Hogs #1: Going Deep (16 page)

KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

2000

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?”

W
e
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."

KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

2000

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."