Going Deep

CHAPTER 59

Even though congratulations were still crackling across the radio, the euphoria of the battle faded as Mongoose took stock of their fuel situation. He unfolded his map across his lap, plotting how far they could nurse the fumes they had left. It wasn’t pretty — even flying directly south, on minimal power and at dangerously low altitude, they would miss the border by a good five miles.

“Cougar, this is Devil One. Have to advise you of a fuel emergency,” he told the AWACS, unsure of how precise to be — there was always a possibility the Iraqis could be listening, and decide to send a welcome committee.

“Affirmative,” said the E-3 controller. “We’re aware of your situation. We need you to fly to new coordinates. Hold on just a second while we fix the math. My buddy here can’t count higher than ten.”

The joke sounded more than a bit hollow. Before Mongoose could ask what was going on, the controller shot them a heading that took them nearly as far east as south, further inside Iraq.

“Dixon, did you copy that?” Mongoose asked.

“Yeah, I don’t get it either,” said the kid.

Mongoose could feel a bubble of anger starting to rise in his chest. He told himself to calm down — the last thing he needed was to go ballistic right now. But it was a hell of a time for a screw-up.

“Cougar, this is Devil One. Please recheck your numbers.”

“Our math’s fine,” snapped the controller. “Just proceed.”

“You’re sending me to a tanker?”

“That’s affirmative.”

“You’re aware where that takes me?”

“Better than you.”

He got Dixon on the squadron’s private — or semi-private, as experience had shown — frequency, and asked his opinion.

“You got me, Major,” said the pilot. “They repeated the numbers twice.”

“Okay. Let’s give it a shot. If we dump the Mavericks we’ll give ourselves a bit more leeway.”

“You read my mind.”

Mongoose half-believed they had stumbled into an elaborate Iraqi plot until a dozen planes — all friendlies — appeared in the sky directly in front of them. A motley assortment of allied craft, including a flight of F-15 interceptors, at least three F-16 Vipers, a British Tornado and a Phantom Wild Weasel, had been rounded up to provide a posse for a KC-135, lumbering deep into Iraqi territory for the emergency refueling. There was a high CAP and a low CAP and a mid CAP, a pair of close escorts and a chase plane and an AH-130 Spectre gunship tagging along for good measure.

“Hey, you the guys that crashed the choppers?” asked one of the Eagle pilots.

“My partner got the kill,” said Mongoose. As the words came out of his mouth, he realized he felt a bit like a proud papa. “I think mine got away.”

“Shit, you’re gonna put us out of work,” guffawed the F-15 pilot.

“You sure you shot him down, or did you just scare the hell out of him with that plane?” joked another.

“Devil One, this is your milk cow speaking. How bad is your fuel situation?”

Mongoose glanced at the fuel gauge. “I got seven minutes. Devil Four’s got eleven and a half. That right, BJ?”

“Make it twelve.”

Mongoose could almost hear the tanker pilot whistling to himself. The lumbering jet — outwardly similar to a civilian 707 — swung into an orbit toward them, still struggling to get low and slow. The pilots quickly decided Mongoose would grab a few pounds of fuel, then back off and let the kid tank before topping off.

In theory, it was a piece of cake. But both men were tired as hell, Mongoose especially. His arms and legs dragged at the controls as he pushed the Hog toward the director lights on the tanker belly. He’d probably done a thousand refuels over the years, but none this tight.

It wasn’t his fuel he was worried about, it was Dixon’s. If he took too long his wingman’s plane would turn into a glider.

Mongoose nudged everything out of his mind as he pushed his fighter toward the wing-tipped nozzle protruding from the tanker’s rear end. The line between his body and the plane blurred; he saw the boom and willed it into the port on his nose, nostrils flaring as the precious fuel began spitting into the thirsty Hog.

“I want high test,” he told the boom operator.

The crew member gave him a thumbs up through the rear window.

Mongoose took a few hundred pounds — the Hog held ten thousand — before abruptly pulling downward to break the connection. Fuel sprayed over his fuselage, as if he were flying beneath Niagara Falls.

“All yours, BJ,” he said, careful to keep his voice cool and calm, as if the two Hogs were out on a training mission.

Dixon had maybe three minutes of fuel left. Mongoose thought he was moving in tentatively, and had to fight the temptation to tell him to kick butt. At this point, there was nothing he could say that would help.

As it slid in under the tanker’s tail, the nose of the hungry Hog suddenly bucked downward. The plane fluttered in the air, wings trembling. Finally, the nose jumped back toward the refueling boom.

The straw rammed home. Dixon looked over at Mongoose and gave him a wave and a thumbs up.

