Mack Maloney - Chopper Ops

He began reading the info sheet. It contained the names and rank of all on board the ArcLight plane that night, but only photos and detailed information on the pilot and copilot.

Both men looked just like hundreds of flyboys Norton had run into during his military career. Clean-cut, clear-eyed, rock-jawed, kinda dopey, but actually very smart, just in a very different way. Pilots were always easy to pick out of a crowd. That all had that same look.

Both men also looked like candidates for the pulpit. That was another thing about flyboys. They were always so Christian, so religious, so goddamn holy.

But what shape were these two in now?

The pilot of the plane the day it took off was a guy named Jeff Woods. He was a colonel in what the info sheet called “a U.S. Air Force Special Section.” He was buzz-cut blond, late forties, a slight resemblance to astronaut John Glenn. Married, two kids, pretty wife, at least in 1991. Little League coach. Community volunteer. Deacon at his church. Whiter than Wonder Bread.

The second in command was an Air Force major named Pete Jones—could you get a more American-sounding name than that? He too was rock-jawed, poster-boy handsome, jet-black hair, worn a bit more stylish than Wood’s. A rake. But a Christian one, according to his file.

He had no kids.

Very cute wife.

Something to come back for…

Where the hell was she now? What was she doing at this very moment?

The next thing Norton knew, Delaney was shaking him awake.

Norton sat up with a start, drool rolling down his chin. Somehow nine hours had passed by. Delaney was dressed in his futuristic flight suit, helmet and all.

“C’mon, Jazz,” he was saying. “Nappies are over. Time to go to work.”

It was dinner time at Zim’s palace.

As usual, Zim was eating alone, perched high above his chamber on his mountain of pillows. There were no young Japanese girls around to watch him eat or to wipe his mouth clean after an exceptionally messy bite. There were some things the little nubile ones just would not do.

Even his personal guards preferred to wait outside the chamber while Zim was dining. He wasn’t sure why. His fare was always so appetizing, if a bit regional and esoteric.

Zim had a huge bowl before him with two forks as his only utensils. In the bowl was a combination of raw lamb’s brains, horse’s eyes, and salmon guts, all mixed together in plain yogurt.

Truth was, Zim loved to eat alone and in peace, as he was loath to share his meal with anyone. That was why he was surprised when just into his second bite, the doors to his chamber opened.

Two guards came in, followed by a man on his knees. Zim looked up and immediately frowned.

It was Major Qank.

“I am eating,” Zim said with a wave of his hand, dismissing his intelligence officer.

Qank bowed deeply and took a deep breath.

“A thousand pardons, sire, but… this is very important.”

“What could be more important than my meal?” Zim asked Qank as if he was actually awaiting an answer.

Qank was stumped for an adequate reply.

“Well, this is equally important, my sire,” he finally replied.

This answer gave Zim pause.

Finally he said: “OK, get up. And what is so urgent?”

“A note, sir, from the man in Room 6…”

Qank tiptoed to the bottom of the pillow pile. He was just tall enough to hand the note up to Zim.

Zim finished chewing an elongated fish intestine, slurping the last few inches as one would a spaghetti strand, and finally opened the note.

Again the message within was simple. It read: “They are here.”

Zim read the note several times, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve and stared down at Qank.

“Is he being intentionally vague here, do you think?”

Qank just shook his head. “No, sir. I think he’s being quite clear. The Americans have somehow managed to sneak by the Third Ring and they are now in the area.”

Zim put his hand to his chin and pretended to be in deep thought.

“Hmmm, what shall we do then?”

Qank had anticipated this question. They actually had a contingency if the Americans ever got this close. He just hoped Zim’s memory was as good as his.

“We do have a plan, sir,” Qank started. “It involves a purchase. In South Yemen, I believe…”

Zim thought about this for a moment.

“Ah, yes!” he finally exploded with a laugh. “The Three-Card Monty plan…”

Qank rolled his eyes involuntarily. “Exactly, sir,” he said. “Shall we proceed?”

Zim took another mouthful of his disgusting food. “Do we have the time, though?” he asked with a burp.

“I believe we do,” Qank replied.

“Then make it so!” Zim called out with a laugh. The guards laughed too.

Qank looked around at them and wondered for a moment what was so funny. Then he began backing up.

“As you wish, sir,” he said, heading for the door in reverse. “As you wish…”

South Yemen

2200 hours

It was very hot in Sayhut-ru.

The sun had baked the city all day; the temperature at noon was 122 degrees. Now that night had fallen, it had cooled off—to 103. And more hot weather was expected for at least the next two weeks.

The small city was actually a military air base with a few hundred houses around it. The base housed one unit of the Yemeni People’s Air Defense Force and functioned as a civilian port of entry as well. But civilian or military, there was no activity at the base on this sweltering evening. No flights were scheduled to fly into this little piece of Hell. No flights were scheduled to leave either.

That was why Captain Rez Bata was so surprised when he saw a Learjet land unannounced on the main runway. He checked the time. It was 10 P.M.; he was just getting ready to go home for a bath. Who was this coming to disrupt his plan?

Bata was the air base night manager, one of only twenty captains in the tiny YPADF. In addition to his duties watching over the civilian part of the airport, Bata also ran the base’s air defense squadron, which consisted of exactly one rather broken-down airplane.

Oddly, it was that airplane that the man in the Learjet had come to see him about.

He heard the footsteps coming up the stairs and finally into his office. Bata took one look at the man and instinctively knew who he was right away. Though he had never seen the man before, his gut instinctively told him he was a representative of Azu-mulla el-Zim. He had that look about him. Bata straightened up; his heart began pounding. This was the Middle East equivalent of getting a visit from a lieutenant of a Mafia Godfather. Bata knew it would be important for him to say the right things, and do whatever this man wanted.

“My employer sends his greetings,” the man said as Bata offered him a seat. There were no introductions; there was no need.

“And mine to him,” Bata managed to croak.

The man put a briefcase onto Bata’s desk and snapped it open. Inside the case were twenty packets of money held together with rubber bands.

“This is two million American cash,” the man said. “We believe it is sufficient payment.”

Bata was totally confused. “Two million? What for?”

The man pulled back the drawn curtain. In the fading light they could just barely see the base’s one and only military plane. It looked very old, standing out on the tarmac, rusty, with pools of oil and other fluids dripping from it. It was obvious it hadn’t been flown in a very long time.

“For that,” the man said simply. “My employer wants your airplane.”