Smith groaned in reply, then sank to the floor, starting to nod off.
MACK FOUGHT TO KEEP HIS EYES OPEN. THE BASEMENT smelled like a cross between a biology lab and the kitchen of an Indian restaurant that hadn’t been cleaned in a week. Knife held his elbow right below his injured rib, pushing it in to keep himself from puking.
A medical attendant—the man clearly had not been a doctor—had roughly taped the rib after prodding him harshly a few times upstairs. He’d also offered some painkillers, but Smith hadn’t dared to take them.
Knife knew he should be coordinating strategy or planning what they would and wouldn’t say with the Marine sergeant. But the pain and his fatigue and the stench were overwhelming. Thoughts flew in and out of his head like dreams. He saw himself running at the two men near the stairs with their guns, saw their bullets tearing him apart. It might be a relief.
The door opened. He saw three men coming down, carrying a fourth. They seemed to float over him.
The fourth man was dumped on the ground.
It was Jackson. Melfi went to him as the others retreated back upstairs.
“I feel better,” Jackson was saying on the ground. Sergeant Melfi helped him upright. “They gave me morphine. I don’t feel shit.”
“You fuckin’ druggie,” said Melfi. He flashed a grin to Mack, letting him know it was a joke.
“There’s another pilot,” said Jackson. “They’re going to move us soon. Tonight.”
“That’ll be our chance,” said Gunny. “We’ll break out then.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. We’ll kill them all,” said Mack, feeling his head slip back as darkness fell over him.
Naples, Italy
22 October, 1405 local
TO JED BARCLAY’S UNTRAINED EYE, THE PLANE LOOKED like a 707. And in fact, the JSTARS E-8C was indeed a former commercial airliner that had been almost completely rebuilt. It had extensive command and control equipment, not to mention heavy security. The NSC staffer had been issued special code-word clearance just to board the craft.
Which impressed the Army major standing and barring his way at the entrance not a whit.
“But I’m Cascade,” Jed repeated.
“Good for you,” said the major. “You’re also too young to shave.”
“I get a lot of that,” said Jed. “If you just let me take the retina scan—”
“What makes you think there’s a retina scanner aboard?” said the major.
Two Navy officers trotted up the steps. The major nodded at them and let them pass into the interior of the plane.
“You didn’t even ask for their creds,” said Jed.
“This is a Navy operation,” said the major. “I’m only providing tactical assistance. Besides, they beat the pants off me in a poker game last night.”
“Actually, this isn’t a Navy operation at all,” Jed told him, momentarily wondering if he might get further by suggesting he played poker as well. “We’re still working with Madcap Magician.”
Jed was fudging—overall command of the operation was due to shift to the Navy as soon as the command staff could arrive, which wouldn’t be for a few hours.
“And you think that’s going to make a difference?” said the Army officer.
“To be honest, it makes no difference,” said Jed. “Listen, Major, no offense, but I spent several hours this morning talking to the ambassadors of Egypt and Saudi Arabia about their refusal to allow U.S. planes to use their bases. Then I had to listen to an Iranian cleric, obviously a madman, denounce me for a half hour. Even more frustrating was talking to the State Department’s Middle Eastern desk, trying to explain to them why quick military action and not diplomacy was required. To be honest with you, I’m in a really pissy mood.”
The major frowned at him, but finally moved back from the door. There was no retina scan—in fact, there was no security device at all.
“You don’t want my NSC card at least?” Jed asked him.
“I’ll throw you in the ocean if you don’t check out,” said the major, pushing him into the operations area. “Don’t touch anything. These monitors here—”
“Are slaved to different parts of the SAR, which gives you approximately a sixty-degree view of a selected battlefield area. Smearing of the image is countered through interferometry calibration, as well as the Litton LR-85A Inertial Measurement System. There are a total of eighteen consoles aboard this craft, which is an upgrade from the original twelve and the seventeen powered stations in the first production models, though of course one could argue that there are never enough. Frankly, the main concern with JSTARS is not the physical operation of the battlefield view and coordination system, which demonstrated its potential in the Gulf War, but rather the temptation to use the craft to micromanage the battlefield, robbing individual officers, ground- and air-based, of their decision-. making role. The same concern was raised—and to some degree remains valid—with AWACS operations. And I’d be up for any poker games you do manage to organize. I assume we’re not taking off for hours, right?”
The major frowned, but said, “You’ll do,” before turning and walking away.
Northeastern Ethiopia
22 October 1996, 2000 local
“WE’RE NOT STOPPING.”
“I know that,” Bree snapped, working to hold the Megafortress on the rain-slicked tarmac. Flaps, brakes, reverse thrust, and a hurried Hail Mary seemed to have little effect as the big plane hurtled rapidly toward the end of the runway. Shapes loomed left and right, lights streaming with the rain. Breanna’s arm locked as the Mcgafortress’s nose bounced harshly across the poorly maintained concrete. A jumble of low buildings lay ahead; the Megafortress threatened to slide into them sideways, her left side trying to jerk forward.
Finally the plane’s forward momentum eased, the brakes or maybe the prayer catching. Breanna eased the big plane back to the center of the runway, managing a full stop three yards from a large puddle that marked the end of the concrete.
“That wasn’t four thousand feet,” said Chris. “Let alone six. And I thought it never rained in Ethiopia before January.”
Breanna edged her throttles carefully, turning the EB-52 toward the side access ramp on her right. As she did, a Hummer with its lights on approached from the right, driving along the apron. She guessed that it had been sent to show them where to go. Rolling slowly, her heart returning to normal, she turned the Megafortress onto the path. The truck pulled a 180 and began speeding away toward a hangar area.
The runway had had minimal lighting, and this access ramp had none; Fort Two’s lights provided a narrow cocoon for her to steer through. Breanna saw another plane standing at the far end of the ramp—a parked MC-130 Hercules.
“Must be the place,” said Chris, spotting the military transport. “We’re going to have a hell of a time taking off in this rain,” he added.
“We’ll round up some volunteers to push,” she told him, watching their guide truck disappear to the right. Breanna leaned back in her seat, the exhaustion of the long flight finally taking its toll. They had pushed Fort Two about as fast as it had ever gone for much longer than it had ever flown. While she and Chris had switched on and off—and the computer autopilot had helped considerably—Bree’s brain was crispy and her legs and arms felt as if they had been run over by a steamroller. She hadn’t slept now in more than twenty-four hours, and had needed three caffeine pills—she didn’t like anything stronger—en route.
Four large Pave Lows and a civilian DC-8 airliner were parked at the far end of a group of buildings that looked more like warehouses than hangars. The Hummer spun off and blinked its lights; Bree began to swing the plane around into the designated parking area. Two Marines with M-16-and-grenade-launcher combos appeared from one of the buildings, sauntering up as if they landed Megafortresses here all the time.