Hogs #2: Hog Down

by DeFelice, Jim

  For another, Sherman was a reformed alcoholic; he took a tough love stance toward everybody and everything, Michael Knowlington especially. They’d met each other in Saigon, well before either admitted drinking was a problem, let alone something they ought to give up. Sherman was the one media person Skull could stand. Actually, he was a pr consultant, then for the Army, now for the Joint Chiefs, with a title nearly as long as Knowlington’s service record. Sherman’s opinion of reporters was every bit as jaded though far more nuanced than the colonel’s; having fed the sharks for so long, he’d come to understand and maybe like a few.

  Which was one reason Skull let him have it full blast for the CNN story.

  “Hey, you through? It’s not like I’m the assignment editor, or the guy with the big mouth,” said Sherman. “It’s just one of those things, Mikey. A reporter happened to be around when some guys were talking.”

  “One of those things? I thought there were fucking censors to keep the lid on.”

  “Yeah, well, somebody’s butt’ll fry on that, believe me.”

  “These god damn bozos are going to get him killed.”

  “That’s not true. If anything, this may help keep him alive. If Saddam knows we know he’s alive, the odds for survival are better.”

  “You have statistics on that?”

  “Believe me, we’re just as peed over here as you are.”

  “Has anyone talked to his wife yet?”

  “Well, by now— ”

  “I haven’t been able to get a line through to her. Can you arrange that for me?”

  “Me?”

  “You have some pull, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know if I can get approval, for one thing.”

  “Screw approval. Just get me the phone number. We don’t have it for some reason, and it’s unlisted.”

  “Mikey, you really think you should talk to her? What the hell are you going to say?”

  “You going to help me or what?”

  Sherman’s long sigh announced surrender. “Let me see what I can do.”

  “I’ll stay on the line.”

  “Come on.”

  “I may never be able to get you again.”

  “Jesus.”

  Knowlington leaned back from his desk and saw that Captain Wong was standing uncomfortably in the doorway. “Those Mavericks on the plane?” he asked the major.

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but for the record, I’m not a spear carrier.”

  As pissed as he was, Knowlington just had to laugh. “Owww – that’s a bad pun. Sometimes you have to give it rest though, Wong. So, they’re on?”

  “They’re placing two on the plane as we speak. Colonel, can we discuss my transfer? I’d rather be studying Russian invoices for rivets than dealing with ad hoc, unvetted combat plans that rely on outmoded weapons pushed beyond their technical capabilities into non-functional paradigms of non-optimum performance. Sir.”

  “God, Wong, sometimes your jokes go over even my head. Anybody else, I’d think they were serious. Shit, you crack me up, you know that?”

  “I am serious,” Wong said.

  “Thanks. Listen, go get some rest. I appreciate your schlepping around this stuff for me. Really. And your humor.”

  “I wasn’t making a joke.”

  “Go on, get out of here.”

  Knowlington waved him away with a laugh. Damned best straight man in the air force. It was the face that did it – so damn serious, it set everything else up.

  Non-functional paradigms — what a ball-buster. No wonder they kicked him out of Black Hole.

  * * *

  Truth was, Knowlington knew that using the missiles’ infra-red seeker to look for a man on the outskirts of the desert was like using a metal detector to find a bullet in a gravel pit at twenty thousand feet. But they had to do something.

  Truth was, the fact that no one had picked up Mongoose’s radio beacon meant that maybe there was nothing to be done. But if you thought like that, you never made it yourself.

  * * *

  “Hey, you still on the line or what?”

  “Yeah, I’m here, Alex,” Knowlington told his friend. He stood up in his chair, mouth suddenly dry. The colonel ran his free hand back over forehead, then down his chin and neck.

  “Okay,” Sherman said, apparently to an operator. “It’s yours from here, Tommy. And you’re welcome.”

  “Hello?” said a woman’s voice, soft and bewildered.

