Going Deep

CHAPTER 25

When Michael Knowlington was young, the sky was a romantic place, full of possibilities and speed. Then it became a place for defying death; the rush-in-your-face seat-jolt he got nearly every time he went up was like an addict’s fix. For a brief time it was an extension of his mind and body, reaching out into the future and the past in the same motion. Then it became an ugly place, a place that told him how old he was, how useless.

Now it was just the sky, empty and gray. Colonel Knowlington stared at it, alone at the edge of the runway, the only place he had to himself on the massive base.

The truth was, Knowlington had expected to lose at least one pilot, and probably more. They’d all survived, and the preliminary reports on their missions were glowing. Now, the last Hog straggled in. It was Dixon in the A-10A patched together at Al Jouf. He felt himself overcome by emotion. He walked a few feet further along the runway, making damn sure no one else was around.

Tears dripped from his eyes. He bent his legs, lowering himself down in an Indian crouch as the flow became uncontrollable.

He couldn’t have picked out a specific reason. He didn’t know any of these men very well, with the exception of Mongoose, his operations officer. And yet he knew them all too well, as well as the Blazeman, Cat and Clunker.

Each a wingman. Each dead.

An F-4 Wild Weasel Phantom, diverted to the base because of mechanical problems, squealed in behind the Hog. The familiar whine of its engines as it touched down, the squeal of its wheels, the heavy suck of oxygen through the pilot’s mask snapped Skull’s head straight up.

He was back in the Philippines, months after his second ‘Nam tour had ended with his splash in the Tonkin Gulf. Still younger than most of the men he trained, he’d already gotten the hot-shot star tag and the medals to justify it.

Knowlington had been standing at the edge of a strip like this one day when he saw a Phantom smack down, just implode right there on landing. No one really knew why it happened; mechanical failure of some sort, since the landing itself had looked perfect.

He’d been due to take that plane up, but a hangover and a sympathetic duty officer saved him. Only his second hangover in the service to that point, a true accomplishment.

It had taken forever to unlearn the lesson he thought he learned that day.

Knowlington pushed himself past the memories, past regrets, back to the present. A chill whipped across the back of his neck. It startled him; the chill was familiar, though he hadn’t felt it now in a long, long time.

He had a job to do; it was time to stop wallowing and do it.

CHAPTER 26

Captain Bristol Wong jumped from the chopper a good five feet before it hit the ground. He was higher than he thought. A lot. But he was so annoyed at being here he didn’t let it bother him. His legs sprung a bit, absorbing the shock, then steadied as he half-walked, half-ran from the commandeered army Huey. The exasperated pilot mouthed a silent curse — Wong had been a less than ideal passenger, even for an Air Force officer — and skipped away without touching down.

It took Wong several minutes to get himself pointed in the direction of the 535^th tactical fighter squadron, and considerably more time for him to arrive at the ugly clump of trailers that served as its headquarters. Scowling at the hand-painted “Hog Heaven” sign nailed near the front door, he barged inside and strode down the hall, looking for Colonel Michael Knowlington, the unit commander. He was surprised to hear laughter coming from the squadron room, and even more surprised to find it dominated by several couches and a large-screen TV.

The fact that none of the officers inside could tell him where Knowlington was stoked his anger higher. He stomped into the hallway, nearly running over an airman who volunteered that he had seen the colonel near the runway some time before. The man was not otherwise helpful; it was only by sheer luck and some desperation that Wong managed to stumble across Knowlington inspecting several A-lOAs in the squadron’s maintenance area. The captain’s ill humor had long since passed from impatience to irritation. By now he knew he would never keep his evening dinner date in the foreign section of Riyadh; the deprivation riled him because he had been unable to contact his friend, which would undoubtedly make future dinner dates a difficult proposition.

Still, this was his first encounter with Knowlington, though he had of course heard of him; Wong coaxed as much energy as he could into seeming polite, giving him a false smile and a smart salute, then asked if they could speak in private.

“Shoot,” said Knowlington.

There were at least a dozen enlisted men, mechanical specialists and other grease monkeys from the look of them, within earshot. As far as Wong was concerned, anyone of them could have a cell phone and Saddam’s home number in his locker.

He shook his head, trying to retain the veneer of politeness. He did, after all, respect Knowlington’s rank. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, sir,” he told him. “We need a secure room.”

“A what?”

“I have code-word material to discuss.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Sir?”

“Where are you from, Captain?”

“The Pentagon.”

“Don’t bullshit me, son. Are you with CENTCOM? Or what?”

“I’m afraid it’s ^‘or what’ sir, until we are in a secure facility.”

“You think there’s a spy crouching behind that A-10 over there?”

“I try to follow procedure, sir. I work for Admiral McConnell,” added Wong. McConnell — the head of Joint Chief of Staff’s J-2 — was a heavy, and mentioning his name always tended to soothe the waters.

Except now.

“So?”

“You do know who the admiral is, sir?”

Knowlington’s expression left little doubt that he did — and could care less. “You know what, Wong? I have about three thousand better things to do than stand here and be unimpressed by you. Either make me interested real fast, or disappear.”

It’s because I’m Asian, Wong thought. The geezer scumbag flew in Vietnam, so he thinks I’m a gook.

He’d run into that before. Not a lot — most officers were extremely professional, especially when they saw his work product. But every so often there’d be an old-timer who wanted to tell him to go back to commie land.

“Sir, this has to do with one of your men,” he said, feigning a note of concern. “Could we discuss it in your office?”

Knowlington looked like he’d eaten a peach pit as he finally put his feet into motion.

The crisply pressed fatigues were what pissed Knowlington off.

He could deal with someone who went around with a stick up his ass — just nod and listen. Being uptight didn’t necessarily make you a jerk; plenty of excellent pilots and commanders were by-the-book pricks.

But a fucking captain who ironed his slacks and spit-polished his boots in a war zone belonged to a special class of idiot.

Knowlington’s office door wasn’t locked. Not that Wong was surprised.

The colonel pulled out his simple metal chair from the desk and waved Wong into the other. “Shoot,” he told him.

“Colonel, we have a report that one of your pilots was hit by an SA-16.”

“Captain Glenon. That’s right.” Knowlington nodded. “Did a kick-ass job getting that plane back. Wait until you see it.”

“I’d like that very much. I would also like to speak with him as soon as possible.”

“Why?”

“I’m investigating the missile strike.”

Knowlington’s face screwed up. “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Colonel — ”

“No, wait a second Wong. This whole production is about a shoulder-fired missile? You marched me back here to find out who it was? Are you shitting me? We’re fighting a war.”

“Colonel, I^’ve had a long day and… ”

“You’ve had a long day?”

“Perhaps we should start from the beginning. I am Captain Bristol Wong; I’m from Joint Staff/J-2 intelligence, on loan to General Glossom in Riyadh. My area is weapons, Russian weapons in particular. One of your pilots reported being hit by an SA-16. Naturally, I’m here to check it out.”

“What do you mean, naturally?”

“Saddam Hussein doesn’t have SA-16s.”

“Says you,” sneered Knowlington.

“No, actually, sir, I don’t say any fucking thing at all,” snapped Wong, his patience finally gone. “As far as I know, Saddam shoots down planes by putting his head between his legs and farting.”

Knowlington’s angry expression evaporated with a sheet of laughter. “Jesus, Wong, you had me going there. I thought you were a real tight ass. Your uniform threw me off.”

“My uniform?”

The colonel shook his head. “You’re a fuckin’ funny guy. I didn’t realize you were busting my chops back at the hangar. I’m sorry. I’m a little tense, I guess.”

“But — ”

“You have to be careful though; a lot of people don’t have our sense of humor. Not when they’re tired, at least.” Knowlington waved Wong’s perplexed protests away. “What’d you do to get sentenced to J-2? Screw somebody’s wife? I mean, you’re on the level about that, right?”

The captain turned red — which made Knowlington laugh and clap him on the shoulder as he rose from his chair.

“Ah, the admiral isn’t that bad,” said the colonel. “I mean, for a Navy guy. Fucking sailors. Working for the joint chiefs’11 help your career. No really. Don’t take it so hard. As long as you don’t pull this kind of stuff on the wrong guy. Who put you up to it? Sandy?”

“I, uh… ”

“Come on, let’s go get you some coffee and find Glenon.” He stopped short, suddenly serious. “Let me ask you, though: What do you know about Hog drivers?”

“Well, uh, nothing.”

“You’re not shitting me this time?”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

“Good men, all of them, but a breed apart. I mean that in a weird way, but good weird. They all have a little bit of a grudge, because, hell, a lot of people put the plane down. And by extension, them. Shit, I’ll tell you the truth,” Knowlington added as he ushered him out of his office, “I thought the Hog was a piece of crap when I first saw it. Swear to God. You check the records. I was on an advisory board that said get rid of it ten years ago. No shit. But now, I have to tell you, I’m a believer. Damn converted. Every one of those suckers came back today. You should see Doberman’s plane. Glenon, that’s Doberman — the guy who took the SA-16.”

“Colonel… ”

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t exist.” Knowlington nearly doubled over with laughter. “Jesus, you’re a ball buster. I have to tell you, though, you made my day. Broke me right up. You remind me of a couple of guys I knew in Vietnam. Your dad in the Air Force?”

