Hogs #1: Going Deep

by DeFelice, Jim

  "But— "

  "You have to be careful though; a lot of people don't have our sense of humor. Not when they're tired, at least." Knowlington waved Wong's perplexed protests away. "What'd you do to get sentenced to J-2? Screw somebody's wife? I mean, you're on the level about that, right?"

  The captain turned red— which made Knowlington laugh and clap him on the shoulder as he rose from his chair.

  "Ah, the admiral isn't that bad," said the colonel. "I mean, for a Navy guy. Fucking sailors. Working for the joint chiefs'11 help your career. No really. Don't take it so hard. As long as you don't pull this kind of stuff on the wrong guy. Who put you up to it? Sandy?"

  "I, uh . . ."

  "Come on, let's go get you some coffee and find Glenon." He stopped short, suddenly serious. "Let me ask you, though: What do you know about Hog drivers?"

  "Well, uh, nothing."

  "You're not shitting me this time?"

  "No, sir. Not at all."

  "Good men, all of them, but a breed apart. I mean that in a weird way, but good weird. They all have a little bit of a grudge, because, hell, a lot of people put the plane down. And by extension, them. Shit, I'll tell you the truth," Knowlington added as he ushered him out of his office, "I thought the Hog was a piece of crap when I first saw it. Swear to God. You check the records. I was on an advisory board that said get rid of it ten years ago. No shit. But now, I have to tell you, I'm a believer. Damn converted. Every one of those suckers came back today. You should see Doberman's plane. Glenon, that's Doberman— the guy who took the SA-16."

  "Colonel . . ."

  "Yeah, I know. Doesn't exist." Knowlington nearly doubled over with laughter. "Jesus, you're a ball buster. I have to tell you, though, you made my day. Broke me right up. You remind me of a couple of guys I knew in Vietnam. Your dad in the Air Force?"

  "Navy, sir."

  Knowlington laughed even louder. "Glenon's probably around Hog Heaven somewhere. What a fucking ball-buster you are," he added, leading him down the hallway.

  Wong decided it was best not to set the record straight on that particular point, and followed silently.

  CHAPTER 27

  KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

  1855

  Even Clyston was amazed at the amount of damage on the A-10 Doberman brought in. While the structure of the wing was intact— a miracle in itself— a good chunk of the surface panel was gone or chewed up, with the nearby interior guts twisted beyond recognition. It looked nearly impossible to fix.

  Which was why he'd called the Tinman in.

  "I don't know, Chief," said the Tinman. The ancient mechanic— rumor had it he had worked on Billy Mitchell's planes in World War II— shook his head. The Tinman had an odd accent, though no one could figure out where it came from. Besides dropping the occasional verb, he stretched out words in odd ways.

  "I don't know, Chief," said the mechanic. "You want a new wing."

  Wing, in Tinman's mouth, sounded like "wink."

  "Nah," said Clyston. "We don't need a whole wing. Come on, Tinman. You got spare parts. Use them."

  "Chief. Demolition derby cars I've seen in better shape." Tinman shook his gray head. He stood about six and a half feet tall and weighed perhaps 160 pounds. "You could slap new sheet metal on it, maybe, but heck. I don't know."

  "See, there we go. Now you're getting creative," said Clyston. "Georgie and his guy's'11 get the new motor up while you're taking care of the wing. What do you think, a couple of hours?"

  "Days, Chief. Days. We could fly in a new wing."

  "No time for that," said Clyston. "I need this plane tomorrow."

  "I don't know, Chief."

  "Just as a backup." Clyston turned his palms to heaven. "No big deal. Come on, Tinman— I'm counting on you here. I know you can do it. We're in a war."

  The Tinman shook his head again, but then he put his bony fingers to his face and pinched his nostrils together— the sign Clyston had been looking for.

  "Good man," the capo di capo told him. "Tell me what you'll need and it's yours."

  "A new wing."

  "Besides that. Ten extra guys?"

  "Maybe some coffee."

  "Good man."

