INCIRLIK, TURKEY
At one point in its venerable career, the Douglas DC-8 had served as an electronic warfare aircraft, mostly for training but in two instances supporting combat operations. Like many an old soldier, however, its days of glory were long gone, and the only hints of its past were a few scars on the gray-painted fuselage where sensors had once hung.
Van Buren—who was just a few years younger than the plane—tried to stretch some of the kinks out of his back as he trotted down the steps to the Incirlik tarmac. Two members of his command team were waiting with the Hummer nearby—Major Corles, who coordinated G-2 or the intelligence aspects of the mission, and Danny Gray, an Air Force major who liaisoned with Air Force Task Group Charlie, a specially constituted command that “owned” and maintained the aircraft Van Buren would draw on for his mission. Like 777th itself, Task Group Charlie was arguably the most versatile in the Air Force, fielding everything from helicopters to Stealth fighters.
“CentCom has some people coming over,” said Corles. “We’re going to draw on them for some logistics support.
Pete’s working it out. All we need is a target, and we’re good to go.”
Van Buren grunted. He’d spoken to Ferg an hour or so earlier; the officer said he had three sites to check out, and one was bound to be golden.
That was Ferg; always the optimist. But if he did find something, they had to be ready to hit it right away. At the same time, they had to plan an exfiltration in case he didn’t; he had a valuable source for debriefing back at Guantanamo.
The others updated him on the situation there as the truck sped toward the hangar that had been appropriated to house their unit temporarily. Much of what they said was now routine, and Van Buren’s mind drifted back to his lunch with Dalton. The lure of the job—the lure of the money—continued to tease him; he hadn’t gotten much sleep on the flight over though the plane had a special bunk for that purpose.
He was thinking of James, and what he might owe his son. A good college education, certainly.
He could get that if he applied to West Point. Van Buren realized on the plane that they’d never discussed that; in fact, he had no idea where his boy wanted to go to school—or even if he did at all. They hadn’t discussed much of anything about his future, except for baseball.
The realization that he didn’t know what his son wanted shocked him. It was possible, probably even likely, that James didn’t know himself. But as his father, Van Buren realized he had a duty to find out. He wanted to pick up the phone and call him, but of course he couldn’t; he hadn’t even been able to do that while he was in the States.
If he wanted to go to Harvard, what then?
What would keep him from taking Dalton’s job? The colonel himself? The thrill of getting shot at?
Van Buren just barely kept himself from laughing out loud—getting shot at was no thrill, though there was a great deal to be said for having survived being shot at. He did love the action, the adrenaline pumping in your chest. But he personally hadn’t been under fire for quite some time, and in truth that was the way the Army wanted it. Colonels, even
Special Forces colonels, weren’t supposed to put their noses on the firing line.
Planning a battle, helping run it—that was an incredibly difficult and important job, the sort of thing only a very few men could do, and even fewer could do well.
But adrenaline was part of the reason he was here. If there was an operation, he was going to be in the thick of it, and no one could tell him not to be.
Except maybe his son.
“We should have F-117s available, if needed,” Gray was saying. “I’m a little sketchy on when we can get them over here, though.”
Van Buren snapped upright. No one who worked for him should be sketchy about anything.
“We’ll get everything crystal clear,” he told the others. “Everything.”
There was a bit more snap in his voice than he’d intended, and the others responded with studied silence.