He simultaneously plucked a fresh Kleenex with his free hand to wipe his runny nose. “Hello,” he mumbled, half asleep, propping himself on one elbow. “Major Grant.” “Buck, get back to the base pronto. We’ve got an alert.” It was the duty officer from the squadron. “Ah, bullshit, give me a break,” Grant groaned, sitting up. He took a swig from the water glass that he had almost tipped reaching for the phone. The water didn’t relieve the sticky taste in his mouth. “I flew last night. Then the debrief took all morning. I got a cold that’s busting my head open.” “This is a no-shitter, Buck. Code Sierra. I can’t say any more.” The sudden click left Grant staring incredulously at the handset. Code Sierra? What the hell? He hung up and looked at the clock radio sitting next to the phone. A little after two thirty in the afternoon. At least he had got a few hours’ sleep. He eased his six-foot-three body out of bed and grabbed another Kleenex, throwing the used one on the floor amid a growing heap of pink and blue.