“Navy, sir.”

Knowlington laughed even louder. “Glenon’s probably around Hog Heaven somewhere. What a fucking ball-buster you are,” he added, leading him down the hallway.

Wong decided it was best not to set the record straight on that particular point, and followed silently.

CHAPTER 27

Even Clyston was amazed at the amount of damage on the A-10 Doberman brought in. While the structure of the wing was intact — a miracle in itself — a good chunk of the surface panel was gone or chewed up, with the nearby interior guts twisted beyond recognition. It looked nearly impossible to fix.

Which was why he’d called the Tinman in.

“I don’t know, Chief,” said the Tinman. The ancient mechanic — rumor had it he had worked on Billy Mitchell’s planes in World War II — shook his head. The Tinman had an odd accent, though no one could figure out where it came from. Besides dropping the occasional verb, he stretched out words in odd ways.

“I don’t know, Chief,” said the mechanic. “You want a new wing.”

Wing, in Tinman’s mouth, sounded like “wink.”

“Nah,” said Clyston. “We don’t need a whole wing. Come on, Tinman. You got spare parts. Use them.”

“Chief. Demolition derby cars I’ve seen in better shape.” Tinman shook his gray head. He stood about six and a half feet tall and weighed perhaps 160 pounds. “You could slap new sheet metal on it, maybe, but heck. I don’t know.”

“See, there we go. Now you’re getting creative,” said Clyston. “Georgie and his guy’s’11 get the new motor up while you’re taking care of the wing. What do you think, a couple of hours?”

“Days, Chief. Days. We could fly in a new wing.”

“No time for that,” said Clyston. “I need this plane tomorrow.”

“I don’t know, Chief.”

“Just as a backup.” Clyston turned his palms to heaven. “No big deal. Come on, Tinman — I’m counting on you here. I know you can do it. We’re in a war.”

The Tinman shook his head again, but then he put his bony fingers to his face and pinched his nostrils together — the sign Clyston had been looking for.

“Good man,” the capo di capo told him. “Tell me what you’ll need and it’s yours.”

“A new wing.”

“Besides that. Ten extra guys?”

“Maybe some coffee.”

“Good man.”

CHAPTER 28

Captain “Doberman” Glenon had long since left Hog Heaven. He would, in fact, have been celebrating his safe return home with a very sound sleep had it not been for A-Bomb, who was standing over his bed, urging him to get up and party.

“Screw off,” said Glenon. “Get out of my tent. I’m tired.”

“Doberman, you are one lucky motherfucker. You have to celebrate.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Anybody else would have been shot down.”

“I call that skill.”

“You’re on a roll, man. It’s time to celebrate. Come on, let’s hit the Depot before it wears off.”

“I’m not going near Depot for the rest of the war.”

“Well at least come and play cards. Shit, I want to sit next to you.”

“Why, so you can look at my hand?”

“So your luck rubs off on me. Hell, man, today’s the day you win the lottery.”

“Damn it A-Bomb, leave me alone. I^’m not lucky. I’m unlucky.”

“How do you figure that?” asked Mongoose, coming into the room.

“Doesn’t anybody knock anymore?” complained Doberman.

“I did. The canvas doesn’t make much noise,” said the major. “What are you doing in your underwear?”

“I was trying to jerk off until A-Bomb got here.”

“Aw, you always let me watch,” said A-Bomb.

“No shit, I got something serious to talk about,” said Mongoose, pulling over a small camp chair.

The major amenity of Doberman’s tent was its cement slab. He and the other Devil squadron pilots had arrived at King Fahd far too late to command any of the good berths. After a few days, the fact that they were living in tents had become a point of honor among them. They voted to refuse the offer of better quarters — trailers being considered moderately better — when it was made.

Doberman hadn’t been present for the vote. No one took his request for a recall seriously.

“What do you think I ought to do about Dixon?” Mongoose asked.

“What do you mean, do about him?” said Doberman.

“He fucked up.”

“He lost me because my radio went dead,” said Doberman.

Mongoose shook his head. “No. It was more than that. He totally missed SierraMax, didn’t call in, didn’t answer the AWACS until he was halfway back to Al Jouf.”

“Jeez, Goose,” said A-Bomb. “Give the kid a break. None of that’s worth hanging him on. He got turned around. You know how garbled the radio transmissions were. All his Mavericks scored.”

“He could have cost Doberman his life,” said the major. “He should have been on his back when the Mirage jumped him.”

“Aw Geeze, leave the kid alone,” said Doberman. “It was my fault.”

“Your fault? How the hell do you figure that?”

“I should have looked for him after my bomb run. Things got busy. I didn’t realize the radio was screwed up.”

“I don’t see how it was your fault,” said Mongoose. “You’re lucky you’re alive.”

“Stop calling it luck!” shouted Doberman.

A-Bomb listened to the two pilots debate what had happened on the mission for a while longer. They were rehashing what they’d said at the debriefing without going anywhere, and finally he just left. Mongoose seemed bent on keelhauling Dixon — though he never specified how — and Doberman was determined to defend him. Both men were getting angrier by the minute.

A-Bomb had little patience for formal debriefings, let alone this bullshit. He was just deciding whether to find the poker game or slip into The Depot when Colin Walker, one of the clerks assigned to squadron supply, ran up to him with a pair of envelopes.

“These just got here,” said the clerk. “I didn’t know they had Federal Express in Saudi Arabia.”

A-Bomb nodded solemnly as he took the package.

“You gonna open it?” Colin asked.

“Can’t out here, kid. Sorry.”

Colin’s eyes opened wider than the opening on a sewer pipe. “Classified?”

A-Bomb leaned toward him. “I didn’t say that, right?”

“No, sir. Never. Jeez, what’s in there?”

“Did you see the manifest?”

“No, sir. I mean, well, you mean the air bill? Says it’s from D.C.”

A-Bomb winked, then turned quickly and walked to his tent.

Which quickly filled with the aroma of McDonald’s as he ripped open the envelope.

With the help of a few old friends, A-Bomb had managed to have a happy meal overnighted to Saudi Arabia. Two Big Macs, extra large fries and strawberry shake.

Separate bags, of course. To keep the shake cool.

As he finished his first Big Mac, A-Bomb wondered if there was some way to get his Harley over. Not by Fed Ex, of course. That was the sort of thing you left to UPS.

CHAPTER 29

Dixon debriefed with one of the intelligence officers in the hangar area. He answered questions about the bomb damage and other questions about the mission succinctly, with as little detail as possible. It helped that the officer had already spoken with the others and written the report. Over-burdened, the lieutenant was as anxious as Dixon to be done with the interview.

Dixon told him he’d fired the Mavericks very poorly, no matter what the tape showed. He told him about seeing the radar dish and then losing it; he admitted that his memory now was so hazy it might not even have been a dish — especially since they now were pretty sure Doberman’s missile had blown it to pieces. As for the cluster bombs, he said he hadn’t seen them hit, and frankly doubted they had done much damage, because he knew he had pickled them from too high an altitude. Their fuses had undoubtedly ignited too high, causing the bomb pattern to disperse too widely.

Leaving out the details about how he’d panicked and run away might not have been lying, but he felt inside like he had committed high treason. The only thing worse was the cowardice that had led him to it.

The pilot slipped away, then wandered aimlessly through Tent City, working off the raw anxiety churning in his stomach. When anyone greeted him, he either shrugged or looked beyond them, continuing on.

He did this for more than an hour. Finally realizing he was hungry, he started in search of food, then lost interest. Somehow, he found himself in the canvas GP or general purpose tent he shared with two other lieutenants.

It was empty. Erected on a concrete pad, the tent and its furnishings were an odd mix of monkish austerity and modern luxuries. His pillow was a scavenged sack filled with T shirts; one of his “bunkies” had shipped in a stereo setup worth several thousand dollars. The stereo nightly accounted for half of the unit’s theoretical power allotment.

Dixon sat on the edge of his cot, the mission replaying over and over in his head. He’d been fine, cocky even, until Doberman pushed ahead to start his Maverick run.

He followed. They started taking flak very, very high unaimed triple-A, much thicker than had been predicted.

The next thing he knew, he was in a cloud of gunfire, a few feet from making a permanent impression on Iraqi real estate. Everything streaked together in a nightmare blur.

He was such a god damn great pilot — how could he panic like that? How could he screw up? That wasn’t him.

William James Dixon never ever screwed up. He had an A average through high school, and was summa cum laude in college, even with a heavy athletic schedule. Aced every test from grade school to flight school.

And failed the only one that counted.

How many linebackers had tried to shake him up on the gridiron, get him to lose his cool? Couldn’t happen.

But it had.

Dixon took his silver Cross pen from his pocket and stared at it, working the point up and down with his hands by slowly revolving the casings. His mother and father — his mom, really, since dad was pretty much shot by then — had given him the pen for his high school graduation.

She was an odd woman, his mom. Hard working and loving, but the kind of person who kept her only son at arm’s length. She’d never been too crazy about his joining the Air Force, even though he’d talked about flying jets since he was nine or ten. It was the only way he could afford college, one of the rock bottom goals she’d given him; still, there was a certain look on her face whenever he wore his uniform.

