Lars had notched serious hours in three different training programs and a NATO exercise at the helm of a Combat Talon MC-130E some years before.
Years ago. Centuries ago.
He’d also flown MC-130P tankers.
For all of two weeks.
“Herk pilots are at a real premium, especially good ones,” said the general, who seemed to be slipping into salesman mode. Lars had first met Sherman when he was a major, but they’d never been particularly close. Sherman tended to play the hail-fellow-well-met thing a bit too far, but otherwise seemed like a decent officer.
“Guy gets sick, everybody’s scrambling,” added Sherman, his voice almost singing as his tapping grew more complicated. “Things are picking up, huh?”
Lars managed an affirmative grunt. The tune — a sixties TV show?
“Holdout for a signing bonus, huh?” suggested Sherman.
F Troop? Susie watched that on Nick at night.
No way.
“Get the Spec Ops boys to take you on permanently? Only a few of us over there; I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”
Lars managed a smile. “Us” was a reference to the fact that they were both African-American.
If Sherman had been white, would it have been easier to blow him off?
He’d never turned down an assignment before, not a real one. Not because he was scared.
Then again, he’d never been scared before. This was just weird — the sort of thing he ought to see a shrink about.
That would go over big.
Lars could feel the sweat already pouring down the back of his neck.
Just say no.
“So, you up for it?” asked the general.
Against his better judgment — against everything — Lars’ felt his head bob up and down.
“Great. Plane’s already being prepped. Your pilot is a nice fella, white guy, but okay. I’ve flown with him. DiRiggio. Lots of experience with SOC. Hook up with him, he’ll give you the deal. Uh, watch his breath, though. Real garlic-eater. Knock you out.”
Sherman smiled. It was tough for Lars to tell whether he was joking or not.
“Air Force captain name of Wong — no shit, Wong — he’s in charge of the operation. He’ll be on the plane. He’s assigned to an A-10 squadron but there’s a lot more to him than it seems. Let me give you a heads-up,” added the general. “Guy works for some admiral at the Pentagon and has no sense of humor.”
“Great.” The word stuck in his throat.
“But hell, you’ll probably do this with your eyes closed.” Sherman slapped the desk in a crescendo and stood to walk Lars out. “Easy gig for you.”
“Oh yeah,” he said, somehow getting his legs in gear.
CHAPTER 19
Dixon pulled the boy along with him as he scrambled along the rear of the house. When he reached the corner he dropped to his knees and put down one of the two Kalashnikov assault rifles, pulling the other under his arm as he leaned out to scan the road.
A battered Zil dodged some of the worst ruts as it lumbered up from the direction of the village. It slowed, then stopped a few yards from the pickup, whose front grill and bumper Dixon could just see from the back corner of the building.
The truck driver leaned out the window, staring toward the pickup. He yelled something, then turned his head toward the house.
Dixon ducked back. Probably, the driver saw the dead men, because he ground the Zil’s gears and revved the engine.
Kill him quick!
Dixon jumped to his feet. By the time he reached the front of the ruined building, the Zil was a good fifty yards away and gaining speed. He squared to fire but realized he was unlikely to stop the man, even if he managed to hit the bouncing truck; all he he’d be doing was confirming any suspicion that he was still here.
BJ lowered the rifle and looked back at the house. The Iraqi boy stood by the edge of the building, holding the other AK-74.
Dixon motioned for the boy to come forward. The kid hesitated, and for a slice of a second Dixon worried that the boy had decided to turn against him. But then the kid smiled and ran to him. When he reached Dixon, the child spun around, mimicking what Dixon had done as he shouldered the large rifle down the road.
Dixon put his hand on the barrel of the gun, gently lowering it.
“What’s your name, kid?” he asked.
The boy looked at him, not understanding.
“Name?” Dixon patted his chest. “I’m BJ. BJ. Who are you? Huh?”
“Budge,” said the boy finally, patting himself.
“Budge?” Dixon laughed. So did the kid. “Budge, huh? That’s a good name. Budge.”
The kid patted his chest. “Budge,” he said, laughing.
“So Budge, what the hell should I do with you, huh? Why were those goons trying to kill you? Who were they? What’d you do?”
Budge didn’t understand.
BJ tried miming what had happened before, but the boy didn’t really understand. He said something in what Dixon figured was Arabic, but his words were as incomprehensible to Dixon as Dixon’s must be to him.
“What the hell are we going to do, Budge?” Dixon asked finally. “Are there other people around here who want to kill you?”
He was careful as he mimed that, not wanting to make the kid think that he was going to harm him. The kid thought it was a joke or a game, laughing.
“One way or another, there’s plenty who want to kill me,” said Dixon. “If you’re with me, they may shoot you too. Probably they would.”
Budge shrugged. He obviously didn’t understand.
“If I leave you here, will the goons come back and kill you?”
The boy blinked, then said something, patting his stomach. Probably, he was saying he was hungry.
“You know where there’s food?” Dixon asked. He mimed the question, using the boy’s stomach to start.
Budge shook his head. The obvious place to find food was in the village, but it wasn’t as if they could simply show up at the local 7-Eleven and buy a couple of hoagies.
Or maybe they could. Dixon had some Iraqi money in his survival kit. He could give it the kid, send him into whatever passed for a store in these parts. Or even a house.
What if somebody asked the kid where he got the money? Or simply followed him back?
Turning Dixon in would make Budge an immediate hero. He wouldn’t even have to do it on purpose.
Why were the men trying to kill him?
Trust him? He was seven or eight most likely, certainly no older than ten. How smart was he? Smart enough to trick anyone who was suspicious of him?
Smart enough to trick Dixon?
Irrelevant. The question was, would he know to keep his mouth shut?
When he was nine, Dixon had a full load of chores on the family’s tiny vegetable truck farm, a separate operation from the corn and soybeans. He manned the fruit and vegetable stand every day during the summer, handling the tourists and the local town folks who stopped by. It was more boring than hard; rarely did he have to help more than two people an hour.
What if someone had appeared in the middle of the tomato patch behind the stand, just walked up and saved him from being robbed? What would he have done? Tell his mom?
Sure, he’d be happy and grateful.
What if the guy had been in some kind of trouble himself? Would he have been savvy enough to keep quiet, sneak him some food?
Maybe. If he realized the guy was in trouble. But you could be really dumb as a kid, innocent in all sorts of ways. This kid might be grateful that Dixon had saved him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t give him away.