Hogs #1: Going Deep

by DeFelice, Jim

  CHAPTER 58

  ON THE GROUND IN IRAQ

  0623

  Captain Hawkins shoved the British pilot to the ground as the fireball erupted less than a hundred yards from them. Oil, metal and blood rained through the air, the Hind spewing its guts as it tumbled into the desert, the biggest chunk of the wreck just clearing the second Pave Low, squatting on the ground thirty yards beyond Hawkins' craft.

  "Go, let's go," he screamed, spitting sand from his mouth. He clawed the back of the pilot's flight suit, lifting and dragging him to the door of the waiting chopper. A crewman helped him pitch the major in, head-first.

  Sergeant Winston and one of the other squad members crawled over him. The inside of the giant chopper echoed with shouts. Hawkins felt the floor move beneath his stomach. He rolled, smacking his arm against something very hard as the MH-53 lifted off.

  "Rhodes, you okay?" he asked the British pilot as he got to his knees.

  "Bloody hell," said the pilot, looking up from the floor. "I do believe I've lost my lucky pen."

  The Special Forces squad and nearby crew members exploded with laughter. Hawkins was practically blinking away tears as he scanned the compartment, making sure everyone had gotten back safely.

  "We're all here, sir," smirked Winston. "Cut it a bit close, though. Good thing the Iraqi was off with that first round of missiles or we'd be walking."

  While RAF Major Rhodes searched his various pockets for the pen, Hawkins patted his own uniform down - he wasn't entirely convinced he'd made it back intact.

  He had. Along with the rest of his team.

  "Kind of close, huh Captain?" Winston asked, smirking. "Our friends took their time," he added, jerking his finger toward the window. The two A-lOAs were disappearing in the distance.

  "Were those Thunderbolts?" Rhodes asked.

  "Warthogs," said Winston. "Nasty mothers."

  "Quite," said the Brit approvingly. "But bloody ugly."

  "I don't know," said Hawkins. "They looked kind of pretty to me. Welcome aboard, Major. You want some tea? It'll be cold by now, but it is Earl Gray."

  ___PART FOUR___

  NO PLACE LIKE HOME ’DROME

  CHAPTER 59

  Over Iraq, heading south

  0630

  Even though congratulations were still crackling across the radio, the euphoria of the battle faded as Mongoose took stock of their fuel situation. He unfolded his map across his lap, plotting how far they could nurse the fumes they had left. It wasn't pretty— even flying directly south, on minimal power and at dangerously low altitude, they would miss the border by a good five miles.

  "Cougar, this is Devil One. Have to advise you of a fuel emergency," he told the AWACS, unsure of how precise to be— there was always a possibility the Iraqis could be listening, and decide to send a welcome committee.

  "Affirmative," said the E-3 controller. "We're aware of your situation. We need you to fly to new coordinates. Hold on just a second while we fix the math. My buddy here can't count higher than ten."

  The joke sounded more than a bit hollow. Before Mongoose could ask what was going on, the controller shot them a heading that took them nearly as far east as south, further inside Iraq.

  "Dixon, did you copy that?" Mongoose asked.

  "Yeah, I don't get it either," said the kid.

  Mongoose could feel a bubble of anger starting to rise in his chest. He told himself to calm down - the last thing he needed was to go ballistic right now. But it was a hell of a time for a screw-up.

  "Cougar, this is Devil One. Please recheck your numbers."

  "Our math's fine," snapped the controller. "Just proceed."

  "You're sending me to a tanker?"

  "That's affirmative."

  "You're aware where that takes me?"

  "Better than you."

  He got Dixon on the squadron's private— or semi-private, as experience had shown— frequency, and asked his opinion.

  "You got me, Major," said the pilot. "They repeated the numbers twice."

  "Okay. Let's give it a shot. If we dump the Mavericks we'll give ourselves a bit more leeway."

  "You read my mind."

  Mongoose half-believed they had stumbled into an elaborate Iraqi plot until a dozen planes— all friendlies— appeared in the sky directly in front of them. A motley assortment of allied craft, including a flight of F-15 interceptors, at least three F-16 Vipers, a British Tornado and a Phantom Wild Weasel, had been rounded up to provide a posse for a KC-135, lumbering deep into Iraqi territory for the emergency refueling. There was a high CAP and a low CAP and a mid CAP, a pair of close escorts and a chase plane and an AH-130 Spectre gunship tagging along for good measure.

  "Hey, you the guys that crashed the choppers?" asked one of the Eagle pilots.

  "My partner got the kill," said Mongoose. As the words came out of his mouth, he realized he felt a bit like a proud papa. "I think mine got away."

  "Shit, you're gonna put us out of work," guffawed the F-15 pilot.