Mongoose waved back, then snapped a salute as sharp and crisp as possible in the cramped office of a Hog.

CHAPTER 60

The adrenaline from the helicopter tangle and refuel kept Dixon’s heart pounding until they had King Fahd’s long, gorgeous runway in sight. It was only as he took his place in the landing queue that Dixon’s brain began reprocessing what had happened — not only this morning, but yesterday.

He had vindicated his flying by shooting down the helicopter. He’d overcome his fear — it was best to admit what it was, use the F word. And he’d hung tough under fire. If a pilot had been shot down because of his screw-up, at least he had helped rescue him. He’d made it right.

But something else remained to be done. Something scarier, and more important.

He had to admit he lied about what had happened, and face the consequences.

And so when they finished debriefing the flight in Cineplex, Dixon walked over to Mongoose and asked to talk to him alone.

The major got a funny look on his face. “Listen kid, I know I was hard on you yesterday,” he said. “Maybe too hard. Don’t take it personally, okay? We’re all feeling our way a bit, even me. All right?”

“Yeah, but um, I really have to talk to you about something. Maybe the colonel, too.”

“Knowlington?”

Dixon nodded. Mongoose, confused, led him down the hall to the colonel’s office, where Knowlington was talking to Captain Wong loudly enough to be heard in the hallway.

It wasn’t an entirely pleasant conversation.

“You can pull whatever strings you think you have, you’re here for the duration,” Knowlington was saying. “Frankly, we can use a guy like you. You aren’t just yanking my chain here, are you Wong? I can never tell when you’re bullshitting me.”

“I assure you, Colonel, this is very serious.”

Knowlington started laughing. “You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch. You’re just busting my balls, aren’t you? You bastard you. You had me going. Goddamn.”

Mongoose glanced over at Dixon with a confused smile, then knocked on the door.

“Come,” said Knowlington, still laughing.

The colonel got up as soon as he saw Dixon. “Kick ass work, BJ. Kick ass. We heard about two seconds after the Iraqi crashed. Three generals have called to tell me the media is on its way. You’re a goddamn hero, kid.” He pounded Dixon’s shoulder. “Feels weird, huh?”

“I was just, uh, the helicopter was in my sights and I fired, sir.”

“Yeah, believe me, I know. You just did what came natural, right? Don’t worry about it. People want to make you a hero, don’t argue with them. Relax and enjoy it. I’ll tell you something, BJ, we need good stories like this. Believe me, you’re doing everybody a favor, even if it hurts. I want you to head over to the host squadron commander’s office. Couple of people from CNN and some lady from PBS waiting for you. Word travels fast.”

Dixon nodded and glanced at Wong, who was still sitting in the chair.

“One thing I want to set straight,” added the colonel. “That pilot you guys helped rescue says he had engine trouble up near Musail. Plane wasn’t hit, at least not that he could tell. So your raid on the GCI site the day before had no bearing on him. We didn’t cause him to get shot down.”

“Really?” For just an instant, Dixon considered not telling them at all.

“Colonel, do you mind if the lieutenant and I had a private conversation with you?” said Mongoose. There was a certain official twist to the inflection of the words that Knowlington noted with his eyes.

“Excuse us, will you Wong?”

“But… ”

“Seriously, I have a lot of work to do this morning. You finish your report on the missile?”

“Well, I… it does appear to have been an SA-14, though we know that’s impossible.”

Knowlington laughed as if Wong had made the joke of the year. “You crack me up. Go on, get out of here, tell me if you need me to sign anything. Impossible, Jesus.”

“What was that all about?” Mongoose asked as he closed the door behind the perplexed Wong. There were only two chairs in the small office; all three men remained standing.

“Oh, nothing. He’s just a world class ball buster,” explained Knowlington.

“Seemed serious to me.”

“Yeah, better watch out — he’s exactly the kind of guy who kills you with practical jokes when things get too tense. I knew a guy like that, somehow convinced half the squadron to show up naked for a visiting general.” Knowlington’s expression grew more serious. “So what’s up, guys?”

“I lied, sir,” Dixon said

The two men stared at him as the words gushed from his mouth.

“I dropped my CBUs blind yesterday, without a target.”

Mongoose’s face turned ashen. Knowlington’s looked grim, but he nodded. “The Mavericks, too?”

“No, sir, I–I fired the first two I think without a lock, like I said, and then on my second run I thought I was losing the target so I panicked and fired. With the flak, and with everything going crazy, I froze. I flew away from the site in a daze lost. Finally I pickled the cluster bombs and got the hell out of there. I just ran away.”