What the hell was he going to do? Ask to be grounded?

Maybe Major Johnson had already done that.

What sense was being in the Air Force make if he couldn’t fly?

He wasn’t scheduled for another mission until Saturday. Johnson would undoubtedly be on his ass before then. He didn’t buy what Dixon had told him. Who could blame him?

And Colonel Knowlington. A no-bullshit bona fide war hero, with two flying crosses and a piece of shrapnel in his back for good measure. A couple of guys whispered that he was a washed out drunk, and everybody knew he had been assigned to command the Hogs more or less by accident — but hell, he’d earned those medals.

Sitting on his bunk, Dixon fought the bile that kept creeping up his throat. He’d never been much of a drinker, but he considered it now, only to decide it would depress him more. Sleep was impossible. He’d read nearly everything in the tent, including the mattress labels, at least twice. Finally his eyes fell on the pile of “Any Servicemen Letters” on a nearby footlocker. The CO had suggested that squadron members take a few at random and respond; good for morale at home. A clerk had delivered the lieutenants’ modest allotment of two letters apiece the other day; since then, the six letters had been moved only to get to the gear stored in the footlocker.

Dixon picked up the top two and took them to his bed. He fished out a yellow pad, and began reading.

The first letter was from a fifth grader in Florida.

An easy one, Dixon thought, beginning to write:

His pen stopped; he considered for a second being completely honest with the kid; tell him how bad he’d choked.

As if he didn’t have enough trouble. He continued:

The second writer had enclosed a photograph of herself; she was nineteen, attractive, and Dixon suspected she was looking for a husband. She wrote in frank terms about how lonely she was back home and how happy she was to have this chance to cheer someone up. The photo would undoubtedly supply someone with several weeks worth of fantasies; Dixon slipped the letter and snapshot back into the envelope.

In its place, he found one written in a shaky hand on unlined white paper, obviously labored over, with cross-outs and corrections.

Finished reading, Dixon stared at the letter a while, the shaky blue letters blurring into a haze. Finally he folded it and put it back into its envelope. He started to put it back in the pile, then stopped; he slid it into his pocket. Getting up from the cot, he told himself maybe having a drink wasn’t all that horrible an idea.

CHAPTER 30

Colonel Knowlington decided to help Wong find Doberman himself. Ordinarily, he didn’t like guys who worked in intelligence or for the joint chiefs, but this one had a quirky sense of humor that made it impossible not to.

“I have to confess that I don^’t know Captain Glenon all that well,” Knowlington told Wong as they wove their way toward the pilot’s quarters. “This unit has only been together a few weeks. But he’s a short guy, really short, and I’d be careful about his temper. Short guys always have quick fuses. Plus, he’s going to be tired.”

“I try to be professional at all times,” pronounced Wong.

Knowlington smirked. “See Captain, that’s what I’m talking about. You and I get the joke, but he might be a little sensitive, you know? Tread lightly.”

Now he got it. Knowlington realized that Wong reminded him of his first Phantom backseater, Jay Dalton, a snide-talking, sharp-eyed prankster whom he’d first met in the Philippines. Jay, a major at the time, was only so-so as an RIO, but a world class cut up. And he’d made general before he retired.

“This is his tent,” he announced. The lights were on, but he held Wong back. “Have to knock first.”

“Colonel?”

“Knock, knock,” Knowlington announced in a loud voice. “Hey Doberman, you decent?”

“Go away,” growled a voice inside.

Knowlington winked, then led the way. Major Johnson was sitting on a camp chair across from Doberman, who had his arms over his eyes, trying to block out the light.

“Tommy, I got somebody here from Black Hole who wants to talk to you about the missile you took in the wing.”

“Aw fuck,” growled Glenon. “Can’t anybody see I’m sleeping?”

“Wong’s a good guy,” said Knowlington. “He won’t take long.”

“Why are you here?” asked Johnson.

“Who are you?” said Wong.

“Oh, excuse me. Major Johnson, Captain Wong,” said the colonel, making the introductions. “Mongoose is the squadron’s director of operations. He led the flight.”

“I’ll want to talk to you, too,” said Wong. “But I would prefer to do this one at a time to avoid interview contamination.”

Knowlington started to laugh. “Come on, Mongoose. I want to talk to you about something. We’ll be outside,” he told Wong, adding, to no one in particular. “He’s a pisser, isn’t he? Interview contamination. Shit!”

“Don’t get up,” Wong told the prone figure on the cot.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Your name is Doberman or Glenon?”

“It’s Glenon. Doberman’s just what they call me. After the attack dog?”

“Oh.” Wong sighed. He had never understood what the deal was on pilot’s nicknames. “Okay, now, tell me what happened.”

“When?”

“When the alleged missile hit you.”

“Go take a look at my plane if you don’t believe me.”

“Please, Captain, I have a job to do. From the point you were fired on.”

“You’re not taking notes?”

Wong shook his head. “I don’t think it will be necessary.”

The pilot described a low-level cannon attack, pretty much as the weapons expert expected. It sounded to him particularly careless, especially in light of the declaration that low-threat tactics — medium altitude bombing — were to prevail in theater. But he wasn’t here to offer a critique.

“Okay, Captain,” he said when the pilot began describing his egress toward Saudi Arabia. “Now, why are you calling the missile an SA-16?”

“Because that’s what hit me.”

“With all due respect,” Wong said, “you’ve just described an SA-7. Think about it. You were below a thousand feet, you — ”

“I know where the fuck I was. And I know what hit me.”

“There’s no need to use profanity, Captain. Did you see the missile actually go through the wing?”

“Now how the fuck would I do that?”

“Did you see the missile at all?”

“Of course not. But it had to be an SA-16. There’s no way in the world a fucking SA-7 is going to survive all that jinking. No way.”

“Are you sure there wasn’t a second missile?”

“From where?”

“The ground.”

“Give me a break, would you?”

“Are you sure you were able to perform the maneuvers precisely as you remember?’’

“Hey screw you, okay?”

Wong sighed. Patiently, he began to explain how important his investigation was to the war effort, how critical it was for other pilots to know what sorts of defenses they were facing so they could adjust their tactics accordingly. Realizing he was dealing with someone who was tired, the captain consciously chose words with the least number of syllables possible to convey his meaning. He had gotten through the first half of his first sentence when the pilot interrupted him.

“What the fuck do you know about missiles?” demanded the pilot.

“I know a great deal about them,” said Wong. “I’ve written three papers and… ”

“Go write another one and let me sleep.”

“What’s that all about?” Mongoose asked Knowlington as soon as they were outside the tent.

“Some jerk in Riyadh doesn’t think Saddam has SA-16s. Wong has to prove them wrong. We went through this shit in Vietnam,” Knowlington added. He kicked himself as that slipped out, but was powerless to stop the words.

“Whatever hit him wasn’t an SA-7. It stayed with him too long.”

“Yeah, Wong’s on it. Don’t let his deadpan fool you.”

Johnson frowned, giving off a hint of disapproval but saying nothing. Talking to him, Knowlington always felt as if he had to justify himself.

He felt that way with a lot of people, actually; it was just more acute with Johnson.

“You wanted to talk about something?” the major asked.

“Apparently our eastern GCI site is still on the air.”

“Yeah, I know.” Johnson’s voice had an edge to it, as if Knowlington was accusing him of screwing up. He wasn’t.

“I’m wondering if you think the squadron should ask to take another shot at them,” said Knowlington, trying to step lightly.

“I was thinking about it.”

“We can swing Smith and… ”

“I want to lead it myself.”

“Okay.” Knowlington nodded. “They may want it hit soon, though.”

“So?”

In theory, pilots were supposed to have a decent rest between missions, but Knowlington didn’t push the point. He would have felt the same way. Besides, it was all moot until he talked to Black Hole and the general.

“I don’t think it was a fuck up,” added the colonel.

“Why not?”

Johnson’s snap surprised him so much Knowlington took a step backwards. “I’m just saying, this happens… ”

“Dixon froze.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he lost it. He panicked. I saw it in his eyes. He came back like a rabbit in shock. I found him puking out his guts beneath his plane.”

“Glenon didn’t say anything about that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my responsibility.”

And mine, Knowlington thought. “Is that why you had them switch planes?”

“I would’ve had them do that anyway.”

Knowlington nodded. “First time in combat can be pretty tough.”

“It was the first time for all of us.”

“You’re not blaming him for the station still being on the air?”

“No, of course not. But he lost Glenon. He should have been there when the mirage jumped him. Hell, Doberman’s lucky to be alive.”

“You don’t think the radio going out had something to do with that?”

“He still should have been on his butt.”

Knowlington really couldn’t argue with that. Except — well, shit happens. “What’d you have in mind?” he asked.

“I want him to sit down, for starters. Take him out of the cockpit.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think? What did he tell you happened.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“He was very vague.”

Knowlington began rocking gently on his feet, considering the situation. “Something bothering you, Goose?” he asked.

“No.”

“You feel strongly about this?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s take some time and think about it. Saturday he’s flying?”

Mongoose shrugged. Knowlington saw Wong coming out of the tent. “He’s all yours,” the colonel said, leaving the major to be entertained by Wong while he went to find out how important the GCI site really was.

