Wraith (3 page)

Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri

24 September 2001

Tony Merigold sighed as he left the highway and turned toward the main entrance to the base. It had seemed a tragically fortuitous coincidence. Ten stealth bombers, loaded for bear and brimming with fuel—all manned with fresh alert crews at the moment the nation was attacked. Tony and Murph had waited an hour before any news came from the command post. Finally a runner had appeared at the base of their ladder with news of the attack. He told them the order was to wait. And wait they did.

For a full four hours twenty pilots sat in their loaded bombers, not one of them growing the least bit weary and every one of them dying to receive a go signal. But the go signal never came. They were ordered to shut down their engines. Then they were sent home to wait some more on telephone alert status, and, twenty-four hours later, even the telephone alert was canceled. That was two weeks ago.

As he passed through the gate, Tony glanced up at the historic B-29 that guarded the main entrance to Whiteman. It served as a reminder of his squadron's distinguished and somewhat controversial history. On 6 August 1945, two of the 393rd's B-29s had departed the island of Tinian in the South Pacific. A few hours later one of them, the
Enola Gay
, had dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, with the
Great Artiste
flying in a chase position as a scientific observation platform. Since then the Tigers had flown a variety of bombers: B-47s, B-52s, F-111s, and finally B-2s. But the
Great Artiste
remained an honorary member of the fleet, preserved as a testament to the squadron's heritage.

Nearly every morning since his arrival at Whiteman six months before, Tony had slowed to admire the old bomber as he passed through the front gate, but not lately. For the last two weeks he'd hardly noticed it at all, hurrying past on his way to the squadron, anxious to find out if America had come any closer to striking back.

The squadron building was a large, brick-covered structure that the Tigers shared with 325th Squadron's Cavemen—more reminiscent of a maximum-security prison than a flying squadron. A ten-foot fence covered in motion sensors and topped with concertina wire surrounded the facility while unseen eyes packing unseen weaponry monitored the perimeter.

It took Tony fifteen minutes to work his way through multiple layers of security and climb the stairs to the squadron level, where a large preserved tiger—fixed in midstride with head lowered, as if stalking unwary prey—guarded the door. He placed his hand on the tiger's glass case. “Well, girl,” he said quietly, “we took a big hit. Do you think we'll ever go out and settle the score?”

The tiger, whose name was Autumn, looked back with empathetic eyes but stoically held her tongue. Tony sighed. “I don't know, either.”

Murph met Tony as he entered the squadron's weapons office, raising his hand for a high five. Tony hesitantly reciprocated. “What's up? Are we finally going to war?”

“Not yet, but when we do, you and I are crewmates for night one.” Murph held up his hand again.

“
That's
what I'm talking about.” Tony threw his high five with more fervor this time. At least things were getting serious enough for the commanders to set down a crew schedule. Murph explained that the colonels had laid out the framework for the first few missions. The two of them had not just made the list, they'd been handpicked to go in on the first night.

The excitement of Murph's revelation wore off as hour after hour passed with no other news. Tony found it difficult to focus on his work as the assistant weapons officer. He spent the rest of the day picking at bomb inventories, waiting for a phone call that would order him to send those bombs to the planes. But the phone call never came. Soon it was time to go home—another day of inaction for America while jihadists the world over laughed out loud.

As Tony trudged across the parking lot on the way to his car, another pilot grabbed him by the arm. “Hey, Captain America, we've been looking all over for you.” The man's lips spread into a crooked grin. It wasn't malice. He had a three-inch scar left by a wayward hockey puck that always distorted his smile, hence his call sign—Slapshot.

Still smiling, Slapshot jerked his head toward the officer's club across the street. “There's a meeting in five. You don't wanna be late, do ya?”

Tony hadn't heard about any meeting but he dutifully followed his fellow Tiger over to the O club. Slapshot held a side door open for him. “Hurry up, dude. Through here.”

Tony hesitated. “We're not going through the main entrance?” Scar or not, that smile looked devious. And he knew that this particular door led to the small billiard room at the rear of the O club bar, not the conference room where officer meetings were usually held. What kind of briefing took place at the back of a bar?

