HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (10 page)

When the screen flashed back, Preston saw a
low-slung chassis shape in the upper right-hand corner. He slid the cursor over
and clicked his trigger to fire.

He hadn’t locked on the Roland, however. A
boneheaded, freshman-nugget, idiotic, deadly mistake. There was a flare and a
launch— the missile operator firing the missile blind.

Not blind, exactly, just without ground guidance.
The Roland was fully capable of finding its own target once launched, and if
its kill probability wasn’t nearly as high in manual mode, it was deadly
nonetheless. Hack cursed himself, hitting flares and chafe, kicking right quickly,
trying to outrun the fire that suddenly ignited in his stomach. Gravity punched
him in the chest and pushed at his neck, and a voice deep inside told him it
served him right for being such a fuckup, for not having what it took— for
choking when it was all on the line.

He zigged left, right, felt the missile piss
through its first stage, go terminal— he felt it reach for him, then saw it, or
saw something anyway, a large black shadow that miraculously sailed right over
his head and kept going.

Then the ground exploded almost below him. Devil
One bucked, then shot clear, her nose pointing due south.

“I’m on your six,” said A-Bomb. “Splash one
slightly used missile launcher. I’m thinking the Brits owe us big time. You
figure they stock Watneys, or are we going to have to settle for Bass?”

LOVERS

KING KHALID MILITARY
CITY

28 JANUARY 1991

2045

Every conceivable chore
done, paperwork in
order, contingencies prepared for, Lieutenant Michael Knowlington stood up from
his desk and took a laboriously lone, slow breath, filling his lungs from
bottom to top with the recirculated Saudi air. He exhaled the breath twice as
slowly as he had taken it in, pushing the air gently from his lungs, pushing
until his stomach muscles flexed far toward his back.

Then he picked up the phone and, still standing,
called his commanding general.

I want to resign,
he planned to say.

Or,
I’m resigning.

Or,
I’m quitting.

Or,
I’m unfit for duty.

His mind flitted back and forth among the
possibilities, unsettled. The exact choice didn’t matter: what was important
was to hold his voice calm and to speak distinctly and to get it started. He
waited for the connection to be made, waited in the static limbo where he’d
been since the flight took off to support Splash this afternoon.

“General is at dinner,” said an aide’s voice,
breaking through the white noise.

“Excuse me?” said Knowlington, though he’d heard
clearly.

“Not sure precisely when the general will be
back,” said the aide. “Can I help you with something, sir?”

“No.”

“I can have him call you.”

“That would be fine.”

“Is it urgent?”

“It’s important,” Knowlington said, carefully
choosing the word.

“He’ll get back to you, Colonel.”

Still standing in front of his desk, Knowlington
hung up the phone.

He’d spent his entire adult life in the Air Force.
What would he do now? Take up one of the countless offers from old cronies to
take a cushy job with a contractor?

Why not? Good money. Free booze.

He wouldn’t drink. He couldn’t stand it.

Who was he kidding? It took everything now not to
bolt for the Depot.

He stared down at the phone. He should talk to his
sisters, tell them.

He’d have to tell them sooner or later. He’d probably
have to stay with one of then— Susan, probably. Debbie was always busy with her
kids.

He called Debbie, surprised that he got a line,
surprised to hear the phone ring, surprised to hear her voice on the other end.

“Michael. It’s about time you called,” she said,
as if she’d been waiting for him all day. “I’ve been thinking of you.”

“Yeah?”

“I ran into Simona yesterday,” His sister laughed.
“She was talking about her son Jimmy wanting to be a pilot. I told her you
would talk him out of it, of course.”

Another time, he might have laughed. He’d gone out
with Simona way back in high school, knew her now only as a vague acquaintance.
She had two kids, Jimmy was the youngest. He husband— what the hell did he do?
Accountant or something for a large corporation. Kept track of toilet-paper
orders for factories all across America.

“You’d be surprised, she’s lost a lot of weight,”
said Debbie. “She looks a lot younger. I mean, we all look old.”

“I’m coming home,” Michael told his sister, the
words rushing out.