  To the colonel, it sounded a lot like one of his sisters. They were, after all, the reason he’d wanted to call. Both had been contacted two different times by the Air Force, once because his plane turned up missing and once when he was actually shot down. He wasn’t sure now whether there had been phone calls or someone in person coming to the house; he just knew they had talked to someone.

  The time he was missing was a first class screw-up, all around. They had him dead. But his sisters told him later it was better knowing that someone was at least making an attempt, and knew who they were. Being in the dark was the worst thing; it made you feel farther away than you really were.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Kathleen Johnson, Major James Johnson’s wife?”

  “Who is this?”

  A sliver of steel came into her voice, resolution or stoicism, or maybe even anger.

  “Kathleen, this is Colonel Knowlington. Your husband’s commander.”

  “Oh.”

  “This isn’t an official call. I wanted to talk to you personally and tell you I was sorry about the television broadcast. That was a mistake.”

  “The Pentagon people said they weren’t sure how it got out. They already apologized. So did one of the Air Force officers who called to say they were on their way.”

  Well, at least someone there was on the ball, Skull thought to himself.

  Then he thought, shit. But it was too late not to talk to her.

  “I wanted to tell you that we’re doing everything we can to pick him up.”

  “He is still alive, isn’t he?”

  Knowlington fought back the impulse to assure her that her husband was fine. It was natural and human, but it wasn’t fair.

  “I have to be honest, Kathleen. We’re working on that. We’ve spotted the wreckage and he’s not there.”

  “You’re sure he ejected?”

  Again, he squelched the impulse to lie. “We believe he did. But we have not had confirmation.”

  “I see.”

  Her voice had become small again. He could hear crying in the background; their child.

  “I’m sorry, Colonel, but I have to go. Thank you for calling.”

  Knowlington put the phone down and sat at his desk a moment longer, his eyes staring at the blank, smooth top. Was it better to be honest, or was it just cruel?

  CHAPTER 30

  King Fahd

  21 January 1991

  2203

  Chief Master Sergeant Clyston sank into his Stratolounger, luxuriating in the thick richness of the Mozart pumping through his earphones. Don Giovanni was just now being handed the Devil’s bill for his incredible success with women. It was a moment that never failed to please the Capo, rating right up there with the time he had figured out how to knock an entire hour off the overhaul of a GE J79-15 turbojet.

  Clyston’s appreciation of justice and its musical expression was not unalloyed, however; the chief had escaped to his highly customized temp tent to contemplate a serious moral question: Should he let Skull fly in combat?

  In theory and in law, Colonel Knowlington outranked the chief by a country mile, and could command himself to do anything he pleased. But theory and law did not apply to the Capo di Capo; or rather, they did, but in a way considerably more convoluted than might be laid out in a military handbook.

  Any good crew chief feels responsible not only for his airplane but his pilot. Clyston was no different, and in fact as he got older had become something of a father figure to several of the pilots to whom he’
d “loaned” his planes. His role was an advisor, though, not a boss; he worked with the officers entirely by suggestion, though admittedly some suggestions were stronger and more strategically placed than others. Shortly after coming to Saudi Arabia, one such suggestion had grounded a suicidal pilot. That was an extreme example, of course; to a man the squadron’s pilots had abilities and “stuff” that even a graybeard like Clyston could admire.

  His concern about the colonel went beyond both his normal concern for a pilot and his ancient friendship with the commander. He had the squadron to consider.

  Skull wasn’t drinking anymore; he knew that for a fact. The snap was back in his walk, and his judgment was right on. Hell, even drinking the guy made a lot of right moves, if only because he gave his subordinates nearly free reign.

  But flying was different. Flying in the dark, miles and miles behind the lines, pushing the plane to do something it wasn’t designed to do?

  At his peak, there were few combat pilots in the air force better than Tommy Knowlington. But his peak had passed a long time ago. He’d put in some large hours over the past few weeks and done the flight test on the Hog today without a problem, but no one was shooting at him.

