“Two men,” said Booker. “There is still the problem of inserting and retrieving the team.”
“C-141 high altitude jump,” said Leterri.
“The SA-11s make that problematic,” said Wong. “Better to use an MC-130 infiltrating at low altitude and making the drop in the clean corridor once the missiles hit. The mission can be accomplished with three men, two to handle the vehicle and another to act as scout. I, of course, will take the latter role.”
Knowlington stared at Booker, silently fuming. He expected Booker or someone to argue with Wong, but apparently everyone in the room knew of the intelligence officer’s extensive background with covert operations.
“How do you get back?” asked Marks.
“If helicopters are not permitted north, a STAR-Fulton pickup would be the only logical option,” said Wong.
“At night?” asked Booker.
“We can do it if we have to,” said Leterri.
STAR stood for surface-to-air recovery; Fulton was the name of the man who had pioneered it. A Hercules flying at just under a hundred knots snagged a line suspended from a balloon at five hundred feet. The line propelled the man or in some cases two upwards, streaming him behind the airplane. He was then winched into the rear of the plane.
Not pretty, but doable. In theory, at least.
“There’s one thing I want to get clear,” said Knowlington. “Dixon has to be a priority.”
“Neither Strawman nor Dixon is a priority, Colonel,” said Paddington dryly. “Obviously, his Cincship sees this as a mission for volunteers and maniacs.”
“Screw off,” Knowlington told the British agent.
Paddington shrugged. No one else spoke.
“We’re getting Dixon back,” Knowlington said, standing and pointing at Booker.
“If he’s there,” said the major. “And if you find him, within the other parameters of the mission. And if we can arrange a package. And if the commander in chief approves it.” He glanced menacingly at Paddington, who merely smiled, obviously secure in the knowledge that he could not be touched. Booker nearly spit at him as he continued. “Frankly, my opinion on this whole escapade is lower than the general’s I can assure you.”
“And I can assure you we’re getting Dixon back,” said Knowlington. He crossed his arms and glared at the rest of them before slowly retaking his seat.
CHAPTER 12
The corpse lay in a rut a few steps up the hill, arms thrown over the back of its head as if Death had held the body prisoner before taking the soul.
Dixon stared at him for a moment. The Iraqi soldier had killed by the Delta team yesterday as they escaped after finding the missile launch area and calling in A-10s and F-16s to strike it.
Or maybe he’d shot him himself. Dixon couldn’t remember.
BJ felt as if a dark cloud had descended around his neck, dread trying to strangle him from behind. He felt something like compassion, something like sorrow, and even guilt as he looked at the man.
But the soldier was an enemy.
More importantly, there was a weapon near his body; that meant more ammunition, bullets to replenish the ones Dixon had foolishly wasted earlier.
Bullets that would mean he could kill more men.
More enemies.
He lowered himself on wobbly knees, reaching to take the dead man’s AK-47. The rifle lay less than twelve inches from the Iraqi’s face. As Dixon grabbed its barrel he felt something on his knuckles, a breath — he jerked his hand away, snapping upright, swinging his own rifle down to aim at the Iraqi.
Impossible. The soldier couldn’t be more dead. The back of his shirt and his pants down to his thighs were caked solid with blood.
BJ lowered himself more quickly this time, then closed his eyes when he took the gun.
The clip, the rifle, were empty.
A thick web belt circled the dead man’s waist.
A cartridge holder.
The heavy, pungent odor of rotting meat drifted up from the corpse as Dixon stared at him from his knees. The soldier was dead; he had to be dead. There was nothing to fear.
“You’re beyond fear,” BJ told himself. He repeated it, then got up, walking cautiously around the man. He kicked the corpse’s side with his boot.
How disrespectful, he thought.
“Disrespectful,” he repeated out loud. Then he kicked it again.
Truly dead. Dixon lowered himself on his haunches, balancing by using both rifle butts as a skier might do. Then he dropped the dead man’s gun, let it bounce against the earth. He gripped the dead Iraqi’s shirt. His fingers dug into the man’s flesh, soft and pudgy, like a girl’s.
Dixon gave a heave and pushed the man over.
Thick pockets sat at the front of the belt, the top of each secured by string looped around a long, narrow wooden knob. Two held banana-style clips of 7.62 mm ammunition. A metal clasp and ring topped a third pocket. Dixon reached for the ring and starting to tug on it before realizing he was holding the trigger mechanism of a Russian hand grenade. He stared at his fingers for a moment, then gingerly pulled the small grenade — an old but deadly RGD5 — out of the flap.
It was wet with blood. There was at least one more in the ammo pocket. He teased it out, gently feeling along the tube at top, past the fuse lever, to the smooth round body before gripping it. BJ pulled it out and placed both grenades next to each other on the ground. He reached into the belt again and felt something sharp and jagged, his fingers flinching back against the blood-saturated webbing material.
It was part of the man’s pelvic bone, smashed out of place by one of the bullets that had killed him.
Slowly, Dixon pulled his hand away. He took another breath, then retrieved the gun clips. He slid the grenades into his chest pockets.
As he stood back, the corpse began to move.
He took another step back, trying to raise his gun. But the rifle suddenly felt heavier than three bags of cement.
The corpse jumped to its feet, arms extending over its head in victory, Death vanquished. It danced and flung itself in a swirl around the desert.
Dixon’s breath caught. He closed his eyes and willed the cloud and its black noose away. He felt the gun hanging from his hand, felt the strain in his shoulders and his neck. He felt the pain in his leg and in his ribs, felt each bruise and scrape, felt the air slowly emptying from his lungs.
When he opened his eyes, the corpse lay back on the ground, head off kilter, its mouth pasted in a sad frown.
Dixon curled the rifle under his arm and pushed on.
CHAPTER 13
“There’s no place like Home Drome. There’s no place like Home Drome — Wow, look at that Dog. Oz!”
“Oh, you’re a fuckin’ riot, A-Bomb,” answered Doberman as they trundled into the Devil Squadron parking area in front of the hangars, an area affectionately dubbed “Oz” because of the wondrous things the maintenance wizards did there. As the two planes wheeled into their assigned spots, a large bear emerged from one of the hangars and began ambling in their direction — the Capo di Capo was gracing them with a personal welcome. Crewmen genuflected and fell over themselves to get out of his way.
Powering their mounts down, the Hog drivers descended to the tarmac. Chief Clyston waited a short distance away, his presence evident in the quick snap of the men scurrying to secure the planes.
“Hey, Capo, what’s shakin’,” said A-Bomb, walking over.
“You better not have broken my airplane,” growled the chief.