Going Deep h-1

by Jim DeFelice

  KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

  Saudi Arabia

  0800

  His domain had come down to this: a single pad of lined white paper in the exact middle of a plain steel desk, a thin, dented silver Cross pen he’d once thought of as lucky, and a telephone.

  Colonel Michael Knowlington continued outlining the large triangle he’d drawn around the phone number on the top of the page, his eyes lost somewhere between the thick line and the memory of many other triangles, drawn on many other sheets, under many other circumstances.

  Nostalgia was not useful. But it was difficult to push it completely away. Much earlier this morning, when the first group of “his” Hogs took off on their long mission to bomb radar sites in Iraq, Knowlington felt as if he were standing at an airline terminal, killing time before a flight. And then, just as he turned to walk back through the hangar area, he somehow remembered watching an RC-135 take off in Alaska a million years ago.

  For a moment, the white-haired colonel thought his mind had thrown up a completely irrelevant memory. Then he remembered he’d watched that particular flight not with detachment but a premonition of doom; the plane had later gone down in a thunderstorm, all personnel lost.

  It was at that moment that he admitted to himself how much he dreaded this afternoon. Knowlington felt — knew — he’d lose at least one pilot, maybe two or three, of the twelve he was responsible for. He was especially worried about the four-plane group led by the squadron DO, Major Johnson. In his opinion, they’d been assigned to do something well beyond the Warthog’s capabilities, flying hundreds of miles to bomb sites that were part of sophisticated anti-air systems. Going deep was not exactly a job the A-lOA was designed to do.

  But his opinion didn’t count. His being here in Hog Heaven was only a freak of war, someone else’s unlucky throw of the dice. A few weeks before, these planes were headed for the scrap heap, and he’d been given “command” of them to make sure they got there. Then General Schwarzkopf himself decided there should be more Hogs in theater, and that was that.

  Real War Rule Number One: Things Change. Rarely for the better.

  What really bothered Knowlington watching the Warthogs take off wasn’t a premonition or pessimism, but a realization that for the first time in his life he didn’t care to have his fanny in the cockpit. He didn’t care, really, to be here at all.

  What he did care for, what he wanted more than anything else, was a drink. But instead, Colonel Michael Knowlington, paper commander of the 535th Tactical Fighter Squadron (Provisional) of the 99th Air Wing (Temporary), picked up the phone and asked for help connecting to the stateside number. Yes, he told the communications expert on the other end, he was well aware of the time back in D.C. And yes, it was a private number. This was Colonel Knowlington on the line.

  He waited. The building rattled as a misplaced Hercules crossed overhead.

  The phone was answered on the fourth ring, just as he worried that the answering machine would take it and he’d have to try again later.

  A sleepy voice asked, rather than said, hello.

  “I’m looking for Nitro,” Knowlington said.

  “What?”

  “Hey Nitro. This is Skull. How the hell are you?”

  “Mikey?”

  “One and the same.” Knowlington slipped back in the stiff desk chair, relaxing a little, picturing his old wingman asleep in his pajamas.

  “Jesus, Mike — where the hell are you? You in trouble?”

  “Not exactly. Well, sure, I guess I’m always in some sort of trouble.” The phone line wasn’t secure. “You probably can figure out where I’m at,” he added. “It’s pretty warm, but I’m not getting a tan.”

  “Jesus, Mike. You know what time it is back here?”

  “I need an important favor. Today if possible.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Knowlington smiled, remembering another time Nitro — Captain Grenshaw at the time — had used that exact phrase. It was over a UHF radio as Knowlington — he hadn’t earned the Skull handle yet — tried to help vector in a Jolly Green to pick up the downed pilot.

  “This is going to sound really, really dumb,” the colonel told his old friend, “but my chief needs a manual for something you guys make.”

  “You’re shitting me, right?”

