Dixon flailed back, unsure exactly what was going on. Worn down by everything that had happened over the past forty-eight hours, tired and hungry, BJ pushed and punched, but it was all he could do to simply hold on to the shorter man. He jabbed the man’s chin, then his shoulder, anger exploding in him, anger and instinct — he was fighting to save the kid. Dixon grabbed at the man’s head, then saw his face in the shadows.
He was wrestling Saddam Hussein himself.
Dixon’s shock was all the man needed. He rammed his head into BJ’s chest, slamming against his ribs. Jolted by the pain, Dixon reeled on the ground; in the next second the man leaped back with something in his hand.
He’d grabbed the other grenade BJ had taken from the dead Iraqi that afternoon.
The Iraqi took three steps away. He pulled the pin, took another step, dropped the grenade.
Wong took one step forward.
The boy dropped to his knees, three inches from the grenade, covering it with his body, his short legs curled at his chest, his back to Dixon and Wong.
Time became light. It became sound, a piercing cry of anguish that resounded in the desert, drowning out the drone of the approaching airplane.
Dixon saw himself at his mother’s deathbed again. He looked down at her, stared at her face. The dead were supposed to find peace, but her mouth had contorted in a last gasp of pain.
“Lieutenant. Lieutenant. Quickly. We must go.”
Dixon opened his eyes to find Wong over him. He took a hard breath, felt his ribs flame. Wong disappeared; Dixon felt his head slip back, blackness beckoning.
Up, he told himself. Save the kid.
He opened his eyes again, took another breath. This time, the pain helped him focus.
Wong had pulled the suit over him.
“I have to save Budge,” he said.
“The boy is dead. So is the Iraqi,” said Wong. “Here, quickly. More Iraqis are coming from the west.”
Something flared to his left. Dixon turned, thinking he would hear the gunfire, but instead he heard the cry again. He closed his eyes.
Wong dragged him toward the pole, pulled on the harness.
“You’re staying on the ground?”
“I intended to before the Iraqi took matters in his own hands.” Wong looped himself into the special suit, snapping the restraints. “The shock should be no greater than a parachute opening. Of course, it depends on which parachute we are referring to. In my experience —”
A howl drowned out Wong’s words, dirt flying in Dixon’s face. As he blinked his eyes closed, he realized the sound didn’t come from the Hercules but bullets being fired a short distance away.
CHAPTER 66
He could see it all. His eyes were as good as they’d been twenty years ago. But Colonel Knowlington wasn’t just seeing with his eyes — saw everything with his head, knew where it all was. He could feel himself flying, feel the Hog following as he banked five hundred feet above the ground, the big Hercules dipping back in his direction as it came back for the second pickup.
Dixon would be there. He knew he would.
Something moved in the open scrubland beyond the rendezvous point. Knowlington pushed his Hog to take care of it, knowing it was Iraqis, knowing he was going to nail them just before the Herk got there.
“Herky Bird, assets are taking fire,” Skull said over the radio. “I’m clearing them out for you.”
The MC-130 didn’t respond, but it didn’t matter. Knowlington had them — he could see every little goddamn thing, A-Bomb in trail on the right wing, closing quickly to help; the bastards on the ground, flailing at his men; his guys, Wong and Dixon, waiting to get picked up; the Hercules coming in cool and calm like she was landing at an airport in North Dakota.
He aimed the nose of the Hog at the pinpricks of light on the ground and lit the cannon.
CHAPTER 67
For a moment, everything was pitch black and quite, consumed by the flaring hum of a fire burning itself out.
Then Captain Lars Warren opened his eyes.
A dervish slashed in front of him, spitting blood from its mouth.
Someone shouted at him, screaming that he was a failure, a coward, that he’d blown it big-time, that he’d wimped and screwed up and what the hell right did he have being in the cockpit and who said he could fly a plane — who said he could lead or even live, dare to breathe in a combat zone where millions of better men had been killed and maimed?
His hands trembled. Sweat poured from every inch of his body. He was on line, he was right there, at the spot, the balloon materializing before him like a bubble floating up in a glass of champagne. The whiskers snared it and it smacked against the glass panel. It bounced in front of him, splattering and growing, covering the entire forward area of the plane, a shroud thrown over the entire plane. It was bigger than the earth itself. The only thing Lars could do was hold the plane as tightly as he could, keep his hands on the control column, shaking and all, hold the plane for an eternity, hold the plane at a hundred knots, ninety-eight, ninety-six, its back-end wide open, men screaming all around him, bullets flying. It was impossible to do this — it was impossible just to breathe.
“We’re good, Captain! We’re good!” said the navigator. “Shit yeah. Shit yeah.”
“Just steady,” Lars said. “Just steady.”
The men in the back humped their own bricks, grabbing the guide rope, winching, then pulling their passengers aboard.
More shouts. Someone brought the engines up. The rear bay snapped closed.
“We’re good back here,” said the loadmaster over the plane’s interphone or internal communications system. “We’ve got four happy passengers. Kick ass, Captain. Kick fucking ass!”
Four passengers?
Shit — had he already done it twice?
Shit.
Four? Not three?
Had they done this twice already? He couldn’t remember.
Twice?
“Four?” he said.
Someone was cheering. Lars felt a hand slap him on the shoulder — the flight engineer.
“Looking good,” said the navigator. “Looking A-fucking-one-good. We are on course and heading home. Falcons arriving at two o’clock. There’s our escort. Oh, Mama, this is great.”
“We’re secure,” said Kelly, relaying information from the crew chief in the back who had supervised the pickup. “We have an extra passenger aboard — Lieutenant William Dixon, U.S. Air Force, assigned as a forward ground controller with Delta, lost two days ago. Kick ass, we’ve rescued the dead. Dixon was KIA. Kick ass. Kick fuckin’ ass. The guy’s a fuckin’ hero and we pulled him out. Lazarus returns. Shit. Major DiRiggio says well done. He’s conscious; medic says he’s doing better. Great going, Captain. Kick ass.”
But sweat kept pouring from Lars’ hands and they wouldn’t stop shaking, even as he checked his course for home.
CHAPTER 68
“They got them!” screamed A-Bomb over the short-range radio. “They got them! It’s what I’m talking about!”
“One,” said Skull.
“Shit yeah! Shit yeah!” A-Bomb shouted, his voice nearly drowned out by the blare of rock music.
That or one of his engines was going funky.