Hogs #1: Going Deep (7 page)

AL JOUF FOB

0900

H
e was a
failure. He'd frozen and puked under
fire.
Worse, he'd
just lied about it. Now he was trapped and
ashamed.

But god, he'd never felt so scared in his life.

AL JOUF FOB

0915

The way A-Bomb
figured it, any base that had more
than a pup tent to it to
have
at least a dozen coffeemakers going at any given
moment. All he had to do was find one.

True, it was a bare-bones, front line operation, but
that was no reason to skimp. He figured the maintenance
monkeys were just holding out on him
when they answered his questions about scoffing some joe with cross-eyed
stares.

You'd think he asked for tea or something.

A Special Forces unit had taken over a good portion of
the base, adding homey touches like
sandbags and trenches. A-Bomb figured his best bet lay in that direction. He
soon
found himself
staring into the business-end of a highly
modified
Squad Automatic Weapon.

“Nice laser sight you got there,” he told the gun's
owner, pushing the barrel away. “You
got any coffee?”

“Excuse me, sir,” spat the man, a sergeant who spoke
with a very pronounced Texas drawl. “This here area's off
limits.”

A-Bomb smiled into the sergeant's face. The thicker the
accent, the further north they were born. “So you got
any coffee?”

The soldier scowled. A-Bomb was at a slight
disadvantage; he'd already decided he
wanted to save his
other
cigar, and so had nothing to barter. His only option
was flattery.

Fortunately, he had an easy subject.

“You do the work on that gun yourself, Chief?” he
asked.

“This is a standard piece of machinery.”

“Shit. Besides the sight, the barrel's reworked, and if
that's a stock trigger I'm Buck Rogers.”

The sergeant's lip upturned ever so slightly, but his
expression could not be considered a
smile. “Jealous, Buck?”

“Nope. I'm just trying to figure a way to get my
parachute rigger to fit a holster for
one on my vest here.”

“You probably have enough trouble not shooting yourself
with that Beretta in your pocket. Sir.”

A-Bomb smiled. “Pick out a target.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pick out a target. You hit it first, I go away. I hit
it, you point me toward some coffee.”

“Just go away.”

A-Bomb unsnapped the top of his holster— not on the
Beretta, but on his personal weapon,
tucked into the
opposite corner of his belt.

“Sir— ”

“Don't think you can outshoot a pilot?” grinned
A-Bomb.

The sergeant's face balled up in anger, but he got only
halfway into his crouch before the
discarded bottle he'd eyed forty yards away exploded in dust. He looked up at
A-Bomb in disbelief.

“At least, I figure that's what you were aiming at,”
said the pilot, pushing the
custom-built 1911 A2 Colt back into its pouch. “I don't bring the good sight
with me
because you have
to conserve weight and all. With the
plane.”

“You a gun nut?” asked the sergeant.

“Nah. I just like coffee. What do you say? Hate to kill
Iraqis without a good shot of joe
going through my veins,
you know what I'm
talking about?”

The sergeant grunted, frowned, then pointed toward a
pair of general purpose tents a few
yards off. “Coffee's in
there.
Anyone barks at you, tell ‘em Rusty sent you.”

“Thanks, Rusty.”

“Don't push it, sir,” said the sergeant, lumbering
away.

***

Doberman found a corner of the desert near the bomb
skids and resituated himself. He took
out his anger at the
way
Mongoose had treated him on his equipment snaps,
adjusting and readjusting his anti-g pants and the
rest of
his gear.

He was mad at Mongoose, but the sergeant— Jimbo— had
shaken him with all his talk about
dead men and luck.

Luck was a strange thing. It could easily run out.

Hell, he wasn't lucky. His skill got him here. He was a
kick-ass pilot, one of the best in
the squadron. Everybody knew that. You relied on luck, they brought you home in
a
bag.

Doberman looked up and saw A-Bomb ambling over, a
Styrofoam cup hanging out of his mouth.

“Want some coffee?” A-Bomb asked.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Hey, relax, Dog Man. It's too early for a beer, right?
Besides, we got more work to do.” He
reached into one of his
pockets
and pulled out a small cupcake. “Want a Twinkie?”

“That's not a Twinkie. Twinkie's are rectangular.
That's round.''

“No shit?” said A-Bomb, examining it. “All of them?”

“Yup.”

“How about that. Guy told me it was a Twinkie.”

“Where'd you get it?”

“Special Forces.” He thumbed back in their direction.
“Tell them Rusty sent you.”

“I don't have time. Neither do you.”

“Shit, you're going to be here all day. Guy told me
it'd be a miracle to have that plane
back in the air by
dark.
Guess they lost their manuals or something.”

“No, I'm going up with you and Johnson. I'm flying
Dixon's plane.”

“Really? How come?”

“Because the major told me to, that's why. And he had a
rake up his butt when he did it.”

“Really? What happened to Dixon?”

Doberman shrugged. “Johnson thinks he screwed up.”

“Did he?”

“No way,” said Doberman. He wasn't sure why he felt so
protective of the younger pilot all of
a sudden. Today had been only the third or fourth time they'd flown together.
“The kid got turned around after
dropping his bombs and didn't hear the AWACS calling, that's all. I think he
was looking for me and just ignored them so he could stay up there longer.
Hell, that’s what I would do.”

A-Bomb nodded. Any self-respecting wingman would ignore
his own skin to save a buddy.

“Johnson got
righteous about it,” Doberman added. “He shoves his hand in my face and
says,
no discussion.”

