***
Maybe it was the hard light of the desert, but to Doberman the kid looked like a teenager, and a scared one at that. His clouded blue eyes and fuzzy red cheeks seemed to belong to a thirteen-year-old, not a towering, over-achieving, aw-shucks fighter jock. Dixon had All-American good looks to go with a tall, athletic frame, but he suddenly seemed stooped over and frail. It could've been the after effects of the vomiting spell, but damned if the kid didn't look a lot like he was going to cry.
Doberman opened his mouth to say something encouraging— he wasn't sure what the hell that might be— when a damaged F-16 careened in for a landing on the runway not far away. The yelping roar of the plane's engine took the words away; he settled for a punch to the shoulder.
They didn't teach that in leadership training, but it was the best he could manage at the moment. Someone on the maintenance crew was shouting at him; there were a thousand things to get squared away before they took off again. Until Mongoose came in, he was in charge of the group.
A black chief master sergeant, nearly as fat as A-Bomb, pulled him by the shoulder and shouted in his ear. “Hey, you Glenon?”
“Yeah. Who are you?”
“Call me Jimbo. I'm running this crew here,” he said, gesturing indiscriminately toward the swarm of maintenance people. The sergeant, well into his forties, had a confident, easy-going crease in the corner of his eyes, put there by a lifetime of squinting at airplane parts. “We were hustled out here at the last minute on loan, so we’re making do. What else is new, right?” The chief stopped and pointed at Doberman’s plane. “That your Hog?”
Doberman nodded, then followed as Jimbo started walking toward it. The sergeant nodded his head as he went, as if carrying on an imaginary conversation. Finally, he turned and smiled. His cheeks puffed out as if he were blowing into a tuba. “You took some beating, huh?”
“I didn't even realize I was hit.”
“No shit.” The sergeant uttered the phrase without the slightest hint of amazement. Once again he began walking; the nods took up where they had left off.
“We got one more plane in our group,” said Doberman. “The Devils. Major Johnson. He's running a little late. He was just clearing the border when we landed.”
“I’m sure he’ll be here,” said Jimbo. “We're getting a hell of a lot more action here than they thought. A lot of guys short on fuel.”
“We're supposed to be back up in an hour,” said Doberman. “What do you think?”
“You're not going to make it in an hour.”
They had arrived at the rear of Doberman's Hog. Three airmen stood staring at different sections of the plane, a little like gawkers at a museum.
Or traffic accident.
“We got a mission,” said Doberman, feeling like he ought to exert a little authority. Some of the older NCOs thought they ran the show.
They did, but you didn't want to admit that to them.
“Don't we have priority?” the pilot added when the sergeant didn't comment.
“Oh, your planes have priority,” said Jimbo, “That's no sweat. We'll have the others shaved and perfumed before the puke's dry on the lieutenant's uniform. But you need a radio before you fly again, doncha think?
“So plop one in.”
The sergeant gave Doberman a world-class NCO-to-officer smile. “Well, sir, as soon as we get one here with an antennae and all, we’ll do some ploppin’. We’re kind of triage, me and my guys. Colonel just got us out here to keep the strip clear. Still, we can handle the sheet metal. Meantime, don’t you think you should be rubbing a rabbit’s foot or something?”
“Why?”
“You fucking Hog pilots are all alike.” Jimbo's cheeks worked like a set of bellows as his head bobbed back and forth, smiling, shaking his head and frowning, all at the same time. Finally, he ran his thick fingers through his thicker brush of hair and smiled again. “Sir, no offense, no disrespect, all right? But whack me at night if you're not the luckiest dead man on this base, all right?”
“It flew okay,” protested Doberman, defending the plane. “Except towards the landing. Then it shook a bit.”
“Sir. No disrespect. Here, come with me, all right?” Jimbo clamped Doberman’s forearm and pulled it toward the fuselage. “See this? Half an inch over, you got no more tail. No, seriously, sir. This? A little deeper, the cable's gone. No disrespect but your hydraulic line was missed by what– the length of a thumb? Sure you got back up, but look at this. What’d it miss by, two inches? And here? Oh, maybe a quarter of an inch more, some of our Special Forces guys are looking to sweep you up and bring the parts back in a body bag.”
