Razor's Edge

Finally the waiter turned toward him. “E signor?”

“Yeah, spaghetti,” said Jeff.

“Just spaghetti?” asked the waiter.

“Yuppers.”

The man took the menu and retreated quickly.

“You know, you used to be fun,” said Brea

She meant it as a joke, but there was something serious behind it.

“When I walked, right?” he snapped.

36

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“Jeff—baby, that’s not what I meant. Jeffrey. Jeff.” She reached her hand across the table and gently touched his face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m all right,” he said.

“Jeff.”

She rubbed her forefinger lightly against his cheek.

He tried to will away the anger and resentment, realizing that, of all people, she shouldn’t bear the brunt of it.

He remembered her face on the stretcher a few weeks ago when they’d come back from Brazil. She’d crash-landed the plane after saving them from an altimeter bomb.

He’d said a prayer then, probably the first he’d uttered since his own crash.

“Don’t let her be crippled,” he’d prayed. “It would be better for her if she died.”

He’d meant it.

“Jeff?”

“I’m sorry, Bree,” he said. “Bad day. I’m just—just a tough day. You going to give me some of your veal?”

“I ordered braised lamb in a port reduction sauce with sorrels and shaved truffles.”

“Yeah, that’s what I meant,” he said.

Incirlik Air Base, Turkey

27 May

0413

THE HOUR OF SLEEP TORBIN CAUGHT AFTER THE LENGTHY

mission debrief had served only to increase his restlessness. He came back to the base and wandered back and forth between his ready room and the hangar area, alternately checking on his aircraft and plans for a morning mission. The downed pilot hadn’t been found yet, but RAZOR’S EDGE

37

they now had a fix on the wreckage of his plane. Two planes were orbiting the area and a full-blown search package would launch a half hour before first light.

Torbin pla

himself.

The debriefers had grilled him pretty hard about the Iraqi missile sites. Their questions were nothing compared to the single one he’d asked himself over and over since the Falcon had been hit:

How the hell had he missed the missile?

The answer was that he hadn’t. The Iraqis had fired a bunch of missiles from long range without guidance, and somehow, some way, they had gotten the F-16.

Nailed it. Clipped the sucker. Waxed his fa

But there was no way, no way in the world, that it had been one of the missiles he’d had on his gear. Not possible.

The APR-47 threat detection radar was an extremely capable piece of equipment—old, perhaps, but still a notch ahead of anything Iraq possessed. Assuming it was in operating order—and the technicians who swarmed over it after they landed assured him it was—the APR-47

could not have missed any Iraqi radar, certainly not one operating long enough or close enough to successfully target the plane.

Nor could he, Torbin thought.

Somehow the bastards had claimed the plane with a one in a million blind shot. Though he wasn’t even sure how they could have managed that.

Torbin folded his arms against his chest as he walked toward Glory B’s hangar. Possibly, the F-16 pilot had screwed up. Possibly. Still, he was pissed—he wanted to pound those bastards into the sand with his bare fists.

A Humvee barreled toward him as he turned the corner toward the maintenance area; he frowned at it viciously, 38

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

as if that might make it miss him, then stepped off the macadam as the truck veered to a stop.

“Captain Dolk?” asked the driver, who was wearing civilian clothes.

“Yeah?”

“Hop in.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Smith,” said the driver. “Come on.”

“Hey, no offense, but I’ve got a mission to prep.”

“Just get in,” said the driver.

A figure leaned forward from the rear. “Relax, Captain,” the man told him. “My name is Brad Elliott. General Elliott. I’d like to speak to you for just a second. We’ll give you a lift to wherever it is you’re going.”

“I have a mission, sir,” said Torbin.

“We won’t interfere with that.”

Torbin shrugged, then stepped around the vehicle to get in the other side. Elliott opened the door for him. He too was wearing civilian clothes.

“I gave a full briefing when I landed, sir,” said Torbin.

“Yes, we’ve seen the preliminary report and spoken to Colonel Hashek,” said Elliott. “I’d like to hear what happened in your own words.”

Torbin sighed. This figured to be a big fucking deal, even if they got the pilot back—no one had been shot down over Iraq since the Gulf War.

“A lot of flicks on and off,” said the general, summarizing the incident after Torbin finished. “And then a barrage of missiles.”

“Pretty much,” said Torbin. “Everything was out of range, except for that SA-2 site that I nailed. And maybe the SA-8. We hit both. The tapes bear me out.”

Elliott nodded. The driver had turned around at some point during the story; Torbin looked now into his face.

Even in the darkness he could see the frown.

RAZOR’S EDGE

39

“I have a job to do this morning, sir,” said Torbin.

“Understood,” said Elliott. “One more thing—did you see the missile that hit the F-16?”

“No, sir. We weren’t that close to the fighters and, uh, my eyes would have been on the scope at that point, sir.”

“I wasn’t implying they weren’t,” said the general mildly. “Can you think of anything else?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s fine,” said the general. “Thank you, son.”

“Yes, sir.”

Torbin got out of the vehicle. Before he closed the door, the general leaned toward him across the seat.

“Don’t worry about what happened yesterday,” Elliott told him. “Just do your best this morning.”

“Yes, sir,” said Torbin. “That’s what I figure.”

He closed the door, stood back and saluted as the Hummer sped off.

“WHAT DO YOU THINK, MACK?” ASKED GENERAL ELLIOTT

as Major Smith geared the Hummer toward the command buildings.

“He blew it big-time and doesn’t want to admit it,” said Mack. When Elliott didn’t answer, he added, “That’s only my opinion.”

“Understood.”

“Maybe there was a gear screw-up,” said Mack. “Or maybe the Viper flew into flak and the other guys on the flight just got his altitude wrong. Things get tangled. It could even have been a shoulder-launched SA-14,” he added, though he thought all of those possibilities were fairly remote. “Just got lucky.”

“Possible.”

“Say, General, I want to be on the mission. Hook me up with one of the F-16s. I’ll find him. I promise.”

“We have our own job to do, Major.”

40

DALE BROWN’S DREAMLAND

“No offense, General, but you can snag an airman to do your driving. Hell, I’m a better pilot than any of these guys. You know it, sir.”

“Mack, you haven’t changed one bit.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean that as a compliment.”

Mack steered the Hummer into a parking spot near the small, squat building headquartering the squadron in charge of the operations. Elliott jumped out, breezing by the air policemen and striding into the building. Mack followed along as Elliott headed back to Colonel Hashek’s office. By the time Mack caught up, Hashek was already laying out the game plan for the morning search and rescue mission.

“I have a pair of MH-53 Pave Lows at this forward area here,” he said, jabbing at a large topo map showing southeastern Turkey and northwestern Iraq. “They’ll wait at this old airstrip in the mountains. From there they can jump into Iraqi territory in two minutes, maybe less. I’m going to bring in a Combat Talon and fly it back and forth over the wreckage—if that radio comes up, he’ll hear it.”