OVER EASTERN TURKEY
Van Buren decided that rather than waiting on the runway, they would launch the planes and fly to a point just across the border, waiting for word. The increase in risk and logistics problems—tanker time had to be coordinated like a complicated minuet—was well worth the decrease in the time to strike. As far as possible, the flight patterns were arranged to make it appear to anyone watching—which would include the Russians—that the mission was headed toward Iraq.
Van Buren tried to fight off the adrenaline that built as his Herky Bird left the tarmac. Getting too keyed up, too hot for action, would blur his judgment. He had to be just south of the power line—just on the calm edge of the hurricane.
“Ms. Alston for you, sir,” his communications specialist told him.
Van Buren nodded, and his headset clicked on. She was aboard the MH-17, which was airborne to the west.
“We’re still waiting for word from the ground,” she said.
“Yes we are,” he said.
“I’ve been speaking to Corrigan. The NSA has netted two intercepts with the Russians mentioning the base. At the moment
they’re decrypting more material. They seem to think it’s something worth checking into as well. Still not proof,” she added.
“That’s why we have the Team there,” said Van Buren.
“Very good, Colonel. Break a leg.”
“Break a leg?”
“It’s a theater expression. It means good luck, which is supposed to be bad luck to say.”
“Break a leg,” said Van Buren.