Hogs #1: Going Deep (19 page)

KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

2355

W
hen you were
in war, the night was never a
friend. You
could learn
to fight in it, learn to exploit it, but it was never truly on your side. Technology
could help you see through it, sheer guts could make you survive it, but the
darkness remained forever foreign.

It enveloped Mongoose now, standing at the edge of the
hangar area, watching the crews bust their butts trying to get the planes ready
in time. His eyes swung around, fixing on the vanishing flare of jet exhaust,
shrinking and
shrinking
into a small dot. He guessed it was an F/A-18, diverted here from one of the
carriers because it was low on
fuel, but its actual identity was irrelevant; he watched it
only to watch something.

He should be taking a nap. He'd have to preflight in
another two hours. But there was no
way he could rest, and
he doubted the others
could either.

Well no. A-Bomb definitely would be sleeping. He could
sleep through anything.

He was mad at himself for snapping at the colonel. The
guy deserved a little bit of respect.

He hadn't been drinking, at least not that Mongoose
could tell. To be honest, he seemed
more sober than anybody
on the base.

No matter what, you had to give the guy one thing—
he'd been there and done that until
the cows came home.

Mongoose blamed himself for the kid's getting lost. He
should have put him on his wing, not
Doberman's. Granted,
intelligence
had tagged their site as the more difficult
one, but he should have had the kid with him no matter
what.
He could have put
Doberman and A-Bomb on the tougher
target.

Then what would have happened? Would his radio have
gone out?

Would he have been as lucky as Doberman?

That was his fuck-up, and he wasn't about to sit down
for it. He was being hard on Dixon
because they were in war,
and
one little screw-up could kill you. But wasn't part of it that the kid reminded
him of himself? Starting out, at least? Dixon had that cocky kid thing about
him, made you
want to
like him, want to think he was you before you got a
bit wiser.

And slower. Just a little.

Jesus, he was a natural stick and rudder man. He’d hit
his targets with his AGMs, even though he had said he’d missed. He
deserved another chance.

Bottom line was, he had to go with Knowlington on this.

***

In the darkness of the night, the canvas enclosure
Mongoose called home seemed like a
safe haven, a small cave
against
the harshness all around. It was lit by a small “
mood lamp” his wife had given him as a joke; the
sixties'
relic had some
sort of moving liquid inside that was
supposed
to reflect his changing moods.

It was green purple tonight. Hard to tell what mood
that was supposed to be.

Mongoose lifted his mattress off the cot and pulled out
a battered manila folder. As he
opened it, his wife's last
letter
slipped onto the bedding. He considered rereading it,
but thought it might slip him into
terminal homesickness; he
simply
slipped the letter back inside and sat down to write her
instead.

Every night, he wrote two letters. The first usually
flowed quickly, even though the
emotions were carefully
guarded:

Hey:

Thanks for your letter and keep them
coming.
Big morale boost.
Fun and games today. All went well.

I can't tell you how much I miss you
and
Robby. In my
head, he's up to my chest now. Though
of course I know it's only been three weeks and
that makes him - two months old!

Send me a new picture of him as soon
as you
can.

Send a picture of you, too.

Don't let my mom drive you crazy. She
does
mean well.

I'm sorry this is so short. I confess
to
being tired. But
happy with a job well done – I
have to get some sleep now, not overworking
myself, I promise.

I'll write tomorrow.

Love
Jimmy.

kisses and hugs. K
iss Robby for me

He drew a succession of small hearts with arrows through
them, then folded the paper. Impulsively, he wrote “
I love you” on the back; before
stuffing it into the
envelope
he wondered if it was too much: too sappy, or
maybe too depressing. Too late, it was done. He sealed
and
addressed the envelope.

The second letter took much longer. It was similar to a
letter he had written the day before,
but it felt important
to take a new shot every
day.

Dear Kathy:

I know, hon, how terrible it will feel
to
read this.
Seeing you in my mind at the kitchen table, unfolding the paper- I'm shaking. I
think of poor Robby, crying, though he doesn't know why.

I want you to remarry.
Things are tough now. But I know you’ll pick up and go on. You’ve always been a
survivor-
you said that
the first night we
met.

Well, the second really.

S
ee, even now you can
smile.

