"Colonel?"
"Knock, knock," Knowlington announced in a loud voice. "Hey Doberman, you decent?"
"Go away," growled a voice inside.
Knowlington winked, then led the way. Major Johnson was sitting on a camp chair across from Doberman, who had his arms over his eyes, trying to block out the light.
"Tommy, I got somebody here from Black Hole who wants to talk to you about the missile you took in the wing."
"Aw fuck," growled Glenon. "Can't anybody see I'm sleeping?"
"Wong's a good guy," said Knowlington. "He won't take long."
"Why are you here?" asked Johnson.
"Who are you?" said Wong.
"Oh, excuse me. Major Johnson, Captain Wong," said the colonel, making the introductions. "Mongoose is the squadron's director of operations. He led the flight."
"I'll want to talk to you, too," said Wong. "But I would prefer to do this one at a time to avoid interview contamination."
Knowlington started to laugh. "Come on, Mongoose. I want to talk to you about something. We'll be outside," he told Wong, adding, to no one in particular. "He's a pisser, isn't he? Interview contamination. Shit!"
***
"Don't get up," Wong told the prone figure on the cot.
"I wasn't planning on it."
"Your name is Doberman or Glenon?"
"It's Glenon. Doberman's just what they call me. After the attack dog?"
"Oh." Wong sighed. He had never understood what the deal was on pilot's nicknames. "Okay, now, tell me what happened."
"When?"
"When the alleged missile hit you."
"Go take a look at my plane if you don't believe me."
"Please, Captain, I have a job to do. From the point you were fired on."
"You’re not taking notes?"
Wong shook his head. "I don't think it will be necessary."
The pilot described a low-level cannon attack, pretty much as the weapons expert expected. It sounded to him particularly careless, especially in light of the declaration that low-threat tactics— medium altitude bombing— were to prevail in theater. But he wasn't here to offer a critique.
"Okay, Captain," he said when the pilot began describing his egress toward Saudi Arabia. "Now, why are you calling the missile an SA-16?"
"Because that's what hit me."
"With all due respect," Wong said, "you've just described an SA-7. Think about it. You were below a thousand feet, you -"
"I know where the fuck I was. And I know what hit me."
"There's no need to use profanity, Captain. Did you see the missile actually go through the wing?"
"Now how the fuck would I do that?"
"Did you see the missile at all?"
"Of course not. But it had to be an SA-16. There's no way in the world a fucking SA-7 is going to survive all that jinking. No way."
"Are you sure there wasn't a second missile?"
"From where?"
"The ground."
"Give me a break, would you?"
"Are you sure you were able to perform the maneuvers precisely as you remember?''
"Hey screw you, okay?"
Wong sighed. Patiently, he began to explain how important his investigation was to the war effort, how critical it was for other pilots to know what sorts of defenses they were facing so they could adjust their tactics accordingly. Realizing he was dealing with someone who was tired, the captain consciously chose words with the least number of syllables possible to convey his meaning. He had gotten through the first half of his first sentence when the pilot interrupted him.
"What the fuck do you know about missiles?" demanded the pilot.
"I know a great deal about them," said Wong. "I've written three papers and. . ."
"Go write another one and let me sleep."
***
"What's that all about?" Mongoose asked Knowlington as soon as they were outside the tent.
"Some jerk in Riyadh doesn't think Saddam has SA-16s. Wong has to prove them wrong. We went through this shit in Vietnam," Knowlington added. He kicked himself as that slipped out, but was powerless to stop the words.
"Whatever hit him wasn't an SA-7. It stayed with him too long."
"Yeah, Wong's on it. Don't let his deadpan fool you."
Johnson frowned, giving off a hint of disapproval but saying nothing. Talking to him, Knowlington always felt as if he had to justify himself.
He felt that way with a lot of people, actually; it was just more acute with Johnson.
"You wanted to talk about something?" the major asked.
"Apparently our eastern GCI site is still on the air."