  "You sure you shot him down, or did you just scare the hell out of him with that plane?" joked another.

  "Devil One, this is your milk cow speaking. How bad is your fuel situation?"

  Mongoose glanced at the fuel gauge. "I got seven minutes. Devil Four's got eleven and a half. That right, BJ?"

  "Make it twelve."

  Mongoose could almost hear the tanker pilot whistling to himself. The lumbering jet— outwardly similar to a civilian 707— swung into an orbit toward them, still struggling to get low and slow. The pilots quickly decided Mongoose would grab a few pounds of fuel, then back off and let the kid tank before topping off.

  In theory, it was a piece of cake. But both men were tired as hell, Mongoose especially. His arms and legs dragged at the controls as he pushed the Hog toward the director lights on the tanker belly. He'd probably done a thousand refuels over the years, but none this tight.

  It wasn't his fuel he was worried about, it was Dixon's. If he took too long his wingman's plane would turn into a glider.

  Mongoose nudged everything out of his mind as he pushed his fighter toward the wing-tipped nozzle protruding from the tanker's rear end. The line between his body and the plane blurred; he saw the boom and willed it into the port on his nose, nostrils flaring as the precious fuel began spitting into the thirsty Hog.

  "I want high test," he told the boom operator.

  The crew member gave him a thumbs up through the rear window.

  Mongoose took a few hundred pounds - the Hog held ten thousand— before abruptly pulling downward to break the connection. Fuel sprayed over his fuselage, as if he were flying beneath Niagara Falls.

  "All yours, BJ," he said, careful to keep his voice cool and calm, as if the two Hogs were out on a training mission.

  Dixon had maybe three minutes of fuel left. Mongoose thought he was moving in tentatively, and had to fight the temptation to tell him to kick butt. At this point, there was nothing he could say that would help.

  As it slid in under the tanker's tail, the nose of the hungry Hog suddenly bucked downward. The plane fluttered in the air, wings trembling. Finally, the nose jumped back toward the refueling boom.

  The straw rammed home. Dixon looked over at Mongoose and gave him a wave and a thumbs up.

  Mongoose waved back, then snapped a salute as sharp and crisp as possible in the cramped office of a Hog.

  CHAPTER 60

  KING FAHD

  1000

  The adrenaline from the helicopter tangle and refuel kept Dixon’s heart pounding until they had King Fahd's long, gorgeous runway in sight. It was only as he took his place in the landing queue that Dixon's brain began reprocessing what had happened—not only this morning, but yesterday.

  He had vindicated his flying by shooting down the helicopter. He'd overcome his fear— it was best to admit what it was, use the F word. And he’d hung tough under fire. If a pilot had been shot down because of his screw-up, at least he had helped rescue him. He'
d made it right.

  But something else remained to be done. Something scarier, and more important.

  He had to admit he lied about what had happened, and face the consequences.

  And so when they finished debriefing the flight in Cineplex, Dixon walked over to Mongoose and asked to talk to him alone.

  The major got a funny look on his face. "Listen kid, I know I was hard on you yesterday," he said. "Maybe too hard. Don't take it personally, okay? We're all feeling our way a bit, even me. All right?"

  "Yeah, but um, I really have to talk to you about something. Maybe the colonel, too."

  "Knowlington?"

  Dixon nodded. Mongoose, confused, led him down the hall to the colonel's office, where Knowlington was talking to Captain Wong loudly enough to be heard in the hallway.

  It wasn't an entirely pleasant conversation.

  "You can pull whatever strings you think you have, you're here for the duration," Knowlington was saying. "Frankly, we can use a guy like you. You aren't just yanking my chain here, are you Wong? I can never tell when you're bullshitting me."

  "I assure you, Colonel, this is very serious."

  Knowlington started laughing. "You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch. You're just busting my balls, aren't you? You bastard you. You had me going. Goddamn."

  Mongoose glanced over at Dixon with a confused smile, then knocked on the door.

  "Come," said Knowlington, still laughing.

  The colonel got up as soon as he saw Dixon. "Kick ass work, BJ. Kick ass. We heard about two seconds after the Iraqi crashed. Three generals have called to tell me the media is on its way. You're a goddamn hero, kid." He pounded Dixon’s shoulder. "Feels weird, huh?"

  "I was just, uh, the helicopter was in my sights and I fired, sir."

  "Yeah, believe me, I know. You just did what came natural, right? Don't worry about it. People want to make you a hero, don't argue with them. Relax and enjoy it. I'll tell you something, BJ, we need good stories like this. Believe me, you're doing everybody a favor, even if it hurts. I want you to head over to the host squadron commander's office. Couple of people from CNN and some lady from PBS waiting for you. Word travels fast."

  Dixon nodded and glanced at Wong, who was still sitting in the chair.