I don't want you
to feel guilty about it. I trust
you'll do
the
best thing for our little sweet potato sonny
boy.

I love you. I love you. I love you
.

That's why I want you to be happy
.

The mission that I went on today, the
reason
you're
reading this, was an important one. The Iraqi radar site we bombed was in a
location that
made
it difficult if not impossible for our
special ops units to get deep into Iraq
undetected. If it had been allowed to
stay
operating,
pilots who were shot down would have no
chance of being rescued. I'm sure that they gave
you the old cliché about, "He
died so others could
live, etc., etc." but in this case it was true.

I know, that's really not much
comfort.

The guys I flew with, no exceptions,
are great
pilots
and good men. They did their best.

I'm sitting here thinking of the night
in the
hospital.
God, I was scared. Rob, you looked like
a Martian coming out of your mom, you really did.
And when that nurse took you and
everything started flying, it was crazy. But they pulled together and you
pulled out and are fine. There were a few seconds there where I was holding
your
little hand,
and I had mom's little hand, and I didn't know what was going to happen to you
both.
And I
prayed in that instant, if you could both make it, I'd take anything else that
came. God could have anything, me included, as long as he
saved you both.

So I have no regrets.

I love you, Kath. I wish I could hold
you and
Robby one more time.

Think of me doing that, and I will

Jim

FIRE FOX HOG

KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

JANUARY 18 1991

0255

“Here's my point
," said A-Bomb, trying to pinch
his belly back far enough to pull the stiff charcoal flight suit
over it, "What are the odds of getting
scudded in a Hog? You think Saddam's going to waste his chemicals on me?"

"Hell no," said Doberman, already dressed in
the
protective
undergear. "He'll just poison your coffee."

"That's what I'm talking about," said the
pilot,
struggling with
the suit. He momentarily lost his balance and fell back against his locker. The
rebound helped loosen
the
zipper. "Goddamn carpet makes it tough to take a leak."

"I thought you never had to pee," countered
Doberman.

"Never say never." A-Bomb paused in his struggle
to
get dressed, reaching
over to his extra-large coffee sitting on the table. Steam poured from the
Styrofoam cup, which had
a
large Dunkin' Donuts logo on the side. "The secret to flying is to be
prepared for any contingency. First flight
instructor told me that."

"Did he tell you to drink a gallon of coffee before
you
took off?"

"Shit, you wouldn't believe what he drank before he
took off." A-Bomb
took a slurp from the cup and went back
to suiting up. "Guy was a barnstormer, that's what
I'm
talking about. But man, he knew his
shit."

Dixon kept to himself as he put on his G suit across
the room. With nearly everyone else
in the squadron either
sleeping
or scrambling to get the Hogs ready for their mission, the three pilots had the
shop completely to
themselves.

The G suit wasn't just an over-tailored air hose,
designed to counter the effects of high-speed maneuvers. Its pockets were a
pilot's suitcase, stuffed with maps, survival gear, extra water and candy bars
for energy. As he
triple-checked
his leg straps, Dixon ran his fingers over
the breast pocket where he'd stuffed Lance Corporal
Simmons'
letter. Sitting
next to it was a set of rosary beads his mother had given him years before as
good luck.

Not that he— or she, for that matter— was Catholic,
but some things went beyond religious
beliefs.

Dixon next pulled on his nylon mesh survival vest. This
was more an excuse for pockets than a
garment. It held his survival radio, compass, flares and a first aid kit, not
to
mention one of the
sharpest knives he'd ever owned.

And ammo for his gun. Dixon had a standard-issue,
old-style .38 caliber revolver that
he had fired exactly
once.

Over the vest came a parachute harness. This would be
attached to the chute in the plane, where it was housed in
the ejection seat.

"'Gun, is that really Dunkin' Donuts coffee?"
asked
Doberman.

A-Bomb just smiled.

"Let me smell it."

"Hey, get your own," said A-Bomb, grabbing the
cup
away. "Next
you're gonna be stealing my Tootsie Roll Pops."

"You're awful quiet this morning, Dixon," said
Doberman, looking over at
him. "You awake?"

"Yeah," he said, trying to force some of the
adrenaline
rampaging in his stomach up into
his voice.

"What do you think, real Dunkin' Donuts or
what?"

