. He dropped to his knees, removing his Steiner field glasses from the rucksack. A-Bomb squatted next to him, waiting while the sergeant adjusted the glasses and scanned back and forth. Finally the pilot leaned over and helped aim the glasses into the right spot.
“Fuck, how did you see that?” asked Coors finally. “That’s three miles away.”
“Two point seven,” said A-Bomb. “If we go up a little further, we can get a better view.”
Without answering, the sergeant began to trot to his right, his head ducked slightly to keep his profile relatively low. He stopped about fifty yards away, with a much better angle.
“Tanker truck,” said the trooper. “Shit. Not moving.”
“Yeah. You mind if I take a look?” asked A-Bomb.
The sergeant hesitated for a second, then handed him the glasses. A-Bomb stood slowly. The sun was behind him, which silhouetted him but prevented any chance glare. The flash of light was likely to be more noticeable, especially given the harshness of the unobstructed sun.
“Doesn’t seem to be anybody in the cab,” said A-Bomb. “You got the hill right behind him. Maybe he’s taking a leak.”
“Long leak,” grumbled Coors.
“You can flank him from that hill.”
Coors tugged his pant leg. “Sit down and let me think about this a minute.”
While the sergeant was thinking, A-Bomb unholstered his pistol. The Colt 1911 Government Model had come from a factory stock maybe thirty or forty years before. Its gizzards had been completely replaced, and it had a beavertail grip safety courtesy of a South Carolina gunsmith A-Bomb had met while waiting at a Mickey D’s a few years back. Ordinarily, A-Bomb did his own work, but you could always trust someone who supersized his fries.
“Okay,” said the sergeant, picking up his submachine-gun. “I’m going to double-back a hundred yards or so, then cross the road. I’ll come up that rise behind him where I can get a better view.”
“And what am I doing?”
“You’re going for help if I get in trouble.”
A-Bomb figured there was no sense arguing with the sergeant, especially since Coors had already begun trotting away. He folded his arms in front of his chest, watching as the sergeant cut back across the terrain and then angled for the road. Even though he was half-crouching, wearing a rucksack and carrying a submachine-gun, Coors made good time, disappearing from A-Bomb’s line of sight in a little more than ten minutes.
The pilot waited a full thirty seconds, then began his own scoot toward the fuel truck, aiming to get close enough to cover the sergeant in case there was any trouble. Between the wadi and the slope, he had cover for a bit over a mile and a half, which meant he was still a good quarter mile away when somebody started shouting and firing an automatic rifle from the rocks at the edge of the hill.
CHAPTER 6
He found himself at the Depot, sitting at the long, black Formica bar top, staring at a pyramid of whiskey bottles. All of his old friends were there, as if gathered for a reunion— Seagram’s and Windsor Canadian, Rebel Yell, Heaven Hill, Jim Beam, Old Crow, Marker’s Mark, Granddad, and Wild Turkey.
And Jack, luscious Jack Daniels in all his glory, green and black, a serious, serious friend.
There was a large double shot glass in front of him. Filled to the white line near the rim.
Was it his first? His third? His fifth? Was he drunk already?
Skull eased forward on the bar stool. What difference did it make if this was his first or his twenty-first— he was already drunk on the fumes.
Change from a twenty sat on the bar next to him; a ten, a five, and three ones.
Two bucks for a double-shot?
Jesus, no wonder guys said this place had sprung whole from somebody’s wet dream.
Colonel Knowlington bent toward the drink, thinking about Dixon and the day he’d sent him to Riyadh.
Shit. He could still see the kid’s face, white as a bed sheet, admitting he’d screwed up.
The kid had come clean. That was who he was; naive, foolish, but honest. A damn good kid, brimming with potential, the kind of kid the Air Force needed. The kind of kid Skull had been once, if only for a very short time.
It sucked shit to lose him.
Knowlington fingered the glass. It sucked shit to lose every goddamn man he’d lost, every wingman, every friend, every acquaintance, everybody he’d had to order into battle. It sucked shit for anybody to die in war. Even the goddamn bastards on the other side, the poor slobs working for a madman, were just doing their job.
His throat contracted, waiting for the bourbon.
Twenty-two days since he’d last felt the pleasant burn. Twenty-two sober days.