"Yeah, I know." Johnson's voice had an edge to it, as if Knowlington was accusing him of screwing up. He wasn't.
"I'm wondering if you think the squadron should ask to take another shot at them," said Knowlington, trying to step lightly.
"I was thinking about it."
"We can swing Smith and. . ."
"I want to lead it myself."
"Okay." Knowlington nodded. "They may want it hit soon, though."
"So?"
In theory, pilots were supposed to have a decent rest between missions, but Knowlington didn't push the point. He would have felt the same way. Besides, it was all moot until he talked to Black Hole and the general.
"I don't think it was a fuck up," added the colonel.
"Why not?"
Johnson's snap surprised him so much Knowlington took a step backwards. "I'm just saying, this happens. . ."
"Dixon froze."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he lost it. He panicked. I saw it in his eyes. He came back like a rabbit in shock. I found him puking out his guts beneath his plane."
"Glenon didn't say anything about that."
"Yeah, well, it's my responsibility."
And mine, Knowlington thought. "Is that why you had them switch planes?"
"I would've had them do that anyway."
Knowlington nodded. "First time in combat can be pretty tough."
"It was the first time for all of us."
"You’re not blaming him for the station still being on the air?”
"No, of course not. But he lost Glenon. He should have been there when the mirage jumped him. Hell, Doberman’s lucky to be alive."
“You don’t think the radio going out had something to do with that?”
“He still should have been on his butt.”
Knowlington really couldn’t argue with that. Except— well, shit happens. “What’d you have in mind?” he asked.
“I want him to sit down, for starters. Take him out of the cockpit.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think? What did he tell you happened.”
“Nothing.”
"Nothing at all?"
"He was very vague.”
Knowlington began rocking gently on his feet, considering the situation. "Something bothering you, Goose?" he asked.
"No."
"You feel strongly about this?"
"Yes."
"Okay, let’s take some time and think about it. Saturday he's flying?"
Mongoose shrugged. Knowlington saw Wong coming out of the tent. “He’s all yours,” the colonel said, leaving the major to be entertained by Wong while he went to find out how important the GCI site really was.
CHAPTER 31
KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE
1900
A-Bomb nearly flattened Dixon as he stepped out of his tent.
"Whoa! what the hell are you doing out here, BJ?" he said to him, physically lifting him out of his path. "You trying to sniff Mickey D fumes?"
"Mickey D?"
"Got a shipment today. Big Macs, large fries. Should've gone for a double order, though. I'm still hungry."
"Oh."
"Hey, sorry, it's gone. Check with me tomorrow." A-Bomb took a step away. Dixon followed.
U
ntil now, they hadn't been particular friends. But Dixon wasn't particular friends with anyone to be honest, not even the other lieutenants.
"Yo, kid, what's up?" A-Bomb asked, realizing he was trailing him.
"Nothin'."
"You want something?"
"A drink."
A-Bomb laughed. "I thought you didn't drink."
"I do. Sometimes."
"I'm on my way over to The Depot. Come on."
Dixon fell in alongside as A-Bomb sauntered through the back alleys of Tent City. En route, he launched into an explanation of why the A-10A Thunderbolt II— also known as the Warthog, or Hog to those who knew her ugliness the best— was the finest warplane ever created, bar none.
"Maneuverability and toughness. That's what it comes down to," explained A-Bomb, whose dissertation was more like a rant than a lecture. "Those are the only things that count. Speed? Hey, that's fine, you want to run away. You know what I'm talking about?"
"Uh-huh."
"Turning radius. Get me into a one on one with a pointy nose, okay? Let's call it a two-turn deal, all right? Hey, screw him, I'm inside, I'm on his tail, I'm signing my name with my cannon in two seconds, right? That's what I'm talking about. Pick your plane. What do you want? Hornet? Okay, good choice. But I'm on it. I don't care if there's a marine in the stinking cockpit and he's brought a Deuce with him. You know what a Deuce is, kid? It’s a .50 caliber machine-gun. Oldie but goodie. I'm going to get me one and strap it to my seat. Kind of thing that makes you want to eject, just to use it. Anyway, I don't care who the hell is flying the damn plane, put Doolittle in the cockpit. Hey, put Knowlington in there, okay? In his prime, that is. You know, back in the old days. I'll spot him a dozen rounds in my tail. Because as soon as I light up my gun, he's a dead man. No shit. You think a Hornet could last as long as a Hog?"