  Thing was, even if it wasn’t Knowlington flying, going north wasn’t a particularly smart thing to do. Get into trouble and butts were going to be fried.

  Where would the 535th be if Skull’s ass was the one getting singed?

  Worse, what if he was cooked by the same SOB who took down Mongoose? The major could be a class-one, anal prick, but he was a kick-butt flier with high time in the Hog cockpit. Whoever got him wasn’t just lucky, they were damn good.

  Clyston was the only one in Saudi Arabia, probably the only one in the air force, who could talk Knowlington out of flying the mission. He was the only one who could go to Tommy and tell him: Listen, you don’t have to prove yourself to anybody any more. You have to run the squadron.

  Maybe he couldn’t talk him out of it. This wasn’t about proving he could fly combat again. This was about getting his guy back.

  Especially since it was Mongoose. Clyston knew the colonel well enough to realize that, in his mind if no one else’s, Skull thought he should have been the one flying that mission. He’d see getting Mongoose back was not only as his job, but his duty. His guy, his job.

  Hard to talk somebody out of doing their duty.

  Someone like Knowlington, it’d be impossible.

  But what was Clyston’s duty?

  The chief leaned back in his chair, listening for clues as Mozart doubled back against his theme.

  CHAPTER 31

  On the ground in Iraq

  21 January 1991

  2230

  Mongoose had almost reached the trees when he heard the sound, a low, guttural moan moving in the night. At first he thought it was an animal, a wolf or hyena or something, a beast that had caught his scent and was calling its brothers for the kill.

  By the time he flopped to the ground on his belly he realized it was a truck, maybe two. The moonlight showed him the shadows moving a mile away. They felt their way toward him, slow and deliberate.

  Mongoose lay on his belly, frozen by a mixture of fear and fascination, as if he were seeing someone else’s nightmare. The trucks crested a small hill in the distance, kept coming.

  They didn’t have their headlights on. Smart precaution, but it would make it tough for them to see him here.

  They were looking for him, no doubt about it. The shadows stopped and a beam of light erupted from the second, sweeping the ground. It found the trees then arced slowly, still about a hundred yards away from where he lay.

  That got him moving. Mongoose jumped up and began running in the opposite direction. He tripped over something, felt himself spilling forward. Somehow he managed to get his elbow out, and roll with the fall. He tumbled back to his feet, ran a few more yards, saw the sweeping light from the corner of his eye and dove once more to the ground.

  The light paused on something twenty yards away: The trees maybe, or a shadow that looked like a man. Whatever it was, the trucks put their headlights on and revved their engines, moving again.

  Moving toward him.

  Now would be a great time for a Hog to appear. They weren’t worth shit in the dark, but they would sure make him feel better.

  No Hog appeared. The trucks came closer.

  At most, he was a half-mile from the road. Much too close. He couldn’t be sure what they’d seen, but he knew he hadn’t felt the light. He was still hidden. He ran ten yards, up a slight incline, then fell; rolling, he got a mouthful of grit before he managed to stop his fall.

  The search beam was trained on the trees. Mongoose scrambled to his feet and started running again, hoping they would be focusing all their attention there, hoping he wasn’t making too much noise. He could get over this dune or hill or whatever the hell it was and he’d be safe.

  The pilot had only taken a few steps when something told him to dive for cover again; he flopped down, expecting the searchlight to play over him.

  When it didn’t, he turned and looked over his shoulder. One of the two trucks was now between him and the trees. Its searchlight was examining the area carefully, moving over the ground like a worm. Two long shadows blurred behind it. He saw soldiers moving like waves in the light.

  Mongoose pushed back up, determined to get more distance between himself and the enemy. A machine-gun opened up as he did. The hollow pop-pop-pop sent him back into the dirt, diving around to face them though he knew, he hoped, the bullets weren’t aimed in his direction. Another gunner began firing— he realized they were automatic rifles, not machine-guns; AK-47s most likely, though Mongoose had never actually heard one off a firing range before.