CHAPTER 31

A-Bomb nearly flattened Dixon as he stepped out of his tent.

“Whoa! what the hell are you doing out here, BJ?” he said to him, physically lifting him out of his path. “You trying to sniff Mickey D fumes?”

“Mickey D?”

“Got a shipment today. Big Macs, large fries. Should’ve gone for a double order, though. I’m still hungry.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, sorry, it’s gone. Check with me tomorrow.” A-Bomb took a step away. Dixon followed.

Until now, they hadn’t been particular friends. But Dixon wasn’t particular friends with anyone to be honest, not even the other lieutenants.

“Yo, kid, what’s up?” A-Bomb asked, realizing he was trailing him.

“Nothin’.”

“You want something?”

“A drink.”

A-Bomb laughed. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

“I do. Sometimes.”

“I’m on my way over to The Depot. Come on.”

Dixon fell in alongside as A-Bomb sauntered through the back alleys of Tent City. En route, he launched into an explanation of why the A-10A Thunderbolt II — also known as the Warthog, or Hog to those who knew her ugliness the best — was the finest warplane ever created, bar none.

“Maneuverability and toughness. That’s what it comes down to,” explained A-Bomb, whose dissertation was more like a rant than a lecture. “Those are the only things that count. Speed? Hey, that’s fine, you want to run away. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Turning radius. Get me into a one on one with a pointy nose, okay? Let’s call it a two-turn deal, all right? Hey, screw him, I’m inside, I’m on his tail, I’m signing my name with my cannon in two seconds, right? That’s what I’m talking about. Pick your plane. What do you want? Hornet? Okay, good choice. But I’m on it. I don’t care if there’s a marine in the stinking cockpit and he’s brought a Deuce with him. You know what a Deuce is, kid? It’s a .50 caliber machine-gun. Oldie but goodie. I’m going to get me one and strap it to my seat. Kind of thing that makes you want to eject, just to use it. Anyway, I don’t care who the hell is flying the damn plane, put Doolittle in the cockpit. Hey, put Knowlington in there, okay? In his prime, that is. You know, back in the old days. I’ll spot him a dozen rounds in my tail. Because as soon as I light up my gun, he’s a dead man. No shit. You think a Hornet could last as long as a Hog?”

“No.”

“Fuck no. That’s what I’m talking about. Hell of a nice airplane. Very nice screens. But stick and rudder? No, no, no. You were supposed to be in F-15s, right?”

“Well, not supposed to be… ”

“Yeah, I heard the deal. Too bad about your mom. But listen, let’s say you have an Eagle and a Hog, okay? Now I got to grant you the magic missile bullshit, but I’m not talking missiles at a million miles. I’m talking up close and in your face, where it counts. You know what I’m talking about?”

There were, of course, logical arguments to counter A-Bomb, but even if Dixon weren’t a Hog driver he wouldn’t have offered them. A-Bomb’s enthusiasm made it seem possible — hell, likely — that he could take apart anything he came up against in a dogfight.

Maybe that’s all I need, Dixon thought to himself. Enthusiasm.

But how do you get it? By eating Big Macs?

The older pilot seemed to know everyone he passed, no matter their rank or occupation. Occasionally he would stop and have a quick conversation. Dixon waited dutifully, nodding when introduced but inevitably saying nothing.

“Kind a quiet tonight, kid,” A-Bomb told him as they continued on. “Something eating you?”

“No,” he said quickly. But then he grabbed the older pilot’s arm. “Hey, let me ask you a question.”

“Shoot,” said A-Bomb, still walking along. His gait had a hop to it, like either he had just won the lottery or planned to that evening.

“You ever get scared?”

“Shit yeah. All the time. Why? You scared right now?”

“On the mission.”

A-Bomb snorted. “Only an asshole doesn’t get scared.” He slapped him on the back. “Come on. Let’s find you that drink.”

CHAPTER 32

The GCI site turned out to be very important: it had to be taken out tomorrow.

And, as a matter of fact, the mission planners at Black Hole were looking for someone to do it.

“We volunteer,” Knowlington told Al Harris, a young captain on the staff who happened to be a friend.

Actually, his father had been a friend. But Harris was a lot like his dad. Knowlington had helped him in some minor ways during his first year or so in the service, and they got along well.

“I have to have the general get back to you on it,” said Harris. “This is his call.”

“My guys would really appreciate it,” Knowlington told him. “And so would I.”

Five minutes later, the sharp, direct voice of the general in charge of planning the air war came over the secure line. Besides being one of the bright lights of the Air Force, the brigadier was a flexible if demanding officer who had been convinced early on that the Hogs had a place beside the glamour boys in waging the air war. He was also the kind of guy who got right to the point.

“Mike, you see your frag yet?”

“Just trying to make sure I have enough planes to fill it,” said Knowlington.

“And?”

“More than enough, General.”

“I hear your boys want to take a shot at that radar station near Mudaysis.”

“That’s right.”

“The dish itself isn’t the major problem. They’ve only come up once since your boys hit it, and we’ll have a weasel in the area tomorrow. But their anti-air guns are a problem.

“How’s that?”

We have to run a Special Forces unit through first thing in the morning. Looking for a downed Englishman. We’ve been scrambling to get everything together. We might make it without taking out the guns — there’s a bit of leeway. Still, I’d prefer not to cut it too close.”

Knowlington sucked air. The turnaround was going to be a major problem — not only for Mongoose, who wanted to be part of the group hitting the site — but for the rest of the squadron, which was already fully committed to other tasks. But he wasn’t going to back out now.

“No sweat,” he told the general. “We can take it.”

“Short notice.”

“Not for these guys.”

There was silence on the other end of the line as the general conferred with one of his staff members. “You’re going to have to hit the target around oh-six, six-ten, somewhere in there,” he said finally. “Harris will get the details.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” The general’s voice relaxed a little. “How’d it go today, old-timer?”

“Damn good. One of my guys got a missile right through the wing. Made it back.”

“Through the wing?”

“Blew a hole the size of a watermelon and the plane kept flying. Maintenance guys claim they’ll have it patched and ready to go tomorrow. By the way, somebody from joint chiefs came over to check it out. Apparently the pentagon doesn’t think the Iraqis have the latest Russian missiles.”

“Yeah, I know,” grumped the general. “Wong, right? Sorry, but we had to give him something to do.”

“Hell of a sense of humor.”

“Captain Wong?”

“Yeah. He had me rolling on the floor.”

“Really? Wong?”

“Reminds me of a guy I used to fly with. Very droll.”

“Say listen, Mike, can you use him for anything? He knows a hell of a lot about Russian weapons. Supposed to be the world expert. Outside of Russia that is. At least, he says he is.”

“He’s available?”

“Oh yeah. A lot of people bruising elbows bumping into each other over here. Guy like Wong? Well, let’s call him a fish out of water over here.”

“We can always use help,” said Knowlington.

“Borrow him for as long as you want. The admiral won’t mind.”

“You sure?”

“Use him for something important; cleaning latrines, if you have to.”

“Oh, we’ll find something better than that.”

The general’s tone abruptly changed. “Say, Mike, you’re not thinking of getting back in the air on this one, are you?”

Knowlington laughed, brushing aside the obvious concern in the general’s voice, brushing aside a mountain of unspoken reservations. The question hurt more than he expected; more than it would have yesterday, certainly. But he buried the resentment. “Well, maybe a few months from now. I’m afraid I’m the least proficient pilot on the base.”

“That’s an exaggeration, I’m sure.”

“These guys are good.”

“I know they are. I’m counting on them.”

It was Chief Master Sergeant Allan Clyston’s everlasting regret that his assignment here had come at what amounted to the very last minute. By the time he’d gotten to King Fahd, all of the good quarters were long gone; he had had to scrimp and practically beg for the bare necessities. Granted, he procured an over-sized temper tent for his home, but really, it was only the metal equivalent to a canvas GP job. He felt limited by the fact that it was equipped with only three air conditioners, though admittedly they were over-sized units. Since only one was actually necessary at any given moment, he alternated their use, but you could never have enough air conditioners in the middle of a desert.

The refrigerator was standard operating equipment, as was the freezer, though perhaps there had been a clerical misunderstanding about the nature of the medical supplies to be kept inside it. The sergeant had a prescription entitling him to a special over-stuffed mattress, though the particular unit in his tent had been intended for a staff officer until misdirected to Clyston; he deemed it wise to hold onto it until its proper owner could be located.

The large generator unit outside the tent was a squadron backup. Not the Devils’, actually; it belonged to a marine unit located at another base. One thing about the Corps; they always stowed their gear where it was safest.

The satellite dish had been rescued from a garbage heap and was currently undergoing “operational testing,” thanks to some video and television equipment which bore a serial number identifying it as Navy property. Clyston realized that its delivery here had been a clerical error, and had assigned one of his best men to check into the matter.

Actually, there was one non-military, non-accounted-for item in his quarters — a Laz-E-Boy recliner. But as transporting it out of the premises and off base would require the requisition of resources critical for the war effort, the sergeant thought it his duty as a non-commissioned officer to guard it until it could be disposed of.

