Hogs #1: Going Deep (26 page)

KING FAHD AIRBASE

1900

"I say, we
call him Blaze, because he blazed the
chopper."

"How about Chopper? That's different."

"Blaze is better," insisted A-Bomb. He and
Doberman were sitting in A-Bomb's tent, alternately teasing Dixon and
congratulating him. A-Bomb had broken open his daily
Fed Ex Happy Meal and Doberman had
brought along a bottle of shampoo, which had proven to contain Jack Daniels bourbon.

The older pilots had napped after their flight and were
raring to party. Dixon, on the other
hand, had spent the past eight or nine hours telling camera crews and reporters—
along with several dozen Air Force officers and enlisted personnel— how the Iraqi
helicopter had gone bye-bye. His eyelids felt heavier than a pair of BLU-109B
2,250 pound
bombs.

"Air War God, that's it," snorted Doberman,
sipping the
whiskey.

"Just God," said A-Bomb. "How's that for
a call sign?
This is God talking."

The two men laughed like school kids watching a Three
Stooges movie.

Since telling Knowlington and Johnson what had happened
on the first mission, Dixon hadn't
said anything to anyone else. He wasn't keeping it a secret, necessarily;
everybody would know sooner or later anyway. But he just didn't want
to deal with telling people on top of
everything else.

Except for Doberman. He'd been his wingmate, his flight
leader, and he owed him an apology.
His screw-up could have
killed him.

It was better to do that sooner rather than later. That
was why he was here, rather than
sleeping; he'd spent the last ten minutes or so getting ribbed, hoping
eventually to get Doberman alone so he could apologize. He wanted to tell the
captain himself before he heard about it from anyone
else.

"What do you think, kid?" A-Bomb asked.
"You want God
or Blaze?"

"What's wrong with BJ?" asked Dixon.

A-Bomb laughed. "Too suburban. Preppy, you know.
Fuckin' Hog pilot's got to have a good name, that's what I'm
talking about."

“My mom used to call me BJ."

Doberman and A-Bomb burst out laughing.

"I'm serious."

"We know you're serious, kid," said Doberman.
"Have a
drink."

"I'm afraid I'm going to fall asleep."

"So?" asked Doberman.

"How about Grunt?" said A-Bomb. "Now
there is a Hog
name. Grunt. Yeah, I like
that."

"BJ."

"Hey, okay," said Doberman, holding up his
glass in a
toast. "BJ it is. For your
mom."

"It's not a joke."

"I'm serious. BJ."

"Nah. That ain't gonna do it." A-Bomb got up.
"I got
to take a leak. Hold my
place."

Finally alone, Dixon exhaled deeply and turned to
Glenon. "Captain, I got to tell
you something. You're gonna
hate me, but I got
to tell you something."

The word "captain" struck Doberman like an ice
ball in
the back of the
head. He'd had just enough of the bourbon to
feel comfortably mellow, but the next words from the
pilot
sobered him
immediately.

"I lied to you about yesterday," said Dixon. “I
lied to
everybody."

Doberman poured himself another shot as Dixon slowly
detailed what had happened. He sipped
this one, not so much
listening
to the younger man's words as absorbing them.

It was a damn hard thing to admit you had been a
coward, Doberman thought. Damn hard.

Then again, the kid had redeemed himself today. Shit, not
too many guys got that chance, not with so much style.

Now that was luck, wasn't it?

Doberman curled his toe in his boot, feeling the penny.
He'd plopped it into his sock for his
nap, then decided to
keep it there.

Luck, skill; who knew what part of either played in
the equation? One thing he did know,
though— he was holding
on
to the damn penny. You couldn't be too certain of
anything.

"It wasn't your fault I got hit with the triple
A," Doberman told Dixon when the pilot stopped talking. "They
aimed at me because I was the first
one through, and I just
happened
to hit the route where all the guns were. You were
lucky they didn't nail you, too."

"I was scared. Nothing like that's ever happened to
me.
Not like that."

Doberman nodded. "You got through it. And you're
past
it. Hell, you're a hero now."

"But I lied to the colonel. I just ditched the
bombs
and ran."