  "One thing I want to set straight," added the colonel. "That pilot you guys helped rescue says he had engine trouble up near Musail. Plane wasn't hit, at least not that he could tell. So your raid on the GCI site the day before had no bearing on him. We didn't cause him to get shot down."

  "Really?" For just an instant, Dixon considered not telling them at all.

  "Colonel, do you mind if the lieutenant and I had a private conversation with you?" said Mongoose. There was a certain official twist to the inflection of the words that Knowlington noted with his eyes.

  "Excuse us, will you Wong?"

  "But. . .”

  "Seriously, I have a lot of work to do this morning. You finish your report on the missile?"

  "Well, I. . .it does appear to have been an SA-14, though we know that's impossible."

  Knowlington laughed as if Wong had made the joke of the year. "You crack me up. Go on, get out of here, tell me if you need me to sign anything. Impossible, Jesus."

  "What was that all about?" Mongoose asked as he closed the door behind the perplexed Wong. There were only two chairs in the small office; all three men remained standing.

  "Oh, nothing. He's just a world class ball buster," explained Knowlington.

  "Seemed serious to me."

  "Yeah, better watch out— he's exactly the kind of guy who kills you with practical jokes when things get too tense. I knew a guy like that, somehow convinced half the squadron to show up naked for a visiting general." Knowlington's expression grew more serious. "So what's up, guys?"

  "I lied, sir,” Dixon said

  The two men stared at him as the words gushed from his mouth.

  "I dropped my CBUs blind yesterday, without a target."

  Mongoose's face turned ashen. Knowlington's looked grim, but he nodded. "The Mavericks, too?"

  "No, sir, I— I fired the first two I think without a lock, like I said, and then on my second run I thought I was losing the target so I panicked and fired. With the flak, and with everything going crazy, I froze. I flew away from the site in a daze lost. Finally I pickled the cluster bombs and got the hell out of there. I just ran away."

  Dixon made it clear that he had dropped the bombs over what he knew now was empty desert— and that he had then lied about it. Mongoose slipped back into the nearby chair as the story finally ran out.

  "Okay," said Knowlington somberly. "Go on over and see those media people. Tell about the helicopter."

  Dixon nodded. His confession had been cathartic, but he wasn't necessarily looking forward to what would happen next.

  "Goddamn," said Mongoose as soon as the lieutenant had left. “Goddamn. He fucking lied to me."

  Knowlington nodded. It was one thing for the kid to chicken out; he'd guessed something close to that had happened, after all. But not giving up the entire story when he had the chance— when Knowlington asked him point-blank— was unforgivable.

  "What are we going to do?" Mongoose asked.

  "Good question. CNN started talking about the helicopter shoot-down ten minutes after it happened."

  "What difference does that make?"

  Knowlington smirked. Sometimes his DO could be very naive. "Brass is in serious search of heroes. Not that I blame them. They don't want this to be Vietnam. The media will eat it up. And there are plenty of A-lOers floating around who'll use this to defend the plane against the pointy nose mafia. Not that I blame them."

  "What kind of story is it going to be when they find out the hero's a coward?"

  Knowlington shook his head.

  "Yeah," said Mongoose. "What the hell do we do?"

  "I'm going to have to think about it. When's he supposed to fly again?"

  "Saturday I think. I'd have to check at this point. I'm a little tired." The major tightened his hand into a fist. "I'll tell you, my first instinct. . ."

  "That isn't going to get us anywhere, Goose," said Knowlington.

  ***

  The colonel closed the door behind Mongoose. He sat at his desk, staring at the blank wall for a minute. Finally his rage exploded and he smashed his arm down against the desktop so hard it stung.

  In the kid's defense, he had come to them and told them what happened. If he hadn't, it was doubtful they would ever have found out.

  Dropping the CBUs blind— not good, but not the worst thing he could have done.

  Not answering the AWACS hail? Less than optimum, but again, it wasn't as if he had flown to Jordan and sat out the war.

  Quite frankly, Knowlington couldn't hold any of what happened over the site the first day against him; he understood fear quite well. And the kid had gotten through it. Knowlington knew enough about people to know it wouldn’t happen again.

  But the issue now was trust. Willfully misleading a superior officer. Lying. Even Knowlington, as far from a by-the-book guy as there was, couldn't allow that to just slip by.

  In his opinion, it deserved serious disciplinary action.

  Which would piss a hell of a lot of people off. And with the media hanging around, someone was going to get a very black eye.

  Knowlington didn't care how he would look. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, let the Air Force look bad. Not in this war. Never again.

  But how would the Air Force survive if pilots lied about what happened during their missions?

  He slammed his fist down on the desk again, this time so hard it felt as if he broke it.

  CHAPTER 61

  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 c
ongratulating 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.