  Knowlington laughed. He’d had the same response himself when the chief of his maintenance section — actually, his capo di capo, Chief Master Sergeant Alan Clyston — told him two days ago that the Air Force had somehow neglected to supply anyone in Saudi Arabia with a manual for the AGM-65G heat-seeking Maverick missile.

  Something of an oversight, considering they were being used today. Everybody said they worked the same as the other models, except for the fact that they had shaped charges, were a lot heavier, and used infra-red instead of video.

  Same thing, except different.

  “I wish I were kidding,” Knowlington told Grenshaw. “My guys claim they’ve figured them out, but I want to make sure, you know?”

  “Some things never change. Shit.”

  The colonel’s telephone wasn’t secure, and while he doubted Saddam was listening still, he was squeamish about giving out too much information over an open line. But he wanted to make sure Grenshaw knew what he was talking about. “It’s a G,” he hinted. “Does that make any sense to you?”

  His friend had to think for a second or two. “We’re talking about something we first used back in our war, right?”

  “Well, you might have used it there,” said Knowlington, “I dropped strictly iron potatoes.”

  “It was a piece of shit in those days, right?” asked Grenshaw.

  “I was hoping your joining the company would make it work a lot better.”

  “Fuck you. Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. It works great now. I can’t believe you don’t have the manual.”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Of course. I’ll get you a dozen.”

  “There’s a friend of ours who can get them over quick, Bozzone-”

  “That old phony is still in uniform?”

  “Tucks his shirt in and everything.”

  “Damn. I would have thought they’d kicked him out years ago.”

  Bozzone was several years younger than Knowlington, but Grenshaw didn’t realize the irony.

  “I think they tried, but he wouldn’t go,” said Knowlington. “Billy’s a general now.”

  “Yeah, I heard. I thought they gave him the star to get rid of him.”

  “Didn’t take the hint.”

  “You know what, Mikey, I can get them there faster.”

  “Really?”

  “One of our congressmen is going over on a fact-finding tour. He’ll be leaving in a few hours, as a matter of fact. I can make some calls. It’s done.”

  Our congressmen. Knowlington shook his head, but said nothing.

  “Listen, you want some steaks?” added Grenshaw. “We’ll get you a crate. You still drinking Jack Daniels?”

  His men would love the steaks. But the colonel declined. “Just the manuals,” he said.

  “I’m not trying to bribe you,” Grenshaw laughed.

  “No, we’re fine out here. Got more of that sort of thing than you’d think. It’s the manuals I need.”

  The voice on the other end of the line changed. “How you doing, Mike?”

  “I’m hanging in there. Have my own wing.”

  “Your own wing?”

  “Yup.” Knowlington didn’t bother explaining the paperwork, much less the fact that most of his meager supply of Hogs were under de facto control of other commanders here. Nor did he say that he had ceded much of his actual responsibilities to Johnson.

  Maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe it was common knowledge that he was played out. Because Grenshaw immediately asked if he was being screwed.

  “Nah.”

  “You know, I can help if you need it,” said Grenshaw. “Shit, we can use somebody with your backgroun
d ourselves.”

  “Maybe after all this is over,” said Knowlington.

  “Honor and country, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Don’t go punching out again. Leave that to the younger guys.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “It’s been great talking to you, Mikey. We have to get together next time you’re in town. Dissect a few old missions.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Fly straight,” said Grenshaw, his voice nearly thirty years younger as he recalled the first half of their personal motto.

  “And get shot down,” answered Knowlington, hanging up.

  CHAPTER 9

  AL JOUF FOB

  SAUDI ARABIA

  0805

  It began as a wobble so slight Doberman didn’t even realize the plane was shaking. But by the time he was ready to line up for his landing at Al Jouf behind A-Bomb, the A-10A was bucking sideways worse than an out of balance washing machine about to explode. Nothing he did seemed to calm it.

  The funny thing was, the instruments were at spec and the wobble didn’t seem to affect the plane’s ability to fly. It was like driving a race car with one wheel way out of alignment on an empty track — it might whack the hell out of your perception, to say nothing of your body, but you were never in any danger of crashing.