The sergeant continued around the plane, pointing out half a dozen places where, had the shrapnel landed an inch to the right, or left, backwards or forwards, Doberman would have been fried to, as Jimbo put it, crispy critters with extra sugar frosting.
“I got a guy who’ll patch up the worst of it so you can take it on back to King Fahd,” concluded Jimbo. “A couple of hours, tops, assuming we get that radio. It won’t look extra pretty, but hell, we don’t have the car wash working today.” He winked. “Mechanically, you pulled a miracle, getting hit like this without going down. I mean, hell, it’s a tough plane and all, but with this much flak, the odds are something would go. Like I say, sir, no disrespect and I admire your balls, but whack me at night if you aren't the damn luckiest son of a bitch dead man on this planet right now.”
CHAPTER 10
AL JOUF FOB
0835
Once Mongoose told the controller how low on fuel he was, he got pushed to the head of the line, right behind a Phantom Wild Weasel that had sucked an assortment of scrap metal into one of its engines. He had to sweat the last few miles into the field; the fuel dial increased its downward spiral quicker than the altimeter, and the turbofans started to complain. Finally he said screw it, concentrated on the gray-yellow blur of tarmac and put the A-10 down with a spoonful of petro to spare.
From the air, Al Jouf looked like sand punctuated by airplanes and dust storms. On the ground, the dust storms turned into people and the rest turned to chaos. As Mongoose trundled to the end of the runway, an Army corporal appeared from nowhere and began directing him toward the edge of the desert; for a moment the pilot wondered if the guy was an Iraqi infiltrator, trying to sabotage the plane by sinking it into a sand dune. But as he turned he spotted a long row of boxes on low-slung sleds, parked behind another Hog. Next to them was a dragon, the wheeled machine used to load the A-lOA's GAU-8/A “Avenger” Gatling cannon.
The ground crew pitting the planes wanted him as far to the right as possible, so they could fit others into the small space they'd been allotted. Mongoose pushed along as best he could. Not only was he wary about running off into the sand, but he had to take a fairly severe leak; he nearly always did at the end of a flight.
Meanwhile, men were running all around without paying any particular attention to the moving aircraft. Barely missing a Special Forces sergeant with his left wing, he decided he'd gone as far as possible. He practically flew out of the seat and onto the desert, relieving himself directly into the Saudi soil.
Few pees felt as sweet.
“Hundred mile piss, huh?” said a familiar voice behind him.
“Five hundred miles, more like it,” he told A-Bomb.
“Ought to use your piddle pack,” said the other pilot, grinning into his face.
“Can't a guy get some privacy?”
“Sorry.” Dressed in his flight gear, A-Bomb managed somehow to look totally disheveled and cool at the same time. He'd customized the gear so completely Mongoose half-suspected he had an onboard climate control unit.
“Did Doberman make it?”
“Ah, no sweat.” A-Bomb reached into one of the myriad of pockets and pulled out a thick cigar in a protective metal tube. “Want one? Clyston got me a bunch. Says they're from Cuba.”
“No thanks. How about Dixon?”
“Not even a scrat
ch on his fucking plane,” said A-Bomb, puffing the cigar into flame. “He looks like he was in a parade.”
“They do BDA yet?” asked Mongoose. Bomb damage assessment was especially critical, since their targets were part of the Iraqi air defense system.
“They're running a little behind,” said A-Bomb. “A few more people decided to stop by than they planned, I think. Man, this is good.” He paused and spit out a wad of chewing gum. “Sure you don't want one?”
Mongoose shook his head. “We have to be back in the air in a half-hour.”
“Yeah. Just enough time to find some coffee,” said the other pilot, starting away.
“Hey, A-Bomb, hold on— where are Dixon and Glenon?”
“Up ahead, near their planes I think,” said A-Bomb, pointing. “Say, ‘Goose— better zip up, huh? You're a little out of uniform.”
***
Mongoose found Dixon sitting beneath the wing of his Hog, next to the wheel, legs crossed beneath him.