Dixon made it clear that he had dropped the bombs over what he knew now was empty desert — and that he had then lied about it. Mongoose slipped back into the nearby chair as the story finally ran out.

“Okay,” said Knowlington somberly. “Go on over and see those media people. Tell about the helicopter.”

Dixon nodded. His confession had been cathartic, but he wasn’t necessarily looking forward to what would happen next.

“Goddamn,” said Mongoose as soon as the lieutenant had left. “Goddamn. He fucking lied to me.”

Knowlington nodded. It was one thing for the kid to chicken out; he’d guessed something close to that had happened, after all. But not giving up the entire story when he had the chance — when Knowlington asked him point-blank — was unforgivable.

“What are we going to do?” Mongoose asked.

“Good question. CNN started talking about the helicopter shoot-down ten minutes after it happened.”

“What difference does that make?”

Knowlington smirked. Sometimes his DO could be very naive. “Brass is in serious search of heroes. Not that I blame them. They don’t want this to be Vietnam. The media will eat it up. And there are plenty of A-lOers floating around who’ll use this to defend the plane against the pointy nose mafia. Not that I blame them.”

“What kind of story is it going to be when they find out the hero’s a coward?”

Knowlington shook his head.

“Yeah,” said Mongoose. “What the hell do we do?”

“I’m going to have to think about it. When’s he supposed to fly again?”

“Saturday I think. I’d have to check at this point. I’m a little tired.” The major tightened his hand into a fist. “I’ll tell you, my first instinct… ”

“That isn’t going to get us anywhere, Goose,” said Knowlington.

The colonel closed the door behind Mongoose. He sat at his desk, staring at the blank wall for a minute. Finally his rage exploded and he smashed his arm down against the desktop so hard it stung.

In the kid’s defense, he had come to them and told them what happened. If he hadn’t, it was doubtful they would ever have found out.

Dropping the CBUs blind — not good, but not the worst thing he could have done.

Not answering the AWACS hail? Less than optimum, but again, it wasn’t as if he had flown to Jordan and sat out the war.

Quite frankly, Knowlington couldn’t hold any of what happened over the site the first day against him; he understood fear quite well. And the kid had gotten through it. Knowlington knew enough about people to know it wouldn’t happen again.

But the issue now was trust. Willfully misleading a superior officer. Lying. Even Knowlington, as far from a by-the-book guy as there was, couldn’t allow that to just slip by.

In his opinion, it deserved serious disciplinary action.

Which would piss a hell of a lot of people off. And with the media hanging around, someone was going to get a very black eye.

Knowlington didn’t care how he would look. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, let the Air Force look bad. Not in this war. Never again.

But how would the Air Force survive if pilots lied about what happened during their missions?

He slammed his fist down on the desk again, this time so hard it felt as if he broke it.

CHAPTER 61

“I say, we call him Blaze, because he blazed the chopper.”

“How about Chopper? That’s different.”

“Blaze is better,” insisted A-Bomb. He and Doberman were sitting in A-Bomb’s tent, alternately teasing Dixon and congratulating him. A-Bomb had broken open his daily Fed Ex Happy Meal and Doberman had brought along a bottle of shampoo, which had proven to contain Jack Daniels bourbon.

The older pilots had napped after their flight and were raring to party. Dixon, on the other hand, had spent the past eight or nine hours telling camera crews and reporters — along with several dozen Air Force officers and enlisted personnel — how the Iraqi helicopter had gone bye-bye. His eyelids felt heavier than a pair of BLU-109B 2,250 pound bombs.

“Air War God, that’s it,” snorted Doberman, sipping the whiskey.

“Just God,” said A-Bomb. “How’s that for a call sign? This is God talking.”

The two men laughed like school kids watching a Three Stooges movie.

Since telling Knowlington and Johnson what had happened on the first mission, Dixon hadn’t said anything to anyone else. He wasn’t keeping it a secret, necessarily; everybody would know sooner or later anyway. But he just didn’t want to deal with telling people on top of everything else.

Except for Doberman. He’d been his wingmate, his flight leader, and he owed him an apology. His screw-up could have killed him.

It was better to do that sooner rather than later. That was why he was here, rather than sleeping; he’d spent the last ten minutes or so getting ribbed, hoping eventually to get Doberman alone so he could apologize. He wanted to tell the captain himself before he heard about it from anyone else.

“What do you think, kid?” A-Bomb asked. “You want God or Blaze?”

“What’s wrong with BJ?” asked Dixon.

A-Bomb laughed. “Too suburban. Preppy, you know. Fuckin’ Hog pilot’s got to have a good name, that’s what I’m talking about.”

“My mom used to call me BJ.”