"No."
"Fuck no. That's what I'm talking about. Hell of a nice airplane. Very nice screens. But stick and rudder? No, no, no. You were supposed to be in F-15s, right?"
"Well, not supposed to be. . ."
"Yeah, I heard the deal. Too bad about your mom. But listen, let's say you have an Eagle and a Hog, okay? Now I got to grant you the magic missile bullshit, but I'm not talking missiles at a million miles. I'm talking up close and in your face, where it counts. You know what I'm talking about?"
There were, of course, logical arguments to counter A-Bomb, but even if Dixon weren't a Hog driver he wouldn't have offered them. A-Bomb's enthusiasm made it seem possible— hell, likely— that he could take apart anything he came up against in a dogfight.
Maybe that's all I need, Dixon thought to himself. Enthusiasm.
But how do you get it? By eating Big Macs?
The older pilot seemed to know everyone he passed, no matter their rank or occupation. Occasionally he would stop and have a quick conversation. Dixon waited dutifully, nodding when introduced but inevitably saying nothing.
"Kind a quiet tonight, kid," A-Bomb told him as they continued on. "Something eating you?"
"No," he said quickly. But then he grabbed the older pilot's arm. "Hey, let me ask you a question."
"Shoot," said A-Bomb, still walking along. His gait had a hop to it, like either he had just won the lottery or planned to that evening.
"You ever get scared?"
"Shit yeah. All the time. Why? You scared right now?"
"On the mission."
A-Bomb snorted. "Only an asshole doesn't get scared." He slapped him on the back. "Come on. Let's find you that drink."
CHAPTER 32
KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE
2000
The GCI site turned out to be very important: it had to be taken out tomorrow.
And, as a matter of fact, the mission planners at Black Hole were looking for someone to do it.
"We volunteer," Knowlington told Al Harris, a young captain on the staff who happened to be a friend.
Actually, his father had been a friend. But Harris was a lot like his dad. Knowlington had helped him in some minor ways during his first year or so in the service, and they got along well.
"I have to have the general get back to you on it," said Harris. "This is his call."
"My guys would really appreciate it," Knowlington told him. "And so would I."
***
Five minutes later, the sharp, direct voice of the general in charge of planning the air war came over the secure line. Besides being one of the bright lights of the Air Force, the brigadier was a flexible if demanding officer who had been convinced early on that the Hogs had a place beside the glamour boys in waging the air war. He was also the kind of guy who got right to the point.
"Mike, you see your frag yet?"
"Just trying to make sure I have enough planes to fill it," said Knowlington.
"And?"
"More than enough, General."
"I hear your boys want to take a shot at that radar station near Mudaysis."
"That's right."
"The dish itself isn't the major problem. They’ve only come up once since your boys hit it, and we’ll have a weasel in the area tomorrow. But their anti-air guns are a problem.
“How’s that?”
We have to run a Special Forces unit through first thing in the morning. Looking for a downed Englishman. We’ve been scrambling to get everything together. We might make it without taking out the guns— there’s a bit of leeway. Still, I’d prefer not to cut it too close."
Knowlington sucked air. The turnaround was going to be a major problem— not only for Mongoose, who wanted to be part of the group hitting the site— but for the rest of the squadron, which was already fully committed to other tasks. But he wasn’t going to back out now.
"No sweat," he told the general. "We can take it."
"Short notice."
"Not for these guys."
There was silence on the other end of the line as the general conferred with one of his staff members. "You're going to have to hit the target around oh-six, six-ten, somewhere in there," he said finally. "Harris will get the details."