This was a difficult concept for A-Bomb to fathom and
he blinked his eyes trying to process
it. He pushed the cupcake into his mouth and gulped down the rest of the
coffee. A full third of what was in
the cup splashed across his face and onto his suit, where it joined a
well-established montage.

“He acts like he's got a stick up his ass sometimes,”
Doberman said. “A fucking rake. He
just about told me I
screwed up by getting my
plane hit.”

“Ah, you're exaggerating.”

“Listen, I heard a lot of stuff from guys who served in
Germany with him. He's probably
frustrated because he's not
head of the
squadron.”

“That's not Mongoose. He's a good guy, I told you. I've
flown with him before. He knows his
stuff and he sticks by
you. What the hell else
do you want?”

Doberman realized he was being harsh. It made sense to
put your best pilots in the planes
that were going to the
dance;
he probably would have done the same thing.

It was just the way the major went about it that had
burned him. He could have been, well,
more diplomatic.

“He could have asked me if I wanted to bump the kid,”
said Doberman.

“Yeah, and what would you have said?”

“I don't know.” Doberman shrugged, not wanting to admit
he'd have pushed Dixon aside. “Hell,
he could at least have
been more diplomatic.”

“There's a fucking war on,” argued A-Bomb. “How
diplomatic do you expect him to be?”

“I don't know,” Doberman conceded.

“How'd the kid take it?”

“I don't know. I wasn't there.”

“See? You don't even know if he was diplomatic or not.”

“I meant with me.”

“Oh, fuck yourself. Nobody has to be diplomatic with
you. You're the Dog Man. And a god
damn Hog driver, for
christsake. Diplomatic.
Give me a break.”

“Hey, where are you going? The planes are this way,
remember?”

“I'm thinking refill before we take off,” said A-Bomb.
“There's time.”

“No there isn't.”

“Shit, I can make it.”

“Hey A-Bomb, hold up. a second.” Doberman jogged the
few steps toward his friend. “You
think I'm lucky?”

“How's that?”

“Lucky. You know.”

The pilot laughed. “You? You're the least lucky person
I know. Why the hell do you think we
let you play poker with
us?
⁷
'

“Yeah, that's what I thought.”

“Sure you don't want no coffee?”

Doberman shook his head and watched as A-Bomb ambled
off in search of more caffeine.

Not having to take a leak while you were flying - now
that was luck, especially after twenty
cups of coffee.

What Doberman had was skill.

Mostly.

AL JOUF FOB

0915

Mongoose walked Dixon
off into the sand, trying for a
little privacy. A big MH-53J Pave Low
helicopter idled a
short
distance away, its throaty whine filling the air with anxious energy. The big
special ops chopper sounded like it
wanted to fly all the way to Baghdad and personally take out
Saddam.

“Listen, kid, I'm putting Doberman in your plane for the
rest of the day. I want you to babysit his Hog until
it's patched together well enough to
get back to King Fahd.
They
may have to scrounge around for some spare parts, but
the crew chief swears he'll have it
back well enough for you
to
fly. Jimbo's a good guy; he crewed for me a couple of years ago. But listen,
you look at it real careful, and you
think it won't fly, that's your call. Then you stay here,
all right? I don't want
you taking any chances. I've talked to the commander and I sent word back to
Hog Heaven about
what's
up. You got it? You all right, Dixon?”

“I'm fine.”

“This isn't a grounding or anything. You don't have to
get pissed off or anything.” Mongoose had to tilt his head
upwards to look into Dixon's face.
None of the emotions he'd
expected—
anger, resignation— showed through the dazed
stare. “I just want the most experienced guys in the
cockpit
today. All right?”

Dixon shrugged.

Really, what more did he expect? What would he have
done in his situation?

“You got something you want to talk to me about?”
Mongoose asked.

“Should I?”

Yeah, thought Mongoose. You ought to fight me on this. If
you're smart, you'll tell me to go to hell. You'll tell
me I'm out of my mind to keep you
from going up. You'll tell
me
you're the best god damn pilot in the Air Force, anything
to keep flying.

Because if you don't, if you just keep standing here
with a look that's only half angry,
I'm going to think you
screwed up big time
back there, f
or no reason but my gut tells
me.

“I just think there's something on your mind,” Mongoose
offered. “You feel bad about losing
Doberman when things got
tight?”

“I guess.”

“The Mavericks look like they all hit. You got the
tower. It’s on tape.
”

Dixon nodded.

“You weren’t sure?”

“Things were moving so fast. The images weren’t sharp.”

“Well, this isn’t training. What about the CBUs? You saw
them hit?”

Dixon hesitated. “I think I was too high.”

“You sure?”

He shrugged. “Pretty sure.”

“Did you have your targets in the sight, or what?”

“Yeah. Jeez.”

Mongoose couldn't tell whether the kid was being overtly
conservative. Hell, the kid might not even know.

No use belaboring this.

“All right. Hang in there,” said Mongoose. “I got to
get going.”

***

Dixon watched Major Johnson walk back toward the
planes. He felt the wind grip the
sides of his face, rubbing
sand against his
cheeks.

Guys like Johnson and Glenon, it was easy for them. They
didn't think about what they were doing. They just went
up and punched buttons, held on for
dear life. Pilots like A-Bomb, shit, he was oblivious to half the world. He flew
by the seat of his sticky pants.

BJ Dixon was different. He thought about things. Maybe
he thought too much, but that was the
way it was.

A fatal, deadly flaw.