Stephen Leigh - Card Sharks

"Mehrabad International Airport," I said.

"Uh — don't you think you should slow down?"

"No," I said, "because then I couldn't do — "

I hit the fence. Metal broke with squeals of protest, and dragged sharp claws back along my body the truck like fingernails on a blackboard.

"— this. "

" Je sus Kee rist! " Ackroyd yelped. "You're out of your fucking mind!"

"If you don't quit saying that, you'll give me a complex."

He turned in his seat. "I don't know what kind of jackass scheme you have in mind, but it isn't working. They're still on our tail."

"No worries." I was heading toward a point I remembered from studying the aerial recon photos. "Look up ahead."

There they were, as advertised: the dark broken-nosed shapes of a pair of American-made F-4s.

"What are those?"

"Your tax dollars at work. Gifts to our noble ally, the Shah of Iran."

"What are you planning to do," he asked, "ram them and go out in a blaze of glory?"

There were a pair of men in flightsuits standing by the nearer Phantom, performing a preflight check. Or trying to. One of them was scratching his head under his helmet. The other was kicking the tires. Pilots hadn't fared so well under the new regime, either; these guys probably knew a lot more about Khomeini's book The Explication of Problems than they did about the flight manual on this baby.

The one scratching his head saw us. He tapped his buddy on the arm. He gave off bending to peer into the wheel well and turned to stare at us.

I steered right for Fric and Frac. They fled.

There were ground crew with their little carts fussing with the plane. Hoping some of them still had a clue as to what they were doing, I stopped the truck, stepped out and fired my Kalashnikov in the air. They joined their pilots in bunny impressions.

We'd extended our lead over the pursuit, but they were closing fast. I drew my Kabar sheath knife and laid my left hand on the tarmac.

"What the hell are you doing now?" Ackroyd demanded.

"Don't look," I said, and cut off my hand. It was not a neat process.

It hurt like the Devil, I have to tell you. Maybe I'm sick as that illegitimatus Battle, with that dumb stubbing-the-cigar-on-his-own-arm trick of his — I was surprised he didn't whip that out on poor President Jimmy.

"Climb aboard," I said, and started up the hook-on ladder into the pilot's seat. I only have so long before the blood loss starts to get to me.

Ackroyd had watched the whole thing — why should he start to listen to me now? He managed to pull himself off his knees despite the dry heaves and scurried up into the back seat. Following my example he jettisoned the ladder.

I pressed my stump to the console. Any old where would do. "Ahh — " Nothing like the feel of fusion with a fine piece of machinery.

"Poor girl," I said. "They've treated you badly. But you'll pull through for us, won't you?"

I could feel Ackroyd's eyes boring through the headrest into my skull. "Don't we need flight suits?" he demanded.

"I'll try not to do anything radical enough to black us out." I felt for the twin engines, reWed them, felt their power surge. It's why pilots are such an arrogant lot — there's nothing like the feeling of unbridled power a jet fighter imparts. And they only get it at one remove, poor sods. I got it all .

A horrible light dawned on Ackroyd. "Do you know how to fly this thing?" he demanded.

"No."

He started to clamber out. "I just remembered," he said, "I have an appointment to get my nails done. Pulled out by the roots, that is."

I dropped my canopy on him, trapping him. "Calm yourself, my boy," I said — I was starting to feel giddy now, I don't mind telling you. "This baby knows how to fly herself ."

Outside, our pursuers drew up alongside in their vehicles, apparently afraid to open fire on one of the Ayatollah's personal warplanes. What they did didn't matter. I showed them our tail, and flame, and we rose into the sky and freedom.

***

The Shi'ites have a prophecy, that the Antichrist will appear in the desert of Khorasan, to lead an army of 144,000 Jews in battle against the faithful at Armageddon. Desert One lay smack in the middle of Khorasan.

I wonder if Battle knew that all along. Probably not.

Later they said it was Cy Vance who talked Carter into puppying, after the crash at Desert One. The loss of life shook him, and his bowels turned to water at the thought of what the world would say if he turned a Night Shadow's miniguns on a crowd of civilians in the streets of Tehran.

Well, all that's true enough — at the crunch, Jimmy Earl didn't have the sand to carry through. But it wasn't just Vance working on him. It was Brzezinski. And Battle, back at Desert One, spinning long-distance tales of how the mission was a wash and it was time to cut his losses.

I told them over and over at debriefing how I'd seen Casaday there, leading the mob. They said over and over that I was mistaken. That it wasn't Casaday, couldn't have been. Then they told me that he had been trying to pull the mob off our trail.

Eventually I was told — officially — to drop the matter. I'm a good soldier, and even I have to sleep sometime. I dropped it — openly.

You wonder how I got the idea there was some kind of high-level conspiracy against wild cards — what brought me clear around the world and back to Vietnam. Do you have an idea, now?

— That's the story you wanted, but it's not all the story. Here's how our adventure differed from the bad fiction poor old Harvey thought couldn't hurt him: our escapade had consequences . It left marks on the souls of those who survived. It always does.

Billy Ray survived, of course. He even kept the name I gave him. I'm flattered. We just shipped him back from here; he was a prisoner of war, of sorts. Working for that devil, our old friend Battle.

Casaday was here too, but he got away. Which was good, because I would have killed him on sight, and Mark would disapprove of that. And I respect Meadows. It's not many hippie peacefreak wimps who conquer their own country from the communists.

Lady Black — well, once she wasn't my subordinate any more I was free to follow certain leads she'd given me. She's a lovely child. We've continued to keep in touch. 1n more ways than one. I'll spare you the details, but I will say that metal isn't the only kind of substance my spirit will enter into — and some of the other ones conduct energy very slowly .

As I told her, I do wonderful things with prosthetics.

Ackroyd never crossed my path again. We're both happier that way. I guess he still blames guns for killing that kid. A real shame his moral courage doesn't match his physical. If he faced up to what he did — instead of blaming objects — I wager he'd sleep better.

By the way: Harvey Melmoth. The Librarian. He died, you know. Exsanguination resulting from an insult to the arteria femoris , the report read.

Bullshit. I told you, that bullet never hit his femoral artery. I've seen enough of those wounds to know . Jay Ackroyd was right all along, you see. They sent us to Tehran to die.

It was a conspiracy. It's still going on; what you're investigating is part of it too. It was following up strands of that conspiracy that led me to Mark and back to Nam. It's big, and it means to finish the wild cards for good.

One last thing, before you turn that tape recorder off: President Carter took personal responsibility of the failure of the rescue mission, and ordered the records sealed in an effort to protect aces from the storm of recrimination. That was big of him; too bad it didn't work. Aces were blamed anyway, even if the public didn't know which ones were involved.