Free Collateral Damage by Dale Brown Page B

almost always plenty to choose from. The host kitchen here, run by the Italian air force, operated under a different philosophy. There were only two entrées.
    On the other hand, either one could have been served in a first-class restaurant. The dishes looked so good, in fact, that Turk couldn’t decide between them.
    â€œI would try the sautéed sea bass with the arancine and aubergine, ” said a woman in an American uniform behind him. She was an Air Force colonel. “Or get both.”
    â€œI think I will. Due, ” he told the man. “Two?”
    â€œEntrambi?” asked the server. “Si?”
    â€œI don’t—”
    â€œYes, he wants both,” said the colonel with a bright smile. Turk couldn’t remember seeing her before. “Tell him, Captain.”
    The server smirked, but dished up two plates, one with the bass, the other with quail.
    Turk took his plates and went into the next room. The tables were of varying sizes and shapes, round and square, with from four to twelve chairs. They were covered with thick white tablecloths—another thing you wouldn’t typically find in a base cafeteria.
    He picked a small table near the window and sat down. The window looked out over the airfield, and while he couldn’t quite see the tarmac or taxiing area, he had a decent view of aircraft as they took off. A flight of RAF Tornados rose, each of the planes heavily laden with bombs—probably going to finish off the airfield the government planes had used the day before.
    No one wanted to talk about that encounter, Turk thought to himself. The briefing had been little more than an afterthought.
    Oh, you shot down four aircraft. Very nice. So tell us about this massive screwup.
    By rights, Turk thought, he ought to be the toast of the base—he had shot down four enemy aircraft, after all.
    â€œI see why you took two meals,” said the woman who’d been behind him in the line. “Hungry, huh?”
    Turk glanced down at his plate. He was nearly three-fourths of the way through—he’d been eating tremendously fast.
    â€œI didn’t have breakfast,” he said apologetically.
    â€œOr dinner yesterday, I’ll bet. Mind if I join?”
    â€œNo, no, go ahead. Please,” said Turk. He rose in his chair, suddenly embarrassed by his poor manners.
    She smiled at him, bemused.
    â€œYou don’t remember me, do you?” she asked, sitting.
    â€œI, uh—no. I’m sorry.”
    â€œGinella Ernesto.”
    â€œI’m Turk . . . Turk Mako.”
    He extended his hand awkwardly. Ginella shook it.
    â€œYou were involved in the A–10E program at Dreamland,” she said. “You briefed us. My squadron took the planes over.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œStill think the Hogs should be flown by remote control?”
    â€œUh, well, actually I like the way they fly.”
    Ginella laughed. The A–10Es were specially modified versions of the venerable Thunderbolt A–10, far better known to all as “Warthogs,” or usually simply “Hogs.” The aircraft had begun as A–10s, then received considerable improvements to emerge as A–10Cs shortly after the dawn of the twenty-first century.
    The A–10Es were a special group of eight aircraft with an avionics suite that allowed them to be flown remotely. There were other improvements as well, including uprated engines.
    â€œWe had met before,” added Ginella. “I waxed your fanny at Red Flag last fall.”
    â€œYou did?”
    â€œYou were checking out a Tigershark. I was flying a Raptor. Masked Marauder.”
    Turk had been at a Red Flag, but as far as he could remember, no one had gotten close to shooting him down—which was what Ginella’s slang implied. But she didn’t seem to be bragging and he let it slide.
    Besides, though a good ten years older than he was, she was very easy on the eyes.
    â€œHow do you