He didn't have much time to think about it. Slapshot became impatient, grabbed him, and shoved him through the door. Tony stumbled into the room and gaped at what he saw.

Every pilot from the Tigers stood at attention along either side of the billiard table. Murph, rather than the commander, stood at the head. He wore an absurd, tiger-patterned robe and held a sledgehammer like a king holding his scepter. Mugs of beer and soda lined the table. Slapshot smacked Tony on the back, closed the door, and took his place among the others.

“Attention to orders!” bellowed Murph. “Let it be known to all these present that Lieutenant Tony C. Merigold has successfully demonstrated the dedication and skill required of a combat-ready Tiger.” Murph locked eyes with Tony. “Lieutenant Merigold, you have been deemed worthy by the unruly mob before you . . .”

Murph trailed off and there was an awkward pause. “Ahem . . .
the unruly mob before you
 . . .” he repeated, looking disapprovingly at the others.

The pilots took the second cue and let out a series of grunts and grumbles to imitate the unruly mob their leader had mentioned, their low rumblings growing into an uproar before Murph held up his scepter in a call for silence.

“As I was saying,” Murph continued, “we now deem you worthy of joining the Tiger Pride, and therefore we must christen you with an appropriate tactical call sign. Come forward!”

The other pilots started shouting once again and propelled Tony toward the front of the room. Someone handed him an oversized shot of brown liquid. Without thinking, Tony tossed it back, and immediately another was placed in his hand. He gave Murph a confused look, but his crewmate offered no explanation. Instead, Murph picked up an ancient lacquer box and walked ominously in his direction.

*   *   *

Tony woke up on his own couch the next morning to the sound and smell of bacon sizzling in his kitchen.

“I hope you don't mind,” said Murph, “but I took the liberty of raiding your fridge. You hungry?”

“Most definitely not.” Tony struggled to a sitting position. “Did you stay here all night?”

“Had to. You were in a bad way when I drove you home; too bad to be left alone. You've got to get yourself a wife.”

“I'll get right on that,” said Tony, trying to force a smile, “but who needs a wife when I have you?”

“Cute. You remember anything?”

Tony squeezed his eyes shut, trying to overcome the pounding in his skull. “I remember that you named me Drake, citing something about my naked exit from the alert tent looking like a baby lizard emerging from a leathery egg.”

“Well, at least you remember your name.” Murph waved a set of tongs in Tony's direction like a wizard wielding a magic wand. A drop of grease splattered on the tile at his feet. “You are the mythical Drake, the young dragon, born into the world with great promise for combat.” He winked. “I came up with that one. And I'm particularly proud of it so don't let it go to waste.”

“Drake.” Tony repeated the name, as if trying it on.

Murph turned back to the stove. “It could have been much worse, Drake. Some guys get named after fish. You remember anything else?”

“Just that there was way too much booze and a ritual involving a pair of sweat socks that have been with the squadron since Vietnam.”

The older pilot chuckled over his pan. “Good memory. Most guys block that part out.”

Both men fell silent for a while, listening to the sizzle and pop of the bacon.

“Murph?” said Drake, finally breaking the silence.

“Yeah?”

“We're gonna get him, aren't we? I mean Bin Laden, and the rest of those Tally-whatevers—we're gonna take 'em down, right?”

“Yeah, Drake, we'll get ‘em. You and me, bud. We just need someone in D.C. to man up and make the call.”

Spangdahlem Air Base, Germany

Nick felt detached from history, watching his country move along the path to war and wondering whether he'd be permitted to take part.

In the first two days after the attacks he and McBride had compiled a report on Bin Laden and Al-Qaeda for the Wing Intelligence Office. In it, Nick theorized that Tariq al-Majid was one of the primary planners of the attacks, making Iraq a potential secondary battleground. Al-Majid had recently been sighted crossing into Iraq from Turkey, which was consistent with reports that he was Bin Laden's liaison to Baghdad. Nick's report initially received a lot of interest from the local brass, but it was shelved when the order to go to war hadn't come.

For two weeks, the pilots heard nothing about the war. Then Nick's commander, whose tactical name was Redeye, called a meeting.