"Thanks."
"No problem." The general's voice relaxed a little. "How'd it go today, old-timer?"
"Damn good. One of my guys got a missile right through the wing. Made it back."
"Through the wing?"
"Blew a hole the size of a watermelon and the plane kept flying. Maintenance guys claim they'll have it patched and ready to go tomorrow. By the way, somebody from joint chiefs came over to check it out. Apparently the pentagon doesn't think the Iraqis have the latest Russian missiles."
"Yeah, I know," grumped the general. "Wong, right? Sorry, but we had to give him something to do."
"Hell of a sense of humor."
"Captain Wong?"
"Yeah. He had me rolling on the floor."
"Really? Wong?"
"Reminds me of a guy I used to fly with. Very droll."
"Say listen, Mike, can you use him for anything? He knows a hell of a lot about Russian weapons. Supposed to be the world expert. Outside of Russia that is. At least, he says he is."
"He's available?"
"Oh yeah. A lot of people bruising elbows bumping into each other over here. Guy like Wong? Well, let’s call him a fish out of water over here."
"We can always use help," said Knowlington.
"Borrow him for as long as you want. The admiral won't mind."
"You sure?"
"Use him for something important; cleaning latrines, if you have to."
"Oh, we'll find something better than that."
The general's tone abruptly changed. "Say, Mike, you're not thinking of getting back in the air on this one, are you?"
Knowlington laughed, brushing aside the obvious concern in the general's voice, brushing aside a mountain of unspoken reservations. The question hurt more than he expected; more than it would have yesterday, certainly. But he buried the resentment. "Well, maybe a few months from now. I'm afraid I'm the least proficient pilot on the base
."
"That's an exaggeration, I'm sure."
"These guys are good."
"I know they are. I'm counting on them."
CHAPTER 33
KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE
2000
It was Chief Master Sergeant Allan Clyston's everlasting regret that his assignment here had come at what amounted to the very last minute. By the time he'd gotten to King Fahd, all of the good quarters were long gone; he had had to scrimp and practically beg for the bare necessities. Granted, he procured an over-sized temper tent for his home, but really, it was only the metal equivalent to a canvas GP job. He felt limited by the fact that it was equipped with only three air conditioners, though admittedly they were over-sized units. Since only one was actually necessary at any given moment, he alternated their use, but you could never have enough air conditioners in the middle of a desert.
The refrigerator was standard operating equipment, as was the freezer, though perhaps there had been a clerical misunderstanding about the nature of the medical supplies to be kept inside it. The sergeant had a prescription entitling him to a special over-stuffed mattress, though the particular unit in his tent had been intended for a staff officer until misdirected to Clyston; he deemed it wise to hold onto it until its proper owner could be located.
The large generator unit outside the tent was a squadron backup. Not the Devils', actually; it belonged to a marine unit located at another base. One thing about the Corps; they always stowed their gear where it was safest.
The satellite dish had been rescued from a garbage heap and was currently undergoing "operational testing," thanks to some video and television equipment which bore a serial number identifying it as Navy property. Clyston realized that its delivery here had been a clerical error, and had assigned one of his best men to check into the matter.
Actually, there was one non-military, non-accounted-for item in his quarters— a Laz-E-Boy recliner. But as transporting it out of the premises and off base would require the requisition of resources critical for the war effort, the sergeant thought it his duty as a non-commissioned officer to guard it until it could be disposed of.
He was headed for his tent and that very chair when two of his most trusted crew members— Kevin Karn and Bobby Marks— appeared from around the corner. He grunted in acknowledgment. They followed him inside, where they pulled up seats as he completed the chore he had put off all day; transporting the newest batch of C Brew to the fridge. When the twenty-four bottles of homemade porter were safely ensconced, he retrieved two bottles of his previous home-brewing effort— a passable pilsner, though perhaps too heavy on the hops— and handed them to his men.
Hogs #1: Going Deep Page 12