He was headed for his tent and that very chair when two of his most trusted crew members — Kevin Karn and Bobby Marks — appeared from around the corner. He grunted in acknowledgment. They followed him inside, where they pulled up seats as he completed the chore he had put off all day; transporting the newest batch of C Brew to the fridge. When the twenty-four bottles of homemade porter were safely ensconced, he retrieved two bottles of his previous home-brewing effort — a passable pilsner, though perhaps too heavy on the hops — and handed them to his men.

“Thanks, Chief,” said Karn. “Not having one yourself?”

“I got some things to look after,” said Clyston. He took a Coke from the refrigerator and sat in his easy chair, pushing it backwards. “Bobby, hit the go switch on the stereo, wouldja?”

The young specialist complied, and the room exploded with a Mozart concerto. Clyston closed his eyes. The others, who knew better than to disturb him for the next five minutes, exchanged glances and sipped their beer. It was only when the capo di capo had reopened his eyes that Karn, who was about fourth down on the squadron’s NCO pecking order and Clyston’s personal work-it-out guy, ventured to remark that it had been a hell of a day.

“Sure has. Nobody broke my planes,” said Clyston, taking a swig of the soda. “Though Captain Glenon took a good run at it. How’s the one he tried to use as a missile catcher coming?”

“Tinman is kicking butt getting it back together,” said Karn. “Can’t beat the old-timers, I’ll tell you.”

Clyston smiled wryly. “Cursing a lot?”

“Big time. Says we need a new ‘wink’.”

The capo di capo laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds one.”

“Some Pentagon jerk wanted to inspect the damage,” added Karn. “Tinman gave him a slab of metal and chased him away.”

“Yeah, I heard. He gives you trouble, send him to me. Say Bobby, who worked on Major Johnson’s INS?”

Marks was only an E-3 and a bit undernourished, but Karn had taken him under his wing. The kid showed some promise in his chosen field of electronics, and had helped locate spare parts for a down television. He also prepared a frankly superb barbecue sauce that even now lingered on Clyston’s lips. It was that sort of versatility that made him a comer.

“Jeez, Chief, I’m not sure. Could have been either of a half-dozen guys.”

Clyston, who not only knew damn well that it had been Sanderson but knew that Bobby knew, nodded. The noncommittal answer combined tact with deference. The kid definitely had potential.

“Goose on the rag again?” Karn asked.

“Yeah,” grunted Clyston.

“Poor Parker.” Parker was Mongoose’s crew chief.

“He’ll leave Parker be,” said Clyston, taking another sip of his soda. “For now, anyway. Unless it happens again.”

“The avionics unit?” Bobby said.

“They’re all crap, but there’s something really screwy with his,” said Karn. “No matter what we replace or what we do, it gets whacked. Sometimes it’s a gyro, sometimes it’s a freaking contact, sometimes the whole thing is just, well, hexed. I’m thinking serious short somewhere, but damned if I can find it.”

“You tried?” Clyston asked.

“Half the damn squadron tried. The thing is, it passes all the stinking tests. It’s like voodoo. Parker and Sanderson both went over it with him,” added Karn. “You know, they told the major… ”

“I know what they told him. And I know what he told them,” said Clyston. “He’s right. This is war. It may be one of the few things he and I agree on.”

Clyston felt Johnson was a good pilot and a decent officer, but at times a bit too prissy. Plus, Johnson didn’t like Knowlington all that much; a serious character flaw, in the capo di capo’s estimation.

“Good beer, Chief,” said Bobby.

Clyston frowned. One thing he still had to teach the kid was not to be such a kiss-ass.

“What the hell hit Captain Glenon’s plane?” asked Bobby, realizing his error and trying to back track.

That earned a nod.

“Looks like he flew it under a drill press,” laughed Karn.

“Shoulder-fired missile. I’ve seen some strange ones,” said Clyston. They looked at him, expecting him to elaborate, but he wasn’t in the mood. “Glenon’s got to be the F-ing luckiest pilot in the wing. Anybody else, that would have taken out the fuel tank.”

“Couple inches further forward, it would have gotten the brace and snapped it in two,” said Bobby. “I heard… ”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come!” Clyston commanded.

Technical Sergeant Rosen squeezed her head inside.

“Rosen, get your fanny in here before one of those P-heads outside spanks it, and I have to file charges against them,” said Clyston.

“Hell, just take them out by the hangar and let Rosen have five minutes with them,” said Karn. “They’d wish they had a court martial.”

Rosen glared briefly at Karn before turning to the capo di capo.

“Help yourself,” Clyston said, gesturing to the refrigerator.

“No thank you, Sergeant.”

“How’d it go?”

“I fixed it.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Problems?”

“Not really.”

Clyston nodded. “Freddy take care of you?” He was referring to a friend of his who had arranged transportation for her out of Al Jouf.

“More or less.”

Clyston frowned. “All right. Tell me about it. You two shut your eyes,” he added.

“The co-pilot on the KC-130 coming back was a jerk. That’s it.”

“He’s going to complain?”

“He might.”

Clyston sighed. Hopefully, the man would be so pissed off he would go right to Knowlington. The colonel would nod seriously, scratch his chin, and promise to look into it. As soon as the door closed, he^’d shake his head, roll his eyes, and do what he always did about insignificant bullshit: forget about it.

“You didn’t break any bones, did you?” the capo di capo asked, trying to make light of the situation. But Rosen didn’t take the hint.

“I shoulda,” she said.

“Relax, Rosen. Come on, have a seat.”

She glanced at the others, deepening her scowl. “I have work to do, Sergeant.”

“The hell you do. Your shift ended hours ago.”

Rosen’s face flushed momentarily. She seemed genuinely touched by his concern.

Must have been the light.

“I caught a Herc back,” she told him. “Lucky timing.”

“I guess.”

“I heard Tinman needed help on Lieutenant Dixon’s plane, the one Captain Glenon tried to break,” she said.

Clyston nodded. One of these days he was going to adopt her. “Tinman may not let you help.”

“We can get along if there’s work to be done.”

“Your call. Good work at Al Jouf.”

She flushed again, but left before it was too noticeable.

“Lesbo, right?” said Bobby.

“Nah,” said Clyston. “She just has trouble getting along with people. Officers especially. Takes them seriously. That’s where the trouble starts, as a general rule.”

CHAPTER 34

Officially, the club didn’t exist.

Unofficially, it didn’t exist either.

But its thick, smoke-laden air was real enough. The bikini-clad Pakistani waitresses — with a few similarly dressed men thrown in to provide gender balance — were actual flesh and blood. Mostly flesh. The dim lights, live music, and flowing booze had a hallucinatory quality at first glance, but soon proved as physical as anything else here.

“Never been in The Depot before, huh Kid?” A-Bomb asked as he threaded his way through the crowd at the bottom of the entry stairs located just a few yards from the base property line.

“No,” said Dixon. He looked a bit like a five-year-old taking his first trip to the circus.

Or a whore house.

“Used to be a bomb shelter. I think. People get kind of bristly when you ask. My idea is, enough guys had enough wet dreams and it sprang together out of thin air. Or sand. Whatever.” He stomped Dixon’s shoulder to show he was kidding. “Here come on, this is my spot.”

A-Bomb slid in behind a round cocktail table in a corner. From here, he had a perfect view of the small stage, in case one of the unscheduled floor shows stoked up.

“Shit-faced, kid, that’s what we’re getting,” he told him. “And then, we’re going to have to cook you up a nickname. BJ sounds a little too, you know, suburban. You need something new.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. You need something that fits you. Finding the right nickname is a delicate art. How long have you had BJ?”

“All my life.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. Time for a change.” He motioned over a waitress in a black leather thong. “Pair of Buds,” said A-Bomb. “And maybe later, talk to the kid a little.”

“I’d love to,” she purred, running her fingers lightly across his head before disappearing.

A-Bomb laughed as the kid turned paler. “Lighten up, BJ. Hell, you were in combat today. You’re a man from now on. Cherry broken.”

“I don’t know.”

“Hey, relax. Uncle A-Bomb isn’t going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.” He leaned across the table. “And they all get shots once a week.”

Doberman found them sitting in A-Bomb’s favorite corner.

“How much have you guys had to drink?” he asked.

“Hello to you, too,” said A-Bomb.

The pilot pointed to the half-emptied bottles. “How many?”

“Relax,” said A-Bomb. “We just got here. I’ve had a sip and Junior’s been too interested in the floor show. You’ll catch up in no time.”

“I’m not catching up. Knowlington’s called a big meeting over at Cineplex.”

“For when?”

“Now.” Doberman glanced at Dixon. He expected to find A-Bomb here, but the kid — hell, he went to church services, for crying out loud. Doberman glared at him; Dixon, who looked paler than the albino strip artist on stage, remained silent.

Obviously in shock.

“No shit,” said A-Bomb. “What’s up?”

“The GCI site BJ and I hit this morning is still on the air. Apparently the stinking radar dish I hit didn’t stay hit. There’s a British flier on the ground somewhere near there that they want to rescue first thing in the morning, and the squadron’s been tasked to shack the shit out of the dish and the guns on the southern side.”

“Ouch. Who’s going?”

“Believe it or not, Mongoose wants to.”

