Hogs #1: Going Deep (15 page)

KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

1900

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 h
e
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.

KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

1900

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."