How’re you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” Shepherd grunted, reflecting sadly on Brancato. “I wish I could’ve splashed the bastard.”
“Long time since combat—”
“ Too long,” Shepherd replied, thinking he was one of the lucky ones; he’d seen combat, used his skills. How many highly trained and eager warriors never had? How many feared their careers would pass without a war to fight? Sure, he was proud to serve his country, to preserve peace and deter aggression; but down deep, it was far more satisfying to tackle it head on.
“The point is, the Forty-eighth’s been on alert for the last week,” Applegate said.
Shepherd looked at him, curiosity building.
“Rumor control says it’s Libya.”
“Qaddafi’s got it coming.”
“You’re on the mission roster, Major,” Applegate said. Then, testing him, because he had to know, he prompted, “Of course, after this, no one would fault you for wanting out.”
“All I want is a chance to do my job, sir,” Shepherd declared, his tone sharpening.
“Thought you might say that,” Applegate mused, concealing that he had his own reasons for wanting Shepherd to remain on the mission roster.
“Hard to do without a wizzo.”
“Maybe I can help,” Applegate offered, feigning compassion. “Turns out you and Captain Foster are in the same boat. His right-seater bit the dust a couple of days ago—literally. Broke an ankle sliding into home against the Eighty-first TAC. Hell of a game.”
“Well, if you need a good first baseman . . .” Shepherd offered, matching his grin.
“We need pilots,” Applegate replied, getting back to business. “We’re cutting orders to get Foster a new wizzo. We can cut yours at the same time. Be a hell of a lot easier to do now. Once you report to a new CO and his crew chief gets his paws on your one-eleven . . . Think about it. Okay?”
“I have, sir,” Shepherd said. “Count me in.”
“Good,” Applegate enthused, shaking Shepherd’s hand. He waited until he had left the office and was well down the corridor before lifting the phone.
THE MILITARY TRANSPORT that had left Andrews that afternoon for Berlin was in a commercial air corridor high over the North Atlantic when Larkin was summoned to the cockpit.
“Call for you, sir,” the flight engineer said, handing him the receiver.
“Colonel Larkin speaking.”
“Colonel?” his secretary said. “I have Major Applegate on satellite relay.”
“Dick? It’s A.G.,” Applegate said when the connection was made. “I got us a couple of one-elevens.”
“Way to go,” Larkin enthused.
“All we need is an order to deliver them.”
“I’m placing it tonight,” Larkin said, ending the call. “You still there?” he prompted his secretary.
“Yes. I have him on the other line,” she replied, having anticipated the colonel’s request.
Bill Kiley was in his limousine on his way to a meeting in the Pentagon, when Larkin’s secretary put the call through to his mobile phone; a fully secured cellular terminal, the STU-III/Dynasec was impervious to eavesdropping or intercept.
“Good work,” the DCI said when briefed on the bombers. “You talk to Moncrieff about payment?”
“Yes, sir,” Larkin replied, pleased by the praise. “He’s making the arrangements as we speak.”
6
AN OLD MERCEDES SEDAN raced along Avenue du General de Gaulle atop the palisades of West Beirut past the bombed-out hulks of hotels and high-rises that had once made the city the Riviera of the Middle East; the place where wealthy Arab women worked on topless tans and shopped for French perfume and couture while their men traded oil for tankers and tactical fighters between visits to the gaming tables at Casino du Liban.
Katifa sat behind the wheel, her hair snapping in the wind, her face aglow with the anticipation that had been building since the cable from Saddam Moncrieff arrived the previous evening. She guided the car through the sharp bend at Ras Beyrouth onto
“I’m fine,” Shepherd grunted, reflecting sadly on Brancato. “I wish I could’ve splashed the bastard.”
“Long time since combat—”
“ Too long,” Shepherd replied, thinking he was one of the lucky ones; he’d seen combat, used his skills. How many highly trained and eager warriors never had? How many feared their careers would pass without a war to fight? Sure, he was proud to serve his country, to preserve peace and deter aggression; but down deep, it was far more satisfying to tackle it head on.
“The point is, the Forty-eighth’s been on alert for the last week,” Applegate said.
Shepherd looked at him, curiosity building.
“Rumor control says it’s Libya.”
“Qaddafi’s got it coming.”
“You’re on the mission roster, Major,” Applegate said. Then, testing him, because he had to know, he prompted, “Of course, after this, no one would fault you for wanting out.”
“All I want is a chance to do my job, sir,” Shepherd declared, his tone sharpening.
“Thought you might say that,” Applegate mused, concealing that he had his own reasons for wanting Shepherd to remain on the mission roster.
“Hard to do without a wizzo.”
“Maybe I can help,” Applegate offered, feigning compassion. “Turns out you and Captain Foster are in the same boat. His right-seater bit the dust a couple of days ago—literally. Broke an ankle sliding into home against the Eighty-first TAC. Hell of a game.”
“Well, if you need a good first baseman . . .” Shepherd offered, matching his grin.
“We need pilots,” Applegate replied, getting back to business. “We’re cutting orders to get Foster a new wizzo. We can cut yours at the same time. Be a hell of a lot easier to do now. Once you report to a new CO and his crew chief gets his paws on your one-eleven . . . Think about it. Okay?”
“I have, sir,” Shepherd said. “Count me in.”
“Good,” Applegate enthused, shaking Shepherd’s hand. He waited until he had left the office and was well down the corridor before lifting the phone.
THE MILITARY TRANSPORT that had left Andrews that afternoon for Berlin was in a commercial air corridor high over the North Atlantic when Larkin was summoned to the cockpit.
“Call for you, sir,” the flight engineer said, handing him the receiver.
“Colonel Larkin speaking.”
“Colonel?” his secretary said. “I have Major Applegate on satellite relay.”
“Dick? It’s A.G.,” Applegate said when the connection was made. “I got us a couple of one-elevens.”
“Way to go,” Larkin enthused.
“All we need is an order to deliver them.”
“I’m placing it tonight,” Larkin said, ending the call. “You still there?” he prompted his secretary.
“Yes. I have him on the other line,” she replied, having anticipated the colonel’s request.
Bill Kiley was in his limousine on his way to a meeting in the Pentagon, when Larkin’s secretary put the call through to his mobile phone; a fully secured cellular terminal, the STU-III/Dynasec was impervious to eavesdropping or intercept.
“Good work,” the DCI said when briefed on the bombers. “You talk to Moncrieff about payment?”
“Yes, sir,” Larkin replied, pleased by the praise. “He’s making the arrangements as we speak.”
6
AN OLD MERCEDES SEDAN raced along Avenue du General de Gaulle atop the palisades of West Beirut past the bombed-out hulks of hotels and high-rises that had once made the city the Riviera of the Middle East; the place where wealthy Arab women worked on topless tans and shopped for French perfume and couture while their men traded oil for tankers and tactical fighters between visits to the gaming tables at Casino du Liban.
Katifa sat behind the wheel, her hair snapping in the wind, her face aglow with the anticipation that had been building since the cable from Saddam Moncrieff arrived the previous evening. She guided the car through the sharp bend at Ras Beyrouth onto
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