Doberman and A-Bomb burst out laughing.

“I’m serious.”

“We know you’re serious, kid,” said Doberman. “Have a drink.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to fall asleep.”

“So?” asked Doberman.

“How about Grunt?” said A-Bomb. “Now there is a Hog name. Grunt. Yeah, I like that.”

“BJ.”

“Hey, okay,” said Doberman, holding up his glass in a toast. “BJ it is. For your mom.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“I’m serious. BJ.”

“Nah. That ain’t gonna do it.” A-Bomb got up. “I got to take a leak. Hold my place.”

Finally alone, Dixon exhaled deeply and turned to Glenon. “Captain, I got to tell you something. You’re gonna hate me, but I got to tell you something.”

The word “captain” struck Doberman like an ice ball in the back of the head. He’d had just enough of the bourbon to feel comfortably mellow, but the next words from the pilot sobered him immediately.

“I lied to you about yesterday,” said Dixon. “I lied to everybody.”

Doberman poured himself another shot as Dixon slowly detailed what had happened. He sipped this one, not so much listening to the younger man’s words as absorbing them.

It was a damn hard thing to admit you had been a coward, Doberman thought. Damn hard.

Then again, the kid had redeemed himself today. Shit, not too many guys got that chance, not with so much style.

Now that was luck, wasn’t it?

Doberman curled his toe in his boot, feeling the penny. He’d plopped it into his sock for his nap, then decided to keep it there.

Luck, skill; who knew what part of either played in the equation? One thing he did know, though — he was holding on to the damn penny. You couldn’t be too certain of anything.

“It wasn’t your fault I got hit with the triple A,” Doberman told Dixon when the pilot stopped talking. “They aimed at me because I was the first one through, and I just happened to hit the route where all the guns were. You were lucky they didn’t nail you, too.”

“I was scared. Nothing like that’s ever happened to me. Not like that.”

Doberman nodded. “You got through it. And you’re past it. Hell, you’re a hero now.”

“But I lied to the colonel. I just ditched the bombs and ran.”

Doberman scratched his chin. True enough, the kid did remind him of his younger brother. There was a physical resemblance, and hell if he didn’t have the same sincere crap in his voice. Not made up, either.

“Sooner or later, we all do things we’re ashamed of,” said Doberman. “It’s what happens next that matters.” He got up from the chair. “Hey, let’s go get something to eat. I never really liked Big Macs, to tell you the truth.”

CHAPTER 62

Forty-five minutes later, Colonel Knowlington found Dixon walking toward his tent. He had just finished eating with A-Bomb and Doberman.

“Come with me, Lieutenant,” he snapped, leading him down a short alleyway not far from the hangars where they could be alone. The light cast a yellow pall over the lieutenant’s face; he was struggling to keep his eyes open and his cheeks sagged with fatigue.

“I’ve read through the reports on your mission, and talked to Major Johnson. There doesn’t seem to be any basis for bringing formal charges against you, at least none that are likely to be upheld,” said Knowlington. “The major concurs.”

The words about formal charges sparked Dixon’s eyes, as Knowlington knew they would.

“That doesn’t mean I condone what you did. You can’t leave things out, not like that. Not when people’s lives are depending on you. It may seem trivial, but everything is connected, usually in ways we don’t know about until it’s too late.”

The young man nodded.

“When I ask a question, I expect a full and complete answer. No bullshit. That’s the bottom line with me. You understand?”

“I fucked up, sir. I know you gave me the chance and I blew it.”

“Understand me, it’s not about getting scared. Everybody gets scared. But we can’t afford to have people lying about it.”

“I know.”

“Excuse me, not lying, just not filling in the blanks.”

“Same thing.”

“You’re damn lucky it’s not,” said Knowlington. He blew air through his teeth.

The reality was, you could interpret what the kid said during the debrief as a pretty full and accurate account; he said he had lost track of where he was and that he did not think the bombs had hit their targets. Technically, that agreed with what Dixon had said later, although the colonel wasn’t particularly fond of technicalities.

But Dixon had also said he had screwed up the Mavericks; the evidence showed he did not. It was still possible that he was being harder than hell on himself because he had been afraid.

“You’re going to be on administrative duty for a while,” said the colonel. “You’ll rotate into Riyadh as an assistant to the fighter operations officer.”

“Assistant?”

“It’s a new position. Very temporary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The matter is closed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Knowlington hesitated. They’d all seen something in this kid during his first days training. And they’d been right, too — his tangle with the chopper proved it.

And maybe his coming clean about panicking proved it, too. Really, it was more than you could expect from most men, facing up to the worst about yourself.

