Murph trailed off and there was an awkward pause. “Ahem . . . the unruly mob before you . . .” he repeated, looking disapprovingly at the others.
The pilots took the second cue and let out a series of grunts and grumbles to imitate the unruly mob their leader had mentioned, their low rumblings growing into an uproar before Murph held up his scepter in a call for silence.
“As I was saying,” Murph continued, “we now deem you worthy of joining the Tiger Pride, and therefore we must christen you with an appropriate tactical call sign. Come forward!”
The other pilots started shouting once again and propelled Tony toward the front of the room. Someone handed him an oversized shot of brown liquid. Without thinking, Tony tossed it back, and immediately another was placed in his hand. He gave Murph a confused look, but his crewmate offered no explanation. Instead, Murph picked up an ancient lacquer box and walked ominously in his direction.
* * *
Tony woke up on his own couch the next morning to the sound and smell of bacon sizzling in his kitchen.
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Murph, “but I took the liberty of raiding your fridge. You hungry?”
“Most definitely not.” Tony struggled to a sitting position. “Did you stay here all night?”
“Had to. You were in a bad way when I drove you home; too bad to be left alone. You’ve got to get yourself a wife.”
“I’ll get right on that,” said Tony, trying to force a smile, “but who needs a wife when I have you?”
“Cute. You remember anything?”
Tony squeezed his eyes shut, trying to overcome the pounding in his skull. “I remember that you named me Drake, citing something about my naked exit from the alert tent looking like a baby lizard emerging from a leathery egg.”
“Well, at least you remember your name.” Murph waved a set of tongs in Tony’s direction like a wizard wielding a magic wand. A drop of grease splattered on the tile at his feet. “You are the mythical Drake, the young dragon, born into the world with great promise for combat.” He winked. “I came up with that one. And I’m particularly proud of it so don’t let it go to waste.”
“Drake.” Tony repeated the name, as if trying it on.
Murph turned back to the stove. “It could have been much worse, Drake. Some guys get named after fish. You remember anything else?”
“Just that there was way too much booze and a ritual involving a pair of sweat socks that have been with the squadron since Vietnam.”
The older pilot chuckled over his pan. “Good memory. Most guys block that part out.”
Both men fell silent for a while, listening to the sizzle and pop of the bacon.
“Murph?” said Drake, finally breaking the silence.
“Yeah?”
“We’re gonna get him, aren’t we? I mean Bin Laden, and the rest of those Tally-whatevers—we’re gonna take ’em down, right?”
“Yeah, Drake, we’ll get ‘em. You and me, bud. We just need someone in D.C. to man up and make the call.”
Chapter 5
Spangdahlem Air Base, Germany
Nick felt detached from history, watching his country move along the path to war and wondering whether he’d be permitted to take part.
In the first two days after the attacks he and McBride had compiled a report on Bin Laden and Al-Qaeda for the Wing Intelligence Office. In it, Nick theorized that Tariq al-Majid was one of the primary planners of the attacks, making Iraq a potential secondary battleground. Al-Majid had recently been sighted crossing into Iraq from Turkey, which was consistent with reports that he was Bin Laden’s liaison to Baghdad. Nick’s report initially received a lot of interest from the local brass, but it was shelved when the order to go to war hadn’t come.
For two weeks, the pilots heard nothing about the war. Then Nick’s commander, whose tactical name was Redeye, called a meeting.
All thirty-six pilots gathered excitedly in the squadron auditorium, certain that Redeye would finally announce they were headed for Afghanistan. Instead, like a doctor giving a room full of patients bad news, the commander informed them that the Joint Chiefs had decided to leave the American forces in Europe entirely out of the war. They were being held in reserve in case a new front opened up.
The air of anger and frustration was palpable.
After the meeting the pilots returned to their duties with their heads hung low in disgust. Nick felt impotent, emasculated. He didn’t just want to go to war against the terrorists; he needed to go to war.