There was no answer. He hadn’t seen his sister in
months, but he saw her clearly before him, as if she were in the room. He
imagined her pushing her head back, narrowing her eyes, considering how to
respond, running her hand through her light reddish-brown hair.

“What’s wrong, Michael?”

“I’m letting people down.”

She understood the code as well as he did; knew
what it referred to without having to use the words.

“So you’re going to quit?”

Her voice was as cold as their mother’s. Colder.

“I don’t want to hurt these kids.”

“And you wouldn’t be hurting them by quitting?”

“I’m not quitting.” He paused, looking around the
room, as if the explanation were a notice or bulletin tacked to the wall. “I
can’t trust myself.”

She was silent. She’d have nothing more to say,
would stand there in her kitchen, waiting for him to change the subject, as
always.

So he did.

“How’s Bobby?” he said, asking after his nephew.
He turned and sat on the edge of the desk.

“Growing like a weed. Jack wants to take him
hunting, but I say no.”

“Isn’t it out of season?”

“Maybe.” She gave a forced, self-deprecating
laugh. “I’m not really sure how that works.”

“Chris okay?”

“She may make valedictorian.”

“Smart girl.”

“Very.”

“Well, I have to get going here.”

“Michael. . .”

“I love you, too,” he said, though he knew that
wasn’t what she was going to say. “I’ll be talking to you.”

Knowlington slipped the phone back onto its
cradle. It was all too much. He had to get a drink.

He hunched his shoulders and opened the door,
moving quickly into the hallway. He ignored the framed photos slightly
off-kilter on the wall— pictures of old war birds in their prime: a Mustang,
the original Thunderbolt, a toothy Tomahawk, two different Phantoms, and a
Sabre. He pulled open the door and trotted down the steps outside, resigned to
his fate.

“Colonel Knowlington, a word, sir,” snapped
Captain Wong, materializing at this side just as he hit his stride.

Knowlington nearly jumped back, surprised by the
intelligence specialist.

“Wong, what the hell are you doing?”

“Coming to get you on a matter of some urgency.”

“I have to tell you, Captain, I’m not really in
the mood for joking tonight.”

“I’m not in the habit of making jokes, sir.”

Wong. His voice was so distressed, so sincere, so
straight, Knowlington couldn’t help but laugh.

“You’re a first-class ball-buster,” he told the
captain. “Shit, Wong. What the hell? What’s up?”

“I’d like you to take a look at a photograph,”
said the captain. “It’s not very high quality, but I believe you would be
extremely interested in its subject.”

“Its subject,” echoed Knowlington, pointing the
captain back in the direction of his office. “Wong, you crack me up.”

KING KHALID MILITARY
CITY

28 JANUARY 1991

2145

Hack collapsed into
the chair of the
borrowed office at KKMC, sighing now that he was finally alone after a tedious
and largely pointless debriefing with three difference intelligence specialists
in the base commander’s office suite down the hall. His body felt like it had
been pummeled by a dozen heavyweights. What wasn’t bruised was cramped into
jagged slabs of slate; his neck and shoulder muscles had more knots in them
than a Persian rug.

One of the debriefers, a weaselly looking Army guy
from the CinC’s staff, had implied that Hack wasn’t aggressive enough. Hack had
kept his cool, his Pentagon training coming to the fore— he hinted displeasure
without making it absolutely explicit, emphasizing the “fluidity of the combat
situation” in a way that strongly implied his guys had put their necks out
damned far, thank you very much. The jerk finally nodded and left.

Of course, the Air Force guys had implied just the
opposite, wondering why the hell they had gone for the Roland. Neither seemed
terribly impressed when A-Bomb said, “Because it was there,” and walked out in
exasperation.

Preston had been seriously tempted to join him.
They’d saved the Tornado crew, killed a potent SAM site. They out to get pats
on the back, not questions.

The Army guy truly boiled him. What the hell else
did he expect?

But what did Hack expect of himself? He felt, he
knew, he’d screwed up a couple of times today, big-time.

