And if Tom Kelly could do something to help with the problem, then it was about the first time in twenty years he’d been tasked to do something he really believed in.
It occurred to Kelly that he might simply get lost in the sprawling airbase.
Third TAF was one of the two combat divisions of the Turkish Air Force, and the bureaucracy at its Diyarbakir headquarters was both extensive and unfamiliar to the American. If all went well, someone in Washington would shortly be sending a message about Tom Kelly to someone in Diyarbakir Air Division. Whom the recipient was going to be, and through what combination of Turkish, NATO, and American channels the message would be delivered, were both questions at whose answer Kelly could not even guess; and that meant that he hadn’t the faintest notion as to where on the base he ought to be waiting to be noticed when the time came.
The veteran smiled as he approached the main gate of the airbase again, visualizing the end of the world in nuclear cataclysm while Turks sped through the halls and grounds of the great airbase, too intent on what they understood were their own duties to pay any attention to the American screaming himself hoarse.
Like a lot of things, it didn’t cost any more to laugh.
In the hours since Kelly had driven the borrowed pickup out the main gate, there had been some subtle changes. Instead of a squad on duty to check IDs, there was a platoon – and the earlier relaxed atmosphere was gone. A barrier of concertina wire on a tube-steel frame had been swung across the road, and behind it waited an open-topped Cadillac-Gage armored car with an airman ready at the pair of pintle-mounted machineguns.
The guards must have recognized the truck’s markings, and a few of them probably recalled Kelly himself driving away in the vehicle. Whatever word was out regarding the world situation – nothing on local civilian radio, Kelly knew from sweeping the shortwave and AM band with his portable – it had sure convinced Third TAF to raise its state of readiness.
Three airmen and a lieutenant with automatic rifles were waiting outside the barrier. They ran to the truck from both sides as soon as Kelly stopped, and the way their guns pointed caused him to get out and remove his card case with slow, nonthreatening motions.
It made his decision as to where to wait relatively easy, however.
While two airmen peered at the – empty – bed of the pickup to make sure that it was not packed with explosives and acetylene tanks, Kelly handed his Turkish ID to the lieutenant.
“Sir,” the American said in the officer’s own language, “sometime in the next – I don’t know, it might be a day” – it might be never, but there was no point in thinking that – “there are going to be orders sent regarding me. Then things will have to move very fast. For now, I think it’s best that I remain here at the gate, outside if you prefer. But it is absolutely critical that the Officer of the Day and the head of base security both be informed immediately that I am here, and that I’ll stay right here until sent for.”
He paused, but before the Turk could frame a reply, Kelly added, “In addition to the name on this card, they may come looking for Thomas Kelly.”
Elaine would very likely have been furious had she known Kelly was carrying his own North Carolina driver’s license with him, but there were times you simply had to have real ID. The Lord only knew which of Kelly’s various cover names the Pentagon would reference him under – assuming the message had gotten through – but at bottom, they would probably include the real name.
Kelly gave the driver’s license to the officer; if it saved only five minutes in the course of the next twenty-four hours, then five minutes could be real important.
“One moment, please,” the lieutenant said. His lips pursed and he frowned as he looked at the cards, practicing the unfamiliar names under his breath. Then he walked back to the regular guard post, stepping through the narrow gap left between the gate post and the barbed wire barricade.