  There were shouts; probably the commander told the men to stop wasting their ammunition, though the pilot couldn’t understand the language.

  The soldiers had been spooked by the trees or something. That he could understand.

  As they resumed the search, the Iraqis’ shadows fluttered up from the ground, devils emerging from some ghost hole. Dark, over–sized rifles loomed out at him, their barrels searching for his heart. The pilot reached for his pistol and gripped it tightly. He told himself they couldn’t see him. More than likely, they would inspect the area near the road, fire a few more shots to flush him out in case he was nearby, then pile back into the trucks and go on.

  Logically, he knew that was what they would do. But it didn’t make it any easier to crouch here, less than a hundred yards away, listening to their grunts and the chink of their equipment as they began searching the area. They cursed loudly. One seemed to trip; again the desert exploded with small arms fire.

  The searchlight swung wildly around the area; the dim edge of its shadow reached to within inches of where he had been when he first spotted them.

  He had to get up over this hill. Here he was in range of their searchlight. Sooner or later, a sweep would find him.

  Mongoose glanced down at the gun in his hand. Only its vague outline was visible, but he could feel it heavy and slightly moist, as if it was sweating.

  It was him, not the gun. He was colder than hell and thirsty besides, yet water was streaming from his pores.

  If they came for him, should he fire? With surprise on his side in the dark, he could take out two or three before the others knew what was happening.

  What then? Could he escape the hail of bullets that would follow?

  There was another clip in his pocket. Burn the first one, reload, take them all on?

  Yes, that was what he would do.

  It would mean he’d die. Inevitably. The odds were stacked. There were at least a dozen shadows in the distance. Sooner or later they would find him and they wouldn’t be inclined to show mercy.

  Nothing in Iraq is worth dying for.

  Better to be quiet, better to hide. His job was to survive.

  His job for Kath, and for Robby.

  To survive. That w
as what the Air Force told him. Survive. Don’t do anything stupid. You’re not Rambo.

  And that’s an order.

  But no way he could give up. Shit, that would be worse than living. Tortured, used for propaganda and God knows what.

  In the dark, in the desert, they’d never find him. They might search a few yards around the trees, no more. He had to get up over that hill.

  Mongoose held his breath and got up slowly, watched the shadows for a second, then began moving up the hill in a crouch-walk.

  He’d gone about six feet when the Iraqis began shouting again. The search beam swung past the trees in the opposite direction.

  Now was his chance.

  He had just taken a step when the searchlight swung back toward him.

  CHAPTER 32

  King Khalid

  21 January 1991

  2230

  Everybody in the Air Force had their own specialty. In A-Bomb’s humble opinion, the candy men— the crew dogs who took care of getting bombs onto the planes— were probably the best guys at making chili. He had no theory to explain this, beyond the obvious connection with their profession. There was, at the same time, an inverse relationship between chili quality and geographical origin. A-Bomb had never met a chili chef who’d been born further south than Reston, Va., which was not, per se, a chili-making town. This bomb loader— Sergeant Harris P. Slocum, to be exact— was a case in point, hailing from Milwaukee. Slocum, who was happy to share his chili with an obvious connoisseur, had no explanation for it either.

  The sergeant and Chevy, an airman buddy of his, had traded the chili for a pair of A-Bomb’s Devil Dogs, and had thrown in a can of real Coca-Cola as well. A genuine bargain, as far as A-Bomb was concerned, given that the Devil Dogs were a bit mushed. The pilot was so overwhelmed by their generosity that he offered them his last Twizzler licorice sticks as well.

  “You’re a walking candy store, sir,” said Slocum, lounging on the dragon that loaded shells into the A-10A’s cannon. “So they let you fly with all this stuff in your suit?”