Hogs #1: Going Deep (25 page)

NO PLACE LIKE HOME ’DROME

Over Iraq, heading south

0630

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.

KING FAHD

1000

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.