Hogs #1: Going Deep (13 page)

TENT
CITY

KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

1830

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.

KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

1855

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.