  At least, the pilot hoped that was the case. The plane didn’t seem to want to go down, or spin in, or implode — just slide back and forth a whole lot. It tried to move left, then right, then left and left, and then right. Doberman wasn’t entirely sure what would happen if he let it. And he didn’t intend to find out. He corrected constantly with the rudder and stick, eyeing the engine gauges carefully to make sure they were running precisely in parallel. No amount of adjustment or cursing cured the problem.

  At least it took his mind off the Mirage. He was still pissed off that he’d lost his chance at shooting it down. He’d decided now that he definitely would have creamed the SOB if the F-15s hadn’t gotten in the way.

  The scratch of concrete spreading out in his windshield was the centerpiece of a forward airbase. It had been carved out in the middle of the wastelands only as a staging area for some Special Forces units and Hogs, but Doberman saw all sorts of planes lining up in landing patterns. The sharp, businesslike commands of the tower personnel were punctuated by even sharper breaths for air; it was doing a brisk business in emergency landings today.

  But hell, there weren’t any wrecks that he could see. Things must be going reasonably well.

  Doberman did a last-second check of his instruments as the Hog’s wheels snapped into position beneath the fuselage, helped by the jet’s slipstream. Nosing toward the concrete, the plane finally shook off her shudder. Doberman felt a shock of relief run through his body as he pushed her onto the ground.

  * * *

  Doberman felt another kind of shock a few minutes later, surveying the rear of his plane from the ground. The back third of the A-10A looked as if it had been used as a backstop for a platoon’s machine-gun practice. Foot-long pieces of the interior were exposed, wires and fried metal falling through the jagged gaps. The engine cowling was nicked in a star burst pattern, and it looked as if someone had tried to write his name on the rear stabilizer. The radar warning antennas, light and most of the rest of the center part of the tail section had been ground into chewing gum. The fuselage in front of the twin tailfin was creased, spindled and corroded. Bits and pieces of the bag-like fuel tank was exposed; it looked slightly singed.

  A-Bomb whistled, shaking his head as he trotted over. “Jesus, Doberman, the assholes who shot at you would have taken off your tail if you’d been going any faster,” he said. “Here’s why your radio was out. You lost the antenna.”

  The pilot pointed toward the top of the fuselage. Somehow, the UHF/TACAN fin on the very top of the plane directly behind the cockpit had been blown clear away.

  “Damn,” said Doberman. The fin was only a few inches from his seat. Why the hell hadn’t he heard — or felt — what hit it?

  “Put a new one in, Dog Man, and you’ll be set,” said A-Bomb. “Hell, this is nothing. Hog eats this kind of stuff up. Shit, it likes taking flak. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “I guess so. Looks bad, though.”

  “Nah. This is all sheet metal. It’s like on a car. Hell, they just take out a screw here, screw there, bam, you’re back to normal.”

  A mechanic who had been listening to the conversation rolled his eyes, then left to get his chief so they could decide what to do. His guess was, put a bullet through the A-lOA’s nose and call it a day.

  “The plane shook a little on the way back,” said Doberman. “But the instruments said I was fine.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about.” A-Bomb held out his arms as if he had had to explain the facts of life to a raw recruit. “This fucking plane was made to get hit. Not like those sissy pointy noses. Now, you’re flying an F-16, right? You couldn’t have ejected fast enough. F-15? Man, Saddam’s serving you lunch right now. But this — God, all you need’s a new paint job and you’re outta here.”

  “I don’t see any bullet holes in your stinking plane.”

  “Hey, that’s not my fault,” said A-Bomb. He turned his head back toward the runway. “What do you think Dixon’s plane’ll look like?”

  “I don’t know. I’m kind of wondering what happened to him.”

  “He wasn’t too talkative on the radio coming in,” said A-Bomb. “I think he got rattled. First day and all.”