“Shake it off,” said a short, wiry major, patting Nick on the back. “We’ve got a flight to brief.” He opened the door to a small briefing room and stood to one side as Nick and two other pilots filed in.
Major Hector “Oso” Garcia was the 81st Fighter Squadron’s weapons officer. Like many, Oso’s tactical nickname was misleading. Early in his career, someone had thought it an entertaining incongruity to tag the diminutive Hispanic pilot with the Spanish word for bear. Political correctness was for PR officers, not for pilots.
Nonetheless, Oso was well respected within the squadron. He was a graduate of the USAF Weapons School, the Air Force equivalent to the Navy’s Top Gun. As the weapons officer, he was the squadron’s chief instructor pilot and the commander’s trusted adviser on all issues of tactical importance. He was a gifted fighter pilot, a knowledgeable tactician, and an even match for Nick at the base jujitsu club, despite Nick’s twenty-pound weight advantage.
The small briefing room was stuffy and cramped, much too small for four grown men. Its worktable was also small, and the three pilots seated there looked as if they’d been banished to the children’s table at a Thanksgiving meal.
Standing at the front of the room, Oso seemed oblivious to the others’ discomfort. He slowly detailed the contingencies of the training mission, covering all the reasonable what-ifs that could occur, like radio failures, in-flight emergencies, and a downed flight member. Finally, he switched to the tactical portion. He laid a map on the table and pointed to a line that snaked through the interlocking valleys of southwestern Germany. “This is our route for ingress, and this ridgeline on the edge of the Rhine Valley marks the forward edge of the battle area—the line of scrimmage, if you will. Keep your Hogs five hundred feet off the deck, masking against the ridgeline, and climb only for radio relay. Things are always easier if we can avoid being seen.
“Our ground contact is Snake One Five, played by Second Lieutenant Joe Forester. I sent Forester out this morning to scout targets and told him to be somewhere near the small town of Böchingen.” Oso grinned. “That means we’ll find him within a hundred yards of the pub on the east side of town. Snake One Five will pass us target coordinates and tack our eyes on for confirmation.”
After another twenty minutes discussing tactics, Oso asked for questions. When nobody spoke up, he turned to the youngest pilot in the room. “Collins, are you sure you’ve got the plan? We need to get you fully qualified in case the brass change their collective mind and let us into this fight.”
Nick glanced up from the map and looked over at the young wingman. The primary purpose of the day’s mission was training for the kid, Brent Collins, who was not yet qualified for combat missions. Oso would be grading his performance, and no wingman ever wanted to screw up in front of the weapons officer, but Collins had even greater cause to be nervous. He had already failed three mission qualification flights since arriving from the schoolhouse. If he failed another one, Redeye might send him to a cargo unit.
Brent looked at the maps in front of him as if they were written in Chinese. “Uh . . . no questions, sir. I’ve got it.”
* * *
On the way to the crew van that would take them to the aircraft, the fourth pilot, Bug, slowed his pace, holding Nick back as well. A look of concern clouded the huge Nebraskan’s face. “You think Brent is ready for this? He didn’t look very c
onfident in there.”
“He’s just scared of Oso,” said Nick, offering a half smile. “We’re not doing anything today that he hasn’t done twenty times already at the schoolhouse, right?”
“What about the Irish Cross?”
Nick stopped walking at the mention of the complex tactical maneuver. Oso had briefed it as one of the tactics they’d be using, but its intricate design would definitely stretch Brent’s capabilities. Up ahead Oso and Brent had already reached the van. The major tapped his watch and beckoned to them.
Nick waved back and pushed Bug onward. “It’s Oso’s mission,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”
Chapter 6
Nick led Bug past rolling hills covered in the rusty hues of autumn. He stuck to the valleys as much as possible, picking his way south and east. When Wizard Flight arrived in the training area a few minutes earlier, Oso had split them up, sending Nick and Bug south toward their briefed holding point.