“Figures.” A-Bomb pushed the beer away. “And here I thought I’d get some sleep. Oh well — who needs sleep when you can fly?”

“You’re going?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Doberman. “But I ain’t fucking happy about it.”

“Who’s happy?”

“You’re crowing,” said Doberman. “Like you’re happy.”

“Nah.”

“I’m going because it was my job in the first place,” said Doberman. “I screwed it up; I’ll fix it. You stay home.”

“Tie me to the fucking bed and I’ll bring it along,” said A-Bomb. “No way I’m not going.”

“I screwed it up,” blurted Dixon.

“Relax kid,” said Doberman. “Drink your beer.”

“I blew it. I saw the dish and then I lost it. I thought you took it out.”

“Hey, nobody blew it.” said A-Bomb. “You guys have to learn to deal with reality. Sometimes you miss.”

“You’re giving lessons on reality?” said Doberman.

A-Bomb started to say something, but then just waved his hand. “Let’s get back,” he said instead, standing. “How’d you know we were here, anyway?”

Doberman rolled his eyes, then stuck his finger into Dixon’s chest. “Him, I’m surprised about.”

“Hey, easy on the kid,” said A-Bomb. “BJ’s okay. Hell, he’s coming on the mission, too. Right kid?”

“I, uh — ”

“Look at his face, Dog Man. Kid’s a Hog driver. All we got to do is come up with a new nickname for him.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. But BJ sounds like he ought to be on Little House on the Prairie, don’t you think?”

Lieutenant Dixon followed along as they threaded out of the club, heart pounding wildly. It had begun as soon as he heard the words, British pilot.

He was being handed a chance to redeem himself. He had to get back in the sky and grab it. Everything he had been wanted to make it right.

But another part of him said no. Another part said stay home. You’ll never make it. You’ll screw up again.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of dying. He was afraid that he’d panic again. He felt his hands trembling as he gripped for the stair rail, climbing back toward the night air.

CHAPTER 35

Rosen found Tinman grumbling as he leaned head-first into the wing of the damaged Hog. In her opinion, his curses had a Celtic-Scandinavian lilt to them, though she was as clueless as anyone about his background.

“Sergeant Clyston asked me to help you out,” she called up.

Tinman grunted something in her general direction.

“What happened to the rest of your crew?”

“Go sleep. Tired.”

“What about you?”

“Work. Work,” he said, adding more unintelligible words.

Rosen surveyed the wing from the bottom. The hole had been squared off and the interior guts replaced — quick work, all things considered.

“Was the wing spar okay?” she asked.

“Checked out, yes,” he answered. “Bones okay. New lines. Check, check. Lots of work.”

I’ll bet, she thought to herself. Lots of work for a lot of people. And it wasn’t like this was the only A-10A that had been damaged — the plane Dixon had flown back was sitting not very far away, the last bullet hole being patched by an airman with a trusty drill set.

“Hey, Tinman, you got any electrical work that needs fixing?” she yelled up. “Otherwise, I’m going to bed.”

“New wink, that’s what we need,” grumbled the mechanic, pulling himself up. “But Chief doesn’t want to hear about it. Have to do this from scratch.”

“You put this aileron in by yourself?” she asked incredulously, looking at the large and obviously new wing section.

“No time to fool around,” he said, hopping down the scaffold. “Chief wants it flying tomorrow.”

“Chief is out of his mind.”

“You tell him.”

Not even Rosen would try that. “If there’s anybody who can fix it by then, it’s you,” she said.

“Thank you. I’m your friend, too,” he said, nodding. “How was Al Jouf?”

“Not bad. I was talking to one of our pilots there. Lieutenant Dixon. He’s actually kind of cute.”

Tinman shook his head, “Bad idea, sergeants and pilots.”

Rosen felt her face blush. “You need help or not?”

Something in the crusty old mechanics eye twinkled. “You help me find patch metal?”

“Patch metal?”

Rosen started to protest, but Tinman blinked mischievously. “Chief said we could have anything we need. Come, you can work acetylene with me.”

“Acetylene? Hold on a minute. Tinman? Where are you going?”

Rosen followed as the skinny old-timer walked briskly, not into the parts area, but back behind the hangar where a damaged C-130 had been stowed two days before, waiting for engine parts.

“Oh, Tinman,” she moaned. “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

“Why not? Need new wink.”

“Wing. You mean wing.”

He shook his head up and down, pointing at the big general cargo plane.

“You mean the C-130?” she protested. “That one doesn’t need a new wing.”

“It will,” he said. “Come on. Help me get torch. Then, we need some paint.”

CHAPTER 36

Mongoose nearly fell over when he walked into Cineplex and found it filled not only with all of the squadron’s pilots but a good portion of the NCOs as well.

“There you are, Major,” said Knowlington, standing at the front. He rocked a bit on his legs, smiling bashfully — as if Mongoose had caught him talking about him behind his back. A rough diagram of the GCI site Doberman and Dixon had hit had been sketched on the large easel behind him. “I was just bringing everyone up to speed on Mudaysis.”

Mongoose was so flustered he wasn’t sure what to say. Until now, Knowlington had pretty much left him to run the squadron. He actually felt disoriented, slipping into a seat near the door as the colonel relayed a generalized version of his conversation with Black Hole.

“I’m not going to kid you guys,” concluded Knowlington, “this isn’t an easy mission. It’s long and grueling, as the pilots who undertook it this morning can tell you. Cloud cover is going to be very low, which will make things a hell of a lot more dangerous. We have to hit the site at 0600. The helicopters will be coming through this way, close enough to get into trouble if something goes wrong. There’ll be a Weasel in the area, but the odds are the dish itself will stay off; it’ll be our job to make sure it sleeps permanently. Now, participation will be voluntary… ”

“Hey, I’m leading the flight,” said Mongoose.

Knowlington looked at him, nodding as if he had been going to suggest that.

“A-Bomb and me are going, too,” said Doberman. The pilot was sitting in the back of the room, arms folded and frowning. “And BJ. We’re the volunteers. We missed it and we’re going back to nail the mother fucker.”

He was so emphatic that no one stated the obvious objection — the pilots would have no, or nearly no, sleep before the mission.

Not that Mongoose would have let that stop him. But he would have used it as an argument to keep Doberman and A-Bomb home.

And as for Dixon, no way did he want him on the mission.

“That’s great guys,” said Knowlington. “But slow down for a second. We only have two planes. I think Johnson and Glenon, if they’re up for it, get the first shot. Rank and time of service.”

“I’m up for it,” snapped Mongoose.

“Great.”

Before he could say anything else, Knowlington swept the group into a discussion of tactics, as if they were all sitting around a bar discussing possible baseball trades. It wasn’t that anyone was saying anything particularly stupid or wrong. There were only so many ways to go after the radar dish and trailers. What Mongoose objected to was the discussion itself. Planning a raid wasn’t a team sport.

And given the sudden change in Knowlington’s behavior, it was impossible not to think he might have hit the bottle.

But he sure acted sober.

“Assuming we get these two guns here,” said the colonel, pointing to the board, “we go for the dish next. The question I have is, what else is left up there that we have to make sure we get?”

“Damned if I know,” said Doberman. “If the Maverick didn’t hit the dish, who knows what else we missed. I don’t understand how the missile could have screwed up.”

“Maybe the guidance didn’t,” suggested Captain Blake, one of the pilots with extensive weapons training. “It might be that it flew right through, if the fuse screwed up. So you’d just have a hole.”

“Could have just blown up part,” said another pilot. “But left enough for it to work, or at least send out a signal.”

“Maybe we should put the cannon on it,” said A-Bomb, talking like he was going to fly on the mission. “No way you miss with that.”

“Way too dangerous,” said Jimmy Corda, the squadron’s intelligence officer. He had come back a few days ago from serving as a liaison with Black Hole and had helped plan the original mission. “You’ll we walking through a minefield.”

“There’s a hell of a lot of triple-A,” said Doberman. “You go low enough to make sure you hit it, the plane’11 get fried. And the cloud cover’s supposed to be worse tomorrow than it was today.”

“We have to make sure we get hits,” said A-Bomb. “Hell, if we can’t trust the Mavericks, what can we trust?”

“There’s another dish!” blurted Dixon.

Everyone turned around to look at him. He’d been standing behind the couch, arms stiffly at his side.

“What do you mean, BJ?” asked Knowlington.

“I — when I started to make my second run with the Maverick, I saw a dish. It was strange, because I knew that Doberman had fired on it already. I didn’t think he could miss.”

“A second dish?” asked Corda. “It didn’t show on the photos.”

“Locate it for us,” suggested Knowlington.

Dixon walked slowly to the front of the room. Mongoose saw that his hands were shaking.

Kid was fried. He felt sorry for him. He’d had a hell of a lot of promise, but not the stomach.

“I don’t know,” said Dixon. He took the target photos the squadron had received, and the map, trying to correlate them and put the spot on the diagram. “Maybe this shadow. I–I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. If I could back up there and see — ”

“Let me see,” said Corda. He took the photos in his chubby fingers, examining them. “You know, if it is there,” he told Knowlington, “the satellite’s angle might have obscured it.”