  “He’ll be okay,” said Doberman. It was a reflex, like he was sticking up for his kid brother.

  “Shit, I didn’t say he wouldn’t, did I?” A-Bomb pointed to a Hog steadying itself for a landing at the far end of the strip. “Maybe that’s him. We ought to start a pool on the number of bullet holes. Whoever gets the most wins.”

  “Wins what?”

  “I don’t know. A case of homemade beer.”

  “Gee, there’s a prize,” said Doberman. “And how the hell would you count them on my plane?”

  “Good point.”

  * * *

  The hot Saudi air whipped into Dixon’s face like a blast from an afterburner. He caught his balance against the fairing strip of the cockpit’s windshield, checked to make sure the ladder had scrolled itself downwards, then hoisted his long legs around and over the Hogs front end. The uncontrollable urge to get his feet onto the pavement kept him from noticing the shake in his legs, kept him from noticing anything until he was down, leaning against the darkened green camo of the A-lOA’s body, leaning and then sinking.

  Dixon had never puked from flying before, not even the first time he’d pulled negative g’s, but he lost his cookies now, guts erupting in a bilious flow that spread out below the big jet like oil from a ruptured tanker. He puked and puked, stomach and chest exploding as if they had just invented the phenomenon. His mind flew out with the fluids, evaporating on the tarmac.

  Exhausted, still shaking, the lieutenant found himself on his hands and knees beneath the jet’s wing. He was soaked, though thankfully from sweat, not puke. Carefully, his stomach still turning, he backed out from under the plane. Still bent over, he found himself face to face with Doberman.

  “Yo, Lieutenant, where the hell have you been?”

  Dixon fell back, startled, his heart stoking up as if he’d been caught off-guard in an alley by a couple of thugs. He fell against the hard metal of the airplane, trapped there.

  “Lost your breakfast, huh?” laughed A-Bomb, standing behind Doberman. “They teach you that in F-15 school? Oh that’s right — you never matriculated, right?”

  “Ease off, A-Bomb,” said Doberman.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean anything,” said the pilot. “You okay, kid? You look a little, you know, loose in the head.”

  “I’m okay.” Dixon heard his voice crack, like he was nine years old. He pushed himself off the plane, standing on his own two feet for the first time.
He towered over Doberman, who was short even for a pilot.

  “What happened?” demanded Doberman. “Did the Mirage jump you, too?”

  Dixon shook his head. “I lost you somewhere in the flak.”

  “My radio went out,” the captain added. “Is that why you lost me?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “What happened?”

  What had happened? Dixon started to tell him everything — how the plane and world had started moving in slow motion; how he’d lost track of where he was and fired his Mavericks poorly; how he’d risen through the flak and gotten rattled; how panic had flooded his bloodstream.

  Something stopped him. Whether it was ego or A-Bomb’s grin or the look on Doberman’s face — a look that expected a right-stuff playback — Dixon couldn’t find the words to tell the truth with.

  “Uh, I don’t know exactly,” was the best he could manage.

  A-Bomb laughed. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “After I called the antiair battery when you started lining up your mavericks, I thought we were breaking the figure eight,” Dixon said.

  I didn’t hear the call,” Doberman said. “My radio must have been out already.” He nodded. “Did your Mavericks hit?”

  Dixon shrugged.

  “Did you get the tower?” Doberman asked.

  “I don’t think so

  “No?”

  “I don’t know. I thought I locked at first, but then I realized it wasn’t it.”

  “You get anything?”

  “A van. I can’t even remember.”

  A-Bomb was scouting around the plane. “Jesus, you’re not even scratched,” he said. “You’re a lucky son of a bitch. You should have seen what happened to Doberman’s plane. Chewed up and spit out.”

  “You all right kid?” Doberman put his hand on his bicep. Though the captain was half his size, his grip hurt.

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry I lost you,” said Doberman.

  Dixon knew he was the one who ought to be apologizing, and more, but he kept his mouth shut.

  * * *

  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.