Nick found the ridge that formed the line of scrimmage between the simulated friendly and enemy territories, then followed it until he spotted the small microwave tower that marked their holding point. He checked the point against a satellite picture on his kneeboard. Just as the photograph showed, an access road ran north from the tower facility, then made a gentle turn to the east and climbed through a saddle in the ridgeline. “Wizard Three is established at X-ray,” he called.
“Wizard One is established as well.” Oso’s voice sounded distant over the UHF radio. “Snake One Five, Snake One Five, this is Wizard Zero One. How do you copy?”
“Wizard Zero One, Snake One Five reads you loud and clear,” Second Lieutenant Joe Forester replied. “Call ready for my position and your first target.”
“Stand by, Snake,” said Oso. “Wizard Flight, move to position one.”
Nick led Bug through the saddle to the forward side of the ridgeline, where both pilots could get a clear view of the target area. Beyond the saddle, the terrain rapidly fell away, exposing the flat expanse of the Rhine River valley. The orange and red foliage gave way to tan and brown fields separating a few small Rhineland towns; among them the target area, Böchingen, several kilometers past the ridge. Both pilots made sure to stay low—well below the terrain behind them—so that a civilian in Böchingen might not see the Hogs even if he looked directly at them. “Wizard Three is in position,” Nick transmitted.
“Copy that. Go ahead, Snake,” said Oso.
The lieutenant described his position to the A-10 drivers and Oso confirmed that they all had visual contact with the Humvee just east of the town. From that point forward Joe described the targets in relation to his own location. “Do you see the soccer field west of my position?” he asked, using the field as a reference that would give the pilots an easy way to visualize distances on the ground.
“Affirmative,” Oso responded.
“Using the length of the soccer field as one unit, look two units northwest and describe what you see.”
“Looks like a grouping of twenty vehicles or so, mostly gray and white, on the southeast side of an L-shaped building.”
“That’s correct. We’ll call that parking lot an enemy staging area; the vehicles are your targets. Snake One Five is taking simulated mortar fire from that position. Destroy it immediately.”
“Wizard Flight, we’ll use strike pattern one with Mavericks,” said Oso. “Wizard One element has the north side of the target. Wizard Three, your element has the south side. Return to your hold point after the strike. Start your ingress at one minute from the hack. Three, sound off when you’re ready.”
Nick looked over at Bug, who gave a rock of his wings to signal that he was ready for the attack. “Three’s ready,” he reported.
“Here we go, then. Three . . . two . . . one . . . execute!”
Looking north, Nick strained to see Oso turn his Hog toward the target. He mentally reviewed the strike pattern, remembering that he had to wait an additional sixty seconds past Oso’s start time before he could lead Bug in. The timing would keep him out of the first element’s imaginary fragmentation pattern, but that was only part of the equation. In his mind’s eye Nick could see Oso, standing in the briefing room, drawing a line on the map along an east-west road running through the target area. To separate their flight paths and avoid a midair collision, Nick had to keep his element south of that road.
He picked up Oso’s Hog driving across the flatland. He knew his flight lead would climb and then bank in and point at the target, simulating a Maverick missile attack. Brent should follow shortly thereafter and do the same. But Nick couldn’t see the rookie. Where was he?
“The kid’s lagging the fight,” he muttered to himself. He hit the record switch on his heads-up display video and made an audio note. “Three October, Wizard Zero Three, first attack, this is Nick. Briefed attack is pattern one with Mavericks; Wizard Two is at least a mile late. I’ll have to delay my attack to avoid his frag.”
Nick maneuvered his element to account for the extra time. When he was ready to attack he gave Bug a wing flash and turned toward the target area. Bug followed suit and the two A-10s swept low across the rural German landscape. A patchwork of fields passed beneath them in a blur of brown and green. Eight miles from the target Nick angled his aircraft slightly away, making the space that would allow him to pop up and roll in for the strike.