  CHAPTER 28

  KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

  1900

  Captain “Doberman” Glenon had long since left Hog Heaven. He would, in fact, have been celebrating his safe return home with a very sound sleep had it not been for A-Bomb, who was standing over his bed, urging him to get up and party.

  "Screw off," said Glenon. "Get out of my tent. I'm tired."

  "Doberman, you are one lucky motherfucker. You have to celebrate."

  "You don't know what you're talking about."

  "Anybody else would have been shot down."

  "I call that skill."

  "You're on a roll, man. It's time to celebrate. Come on, let's hit the Depot before it wears off."

  "I'm not going near Depot for the rest of the war."

  "Well at least come and play cards. Shit, I want to sit next to you."

  "Why, so you can look at my hand?"

  "So your luck rubs off on me. Hell, man, today's the day you win the lottery."

  "Damn it A-Bomb, leave me alone. I’m not lucky. I'm unlucky."

  "How do you figure that?" asked Mongoose, coming into the room.

  "Doesn't anybody knock anymore?" complained Doberman.

  "I did. The canvas doesn't make much noise," said the major. "What are you doing in your underwear?"

  "I was trying to jerk off until A-Bomb got here."

  "Aw, you always let me watch," said A-Bomb.

  "No shit, I got something serious to talk about," said Mongoose, pulling over a small camp chair.

  The major amenity of Doberman's tent was its cement slab. He and the other Devil squadron pilots had arrived at King Fahd far too late to command any of the good berths. After a few days, the fact that they were living in tents had become a point of honor among them. They voted to refuse the offer of better quarters— trailers being considered moderately better— when it was made.

  Doberman hadn't been present for the vote. No one took his request for a recall seriously.

  "What do you think I ought to do about Dixon?" Mongoose asked.

  "What do you mean, do about him?" said Doberman.

  "He fucked up."

  "He lost me because my radio went dead," said Doberman.

  Mongoose shook his head. "No. It was more than that. He totally missed SierraMax, didn't call in, didn't answer the AWACS until he was halfway back to Al Jouf."

  "Jeez, Goose," said A-Bomb. "Give the kid a break. None of that's worth hanging him on. He got turned around. You know how garbled the radio transmissions were. All his Mavericks scored."

  "He could have cost Doberman his life," said the major. "He should have been on his back when the Mirage jumped him."

  "Aw Geeze, leave the kid alone," said Doberman. "It was my fault."

  "Your fault? How the hell do you figure that?"

  "I should have looked for him after my bomb run. Things got busy. I didn't realize the radio was screwed up."

  "I don't see how it was your fault," said Mongoose. "You're lucky you're alive."

  "Stop calling it luck!" shouted Doberman.

  ***

  A-Bomb listened to the two pilots debate what had happened on the mission for a while longer. They were rehashing what they'd said at the debriefing without going anywhere, and finally he just left. Mongoose seemed bent on keelhauling Dixon— though he never specified how— and Doberman was determined to defend him. Both men were getting angrier by the minute.

  A-Bomb had little patience for formal debriefings, let alone this bullshit. He was just deciding whether to find the poker game or slip into The Depot when Colin Walker, one of the clerks assigned to squadron supply, ran up to him with a pair of envelopes.

  "These just got here," said the clerk. "I didn't know they had Federal Express in Saudi Arabia."

 
; A-Bomb nodded solemnly as he took the package.

  "You gonna open it?" Colin asked.

  "Can't out here, kid. Sorry."

  Colin's eyes opened wider than the opening on a sewer pipe. "Classified?"

  A-Bomb leaned toward him. "I didn't say that, right?"

  "No, sir. Never. Jeez, what's in there?"

  "Did you see the manifest?"

  "No, sir. I mean, well, you mean the air bill? Says it's from D.C."

  A-Bomb winked, then turned quickly and walked to his tent.

  Which quickly filled with the aroma of McDonald's as he ripped open the envelope.

