“Oh, I know where Jed is. He’s doing very well. I keep track of all my boys—even you, Tecumseh. I remember the first time I brought him into a meeting with the President at the White House. God, what an awful tie he wore.” She laughed. “As I remember, Dog, you didn’t have a particularly high opinion of him.”
“Well, he kind of grows on you. And maybe I was wrong.
You might give him a call. I happen to know he’s in his apartment.”
“Same number?”
“I’m just guessing, but I’d say yes.”
“I’ll talk to him.”
“I appreciate that.”
“How are you, Dog? How’s Martindale treating you?”
“Fine.”
“Be careful of him, Tecumseh.”
“I will.” Dog had a different opinion of the President than O’Day did, but this wasn’t the time or place to discuss it.
“I’m sorry about the memorial service. I couldn’t have made it through. He was a great, great man.” Her voice choked up. “I loved him.”
“We all miss the general,” said Dog. Neither of them had to mention Brad Elliott by name. Ms. O’Day had not at-
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tended the service, even though the two had been very close prior to his death.
“I’ll watch out for Jed.”
“So will I.”
“Auld Lang Syne,” said O’Day.
“Auld Lang Syne.”
FROM THE POINT OF VIEW OF THE DREAMLAND FLIGHT CREWS, the mission was straightforward. They’d get to the area around 2300. Zen, aboard the Wisconsin, would handle the Flighthawk flyover of the pirate area and cover the landing.
One of the two Flighthawks would be “parked” in an orbit above the battlefield, providing real-time visuals for the ground team commander, Danny Freah. The other would provide fire support. Baker-Baker would patrol farther north, watching for ships that might launch an attack from the Yemen side of the Gulf. Each Megafortress would have a Piranha operator aboard: Delaford in Baker-Baker and Ensign English in Wisconsin. The Megafortress closest to the probe would control it; at the start of the mission that would be English. Once the submarine was destroyed, the probe could be recovered, either by Danny Freah and the Whiplash team or Shark Boat One. The Megafortress weapons bays would carry Harpoon missiles exclusively. The Ethiopians had been quiet since losing their planes, and between the Flighthawks and the air defenses aboard the Abner Read, they would have plenty of cover.
“I’d put Scorpion AMRAAM-pluses in as well,” said Mack, interrupting Zen as he discussed the capabilities of the other air forces in the region.
“Yeah.” Zen rolled his eyes. Everyone involved in the mission—and a lot of people who weren’t—had gathered for the brief, so they’d had to hold it in the common room in the administration building. “As I was saying, Yemen has been putting its aircraft on alert and turning its radar systems on and off, but they don’t seem like they’re interested in doing more than that. Did I mention that the Flighthawks 300
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aboard Wisconsin will be Hawk One and Hawk Two?”
“I wouldn’t take Yemen too lightly,” said Mack.
Zen ignored him.
“Hawk One and Two are mine. Starship, flying in Baker-Baker Two, will have Hawk Three and Hawk Four. ”
“The MiGs are pretty capable,” said Mack.
“Yemen does have MiG-29s,” said Zen. “The radar operators will be on the alert for that—as they have every mission.”
“Pays to be alert,” said Mack.
“And we will watch them carefully,” said Zen. “Because of the length of the mission, we’ve arranged for a tanker to accompany us. We’ll run the usual routine. We’ll tank, gas up, head out. Tanker will come up for a second top-off after the mission concludes, or obviously if we need it earlier.
Baker-Baker Two—”
“When are we going to get real names for the Megafortresses?” said Mack. “Baker-Baker Two sounds like a racehorse or something.”
“We’ll get new names when you start walking again,”
snapped Zen.
There was a hush in the room, and Zen realized he’d gone too far. But he was damned if he was going to apologize.
Mack was quiet for the rest of the brief.
“All right,” said Dog when they were done. “Let’s clear the seas of these scum.”
“I can handle the two Flighthawks, no sweat,” said Starship, coming over to Zen as the meeting broke up.
“Do it like it’s a simulation,” Zen told him, gathering his papers.
“No, it’s a little different,” said the lieutenant. “It’s like—it’s different. A simulation, I mean it looks the same, but it’s not. You can’t really feel it.”
“Don’t get philosophical on me,” said Zen, though he thought he knew what he meant. There was a difference, as hard as it was to put into words. “Just fly.”
“I will.”
“When are you going to give it up?” said Mack behind him.
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Zen ignored him, snapping his bag closed. He started to wheel away, but Mack—with what must have been a super-human effort for him—managed to cut in front of the door and block his way.
“When are you going to stop?” said Mack.
“Stop what, Mack?” asked Zen.
“Stop riding me. As soon as I say one thing—”
“You make stupid comments, Mack. It’s pretty much all you ever do.”
“Because I’m in a wheelchair.”
“No. That’s about the only good thing that’s ever happened to you.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“Excuse me, I have a mission to run,” Zen told him. “Why don’t you get off your ass and do something valuable?”
Starship put his hand on the back of Zen’s wheelchair.
“Say, Zen?”
Zen brushed his hand away. There were about a half-dozen other people still in the room, standing back uncomfortably.
“I’d walk if I could,” said Mack. “I’m not faking it.”
“I gotta go,” said Zen, trying to squeeze by.
“Why the hell are you riding my case?” demanded Mack.
“Because you can walk, asshole.” Zen spun back into the room so he could face him. “Get your butt out of that chair and walk.”
“The hell with you.”
“Walk!”
“You think I’m faking this?”
“It’s all in your stinking ass mind. The doctors all told you—you bruised your spinal column. Nothing more. It’s better now. You can walk.”
“Like hell I can.”
“Come on, you wimp.”
Mack reared back as if to punch him.
“Go ahead,” said Zen. “Hit me.”
“I oughta, you bastard. You blame me for making you a cripple.”
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“You bet your ass I do, chickenshit. Hit me.”
“Screw yourself.” Mack started to turn his chair to go through the door.
Zen pushed forward and grabbed the wheel. “Hit me, you coward. Go ahead—hit me.”
Mack spun around and took a swing. Though surprised, Zen ducked it easily.
“That the best you can do?”
“If you weren’t a cripple I’d beat the crap out of you.”
“Try it. I ain’t a cripple. I ain’t a fucking cripple at all. My legs don’t work but I ain’t no goddamn cripple. Not like you.
I could crawl over there and strangle you if I wanted.”
Zen saw Mack’s glare tighten. He pushed his chair backward just in time as Mack threw a roundhouse—and missed, falling from the wheelchair face first on the ground.
“Lie there like the coward wimp you are,” said Zen.
Mack bolted upright with a scream, launching himself on Zen so ferociously that Zen just barely kept the wheelchair upright, darting backward under the weight of Mack’s blows. Strengthened by more than two years of regular, strenuous workouts, Zen’s upper body was more than a match for Mack’s, but even so, he had a hard time fending off Mack’s blows, and the chair backed all the way to the wall, slamming against it with a teeth-jarring smash. Mack flailed and punched as Zen grabbed for a handhold. Only as Mack’s fury began to exhaust itself did Zen manage to hold him upright and off him.