kind of half-gasp. "Why?"
Norton sat back and relaxed a bit.
"During Desert Storm, you were the best in our outfit," he told Delaney matter-of-factly.
"That's bullshit," Delaney shot back. " You were the top man. You were the squadron gunslinger, for Christ's sake. We followed you in—not the other way around."
"OK," Norton replied. "I was good at getting to the target and getting the weapons onto it. But you were better at getting us the hell home."
Delaney started to protest—but stopped. It was true, he couldn't argue. Whenever the unit went out and things got hairy—be it bad weather, nighttime, Gomer flak, or all three—they all turned to him and he always led the way home. Truth was, he didn't know how he did it most of the time. He'd just pointed his jet south, followed his nose, and brought the pack home, which, despite all their navigation and homing equipment, was still a difficult thing to do at times.
"OK," Delaney said at last. "I'm a hound dog. So what?"
Norton leaned in closer again.
"So my new friends say we might need someone who's good at getting home again."
"You are using that as the royal 'we,' I hope?"
"Not necessarily," Norton replied.
Delaney sat back and thought a moment. "Man, you're giving me the creeps. Are you saying you want me to get mixed up in whatever bad spy novel you've found yourself in?"
"Yep," was Norton's succinct reply.
Delaney finally drained his cup.
"Well, as much as I hate doping around some White House asshole's cat, I'm also smart enough not to volunteer for anything," he said.
Norton just shook his head. "This isn't a volunteering situation."
"What do you mean?" Delaney asked.
"Well, like I said, when I jumped on board, they asked me who I wanted with me and I told them you," Norton replied.
"So?"
"So you know that letter I got from your boss, the President himself?"
Delaney nodded.
Norton reached into his jacket pocket, took out an envelope, and placed it on the table in front of Delaney. It was red and was sealed with red tape.
"Well," Norton said, "he wrote one for you too."
Chapter 5
Thule, Greenland
Next day
At noon on what was the warmest day of the year so far in Thule, Greenland, it was thirty-four degrees below zero and the wind was howling at forty-five knots.
This was typical weather for the isolated U.S. Air Force base this time of year. It was located just a few hundred miles from the North Pole, and anything above fifty below and below fifty knots windspeed was considered downright balmy.
That didn't mean the weather was enjoyable, though. Just about everyone who wasn't on duty at the frigid base was either asleep or at the Exchange Club, a combination PX, restaurant, barbershop, and bar.
In the past, at any given time as many as two thousand Air Force personnel could have been found at Thule. But a lessening of Cold War jitters had reduced the base's profile to little more than a pinprick in the snow. It was once a stopping-off point for massive B-52 bombers on nuclear-alert exercises, interceptors keeping an eye on Soviet recon planes, or perhaps something more exotic like the occasional U-2 spy plane dropping in for some gas. Now Thule was a place only the unluckiest of pilots found themselves diverted to.
Among the reduced number of inhabitants these days, the talk always concerned the weather, the snow, the cold. By far the most exciting thing that had happened at the base in years was a recent rash of UFO reports. Bright lights had been seen zipping back and forth across the horizon. Some red, some bright blue, they were said to be doing some fantastic things in the sky, especially over the mountains to the north.
The base commander finally had to issue a directive informing all base personnel that officially nothing unusual was flying anywhere near the base and that it was best that the UFO talk dry up and everyone go back to concentrating on their mission—which was staying warm. The UFO reports faded after that,
Norton sat back and relaxed a bit.
"During Desert Storm, you were the best in our outfit," he told Delaney matter-of-factly.
"That's bullshit," Delaney shot back. " You were the top man. You were the squadron gunslinger, for Christ's sake. We followed you in—not the other way around."
"OK," Norton replied. "I was good at getting to the target and getting the weapons onto it. But you were better at getting us the hell home."
Delaney started to protest—but stopped. It was true, he couldn't argue. Whenever the unit went out and things got hairy—be it bad weather, nighttime, Gomer flak, or all three—they all turned to him and he always led the way home. Truth was, he didn't know how he did it most of the time. He'd just pointed his jet south, followed his nose, and brought the pack home, which, despite all their navigation and homing equipment, was still a difficult thing to do at times.
"OK," Delaney said at last. "I'm a hound dog. So what?"
Norton leaned in closer again.
"So my new friends say we might need someone who's good at getting home again."
"You are using that as the royal 'we,' I hope?"
"Not necessarily," Norton replied.
Delaney sat back and thought a moment. "Man, you're giving me the creeps. Are you saying you want me to get mixed up in whatever bad spy novel you've found yourself in?"
"Yep," was Norton's succinct reply.
Delaney finally drained his cup.
"Well, as much as I hate doping around some White House asshole's cat, I'm also smart enough not to volunteer for anything," he said.
Norton just shook his head. "This isn't a volunteering situation."
"What do you mean?" Delaney asked.
"Well, like I said, when I jumped on board, they asked me who I wanted with me and I told them you," Norton replied.
"So?"
"So you know that letter I got from your boss, the President himself?"
Delaney nodded.
Norton reached into his jacket pocket, took out an envelope, and placed it on the table in front of Delaney. It was red and was sealed with red tape.
"Well," Norton said, "he wrote one for you too."
Chapter 5
Thule, Greenland
Next day
At noon on what was the warmest day of the year so far in Thule, Greenland, it was thirty-four degrees below zero and the wind was howling at forty-five knots.
This was typical weather for the isolated U.S. Air Force base this time of year. It was located just a few hundred miles from the North Pole, and anything above fifty below and below fifty knots windspeed was considered downright balmy.
That didn't mean the weather was enjoyable, though. Just about everyone who wasn't on duty at the frigid base was either asleep or at the Exchange Club, a combination PX, restaurant, barbershop, and bar.
In the past, at any given time as many as two thousand Air Force personnel could have been found at Thule. But a lessening of Cold War jitters had reduced the base's profile to little more than a pinprick in the snow. It was once a stopping-off point for massive B-52 bombers on nuclear-alert exercises, interceptors keeping an eye on Soviet recon planes, or perhaps something more exotic like the occasional U-2 spy plane dropping in for some gas. Now Thule was a place only the unluckiest of pilots found themselves diverted to.
Among the reduced number of inhabitants these days, the talk always concerned the weather, the snow, the cold. By far the most exciting thing that had happened at the base in years was a recent rash of UFO reports. Bright lights had been seen zipping back and forth across the horizon. Some red, some bright blue, they were said to be doing some fantastic things in the sky, especially over the mountains to the north.
The base commander finally had to issue a directive informing all base personnel that officially nothing unusual was flying anywhere near the base and that it was best that the UFO talk dry up and everyone go back to concentrating on their mission—which was staying warm. The UFO reports faded after that,
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