Hack shifted uneasily in the chair, trying to
position his legs so the cramps might ease. Still technically on alert for
Splash, Devil Squadron had been loaned the small nondescript as temporary
operational headquarters, rest area, and bus station. The furnishings included
four metal folding chairs, a very lop-sided card table, and an empty footlocker
that looked and smelled as if it dated from World War I.

Gunny and Doberman were catching some Z’s in a
“guest” building across the way. They had to prep a separate mission at 0400;
at least as far as Hack was concerned, they were no longer part of the
operation. A-Bomb, meanwhile, had gone in search of real coffee, claiming Dunkin’
Donuts had set up a franchise near the mosque not far from the hangar area.

It might very well be true. Guys didn’t call KKMC
the Emerald City for nothing. The massive mosque and fancy buildings surround
the airstrip enhanced the Las Vegas image. They were close to Iraq and Kuwait,
but this wasn’t the usual austere forward operating area. If there was Dunkin’
Donuts coffee anywhere in the Gulf, it’d be here. And if there was Dunkin’
Donuts coffee, A-Bomb would find it.

Hack realized his legs were only going to get
stiff sitting down. He got up and began pacing the room. He probably out to
just bag it and go get some sleep. The Splash mission would definitely be
called off; no way they’d go ahead with it now that the Iraqis knew they were
interested in the base.

On the other hand, it might take the Iraqis a
while to reinforce the place. They
might
be scared shitless to move
during the night, with American bombers in such absolute control. Or maybe they
would
only
move at night, and have to wait until orders came from Saddam
in the morning.

No way to know, no way to predict. The Spec Ops and
SAS wizards were cooking it all up in their pot of stew right now. The backup
had been to attack at dawn, so maybe it was still on.

Preston stopped walking and did a few squats, legs
creaking like those of an eighty-year-old trying to take the stairs in the
nursing home.

A bleary-eyed Air Force lieutenant appeared at the
door. “Major Preston?” he asked.

“That’s me.”

“Delta and the SAS want to set up a talk at 2400,
sir. They’re arranging a satellite slot.”

Great, thought Hack— a conference call at midnight.
He’d have to wait around now, no way he’d get back up in time if he took a nap.

 “We’ll handle the arrangements, sir,” added the
lieutenant. “Base commander’s office will be available. You can come on down a
few minutes beforehand. We’ll make some extra-strength coffee,” added the
lieutenant, trying but failing to inject some cheer into his voice. Poor guy
looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Thanks, Lieutenant.” Said Hack. “I’ll come
looking for you if I need anything.”

The lieutenant grimaced slightly as he smiled: it
was obvious he hoped Hack wouldn’t add to his workload.

As he walked from the room, the lieutenant’s
shoulders sagged. Hack couldn’t help remember the advice one of his mentors had
given him in the early days of his Pentagon assignment: Somebody piles more
work on you than you can handle, smile and ask for more.

Then pass it off to someone else.

Obviously the lieutenant worked for someone who
took the advice to heart.

Might as well go find some real coffee, he
thought, and maybe see what O’Rourke was up to.

As he stepped into the hallway, Major Preston
heard the muffled strains of music. It happened to be coming from the direction
of the building’s foyer, or at least seemed to, growing louder as he walked.
The notes strained unevenly; they came from a keyboard of some type, played by
someone who didn’t have much sense of tempo. The sound reminded Hack of some of
his high school music classes; his band teacher had been a particularly poor
keyboardist but nonetheless went at it every day before class.

The music abruptly stopped as he reached the steps
leading down to the front door. Hack noticed another small flight off to the
right that led down to a well-lit hallway. Curious, he jogged down them. There
he spotted a black board with white letters announcing ecumenical Christian
services.

Today was Sunday; he’d completely lost track.

Curious about the music and feeling a little
guilty that he’d missed his first Sunday service in more than a year, Hack
poked his head into the room. A preacher stood at a wooden lectern, reading
from the scripture to an audience of six. The words immediately struck Preston—
they were from Ecclesiastes, a section of the Bible his mother and grandmother
had often cited when he was growing up. Hack had even pasted a line from a
section of the biblical book to his flight board: a reminder to do what was
wise and just, always.