Doberman scratched his chin. True enough, the kid did
remind him of his younger brother.
There was a physical resemblance, and hell if he didn't have the same sincere
crap in his voice. Not made up, either.

"Sooner or later, we all do things we're ashamed
of,"
said Doberman.
"It's what happens next that matters." He got
up from the chair. "Hey, let's
go get something to eat. I never really liked Big Macs, to tell you the
truth."

KING FAHD AIRBASE

1945

Forty-five minutes
later, Colonel Knowlington found
Dixon walking toward his tent. He had
just finished eating
with A-Bomb and Doberman.

"Come with me, Lieutenant," he snapped,
leading him down a short alleyway not far from the hangars where they could be
alone. The light cast a yellow pall over the
lieutenant's face; he was struggling to keep his eyes
open
and his cheeks sagged with fatigue.

"I've read through the reports on your mission, and
talked to Major Johnson.
There doesn't seem to be any basis for bringing formal charges against you, at
least none that
are
likely to be upheld," said Knowlington. "The major
concurs."

The words about formal charges sparked Dixon's eyes, as
Knowlington knew they would.

"That doesn't mean I condone what you did. You can't
leave things out, not
like that. Not when people's lives are
depending on you. It may seem trivial, but everything is
connected, usually in ways we don't know about until it's
too late."

The young man nodded.

"When I ask a question, I expect a full and
complete
answer. No
bullshit. That's the bottom line with me. You
understand?"

"I fucked up, sir. I know you gave me the chance and
I
blew it."

"Understand me, it's not about getting scared.
Everybody gets scared. But we can't
afford to have people lying
about it."

"I know."

"Excuse me, not lying, just not filling in the
blanks."

"Same thing."

"You're damn lucky it's not," said
Knowlington. He blew
air through his teeth.

The reality was, you could interpret what the kid said
during the debrief as a pretty full
and accurate account; he
said
he had lost track of where he was and that he did not
think the bombs had hit their targets.
Technically, that agreed with what Dixon had said later, although the colonel
wasn’t particularly fond of technicalities.

But Dixon had also said he had screwed up the Mavericks;
the evidence showed he did not. It was still possible that he was being harder
than hell on himself because he had been afraid.

"You're going to be on administrative duty for a
while," said the colonel. "You'll
rotate into Riyadh as an
assistant
to the fighter operations officer."

"Assistant?"

"It's a new position. Very temporary."

"Yes, sir."

"The matter is closed."

"Yes, sir."

Knowlington hesitated. They'd all seen something in this
kid during his first days training. And they'd been
right, too— his tangle with the
chopper proved it.

And maybe his coming clean about panicking proved it,
too. Really, it was more than you
could expect from most
men,
facing up to the worst about yourself.

How long had it taken Knowlington to do that? Even now
he felt the familiar ache in his throat, the incessant urge
for just one tiny, meaningless drink.

"Mongoose told me he ordered you to return home
when he
went back for the
chopper," added the colonel.

"I was his wingman," said Dixon. "I
couldn't desert
him.
Besides, I felt like I had to make things right."

"Well, for what it's worth, I'm proud of you for
hanging in there." Knowlington
managed a smile. "You came
around and did the right thing. You're a good pilot, BJ. You
have talent. When you get back in the
cockpit, don't blow
it."

"I won't sir."

"Good work on the Hind. Fire Fox Hog, huh?"

"Actually, sir, I used my cannon."

Knowlington's smile came easier this time. Probably for
the rest of his life, the kid would be accurate to a fault—
not a horrible character flaw to have,
all things
considered.
"You have to be at Riyadh at 0800," he told him.
"Don't be late."

***

Dixon cupped his face in his hands as Knowlington
walked away.

Skull Knowlington was proud of him. Vietnam War Ace
Colonel Michael Knowlington, with
more medals than a museum,
had just called him
a good pilot.

Bailed his fanny out of the fire, too, something he
didn't deserve.

But damn. Skull Knowlington was proud of him.

Dixon made a fist and swirled his body around in
celebration— nearly smashing Tech
Sergeant Rosen as she
walked by.

"Lieutenant?"

"I just. . . wow, I'm sorry," said Dixon.