“If there were two dishes instead of one,” said A-Bomb, “then it explains what the problem was. And it explains why the radar is still up when we know Doberman’s Maverick hit.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Doberman. “I didn’t see another one. But you know, the RWR got something that I couldn’t account for. Like a second dish being turned on for a quick second. I thought it was just a flakeout.”

“There are definitely two,” interrupted Wong. He walked to the front of the room with the intel photos. “The layout of the trailers gives it away.”

“In case you haven’t met him, this is Captain Wong, the newest member of the squadron,” Knowlington explained. “The captain came over working on a little intelligence project, and now he’s going to hang out with us a while.”

Wong’s head practically snapped off its neck in surprise.

“I just talked to the general and it’s all set,” Knowlington told him. He turned back to the group, ignoring Wong’s expression — which was somewhere between confused and ballistic. “Captain knows more about Russian weapon systems than the goddamn commies. Or ex-commies, excuse me. Come on, Captain, give us the spit.”

Wong stifled his objections and began explaining how Soviet intercept radars were configured; a few paragraphs into his lecture, one of the pilots cut him off. “So why didn’t Black Hole catch it?”

“It is camouflaged, as you noted. Some things even I cannot answer.”

“It’s not their job. They only get the sites and then dish them out in the frag,” explained Corda. “They don’t usually get so specific, like trailer A, not B. Besides, there’s a real disconnect between the planners and the intel people. Hell, I’m surprised we got this much data to begin with. Pictures, shit! Anybody here ever see photos in an A-10 strike folder?”

“Only of Goose’s wife,” said A-Bomb.

He was about the only one in the squadron who could make that crack and not get his butt kicked.

“You can target both dishes to make sure,” said Wong. “Let me make another suggestion,” he added, walking to the dry-erase board and its layout of the target area. Taking a black felt marker from his pocket, he pointed to two Xs in the lower left-hand corner, sites where 23 mm guns had been located earlier in the day. He added two more Xs, then moved his pen across the board and added several more.

“If I can see those photos again, please.” He waited while they were passed up, then once more began drawing on the board. “There are many more guns here than you have diagrammed. And they are not merely 23 mm weapons, though, of course those can be quite effective at low altitude, even if you jam the radars and they use optical aiming. Of greater importance for your strategy are these 57 mm S-6 canons. Very significant weapons. We can quibble about the guidance systems, but that is academic if you are hit, I assure you.”

He scratched his cheek. “The four at the south are all big ones. There are considerably more large-caliber weapons than the Iraqis usually employ. So they have you high and low. By high I mean for you; these guns are not particularly effective above, oh, we should say, thirty-five hundred meters. This is an interesting deployment, incidentally. The Russians use this pattern themselves every so often for a number of reasons… ”

He was about to list them, but changed gears at a glance from the colonel.

“The thing that is important is that they are effective at a much higher altitude and longer range than you have calculated,” he said. “If you are protecting your helicopters, you must consider that.”

“No shit,” muttered A-Bomb, just loud enough to provoke a nervous laugh from half the room.

Wong ignored it. “The configuration gives them very potent killing cones through eleven thousand feet. Even when optically aimed, they are bound to hit anything passing through these arcs.”

He drew a pair of thick cones that included the flight pattern Doberman took on his bombing run this morning.

“Those Xs at the bottom aren’t 23 millimeter?” asked Corda.

Wong shook his head. “This barrel configuration, do you notice it?”

“Looks like a cat’s whisker to me.”

“A very deadly meow. So you make your attack at six thousand feet, thinking you are safe, but you are not. Your plane had that problem today. They will be difficult to spot until they begin firing: you see how concealed they are. Most experts would miss it, thought of course not someone like me. Now, this camouflaging I have seen only in a few other places. I think that the idea came from a Major Andre… ”

“Yeah, okay,” said Doberman. “So what do you suggest?”

Wong smiled. “If you know where they are, you can attack them safely from a distance. For that, you must use their tactics to your advantage. If they acquire you here first,” said Wong, pointing at his X’s on the bottom, “and think you are attacking from this direction, all of the guns will be aimed in this arc. Let the radars think they have you. They all fire. Then you come quickly from the rear. You will have no less than ten seconds to make your attack.”

Somebody in the back whistled.

Wong shrugged. “Of course, sooner or later, they run out of ammunition. The Iraqi supply… ”

“Thanks Captain,” cut in Knowlington. “Okay, so we have four guns down here that have to go, plus the dishes. How do we get close enough to see them?”

“What if we tickle them at twelve thousand, look for the sparks, and then hit them?” suggested Corda.

“Then, we’d need more than two planes,” said Doberman. “The first two come in on the south, turn around, and the others nail the bastards.”

“You’re going to need four planes just to make sure you hit everything,” said Corda. “Can we take them off another mission?”

“This is more complicated than a stinking ballet,” said A-Bomb. “I say just pour on the gas and take out the mothers. Hogs weren’t made to bomb from twelve thousand feet. We got to get in the mud, man. That’s our job.”

“Our job is to take out those radars,” said Knowlington. “And to come back in one piece. Everyone. Wong’s idea makes a hell of a lot of sense. The problem is, we need four planes. Every Hog we have capable of flying is allotted.”

“We have two more,” said Clyston. “We’ve been holding back the two Hogs Captain Glenon tried to crash. We’ll have them ready by 0400.”

There were a few worried looks on the faces of Clyston’s sergeants, but none of them said a word.

“Not enough time,” said Knowlington.

Even pushing as fast as they could go, the Hogs would take close to an hour to get to King Khalid Military City; gassing up there would cost at least thirty minutes. Add an hour to Al Jouf, another pit, and then thirty to find the target — all of the times were optimistic, in everyone’s opinion. You were talking at least three and a half hours, with no margin for error and a hell of a lot of luck riding along as your wingman.

“You just know Al Jouf is going to be a mad house,” said A-Bomb. “Ask Dixon what it was like this afternoon.”

“Why stop at Al Jouf?” said Doberman. “If we refuel by air we can cut some time off.”

“And if we miss the tanker?”

“We won’t miss a tanker.”

“It’s dark outside, A-Bomb, or haven’t you noticed?”

“What if you went straight there from KKMC?” suggested Clyston. “You can make it if we lighten your load.”

Mongoose rose and got a calculator from the desk, working the numbers. He hated to admit it, but having the entire squadron involved in planning the mission generated a certain amount of energy that wouldn’t have been there if just a few of the pilots worked it out alone.

“The problem is, what do you leave behind?” asked Doberman.

Clyston poked one of the sergeants sitting next to him. “You go with only four Mavs apiece, no iron,” said the man. “That gets us to two and a half hours, pushing the speed north a bit. Even with a good time over the target, you can make it with about ten minutes of reserves to spare, assuming you refuel just over the border.”

It took Mongoose, pressing the calculator buttons madly, several minutes to discover the sergeant was correct.

“Ten minutes is tight,” said Knowlington. “And four mavericks doesn’t give us much backup.”

“The sergeant’s right about the time,” said Mongoose, looking up from the calculator. “But the planes have to go like hell to KKMC.”

“Four o’clock is still a half hour short,” said Knowlington.

“We’ll make it by 0300,” said Clyston. He caught a glance from one of his men and amended his prediction to 0330. “And what if we put six Mavericks on two of the planes? Just load up the triple rails.”

Clyston held up his hand as one of his weapons specialists whispered in his ear. They talked back and forth a second, then the capo-di-capo announced that they could work it out. Though designed as a triple rail, the launchers ordinarily carried only two Mavericks.

“Fuel-wise, it’ll work,” announced Mongoose. “The tank on the way out has to be a quickie, though, or the fourth plane drops into the sand.”

“Kind of risky,” said Corda. “I almost ran dry waiting on line this afternoon.”

“Me, too,” said Hobbes. “All these stinking Navy guys were waiting in line.”

“Go to separate tanker tracks after the attack,” suggested Wong.

It was one of those solutions so obvious everyone had missed it.

“You sure you’re from the Pentagon?” asked Clyston.

“Sure he is,” said Corda. “The pen he used on the dry-erase board is a permanent marker.”

As the meeting was starting to run out of steam, Mongoose leaned toward Knowlington. “I’d like to have a word.”

There was no mistaking the tone, but Knowlington took it mildly. He nodded, and gestured toward his office.

“You’ve got a beef,” Knowlington said when they got there.

“Several.”

“Shoot.”

“Number one, why the round robin discussion?”

“I thought getting everybody involved would be good,” said Knowlington. “And not just for morale.”

“Having the techs in… ”

“You don’t think they contributed?”

“I didn’t say that,” sputtered the pilot.

“I don’t think anyone abused the privilege. This was a special situation. What were the other things you wanted to say?”

“Dixon.”

“What about him?”

“I don’t trust him on the mission.”

Knowlington had expected to be questioned on the meeting, which had been a spur of the moment decision. He knew that Johnson’s real problem with it was that it signaled he was taking a much more aggressive role directing the squadron than he had until now. Not that he wasn’t doing his job, just that he hadn’t really done it until now.

He’d felt tentative, out of his element with the unfamiliar planes, an old pilot good for nothing more than initialing requisitions. Watching the Hogs land had somehow changed that.

