Hebrew. And though she was not fluent in Arabic, she knew enough to grasp some of the Quran’s poetry. How marvelous it must be to a native speaker.
When Mahsoud finished praying, he began to leaf through the Quran. Then he stopped, looked down, and picked up Gold’s camera. He began reviewing the photos again, and Gold moved closer to see. Now he was looking at the cockpit shots. He stopped on the one with Dunne at the flight engineer’s panel.
“What is that on his table?” Mahsoud asked. “It looks like the portable computers all you Americans carry.”
“I do not think it belongs to Sergeant Dunne,” Gold said. “It is part of the airplane, and I believe it is affixed to that table.”
“Can it send and receive things on electronic mail?”
“It can. It has brought us a lot of bad news today.”
“Teacher,” Mahsoud said, “I have an idea.”
9
T he fighters flew above and ahead of Parson now. They appeared so small he could hardly distinguish them from blemishes on the windscreen until they turned in their own holding pattern. Then their wing flash revealed them as a pair of scythes arcing through the sky.
“Air Evac Eight-Four,” the lead fighter called. “Gunfighter’s bingo fuel again. We’re going to have to drop into Rota for gas. Somebody will catch up with you later. Best of luck, sir.”
“Copy that,” Parson said. “Thanks.” For nothing.
The F-15s began to descend. To Parson, it seemed they were dropping to an ocean floor he could never reach.
He wondered if they would see anything of the C-17 that had disappeared. A column of smoke or dark smears on the ground. All that remained of thirty-one passengers and the crew. Rota command post interrupted his thoughts.
“Air Evac Eight-Four, Matador,” called a voice on the radio.
“Go ahead, Matador,” Parson said.
“Sir, I’m sorry to tell you this, but the Spanish authorities don’t want you landing here. TACC is working on a reroute.”
Parson shook his head, muttered, “Son of a bitch,” before pressing his TALK switch. Then he said, “Do they understand we’ve already diverted from Germany?”
“I think they do, sir.”
“Do they understand this airplane is coming down somewhere sooner or later? Or are they going to revoke gravity, too?”
“Our base commander says he’s doing all he can. He’s even contacted the embassy.”
Parson looked across at Colman, back at Dunne. “Can you believe this shit?” he said over the interphone. Then he transmitted: “Air Evac Eight-Four copies all.”
What is wrong with these people? Parson wondered. Fifty-six lives on the line up here, and all those suits can think about is how to make the problem go somewhere else. That’s why the world is so fucked up.
Parson switched over to HF and called Hilda. The latest dip clearance problem wasn’t TACC’s fault, but he was annoyed enough that he dropped the “sirs” when the DO came on the air.
“Where do you want us to go?” Parson asked.
“We’ve found you a good place not too far from where you are now. We want you to divert to the old space shuttle abort landing site in Morocco.”
“Isn’t that field closed?” Parson asked.
“It is, but the runway’s still there, and it’s nice and long.”
Parson reached down into his publications bag and thumbed through a listing of airfields. “It doesn’t seem to be in the IFR Supplement,” he said. “Can you get us any data?”
“We’ll send you something on satcom,” the DO said.
Parson looked out at the sinking sun. He took off his aviator’s glasses. The horizon glowed red like a bar of iron heated on a forge.
“Do you at least know if the runway lighting there is still operative?” he asked. “It’ll be getting dark soon.”
“The flight manager is checking on that.”
“What about some guidance from EOD?” Parson said. “We can’t descend for landing until we deactivate this thing.”
“They’re still working on a course of
When Mahsoud finished praying, he began to leaf through the Quran. Then he stopped, looked down, and picked up Gold’s camera. He began reviewing the photos again, and Gold moved closer to see. Now he was looking at the cockpit shots. He stopped on the one with Dunne at the flight engineer’s panel.
“What is that on his table?” Mahsoud asked. “It looks like the portable computers all you Americans carry.”
“I do not think it belongs to Sergeant Dunne,” Gold said. “It is part of the airplane, and I believe it is affixed to that table.”
“Can it send and receive things on electronic mail?”
“It can. It has brought us a lot of bad news today.”
“Teacher,” Mahsoud said, “I have an idea.”
9
T he fighters flew above and ahead of Parson now. They appeared so small he could hardly distinguish them from blemishes on the windscreen until they turned in their own holding pattern. Then their wing flash revealed them as a pair of scythes arcing through the sky.
“Air Evac Eight-Four,” the lead fighter called. “Gunfighter’s bingo fuel again. We’re going to have to drop into Rota for gas. Somebody will catch up with you later. Best of luck, sir.”
“Copy that,” Parson said. “Thanks.” For nothing.
The F-15s began to descend. To Parson, it seemed they were dropping to an ocean floor he could never reach.
He wondered if they would see anything of the C-17 that had disappeared. A column of smoke or dark smears on the ground. All that remained of thirty-one passengers and the crew. Rota command post interrupted his thoughts.
“Air Evac Eight-Four, Matador,” called a voice on the radio.
“Go ahead, Matador,” Parson said.
“Sir, I’m sorry to tell you this, but the Spanish authorities don’t want you landing here. TACC is working on a reroute.”
Parson shook his head, muttered, “Son of a bitch,” before pressing his TALK switch. Then he said, “Do they understand we’ve already diverted from Germany?”
“I think they do, sir.”
“Do they understand this airplane is coming down somewhere sooner or later? Or are they going to revoke gravity, too?”
“Our base commander says he’s doing all he can. He’s even contacted the embassy.”
Parson looked across at Colman, back at Dunne. “Can you believe this shit?” he said over the interphone. Then he transmitted: “Air Evac Eight-Four copies all.”
What is wrong with these people? Parson wondered. Fifty-six lives on the line up here, and all those suits can think about is how to make the problem go somewhere else. That’s why the world is so fucked up.
Parson switched over to HF and called Hilda. The latest dip clearance problem wasn’t TACC’s fault, but he was annoyed enough that he dropped the “sirs” when the DO came on the air.
“Where do you want us to go?” Parson asked.
“We’ve found you a good place not too far from where you are now. We want you to divert to the old space shuttle abort landing site in Morocco.”
“Isn’t that field closed?” Parson asked.
“It is, but the runway’s still there, and it’s nice and long.”
Parson reached down into his publications bag and thumbed through a listing of airfields. “It doesn’t seem to be in the IFR Supplement,” he said. “Can you get us any data?”
“We’ll send you something on satcom,” the DO said.
Parson looked out at the sinking sun. He took off his aviator’s glasses. The horizon glowed red like a bar of iron heated on a forge.
“Do you at least know if the runway lighting there is still operative?” he asked. “It’ll be getting dark soon.”
“The flight manager is checking on that.”
“What about some guidance from EOD?” Parson said. “We can’t descend for landing until we deactivate this thing.”
“They’re still working on a course of
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