"Congratulations on shooting down that
helicopter."
Rosen
put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one
side. "We're all proud of you."

"I couldn't have done it without you. All of you, I
mean," he managed, still
flustered. "You guys, I mean, you
all did
a hell of a job on that plane."

"What'd you expect?"

A pause followed that was more awkward than the one
after his punch.

"Maybe, uh, maybe I'll be seeing you around,"
said the
pilot.

Rosen laughed, but there was a twinge of nervousness in
her voice. "Probably."

"I got to go to Riyadh tomorrow."

"More hero stuff, huh? Well, don't let it go to
your
head."

"I won't. I mean, wait!" he shouted as she
started to
walk away.

Surprised, she turned back.

"Thanks, really," he told her, stepping
forward to kiss
her on the cheek.

At least, he aimed for the cheek. She turned and met
him with her lips.

"You're welcome," she said, slipping away.

***

A few minutes later, back in his tent, Dixon took out
Lance Corporal Simmons' letter and
read it again. Then he fished out his pad and a pen. He wanted to tell the old
marine how right he was.

But he couldn't. He tried a few times, starting sentences
only to stop and rip up the page.

He wanted the corporal to know that he'd inspired him,
that his lesson had maybe helped save
his life, or at least
his
career. But it was too hard to put into words. Finally,
he read the letter one more time, then
slipped it back into
its
envelope and returned it to the pile for someone else to
answer.

KING FAHD AIRBASE

2000

Exhausted, even though
he'd had a nap earlier, Mongoose
sat back on his cot. He had one more
duty to perform before calling it a day. For maybe the first time in his
career, he was
actually
glad he wasn't flying tomorrow. He felt old and achy, his legs especially. Even
the plastic fountain pen in
his hand felt heavy, though that was somehow reassuring.

Dear Kathy:

Hell of a day today. My wingman shot
down a helicopter. I nearly waxed him
by
mistake. But it
turned out all right.

He paused, unsure whether to keep those last two
sentences or not. His wife might
misinterpret them, think he
was in danger.

It wasn't a misinterpretation. But he didn't want to
reinforce it.

He'd told Knowlington to go easy on the kid. In fact,
he'd told the colonel to forget it.
He'd had to argue,
actually.

Knowlington was a funny guy. He could make you think he
didn't give a shit about a lot of
things, starting with
military
protocol, but when it came to flying and fighting,
he was hard line. He didn't like
anything less than 100 percent verifiable truth. He hadn't really
wanted to cut Dixon any slack, despite Mongoose’s
arguments.

Until yesterday, Mongoose had resented him, mostly,
figuring he was a washed up drunk. But he knew now he was
wrong about that. His interminable
stories were a pain in
the
ass, but they did have a point. And in the end, he too
had decided the kid deserved a break.

They both knew Dixon was going to be all right. That was
the one thing the colonel couldn't argue.  The kid had
had to get through that first
mission, the first real gut-
check under fire.

Everybody did.

Hell, he wasn't even mad at Dixon any more. Mongoose
had thought about it a lot. Tomorrow,
or maybe the next day
when
Knowlington hauled the kid's butt back from Riyadh,
Mongoose would stick his finger in
the lieutenant's chest and tell him how bad he would pound the shit out of him
if he ever pulled a stunt like that again.

Then he'd slap the kid on the back and buy him a
near-beer.

Mongoose ripped the page out of the pad and started
again.

Dear Kathy:

Hell of a day today. Wingman shot
down a
helicopter.
You probably saw it on the news.
He's just a kid, at least he was until this
morning.

I keep looking for camels, but I don't
see any. Other
guys tell me they're all over
the place. Maybe they're hiding from me. I guarantee I'm
going to get a ride on one before long. I promise to wear my helmet.

Miss you and Robby a lot. Give him a
kiss for me.

I'll write tomorrow.

Love
Jimmy

kisses and hugs and
kiss Robby for me

He went wild with his Xs and Os, tore off the sheet and
folded it carefully, placing it in its envelope. He thought maybe he'd gotten
too sentimental, decided what the
hell. Then Major James Johnson drew a long breath, and began
to write his second letter home, the
one he hoped his wife
would never get.