Hogs #1: Going Deep (18 page)

"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.

KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

2255

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.