Line of Control - Tom Clancy [49]
"Asked people I've worked with about my habits and potential weaknesses." "That's right," Nazir told him.
"So you didn't entirely trust the minister's judgment about bringing me onboard," Friday pointed out.
Nazir smiled again.
"I said I knew everyone in the Black Cats. The minister is not one of my commandoes."
"I see," Friday replied.
"That was still sloppy. You told me something about yourself, your methods, who you trust.
That's something a professional shouldn't do."
"You're right," Nazir replied evenly.
"But how do you know I wasn't testing you to see if you'd notice what I did?"
The captain offered his hand.
"Good night."
"Good night," Friday said. He felt the flush of embarrassment and a trace of doubt as he shook Nazir's hand.
The Black Cat Commando turned then and walked into the night, trailing a thick cloud of smoke behind him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
Alconbury, Great Britain Wednesday, 7:10 p. m.
Mike Rodgers was looking at files Bob Herbert had emailed from Op-Center when the giant C-130 touched down at the Royal Air Force station in Alconbury. Though the slow takeoff had seemed like a strain for the aircraft, the landing was barely noticeable. Maybe that was because the plane shook so much during the trans-Atlantic flight that Rodgers did not realize it had finally touched down. He was very much aware when the engines shut down, however. The plane stopped vibrating but he did not.
After over six hours he felt as if there were a small electric current running through his body from sole to scalp. He knew from experience that it would take about thirty to forty minutes for that sensation to stop. Then, of course. Striker would be air bound again and it would start once more. Somewhere in that process was a microcosm of the ups and downs and sensations of life but he was too distracted to look for it right now.
The team left the aircraft but only to stand on the field.
They would only be on the ground for an hour or so, long enough for a waiting pair of hydraulic forklifts to off load several crates of spare parts.
The officers of the R. A.F referred to Alconbury as the Really American Field. Since the end of World War II it had effectively been a hub of operations for the United States Air Force in Europe. It was a large, modern field with state-of the-art communications, repair, and munitions facilities.
Since every base, every field, every barracks needed a nickname, the Americans here had nicknamed the field "Al."
Many of the American servicemen went around humming the Paul Simon song,
"You Can Call Me Al." The Brits did not really get the eternal American fascination with sobriquets for everything from presidents to spacecraft to their weapons-Honest Abe, Friendship 7, Old Betsy. But Mike Rodgers understood. It made formidable tools and institutions seem a little less intimidating. And it implied a familiarity, a kinship with the thing or place, a sense that man, object, and organization were somehow equal.
It was very American.
The members of Striker walked down the cargo bay ramp and onto the tarmac. Two of the Strikers lit cigarettes and stood together near an eyewash stand. Other soldiers stretched, did jumping jacks, or just lay back on the field and looked up at the blue-black sky. Brett August used one of the field phones standing off by the warehouse. He was probably calling one of the girls he had in this port. Perhaps he would bail on the team and visit her on the way back. The colonel certainly had the personal time coming to him. They all did.
Mike Rodgers wandered off by himself. He headed toward the nose of the aircraft. The wind rushed across the wide open field, carrying with it the familiar air base smells of diesel fuel, oil lubricant, and rubber from the friction-heated tires of aircraft. As the sun went down and the tarmac cooled and shrunk, the smells seemed to be squeezed out of them.
Whatever airfield in the world Rodgers visited, those three smells were always present. They made him feel at home.
The cool air and very solid ground