recognized the visitors right away. It was Norton and Delaney.
"Well, if it isn't the Mutt and Jeff of refueling business," Delaney cracked.
Ricco quickly stood up and was immediately brow-to-chin with Norton.
"Let's see, when was the last time we met?" Ricco hissed, glaring up at the fighter pilot. "Oh, yeah. It was, like, twenty miles from Saddamville. And we were getting our asses shot off. . . ."
Norton didn't blink. Instead he just smiled.
"Good to see you again too, Marty," he said.
Gillis was on his feet now. He towered over both Norton and Delaney.
"Weren't they going to court-martial you guys?" Gillis asked the two pilots bitterly. "If not, they should have."
Norton never lost his smile—but he knew Gillis was right.
It was the sixteenth day of the air war over Iraq. An F-15 from Norton and Delaney's sister squadron had been shot down by ground fire and Iraqi troops were closing in on the pilot. Norton and Delaney were the only Allied airplanes in the area. They were needed to keep the Iraqi soldiers at bay until an Army rescue team could reach the scene and extract the pilot.
The problem was, both of their fighters were running very low on gas. There was no way they could loiter over the area where the pilot was hiding and still have enough fuel to reach a friendly base. But there was no way they were going to let a fellow American fall into the hands of the Iraqis either, especially since at that time, Saddam had been urging his troops to cook and eat any downed American pilot they found. Both Norton and Delaney simply refused to leave the scene.
So there was only one other option. Norton radioed upstairs for the nearest aerial tanker—and it was the Pegasus who answered the call.
In doing so, Norton broke a slew of regulations, most notably calling for a refueler to enter a hot zone with more than twenty thousand gallons of JP-8 jet fuel in its belly.
But the Pegasus responded—and fueled both him and Delaney at an altitude so perilously low, both fighter pilots should have been court-martialed, and given the express train to Leavenworth.
As it turned out, the refueling went well. Norton and Delaney held off the Gomers long enough for the Army SAR chopper to arrive and pull out the downed pilot in one piece. A confrontation back at Riyadh came to blows—it was the seven guys from the Pegasus against Norton and Delaney. But the two sides were separated, and eventually flew off in opposite directions, never to cross paths again.
Until now.
"Let me guess," Ricco asked the fighter pilots.
"They got you two shoveling snow off the runways, is that it?"
"Nope," Norton replied. "Actually, we're delivery boys these days. We have a message for you two."
Gillis and Ricco were totally confused now. This meant Norton had them right where he wanted them.
"And all the bullshit aside," Norton added, "you guys should have been given a medal that night. It took guts what you did. Not many people would have done it."
"So what . . ."
"So, we have new orders for you," Delaney told them.
Gillis and Ricco just looked at each other. Was this a joke? Why would these two random a-holes they'd encountered briefly many years before track them down to Thule?
Norton handed them both a letter. Each was wrapped in red tape. Each was marked with the Presidential seal.
"See you soon, guys," Norton told them. "And don't forget to bring your suntan lotion."
With that, he and Delaney went out the door and disappeared back into the snowy gale.
Chapter 6
Central Iraq
Next day
The village of El Quas-ri was no more.
The place had stood on the same spot in Qaarta region of Iraq for more than four thousand years, existing more than two millennia before Christ walked the earth. The fountain in the main square had drawn water since the reign of Ebbenazzar III. The fields nearby had produced onions and rice since 2300 B.C.
It was strange then how quickly the end came. For centuries, the elders in the village had passed
"Well, if it isn't the Mutt and Jeff of refueling business," Delaney cracked.
Ricco quickly stood up and was immediately brow-to-chin with Norton.
"Let's see, when was the last time we met?" Ricco hissed, glaring up at the fighter pilot. "Oh, yeah. It was, like, twenty miles from Saddamville. And we were getting our asses shot off. . . ."
Norton didn't blink. Instead he just smiled.
"Good to see you again too, Marty," he said.
Gillis was on his feet now. He towered over both Norton and Delaney.
"Weren't they going to court-martial you guys?" Gillis asked the two pilots bitterly. "If not, they should have."
Norton never lost his smile—but he knew Gillis was right.
It was the sixteenth day of the air war over Iraq. An F-15 from Norton and Delaney's sister squadron had been shot down by ground fire and Iraqi troops were closing in on the pilot. Norton and Delaney were the only Allied airplanes in the area. They were needed to keep the Iraqi soldiers at bay until an Army rescue team could reach the scene and extract the pilot.
The problem was, both of their fighters were running very low on gas. There was no way they could loiter over the area where the pilot was hiding and still have enough fuel to reach a friendly base. But there was no way they were going to let a fellow American fall into the hands of the Iraqis either, especially since at that time, Saddam had been urging his troops to cook and eat any downed American pilot they found. Both Norton and Delaney simply refused to leave the scene.
So there was only one other option. Norton radioed upstairs for the nearest aerial tanker—and it was the Pegasus who answered the call.
In doing so, Norton broke a slew of regulations, most notably calling for a refueler to enter a hot zone with more than twenty thousand gallons of JP-8 jet fuel in its belly.
But the Pegasus responded—and fueled both him and Delaney at an altitude so perilously low, both fighter pilots should have been court-martialed, and given the express train to Leavenworth.
As it turned out, the refueling went well. Norton and Delaney held off the Gomers long enough for the Army SAR chopper to arrive and pull out the downed pilot in one piece. A confrontation back at Riyadh came to blows—it was the seven guys from the Pegasus against Norton and Delaney. But the two sides were separated, and eventually flew off in opposite directions, never to cross paths again.
Until now.
"Let me guess," Ricco asked the fighter pilots.
"They got you two shoveling snow off the runways, is that it?"
"Nope," Norton replied. "Actually, we're delivery boys these days. We have a message for you two."
Gillis and Ricco were totally confused now. This meant Norton had them right where he wanted them.
"And all the bullshit aside," Norton added, "you guys should have been given a medal that night. It took guts what you did. Not many people would have done it."
"So what . . ."
"So, we have new orders for you," Delaney told them.
Gillis and Ricco just looked at each other. Was this a joke? Why would these two random a-holes they'd encountered briefly many years before track them down to Thule?
Norton handed them both a letter. Each was wrapped in red tape. Each was marked with the Presidential seal.
"See you soon, guys," Norton told them. "And don't forget to bring your suntan lotion."
With that, he and Delaney went out the door and disappeared back into the snowy gale.
Chapter 6
Central Iraq
Next day
The village of El Quas-ri was no more.
The place had stood on the same spot in Qaarta region of Iraq for more than four thousand years, existing more than two millennia before Christ walked the earth. The fountain in the main square had drawn water since the reign of Ebbenazzar III. The fields nearby had produced onions and rice since 2300 B.C.
It was strange then how quickly the end came. For centuries, the elders in the village had passed
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