It was natural that the major, who’d more or less been filling the void, would have his nose slightly out of joint. But that didn’t account for his feelings about Dixon.

“Why don’t you trust him?” the colonel asked.

“I think he’s a liability.”

“Because he lost Doberman?”

“No. It’s more than that. Think about it, Colonel. Doberman’s plane comes back like Swiss cheese and his is clean.”

“There’s no question he was over the target,” said Knowlington.

“I’m not saying that.”

“Well what then? Are you saying he was too lucky?”

“No.” Mongoose sighed. “He flew today. He’s tired as hell.”

“I have to tell you, Goose, I think you need a pretty specific reason to hold him back. He knows the site, and if he’s tired, what about you?” Knowlington paused, scanning the major’s face for fatigue. It had to be there, but it didn’t show. “Is there something else? I mean, obviously Dixon screwed up firing the Mavericks and he’s taking it hard, but I don’t think that’s a reason to ground him.”

“I’m not grounding him,” snapped the major. “I just don’t want him on this mission.”

Knowlington again studied Johnson’s face, but he was really trying to sort out his own thoughts. On the one hand, the major ought to have the right to choose who went on this mission. On the other hand, keeping Dixon back without a solid reason wasn’t fair to the lieutenant, and would probably affect him for weeks if not forever. Knowlington had seen more than one pilot completely tank after being treated unfairly; he’d had a buddy shot because he did stupid things after losing his self-confidence.

There were other considerations. The way they had it drawn up, Dixon would have to be replaced with a pilot from another mission. Sure, he could get plenty of volunteers, but what did he do with the slot it left open? And if there were doubts about Dixon’s abilities, wouldn’t it be better to fly him in a place he already knew — and had volunteered for?

It seemed to Knowlington better all around to keep Dixon on the mission. But he decided he had to defer to Johnson, if he felt strongly about it.

“Let me tell you a story,” the colonel started.

^“I don’t want to hear another of your goddamn stories. This is our war we’re fighting,” said Mongoose, storming away.

CHAPTER 37

Dixon curled on his cot, trying to calm his stomach and slice away maybe half of what was in his head.

He was getting his chance to redeem himself.

What had the old guy said in the letter? He thought about pulling it out and reading it again, but the words came back without effort.

Keep your head up and moving toward the next battle.

Not particularly profound, but the best advice never was.

But what if Dixon screwed up again? What if this time they lost someone in the squadron because of him?

Should he go to Major Johnson right now and tell him he wasn’t up to it?

And be forever branded a coward?

Was that better than fucking up again?

Maybe it was better to go, get shot down and die a hero.

No, die as someone people thought was a hero. There was a difference.

A voice cut through the tangle of contradictions racing in his brain. Dixon turned over toward the door, startled.

“Excuse me for barging in like this, guys,” said Colonel Knowlington. “If you’re up.”

Dixon bolted upright. His feet found the floor as he jumped up and started to salute.

The colonel laughed softly, glancing at the tent’s other two cots. One was empty; on the other, Lieutenant Phaze snored peacefully, deep in oblivion.

“Geez, BJ, relax. What do you think, we’re in the army? I don’t think even GIs salute in tents. Besides, relax.” Knowlington took a chair and pulled it close to the cot. “Phazer asleep?”

“Bomb wouldn’t wake him,” said Dixon.

“You tired?” the colonel asked, keeping his voice soft.

“No.”

Knowlington smiled. His grayish-white hair seemed like a halo of light around his balding skull. The colonel had the subdued air of a college professor nearing retirement, not the gung-ho, in-your-face attitude of a television war hero. But that only awed Dixon all the more.

“I want you to know, there’s no problem deciding to sit down. According to regulations, you shouldn’t be flying anyway. You’re supposed to get a good long break. Even in war. Especially then.”

Dixon started to mumble something, but felt his throat choke off.

“You can stay home. No problem.”

He knows I’m a coward, Dixon thought. He’s giving me an out. “I, uh, I want to fly, Sir. Really.”

Knowlington nodded. He was silent for a moment, considering what to say next. “Anything happen up there you want to tell me about?”

Dixon considered telling him he’d dropped the CBUs in the sand. But if he did that — if he admitted how badly he’d panicked — wouldn’t Knowlington take him off the mission?

He couldn’t chance that.

“Nothing much,” said the pilot. “I screwed up.”

Knowlington squinted, but said nothing.

“I was too high with the CBUs,” said Dixon weakly.

The colonel was silent for a while longer. Dixon stifled an urge to blubber out the whole truth.

It wouldn’t help, he told himself. It’s too late. Keep your trap zipped.

“On my first combat mission, God, I was petrified,” Knowlington said finally. “I think I took twelve dumps in the hour before I got dressed. Ten at least. Hell, I think I wore out two dozen pair of underwear my first week.”

“You were scared?”

“Shitless. Literally.” Knowlington seemed far away, reliving the flight. “You get used to it. Part of you does. You learn how to deal with everything coming at you. You get pretty good at that, actually. That’s when you have your real problems. That’s when you start taking things for granted.”

Dixon nodded.

“I remember the first time I ever flew an F-4,” continued the colonel. “I’d kicked some butt in a Thud. I already had two air-to-air shootdowns. You didn’t get too many of those on the missions we were flying, believe me. So the first time I checked out a Phantom, boy, I thought I was something. Then I nearly ran the plane through the concrete on takeoff. Seems I set the flaps wrong. Tried turning it into a tank instead of an airplane.”

Knowlington’s head snapped up quickly, his soft laugh choked off. His eyes swept around and grabbed Dixon’s.

“You up for this?”

The pilot nodded.

“Good.” The colonel slapped him loudly on the back, then realized someone else was sleeping nearby. “Break things into pieces if you feel it starting to get away from you,” he whispered. “Step by step. Shit’s coming at you, the world’s going crazy, look over and check your belt

My belt?

That or your throttle.” Knowlington winked. “Do something that makes you start all over from scratch. If you feel like you’re losing it, check it, take a breath, come back fresh like a new man. Step by step.”

“My throttle?”

“Anything that will get your brain to hiccup back into gear. Breath’s important, too. Hyperventilating will kill you. Look away, take a breath, then go back. Just slow down.” He studied the young pilot. “If you feel yourself losing it, that’s what you have to do.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” mumbled Dixon as the colonel left.

CHAPTER 38

When you were in war, the night was never a friend. You could learn to fight in it, learn to exploit it, but it was never truly on your side. Technology could help you see through it, sheer guts could make you survive it, but the darkness remained forever foreign.

It enveloped Mongoose now, standing at the edge of the hangar area, watching the crews bust their butts trying to get the planes ready in time. His eyes swung around, fixing on the vanishing flare of jet exhaust, shrinking and shrinking into a small dot. He guessed it was an F/A-18, diverted here from one of the carriers because it was low on fuel, but its actual identity was irrelevant; he watched it only to watch something.

He should be taking a nap. He’d have to preflight in another two hours. But there was no way he could rest, and he doubted the others could either.

Well no. A-Bomb definitely would be sleeping. He could sleep through anything.

He was mad at himself for snapping at the colonel. The guy deserved a little bit of respect.

He hadn’t been drinking, at least not that Mongoose could tell. To be honest, he seemed more sober than anybody on the base.

No matter what, you had to give the guy one thing — he’d been there and done that until the cows came home.

Mongoose blamed himself for the kid’s getting lost. He should have put him on his wing, not Doberman’s. Granted, intelligence had tagged their site as the more difficult one, but he should have had the kid with him no matter what. He could have put Doberman and A-Bomb on the tougher target.

Then what would have happened? Would his radio have gone out?

Would he have been as lucky as Doberman?

That was his fuck-up, and he wasn’t about to sit down for it. He was being hard on Dixon because they were in war, and one little screw-up could kill you. But wasn’t part of it that the kid reminded him of himself? Starting out, at least? Dixon had that cocky kid thing about him, made you want to like him, want to think he was you before you got a bit wiser.

And slower. Just a little.

Jesus, he was a natural stick and rudder man. He’d hit his targets with his AGMs, even though he had said he’d missed. He deserved another chance.

Bottom line was, he had to go with Knowlington on this.

In the darkness of the night, the canvas enclosure Mongoose called home seemed like a safe haven, a small cave against the harshness all around. It was lit by a small “mood lamp” his wife had given him as a joke; the sixties’ relic had some sort of moving liquid inside that was supposed to reflect his changing moods.

It was green purple tonight. Hard to tell what mood that was supposed to be.

Mongoose lifted his mattress off the cot and pulled out a battered manila folder. As he opened it, his wife’s last letter slipped onto the bedding. He considered rereading it, but thought it might slip him into terminal homesickness; he simply slipped the letter back inside and sat down to write her instead.

Every night, he wrote two letters. The first usually flowed quickly, even though the emotions were carefully guarded:

He drew a succession of small hearts with arrows through them, then folded the paper. Impulsively, he wrote “I love you” on the back; before stuffing it into the envelope he wondered if it was too much: too sappy, or maybe too depressing. Too late, it was done. He sealed and addressed the envelope.

The second letter took much longer. It was similar to a letter he had written the day before, but it felt important to take a new shot every day.