“Yo Lieutenant, what the hell are you doing down here?”
Dixon gave him a blank look, said nothing.
“Doberman tells me his radio went out before you fired your Mavericks. What happened?”
Dixon continued to stare.
“Did you lose him before or after you fired your Mavericks?”
“I think it was after. He didn’t break the way I thought he would.”
“Did you try and find him?”
Dixon nodded.
“Did you have trouble reading the AWACS when they first contacted you?”
This time he shrugged.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you hit the tower?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Lieutenant, get the fuck out here and tell me what the hell happened.”
The six foot-four Dixon crawled out on his hands and knees like a kindergartner.
“Something wrong with you?”
“No,” said the young pilot. His thick, close-cropped blond hair was crusted with muddy sweat. “I need a drink of water or something. I/m thirsty. Maybe I'm dehydrated. After I fired the Mavericks, I spun around and went after a couple of trailers with my CBUs.”
“They hit?”
“No. I mean I don’t think so. I was too high.”
“How come you didn't take any flak?”
“I'm supposed to apologize because I didn't get shot down?”
Mongoose, pissed that he'd nearly run dry searching for someone who didn't need to be searched for, rubbed the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes down with his fingers. “What about the AWACS call?”
“I acknowledged when I heard it.”
“Why didn't you try contacting them sooner? Or me,” he added pointedly.
“I thought I did. Maybe I selected the wrong frequency.”
Mongoose frowned. That wasn’t unheard of, especially when things got hairy. But it wasn’t necessarily something to hand out a medal for. On the other hand, there’d been a lot of traffic and there were plenty of non-screw up explanations for missing a radio call.
“See if you can find somebody to check the radio out, just in case,” Mongoose told him.
Dixon nodded.
“Hey, you okay, kid?” Mongoose asked, making his voice as calm as possible.
“I'm fine,” snapped Dixon. “I just need some water, that's all. When are we taking off again?”
***
“The triple-A was heavier than hell,” said Doberman. “It started before we even got in the clouds and followed us right down. I'm not surprised he's rattled.”
“He's more than rattled,” said Mongoose. “He couldn't give me a straight answer on why he didn't go to SierraMax.”
“We got separated. I think he got lost when we came out of the bombing run.”
“Yeah.”
“His Mavericks hit. I went over and checked it out with the intelligence guys,” said Doberman. He was sitting on a pile of iron bombs waiting to be loaded beneath Mongoose's Hog. “He probably scored with the CBUs, too. They screwed up half his video with their equipment. Watch they don’t do the same to yours.”
“So why didn’t he tell me that?”
“He ducked under the wing and took a nap or something.” Doberman shrugged. “I think he’s just being cautious about taking credit. Kid’s never been in the frying pan before.”
Mongoose didn't bother answering. He'd made a mistake, picking Dixon for this mission. The kid was too green. He saw it in his eyes.
“You mad because he lost me?” Doberman asked. “My radio was out. Could've happened to anyone. Check his INS— ten bucks says it gave him the wrong coordinate and he got confused. He just doesn't want to admit it.”
“It's more than ego,” said Mongoose.
Why the hell had he missed it back at King Fahd? Why hadn't he realized it when he was slotting the pilots for the missions. Dixon was the only lieutenant he'd had fly the first day.
Hell, there probably weren't more than a dozen lieutenants flying missions in A-lOs today. Going deep, right into the heart of Iraq— shit, what was I thinking?
He was a hell of a pilot, though. He had the stuff.
No, he had moves, but not the stuff. His eyes were empty. He was a liability in combat.
I made a mistake once; I can fix it now, Mongoose decided. I have to.
“I want you to trade planes,” he told Doberman. “You take Dixon's north with us. He can hang out until yours is fixed enough to fly home.”
“Jeez, Major, don't you think you're being kind of hard on him? I mean—”
“It's an order,” snapped Mongoose. “No discussion.” He turned before Doberman could react, and went off to see how much longer it would be before the planes were ready to go.
CHAPTER 11
AL JOUF FOB
0900
He 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.
CHAPTER 12
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.
Hogs #1: Going Deep Page 5