ground knew what they were doing, the vile stuff was being killed before it could reach the ground.
Steve kept his mouth shut, knowing that Trent was so fucking busy, keeping everything in place. Just a few minutes more and—
Jesus!
A bump of turbulence or something and the damn refueling boom was closer and closer and—
THUD!
The top of the boom struck the hull, right near the wind-screen, and Jayson didn’t know what to say, when —
Trent tweaked the yoke, just tweaked it, and the KC-135 was where it should be, back in position. Steve swallowed and the radio crackled. ‘Nice job, AirBox one-five.’
‘Thanks,’ Trent replied
Steve tried to swallow again. He couldn’t. His throat was too dry.
Hugh Glynn on AirBox 22 got to where he had to be, his chest burning again, and saw the fuel boom extend from the rear of the Air Force jet. His co-pilot said, ‘All right, just twenty minutes of flying, Hugh. That’s all. We can get on the ground nice and safe. Twenty minutes of flying and we’re done.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
The jet seemed to grow larger in the windscreen as they approached.
In his earphones, Captain Thomas Tuthill heard his boomer Master Sergeant Bobby Hiller say, ‘AirBox flight is in place, captain.’
‘All right. Start the dump. When you reach fifty thousand pounds, shut her down. We’ve got another AirBox flight depending on us.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He switched from intercom to radio, called out, ‘AirBox 22, Pegasus Four.’
‘Pegasus Four, good day.’
‘Good day, sir. We’re dumping fuel now. Maintain altitude and speed.’
‘Roger, Pegasus Four.’
Thomas Tuthill looked over to his co-pilot, Lt Travis Wood. ‘Hey, Trav.’
‘Sir?’
‘What a job, huh?’
‘Sure.’
‘Well, at least you’re getting what you want.’
‘What the hell is that… sir?’
He punched his co-pilot lightly on the arm. ‘You said you wanted to do more in the war on terror — so here’s your chance.’
‘Shit. Lucky me.’
‘Nope,’ Tuthill said. ‘Lucky us.’
The pink cloud in front of AirBox 15 suddenly slowed and disappeared. Steve Jayson said, ‘Trent, what the fuck is going—’
And then the interruption: ‘AirBox 15, this is Cheyenne Six. Gas station is empty, we’re heading home — suggest you do the same.’
Trent Mueller said, ‘Cheyenne Six, nearest piece of flat concrete you got, that’s where you’ll find us. Thank you and good day.’
‘Good day to you, AirBox 15.’
Steve checked the fuel gauge. Less than twenty minutes’ worth of flying. He was going to say something but what was the point?
‘Trent?’
‘Yeah?’
The jet was now descending and turning, and off there in the distance was a beautiful, beautiful county airfield that was probably too small but was going have to do.
‘Trent, whatever happens, a brilliant piece of flying. Beautiful.’
‘Hey, that’s very nice of you. Want to do something for me?’
‘Sure.’
‘Shut the fuck up so we can get this piece of metal on the ground.’
‘You got it, Trent.’
Back in the Operations Center the low roar of phone calls, keyboards being tapped and people talking was starting to subside. Monty sat back, feet up on a desk, looking at the display board and the three icons marking the last of the AirBox flights. Brian Doyle sat next to him, hands folded across his lap. Tuthill and the General were confabbing about something, and Victor being Victor, the doc was keeping to himself.
Monty said, ‘Ever hear the expression “hoist on your own petard”?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Know what it means?’
‘Not sure. I think it means something about getting fucked-up because of something you yourself did. Am I right?’
Monty kept his gaze on the display screen. ‘Yep. Came from a line in Shakespeare, from
Brian said, ‘When this is all done with, I guess the Tiger Teams will be one huge petard.’
‘Yeah. Lots of books and TV scripts will be written about this fuck-up when we’re through — but they’ll miss the essential story.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Which is that we had to do something after 9/11. The Tiger Teams were a great idea. It was the staffing of them that caused this disaster. Always goes back to the people factor. Not the technical factor. It’s the people that make it work, and in this case, it was the people — Adrianna and those CIA people, years ago, who did a shit-ass job of checking out her background — who failed us.’
‘Nice essential story, but I don’t feel too essential. I feel like we came within minutes of killing several million people. Not the kind of way I’d like to spend my days.’
Monty reached over and slapped Brian on the leg. ‘True enough, my friend. And I’ll make you two predictions. By the end of this week, the Tiger Teams will be done. And a week after that, they’ll be planning something else to replace them. For something like the teams are always needed. No matter what we and others did, the main essential truth still remains: there are many, many people who want to do us harm, and the old ways of protection don’t work.’
Brian looked like he was going to say something when a nearby phone rang, and the guy picking it up gave a little whoop of joy.
‘AirBox 15 is on the ground, safe and sound!’
Monty looked up at the display screen. Two icons remained.
He turned to Brian. ‘See? Day’s getting better already.’
Captain Tuthill said, ‘How much longer, boomer?’
‘Another five, six minutes, sir.’
‘Very good.’
He turned in his seat, said to his co-pilot, ‘Travis, minute we’re done dumping fuel, tell ATC we’ll want a rendezvous heading to that last AirBox flight immediately. Got it?’
‘Roger that, sir.’
‘All right.’
