Preston hadn’t mentioned the fact that he had nailed a MiG — probably he thought everyone knew already — and Knowlington’s seemingly offhand comment was enough to temporarily calm the rising tide of dissension. The new D.O. had enough sense to finally shut his mouth after a line about how much he was counting on everyone to help him out. He nodded to Knowlington, then joined the men filtering out of Cineplex.
“Class A farthead,” Doberman said as he approached Knowlington.
“Relax, Captain,” said Skull.
“Come on, Dog, he ain’t that bad. I was in a unit with him couple of years back,” said A-Bomb. “Good pilot. Very clean turns.”
“Very clean turns? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Very clean turns?”
“Doesn’t spill coffee when he pumps the rudder,” said A-Bomb. “What I’m talking about.”
“Captain Glenon informed me that he and Captain O’Rourke will be on the mission,” said Wong, bringing toddler time to a close. “Who are the other two pilots?”
“Oh they did, did they?” said Skull, frowning at them. “Yeah, they’re coming. If they don’t fall asleep.”
“I might catch some Z’s on the way back,” said A-Bomb. “I’m thinking of packing a pillow, just in case.”
“The other pilots?” asked Wong.
“I’m flying this mission,” Skull said. “I have Bozzone in mind to take the last slot. I told him to be ready to fly tonight but I haven’t given him the details.”
“Billy’s kind of low-time,” said Doberman.
“True,” said Skull. Lt. Bozzone was a good pilot, but had only been on one mission since the Gulf War started. He hadn’t flown much before coming to the Gulf, either. On the other hand, he had been training for night flights and was used to using the AGMs to read targets. Skull didn’t doubt his abilities, but there was no arguing with the fact that he didn’t have a lot of cockpit time.
“What about Duck?” A-Bomb asked. “He’s always up for an adventure.”
“I need Captain Dietrich to lead a mission in the morning,” said Skull. “He’s taking four Hogs out to Al Jouf after a bombing run. If both of you guys are going, he can’t.”
“Billy’s just a kid,” said Doberman.
All of them were to Skull. But he didn’t say that.
“I’ve been reviewing the latest satellite data and other intelligence,” said Wong. “The missiles we spoke of have been positioned. I have a ninety percent confidence that they are SA-11s. There are also several triple-A batteries, and positionings of low-altitude heat seeking batteries. The information has been relayed to the F-111 commander. One group of the heat-seeking weapons will have to be targeted in the initial attack, and of course you must keep the others in mind during your operations near the village.”
A few squadron members drifted toward them from the other end of the room, obviously interested in what was going on. While Skull hated keeping his people in the dark, the mission was code-word secret.
“Let’s talk about this in my office,” he told them, ushering Wong and the others toward the hallway.
“Colonel, what newspaper reporter?” asked Preston, intercepting them outside.
“Hack.” Skull shook his head but decided not to bother explaining that he’d only said that to bail the idiot out. He continued down the hall.
“Uh, Colonel, could I have a word?” Preston asked.
Skull stopped. “Sure.”
“In private?”
“Is it a private thing?”
“Well…”
Skull gestured to the others. “You’ve met Glenon and O’Rourke, right? This is Captain Wong.”
Preston gave them all a quick nod. “Actually, I wanted to get myself on the roster to fly ASAP. Tomorrow, if possible.”
“All the slots are filled,” said Skull.
“There are four planes that aren’t listed,” said Preston. “There are plenty of low priority targets available. I’ll find a wingmate and take one. Maybe A-Bomb’ll fly with me,” added Preston, trying to make his voice sound chummy. “A-Bomb and I go back to Germany. Used to plunk Volkswagens.”
“Those planes are spoken for,” Doberman said.
“What exactly is going on, Colonel?”
Skull scratched his forehead, rubbing the edges of his eyebrows with his thumb and middle finger, thinking. Preston had been flying combat since the beginning of the air war, and while it had been a while since he’d sat his fanny in a Hog, he had tons of experience. He’d be an obvious choice to take the mission — after days of orientation, or reorientation, flights.
No time for that.
“Colonel?” repeated Preston.
Why was he hesitating? Because he didn’t like him?
Because Preston had tried to screw him when they both worked at the Pentagon a year or so ago?
Maybe he was a jerk, but he was a good pilot. He’d already nailed a MiG.
“You ever use Mavericks to fly at night?” Skull asked.
“You’re not supposed to,” said Hack. “Specifically advised against that. I’ve done plenty of night flying, though.”
“In a Hog?” said Doberman.
“Of course. We used to drop logs and drill with CBUs and Mavs. Problem is the damn screens have such a small angle it’s hard to get your bearings, so using them to do more than find your target can be disorienting. Right A-Bomb?”
O’Rourke smiled but said nothing.
“What’s this about, Colonel?” asked Preston.
Fly the number one and number two guys on the same mission? Along with the squadron’s best pilots?
Why the hell not? You had to use your best weapons, no?
“Colonel?”
“All right. Come with us into my office, Major. Assuming you’re up for flying tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“If you’re too tired or don’t feel up to it —”
“Of course I’m up for it,” said Hack.
“And you got to like long shots,” added A-Bomb. “And Devil Dogs.”
Preston’s chin twitched for a second, but only for a second.
“I like long shots,” he said.
CHAPTER 18
The easiest thing in the world was to say no.
The general looked at him expectantly. Jack Sherman was so heavy the desk he was sitting behind groaned as he shifted his elbows.
“It’s a classified mission,” repeated Sherman. He put his hands down and drummed his fingers, the beat vaguely reminiscent though difficult to place. “So you can work things out from that. I’m not authorized to say anything else and to be honest, I don’t know much more. You’ll be briefed fully if you volunteer. I mean, obviously it’s going to be hazardous.”
Lars nodded. A voice inside was telling him to walk away — not just from the request to fill in for a sick copilot, but from the whole Gulf War. From everything.
General Sherman’s round, light brown face broke into a smile. He obviously thought he was doing Lars a favor, pushing an assignment that would…
That would what? Get him promoted? Get him a medal?
He didn’t need no damn medal. He needed to get home, go see his daughter Susie again.
“Some of your experience will come in handy,” added Sherman, still tapping. “That was one of the considerations in asking you.”
Experience?
“It’s nothing you haven’t done before,” said the general. “And it is in a C-130. An MC-130”
I’m not a coward, Lars thought. But I can’t even land the damn plane a hundred miles behind the lines. And an MC-130 wasn’t going to be running toilet paper across Saudi Arabia. The Herks were equipped for low-level penetration of hostile territory. They could perform a variety of missions, none of them exactly easy.