  With the help of a few old friends, A-Bomb had managed to have a happy meal overnighted to Saudi Arabia. Two Big Macs, extra large fries and strawberry shake.

  Separate bags, of course. To keep the shake cool.

  As he finished his first Big Mac, A-Bomb wondered if there was some way to get his Harley over. Not by Fed Ex, of course. That was the sort of thing you left to UPS.

  CHAPTER 29

  KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

  1900

  Dixon debriefed with one of the intelligence officers in the hangar area. He answered questions about the bomb damage and other questions about the mission succinctly, with as little detail as possible. It helped that the officer had already spoken with the others and written the report. Over-burdened, the lieutenant was as anxious as Dixon to be done with the interview.

  Dixon told him he’d fired the Mavericks very poorly, no matter what the tape showed. He told him about seeing the radar dish and then losing it; he admitted that his memory now was so hazy it might not even have been a dish– especially since they now were pretty sure Doberman’s missile had blown it to pieces. As for the cluster bombs, he said he hadn't seen them hit, and frankly doubted they had done much damage, because he knew he had pickled them from too high an altitude. Their fuses had undoubtedly ignited too high, causing the bomb pattern to disperse too widely.

  Leaving out the details about how he'd panicked and run away might not have been lying, but he felt inside like he had committed high treason. The only thing worse was the cowardice that had led him to it.

  The pilot slipped away, then wandered aimlessly through Tent City, working off the raw anxiety churning in his stomach. When anyone greeted him, he either shrugged or looked beyond them, continuing on.

  He did this for more than an hour. Finally realizing he was hungry, he started in search of food, then lost interest. Somehow, he found himself in the canvas GP or general purpose tent he shared with two other lieutenants.

  It was empty. Erected on a concrete pad, the tent and its furnishings were an odd mix of monkish austerity and modern luxuries. His pillow was a scavenged sack filled with T shirts; one of his "bunkies" had shipped in a stereo setup worth several thousand dollars. The stereo nightly accounted for half of the unit's theoretical power allotment.

  Dixon sat on the edge of his cot, the mission replaying over and over in his head. He'd been fine, cocky even, until Doberman pushed ahead to start his Maverick run.

  He followed. They started taking flak very, very high unaimed triple-A, much thicker than had been predicted.

  The next thing he knew, he was in a cloud of gunfire, a few feet from making a permanent impression on Iraqi real estate. Everything streaked together in a nightmare blur.

  He was such a god damn great pilot— how could he panic like that? How could he screw up? That wasn't him.

  William James Dixon never ever screwed up. He had an A average through high school, and was summa cum laude in college, even with a heavy athletic schedule. Aced every test from grade school to flight school.

  And failed the only one that counted.

  How many linebackers had tried to shake him up on the gridiron, get him to lose his cool? Couldn't happen.

  But it had.

  Dixon took his silver Cross pen from his pocket and stared at it, working the point up and down with his hands by slowly revolving the casings. His mother and father— his mom, really, since dad was pretty much shot by then— had given him the pen for his high school graduation.

  She was an odd woman, his mom. Hard working and loving, but the kind of person who kept her only son at arm's length. She'd never been too crazy about his joining the Air Force, even though he'd talked about flying jets since he was nine or ten. It was the only way he could afford college, one of the rock bottom goals she'd given him; still, there was a certain look on her face whenever he wore his uniform.

  What the hell was he going to do? Ask to be grounded?

  Maybe Major Johnson had already done that.

  What sense was being in the Air Force make if he couldn't fly?

  He wasn't scheduled for another mission until Saturday. Johnson would undoubtedly be on his ass before then. He didn't buy what Dixon had told him. Who could blame him?

  And Colonel Knowlington. A no-bullshit bona fide war hero, with two flying crosses and a piece of shrapnel in his back for good measure. A couple of guys whispered that he was a washed out drunk, and everybody knew he had been assigned to command the Hogs more or less by accident— but hell, he'd earned those medals.