How long had it taken Knowlington to do that? Even now he felt the familiar ache in his throat, the incessant urge for just one tiny, meaningless drink.

“Mongoose told me he ordered you to return home when he went back for the chopper,” added the colonel.

“I was his wingman,” said Dixon. “I couldn’t desert him. Besides, I felt like I had to make things right.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you for hanging in there.” Knowlington managed a smile. “You came around and did the right thing. You’re a good pilot, BJ. You have talent. When you get back in the cockpit, don’t blow it.”

“I won’t sir.”

“Good work on the Hind. Fire Fox Hog, huh?”

“Actually, sir, I used my cannon.”

Knowlington’s smile came easier this time. Probably for the rest of his life, the kid would be accurate to a fault — not a horrible character flaw to have, all things considered. “You have to be at Riyadh at 0800,” he told him. “Don’t be late.”

Dixon cupped his face in his hands as Knowlington walked away.

Skull Knowlington was proud of him. Vietnam War Ace Colonel Michael Knowlington, with more medals than a museum, had just called him a good pilot.

Bailed his fanny out of the fire, too, something he didn’t deserve.

But damn. Skull Knowlington was proud of him.

Dixon made a fist and swirled his body around in celebration — nearly smashing Tech Sergeant Rosen as she walked by.

“Lieutenant?”

“I just… wow, I’m sorry,” said Dixon.

“Congratulations on shooting down that helicopter.” Rosen put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side. “We’re all proud of you.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you. All of you, I mean,” he managed, still flustered. “You guys, I mean, you all did a hell of a job on that plane.”

“What’d you expect?”

A pause followed that was more awkward than the one after his punch.

“Maybe, uh, maybe I’ll be seeing you around,” said the pilot.

Rosen laughed, but there was a twinge of nervousness in her voice. “Probably.”

“I got to go to Riyadh tomorrow.”

“More hero stuff, huh? Well, don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t. I mean, wait!” he shouted as she started to walk away.

Surprised, she turned back.

“Thanks, really,” he told her, stepping forward to kiss her on the cheek.

At least, he aimed for the cheek. She turned and met him with her lips.

“You’re welcome,” she said, slipping away.

A few minutes later, back in his tent, Dixon took out Lance Corporal Simmons’ letter and read it again. Then he fished out his pad and a pen. He wanted to tell the old marine how right he was.

But he couldn’t. He tried a few times, starting sentences only to stop and rip up the page.

He wanted the corporal to know that he’d inspired him, that his lesson had maybe helped save his life, or at least his career. But it was too hard to put into words. Finally, he read the letter one more time, then slipped it back into its envelope and returned it to the pile for someone else to answer.

CHAPTER 63

Exhausted, even though he’d had a nap earlier, Mongoose sat back on his cot. He had one more duty to perform before calling it a day. For maybe the first time in his career, he was actually glad he wasn’t flying tomorrow. He felt old and achy, his legs especially. Even the plastic fountain pen in his hand felt heavy, though that was somehow reassuring.

He paused, unsure whether to keep those last two sentences or not. His wife might misinterpret them, think he was in danger.

It wasn’t a misinterpretation. But he didn’t want to reinforce it.

He’d told Knowlington to go easy on the kid. In fact, he’d told the colonel to forget it. He’d had to argue, actually.

Knowlington was a funny guy. He could make you think he didn’t give a shit about a lot of things, starting with military protocol, but when it came to flying and fighting, he was hard line. He didn’t like anything less than 100 percent verifiable truth. He hadn’t really wanted to cut Dixon any slack, despite Mongoose’s arguments.

Until yesterday, Mongoose had resented him, mostly, figuring he was a washed up drunk. But he knew now he was wrong about that. His interminable stories were a pain in the ass, but they did have a point. And in the end, he too had decided the kid deserved a break.

They both knew Dixon was going to be all right. That was the one thing the colonel couldn’t argue. The kid had had to get through that first mission, the first real gut-check under fire.

Everybody did.

Hell, he wasn’t even mad at Dixon any more. Mongoose had thought about it a lot. Tomorrow, or maybe the next day when Knowlington hauled the kid’s butt back from Riyadh, Mongoose would stick his finger in the lieutenant’s chest and tell him how bad he would pound the shit out of him if he ever pulled a stunt like that again.

Then he’d slap the kid on the back and buy him a near-beer.

Mongoose ripped the page out of the pad and started again.

He went wild with his Xs and Os, tore off the sheet and folded it carefully, placing it in its envelope. He thought maybe he’d gotten too sentimental, decided what the hell. Then Major James Johnson drew a long breath, and began to write his second letter home, the one he hoped his wife would never get.