He shifted, again trying to push the pad hard against his wound. High with adrenline, the pain only a distant pulse in the backround. That would change, was changing even now. How much blood had been lost? Not all that much, just that slow trickle, but how much could he afford to lose? "Jackknife, Hawk, ETA to land?"
"Hawk, Jackknife, ETA 45 minutes to Doha at current course and speed."
"Hawk copies." The Gulf is a narrow body of water, thank god. "Jackknife, Hawk, request ambulance standing by."
"Oh shit! Ops. . ."
The Master Sgt, was allready on it. "Sir, Shoo-fly lead reports no damage in the Cockpit area. Hawk, Jackknife, type and extent of injury?"
"Uh, Jacknife, Hawk, bullet wound, small caliber, 7 point 6 2, 3 weeks old, reopened."
The Major was still coming down from his own adreniline spike. "Goddammit! Now the sumbitch tells us! SatCom! Pass that along to Doha, reccomend full medical and crash teams standing by."
In its own way, the pain helped. Pulsing in his back, keeping him focused, aware. Keeping him from relaxing, letting the fatigue take him down. There was Doha, a long, wide strip in the desert. Doha tower reported prevailing winds out of the west, straight down the runway. Good. P-40s are tricky enough on pavement, really meant for grass. Book says to avoid cross winds. Not how to deal with them, just avoid them.
What else did the books say? Don't try to three point it, come in level with power, fly it down on the mains. All you got to do is walk away.
So damn tired. He whipped his head side to side, fighting the darkness behind his eyes. Canopy open, wheels down, flaps down, trim to level attitude, controlling descent with throttle. On either side the Hornets matched him. At 500 feet they drew up and back. "Thanks for the company, Shoo-Fly."
"Our pleasure Hawk. See ya on the ground, first rounds on us." The Commander would land soon as the runway was clear, he had to meet this guy.
It was strangely easy, as though the old fighter took pity on him. The main gear touched, skipped, rolled. He pulled back on the power, letting the tail settle of its own accord. Tail down, it started to drift right, he caught it, brought it back to center, let it coast down. It drifted right again, this time he let it go, suddenly too tired to care. The Warhawk bumped into the hardpan off the side of the runway, raising dust, finaly slewing around in a half circle to stop.
Magnetos off, main breaker off, revel in the sudden silence. For a moment, the whole base seemed to hold its breath. Then someone remembered his job, flipped on a siren. Tip smiled, sagged back into the darkness. Helen should see this. I wish she could have seen. Would she have been proud of what he'd done, or shocked again at the violence. Would he ever know. Would she have cared. . .He slipped off, even as men clambered on the wings, reaching into the cockpit.
The Cabbie dropped her off at the hotel, Then drove off, whistling, happy with his role in the great adventure. She would never see him again. Oh god, she would never see HIM again. The Philipino housestaff came out, anxious for word, but she walked past them, down the hill to the chicken yard and shed.
Inside, the mare stood three legged, dosing. The great black horse was alert, eager, stretching out his head to her. "Tecumseh." She lay her cheek on the great forhead, hands rubbing the horses cheeks, starting to cry. "He's gone, but I do not know how far he will get." She'd stayed long enough to see the 2 Migs take off, heading southwest. It was not supposed to have been this way.
She backed away, rubbing her eyes. Tecumseh lipped her hair, pulling at the veil. Helen laughed, a small shakey sound. "Well, I still have you."
She moved past her still sleeping mare, wanting to check saddles and tack, to be surprised by an unfamiliar gleam of metal midst the leather. His sword, leaning against her saddle. "My sword will always be yours." So he had said, the man could be so damn literal. Picking it up, she drew the blade from its polished metal scabbard, feeling the balance, watching the dim morning light play off the mirrored surfaces. One man had died beneath this blade, one that she knew of. Death and beauty. Him and her. . .what? She sheathed the sword, sat down on a haybale, balancing the scabbarded blade on her hands before her, elbows resting on her knees. Why had it all happened? What reason, what mad purpose? Had it meant anything, made any difference?
"FOOLS! IMBECILES! I am surrounded by magnificent INCOMPETANCE! BEGONE!" Seated in the secretarys office, the army Colonel smiled wanly as a red faced Lt. Colonel, deputy commander air force southern region, fled from the Imans office. Taking the air officers departure as his cue, he walked in, locking the door as he closed it behind him.
The Imans face was florid beneath the beard. "So Colonel, what have you to say! A regiment of troops, and you could not find this man! And now he escapes, to humilate us all!"
The Colonel would not be intimidated. "I had warned you sir, that this would be a difficult undertaking. The area searched would be vast, and nothing this man has done has been in any way conventional."
"YOU assured me he WOULD be found!"
"Given enough time, yes. But too much time was wasted in meaningless acts of vengance, bumbling counterstrikes."
From a chair next to the Imans desk, the Al-Quieda commander stood. "You speak of MY men?"
"Of whom else would I speak."
The Al-Quieda man wheeled to the Iman. "This one insults us, and wastes our time. There are still other americans out there to be found! There was a team I tell you. There must be!"
The Colonels anger rose "You insult yourselves! There was only one man! He slaughtered your people, then called on you to send more! And you obliged him! Fools the both of you!"
The Imans knuckles went white around the gold Cross pen. The Al-Quieda man was shaking with fury. "There was more than one. And there are circumstances. . ."
"The only circumstance that I can see is that your amatuer cowardly dogs are incapable of dealing with anyone who can FIGHT BACK!"
Face white with rage, the Al-Quieda man went for his pistol. The Colonel side stepped, drawing his own gun as the Al-Quieda man fired his first shot.
As a young Luetenant, the Colonel had faced tank and artillery fire in the Iran-Iraq war. A pistol in the shaking hand of this fool bothered him but little. Still, the Al-Quieda mans 2nd shot did graze his left arm. Enough. He raised his 9mm and shot the man between the eyes.
Now standing, leaning over his desk, the Iman stared down at the body. The Colonel needed but to shift his aim slightly to send his 2nd shot just above the Holy Mans ear. He collapsed across his desk, blood flooding over the leather and gilt copy of the Koran. Pity. Holstering his pistol, he grasped his wounded arm and walked over to the locked door, listening to the secratary screaming and pounding upon the other side. He unlocked and opened it. "The terrorist has assasinated our Iman! He wounded me, but I was able to kill him. Call an ambulance, quickly now!"
With the secretary scrambling to do his bidding, the Colonel stepped back into the office, pulling out a cell phone. He dialed the number of the Chief of Staff. "General sir! It is done. Your southern flank will be secure."
"What of the Terrorist camp?"
"I will assemble the brigade momentarily. We will destroy it by nightfall."
"Most excellent Colonel. Should this go well, I think I may be able to find a set of Generals insignia for you."
"My service is yours, sir."
"What of the Air Force?" The Colonel in charge of the Shiraz base had been a man of the Iman, and could have posed a problem. The Colonel grinned.
"As you will find out shortly, that problem was taken care of for us." Thank god for that oddly dressed fool of an American.
"I shall look forward to seeing you again. God go with you."
"As God wills." Such an odd, ingrained thing to say. Ah well. The Colonel stood for a moment, listening for approaching sirens.