  Sitting on his bunk, Dixon fought the bile that kept creeping up his throat. He'd never been much of a drinker, but he considered it now, only to decide it would depress him more. Sleep was impossible. He'd read nearly everything in the tent, including the mattress labels, at least twice. Finally his eyes fell on the pile of "Any Servicemen Letters” on a nearby footlocker. The CO had suggested that squadron members take a few at random and respond; good for morale at home. A clerk had delivered the lieutenants' modest allotment of two letters apiece the other day; since then, the six letters had been moved only to get to the gear stored in the footlocker.

  Dixon picked up the top two and took them to his bed. He fished out a yellow pad, and began reading.

  The first letter was from a fifth grader in Florida.

  Dear Sir or Madam:

  Thank you for taking the time to fight for our country. My classmates and I want you to know that we appreciate it. Thank you for losing your blood.

  James Riding

  An easy one, Dixon thought, beginning to write:

  Dear James:

  Thanks for your letter. I'm real proud of being here to serve you. ...

  His pen stopped; he considered for a second being completely honest with the kid; tell him how bad he'd choked.

  As if he didn't have enough trouble. He continued:

  Myself and my buddies are thankful for your support.

  Believe me, I'm trying not to spill any blood. My own, especially.

  Lt. BJ Dixon

  The second writer had enclosed a photograph of herself; she was nineteen, attractive, and Dixon suspected she was looking for a husband. She wrote in frank terms about how lonely she was back home and how happy she was to have this chance to cheer someone up. The photo would undoubtedly supply someone with several weeks worth of fantasies; Dixon slipped the letter and snapshot back into the envelope.

  In its place, he found one written in a shaky hand on unlined white paper, obviously labored over, with cross-outs and corrections.

  Dear Serviceman:

  I know what you're going through. I served in the Second Marine Division on Okinawa. I won't bore you with the details; you've probably read in your history books enough already. There isn't anything that words can do about it, anyway. Things are always more important than you can say.

  I hope that you will remember two things while you are over in Saudi Arabia.

  Number one is, your family and your country love you. No matter what you hear. We had our Tokyo Roses, too.

  Number two is, you will survive. No matter what happens. You will see a great many things. You will be changed. Some of the things that you find out about yourself, you will not like. Believe me, I know. When you see a buddy get shot and have to leave him there, screaming, etc., because if you moved, then you would be the next to di
e - that is the most horrible experience of all. But somehow, you get through it.

  Remember that. Remember to keep your head up and moving toward the next battle.

  I wish you the best. I know you will do very well. I know all of the men, and now I guess women too, will.

  Make us proud.

  Sincerely yours,

  Lance Corporal

  Frank L. Simmons (ret.)

  Finished reading, Dixon stared at the letter a while, the shaky blue letters blurring into a haze. Finally he folded it and put it back into its envelope. He started to put it back in the pile, then stopped; he slid it into his pocket. Getting up from the cot, he told himself maybe having a drink wasn't all that horrible an idea.

  CHAPTER 30

  KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

  1900

  Colonel Knowlington decided to help Wong find Doberman himself. Ordinarily, he didn't like guys who worked in intelligence or for the joint chiefs, but this one had a quirky sense of humor that made it impossible not to.

  "I have to confess that I don’t know Captain Glenon all that well," Knowlington told Wong as they wove their way toward the pilot's quarters. "This unit has only been together a few weeks. But he's a short guy, really short, and I'd be careful about his temper. Short guys always have quick fuses. Plus, he's going to be tired."

  "I try to be professional at all times," pronounced Wong.

  Knowlington smirked. "See Captain, that's what I'm talking about. You and I get the joke, but he might be a little sensitive, you know? Tread lightly."

  Now he got it. Knowlington realized that Wong reminded him of his first Phantom backseater, Jay Dalton, a snide-talking, sharp-eyed prankster whom he'd first met in the Philippines. Jay, a major at the time, was only so-so as an RIO, but a world class cut up. And he'd made general before he retired.

  "This is his tent," he announced. The lights were on, but he held Wong back. "Have to knock first."