“Wizard One, rifle two.” Oso launched his imaginary missiles.
Nick checked his distance from the target. It looked like his adjustment for Brent’s delay had worked.
“Wizard Two, rifle two.” The kid had finally taken his shot.
Nick counted a few more seconds, giving Brent’s pretend missiles time to find their targets, and then pulled the nose of his Hog toward heaven, knowing that—in a real fight—this was the most exposed he’d be to enemy fire. While still climbing, he banked hard to the left and pulled, cutting an arc through the horizon to point back at the earth. Then, after he rolled out and settled on the attack axis, he commanded his missile to open its infrared eye.
The green-tinted screen showed the target parking lot as a jumble of muddled shapes and shadows. He placed his crosshairs on the southwest side and zoomed in, picking out a vehicle that was glowing nicely on the display. Someone just arrived, he thought. The engine’s still warm. He commanded the missile seeker to lock, cross-checked his heads-up display, and pressed hard on the pickle button.
The Maverick screen went blank, simulating a successful launch. The missile on his wing, however, stayed where it was. It had no rocket and was hard-bolted to the station for training. Nick held the aircraft steady and patiently waited for the seeker to reset, as if a second missile had opened its eye. When the image of the parking lot returned he locked up another target and fired the second imaginary weapon.
The entire process, from settling his jet on the attack axis to launching his second Maverick, took Nick less than seven seconds. “Wizard Three, rifle two,” he called into the radio. He rolled the Hog on its side and pulled hard, turning it to avoid being fragged by his own weapons. Once clear of the fragmentation pattern, he turned his attention to Bug. He stayed low and arced around the target, ready to provide covering fire.
“Wizard Four, rifle two,” said Bug.
Nick watched his wingman turn away from the target. When Bug’s nose pointed his way, he flashed his wings to make himself more visible. “Four, Three is at your twelve. Follow me back to X-ray.”
“Wizard Four is visual, Three. Wilco,” Bug replied, letting Nick know that he saw him and would follow him across the ridge to the hold point.
“Wizard, call ready for next target,” Joe prompted again.
“Wizard Zero One, ready.”
Nick listened intently to the next description. On this attack they were to practice finding the target on the fly, meaning that Nick was not permi
tted to take his element to the other side of the ridge and watch during Joe’s description as he’d done the first time. They’d have to stay low and out of sight, memorize the description of the target, and then locate it once they pressed in for the attack. This also gave them less time to gain visual contact with each other. Each member of the formation depended on the rest to get the timing right.
“Your new target is an enemy command post consisting of three adjacent buildings running east to west,” said Joe. “Using the same soccer field as one unit, look half a unit southeast of your previous target. The group of target buildings is separated from all the other buildings by at least fifty yards on each side. They are wooden structures with white paint and they’re the only buildings in the area with blue-shingled roofs.”
Nick painted the picture in his mind, trying to remember what the area surrounding the parking lot looked like. Then Oso threw a wrench in the works. “Wizards,” he commanded, “this will be strike pattern three, with guns, Mavericks, and bombs. On this attack we’ll simulate a twenty-three-millimeter gun protecting the target area. Wizard Three, your element has the western two buildings. My element will take out the threat and the eastern building. Call ready.”
Nick paused to absorb the new information, looked to Bug for a ready signal, and then responded. “Three’s ready.”
“Wizards, three . . . two . . . one . . . execute!”
What’re you doing, Oso? thought Nick as he started his clock. For this mission strike pattern three was the Irish Cross and Oso had just combined it with a blind attack. That was pushing the envelope for a fully qualified Hog driver, let alone a struggling new guy like Brent.
There was not time to worry about it. Nick flashed his wings at Bug and then drove low toward the saddle, as if he intended to scrape his jet along the road passing through it. As the trees flashed by on either side, his radar altimeter read ninety feet off the ground. Then the rushing terrain once again became blue sky and he rolled his aircraft on its back, pulling it down the east side of the ridge.