Her pen fidgeted on the paper. She thought of Dixon, his baby face. They’d kissed once, almost by accident. She felt the kiss now, felt him pressing against her body, rubbing his hands against her breasts.
Which he had not done.
A damn, damn shame.
She tried writing again, thinking of a routine day, but segueing into a dream she’d had before bugging out of Fort Apache, the clandestine Delta command post in Iraq.
She was in her uncle’s junkyard, back by the buses where her cousin Crank used to smoke dope. A turkey vulture swept down.
Red-headed turkey vulture. Never saw that in Philly, no way.
But that was the dream.
She thought about it, and then her pen began moving, the words arranging themselves on the blank paper:
Becky put down the pen and reread what she’d wrote.
Death and more death.
Her fingers tore the page out. She crumpled it up and shoved it in her pocket, then pulled on her boots to go see what needed doing in Oz.
CHAPTER 36
Dixon and Budge stopped for a rest amid a small collection of bushes just below the summit of the hill. Even in the dark, the scrubby vegetation wouldn’t provide much cover, but it was better than nothing. They didn’t seem to have been followed, and as far as BJ could tell the hill was unoccupied. It was lower than the hill opposite to the northwest, with occasional rock outcroppings and jagged terrain, difficult for the anti-air vehicles to climb. Or at least Dixon assumed.
The boy had recovered from his panic, or maybe he was just too tired to do much of anything — he sat on the ground next to his rescuer, knees pulled up in front of his chest.
“Hey Budge, what do you think?” Dixon whispered. “You think there Scuds on the other side of that hill there?”
He pointed with his thumb. The boy tilted his head, but said nothing.
“I’m not sure what the bombers hit,” Dixon continued. “I’m not exactly sure what kind of planes they were. I fly a Hog,” he added. “An A-10. I’m really a pilot. I came north to help target Scuds. A-10’s a great plane. They’re made to fly real low and support ground troops.” He began miming it with his hands, zooming in low and working the cannon with a stutter. He pretended to be in the cockpit, then threw his hands out like he was the plane, crouching and dancing. Budge smiled.
“We call it a Hog — short for Warthog. Kind of a joke, too, because it looks ugly and it moves slower than a farm truck. I could have flown Eagles — I was selected to. But I had to, uh, see, I had some personal stuff going on.” Dixon knew he was just babbling on, but the kid nodded, as if he understood and wanted him to continue. It felt good to talk; he’d been alone so long. “My mom died, she was dying. And my father’s been laid up with strokes since I was about your age. You lost your parents, too, huh?”
BJ hadn’t thought about that before, but now he realized it must be true — perhaps the kid had seen them die.
“Parents dead?” he asked.
Budge nodded solemnly, then said something in Arabic. Dixon listened, trying to pick up the meaning in the tone of the words. They were flat though, and the way the kid moved his hands he could be miming a parade.
Until he jumped up and began mimicking what BJ had done, flying a Hog.
“Yeah, kid, we’ll fly. We’ll fly out of here. If we can find our way. I know there’s got to be another Delta team around here. I just know it.”
Budge kept flying. Dixon extended his arms and for a moment the two of them flew together, bumping wings and laughing as if they were out on a playground a million miles from the war.
“Okay,” Dixon said finally. “All right. We have to get serious, Budge.”
The kid stopped and looked up at him. BJ slung the rifles over his shoulders and held the boy gently by the neck as they walked.
“What we’re doing here is kind of like a game,” Dixon said. “Kind of like hide and seek. Except the guys looking for us have guns, and they’re not going to count to ten before shooting. But we’re smarter than them, right? You and me. We’ll kick their butts if they try to do anything.”
Dixon let go, considering their next move. The plain to the west and southwest of the hill seemed open; they could sneak back to the Cornfield, several miles away along the highway west. They could get water there, and it would be easy to hide during the daylight.
He remembered passing a building or two. They might be able to get food — better to try there than in the village, where there were other people and troops around.
But first, he wanted to look to the south, see what was there.
Hide out tomorrow. As soon as it was dark, look for one of the Delta or British SAS teams that were Scud hunting. There ought to be at least one team a few miles further west. And beyond that there was a forward base, Fort Apache. They could go there, walk a few miles every night.
They’d get out of here somehow, Budge and him.
They began sidestepping toward the southern slope of the hill. Dixon slipped and Budge grabbed him, holding him up for half a second before tumbling over him. They rolled a few feet before coming to a stop.
It was so comical Dixon started to laugh, until he saw the flare of a cigarette ten yards away.
CHAPTER 37
The station wagon was the third car in the procession, trailing two troop trucks. Immediately behind it was a German transport, followed by a pair of armored cars. A Mercedes sedan was next to last, sandwiched between two Zils with canvas backs. The caravan was about a two miles from the spot they’d picked to put down the explosives. The rest of the vehicles followed at intervals of ten to twenty yards. With their lights out, they traveled no more than forty miles an hour — but that was more than enough; there was no way to get the explosives down to the spot they’d picked out. Wong sent Davis to alert Wolf, then stopped Salt as he bent to set up his sniper rifle.
“We’ll have to stop them or slow them down so the bombers have a chance to target them,” Wong told him. “Wolf will have to scramble the A-10s, and they will be at least five minutes away.”
“I can get a shot.”
“One may not be sufficient, even with the light fifty,” said Wong. “Do you think you could hit the first vehicle with the grenade launcher when it draws parallel to us?”
“I’ll have to get closer to make sure I hit.”
“Do it then,” said Wong. He reached down and grabbed the explosives set. “Wait until the last moment, but make sure that you strike it. Take your next shot at the Mercedes — the station wagon appears empty and in any event will be struck by the A-10.”
“Where the hell are you going with those explosives?” Salt yelled as he started away.
“I will attempt to divert the tank and give you more time to use your sniper rifle,” Wong yelled. “Please, you have less than three minutes to get into position.”