All thirty-six pilots gathered excitedly in the squadron auditorium, certain that Redeye would finally announce they were headed for Afghanistan. Instead, like a doctor giving a room full of patients bad news, the commander informed them that the Joint Chiefs had decided to leave the American forces in Europe entirely out of the war. They were being held in reserve in case a new front opened up.

The air of anger and frustration was palpable.

After the meeting the pilots returned to their duties with their heads hung low in disgust. Nick felt impotent, emasculated. He didn't just
want
to go to war against the terrorists; he
needed
to go to war.

“Shake it off,” said a short, wiry major, patting Nick on the back. “We've got a flight to brief.” He opened the door to a small briefing room and stood to one side as Nick and two other pilots filed in.

Major Hector “Oso” Garcia was the 81st Fighter Squadron's weapons officer. Like many, Oso's tactical nickname was misleading. Early in his career, someone had thought it an entertaining incongruity to tag the diminutive Hispanic pilot with the Spanish word for bear. Political correctness was for PR officers, not for pilots.

Nonetheless, Oso was well respected within the squadron. He was a graduate of the USAF Weapons School, the Air Force equivalent to the Navy's Top Gun. As the weapons officer, he was the squadron's chief instructor pilot and the commander's trusted adviser on all issues of tactical importance. He was a gifted fighter pilot, a knowledgeable tactician, and an even match for Nick at the base jujitsu club, despite Nick's twenty-pound weight advantage.

The small briefing room was stuffy and cramped, much too small for four grown men. Its worktable was also small, and the three pilots seated there looked as if they'd been banished to the children's table at a Thanksgiving meal.

Standing at the front of the room, Oso seemed oblivious to the others' discomfort. He slowly detailed the contingencies of the training mission, covering all the reasonable what-ifs that could occur, like radio failures, in-flight emergencies, and a downed flight member. Finally, he switched to the tactical portion. He laid a map on the table and pointed to a line that snaked through the interlocking valleys of southwestern Germany. “This is our route for ingress, and this ridgeline on the edge of the Rhine Valley marks the forward edge of the battle area—the line of scrimmage, if you will. Keep your Hogs five hundred feet off the deck, masking against the ridgeline, and climb only for radio relay. Things are always easier if we can avoid being seen.

“Our ground contact is Snake One Five, played by Second Lieutenant Joe Forester. I sent Forester out this morning to scout targets and told him to be somewhere near the small town of Böchingen.” Oso grinned. “That means we'll find him within a hundred yards of the pub on the east side of town. Snake One Five will pass us target coordinates and tack our eyes on for confirmation.”

After another twenty minutes discussing tactics, Oso asked for questions. When nobody spoke up, he turned to the youngest pilot in the room. “Collins, are you sure you've got the plan? We need to get you fully qualified in case the brass change their collective mind and let us into this fight.”

Nick glanced up from the map and looked over at the young wingman. The primary purpose of the day's mission was training for the kid, Brent Collins, who was not yet qualified for combat missions. Oso would be grading his performance, and no wingman ever wanted to screw up in front of the weapons officer, but Collins had even greater cause to be nervous. He had already failed three mission qualification flights since arriving from the schoolhouse. If he failed another one, Redeye might send him to a cargo unit.

Brent looked at the maps in front of him as if they were written in Chinese. “Uh . . . no questions, sir. I've got it.”

*   *   *

On the way to the crew van that would take them to the aircraft, the fourth pilot, Bug, slowed his pace, holding Nick back as well. A look of concern clouded the huge Nebraskan's face. “You think Brent is ready for this? He didn't look very confident in there.”

“He's just scared of Oso,” said Nick, offering a half smile. “We're not doing anything today that he hasn't done twenty times already at the schoolhouse, right?”

“What about the Irish Cross?”

Nick stopped walking at the mention of the complex tactical maneuver. Oso had briefed it as one of the tactics they'd be using, but its intricate design would definitely stretch Brent's capabilities. Up ahead Oso and Brent had already reached the van. The major tapped his watch and beckoned to them.

Nick waved back and pushed Bug onward. “It's Oso's mission,” he said, lowering his voice. “I'm sure he knows what he's doing.”