"Probably real," Dixon told Doberman. "He
had a Big Mac
last night."

"Jesus, kid, thanks a lot," A-Bomb barked in
mock
anger. "Why
don't you just tell the whole base? Dog man here
would kill his own mother for Mickey D
fries."

"They weren't real," said Doberman.

"The hell it wasn't," said A-Bomb. He had
finally
managed to get
his protective suit on and was pulling on his
custom-designed G suit. It was the envy of the squadron,
if
not the entire Air
Force. A-Bomb's bulk made it possible to cram an incredible number of
compartments into it, and every inch of real estate was packed with extra
equipment— though a high proportion might be considered extra-military, if not
downright bizarre. A lot of guys carried a Walkman with them on routine
flights; A-Bomb had wired his suit for sound, with a CD changer somehow stored
in one of the crannies. And
he habitually carried more candy with him than a well-
stocked vending machine.

"What's today's music?" Doberman asked.

"The Boss. *Darkness on the Edge of Town.'"

"Appropriate."

"Plus Pearl Jam. Ever hear of them?"

"Rap?"

A-Bomb spit derisively. "Yeah, that'll be the day.
I
also have Guns ‘n'
Roses. You really don't want to fly
without
them."

"Yeah, how could you?"

"Only question is, what do I listen to on the bomb
run?" said A-Bomb, dead serious. "I'm kind of leaning
toward Springsteen and
^‘
Candy's
Room,’ because of the beat
and
all, but there's a certain ontological dissonance with
the words."

Doberman rolled his eyes nearly out of his head.

"How can you concentrate?" Dixon asked. "I
mean,
seriously, doesn't it throw you
off?"

"Nah. It's kind of like having a sound track. Theme
music, you know. Kind of
like
Apocalypse Now,
where the
helicopters attack to the Ride of the Valkyries."

"Next you'll want to mount speakers on the
wings,"
sneered Doberman.

"I've thought about it." A-Bomb took his
helmet and
adjusted it
over his ears— checking not the fit but the
volume
control on his stereo.

"You're one of a kind, A-Bomb," said Doberman.
"Thank
God."

"How's that?" said the pilot, removing his
helmet.

"Never mind. Come on, kid, you ready?"

"Uh-huh," said Dixon, waddling over toward
them. The
chem suit
tended to cut into his crotch, and walking could
be a little tough at first.

"We got to come up with a better name for
him," said
A-Bomb. "BJ's too
tame."

"BJ's fine," said Doberman.

"Nah. He needs something with balls."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. I've been trying to come up with
something all night. Everything I
think of is obscene or taken," said A-Bomb. "We could call him Balls.
What do you
think?"

"Nah," said Doberman. "Then you'd have these
radio
transmissions - where are your
Balls?"

A-Bomb began laughing uncontrollably, as if it were
the funniest joke in the world.

***

Mongoose nearly ran Dixon down outside the hangar where
the last Hog was being readied.

"Sorry, Major," said the pilot. "I didn't
see you."

"I wasn't watching where I was going,"
Mongoose told
him,
determined to be as conciliatory and up-beat as
possible. "Here, come with me just a second."

Dixon followed him around a corner. The reflected light
threw odd shadows on the ground, and
made the young pilot,
dressed
in his survival gear and ready for flight, look like
Frosty the Snowman on safari.

"Look, we're going to do things a bit differently
than we choreographed before. Same plan, just different people—
you and me are going to tease the
defenses, instead of you
and A-Bomb."

"Okay."

"It makes sense to pair the most experienced guy
with
the least," he
explained. "I should have done that
yesterday.
I'm sorry I didn't."

Dixon didn't say anything.

"You okay, kid? I have to go tell the others."

"I'll be fine," sputtered Dixon.

"I know you will. Otherwise I wouldn't have you
covering my ass, right?"

Dixon nodded. Mongoose was grateful he didn't ask why
the switch hadn't gone the other way,
with him in Doberman's
place
bombing the dishes. He had a namby-pamby answer— too many people changing
position, with Doberman moving up into A-Bomb's slot because of rank and
experience. But that was so obviously bullshit that the kid would instantly
realize
he didn't trust
him to make the bomb run right.

He might already. But at least he didn't say it.

"Clyston rolled up Tommy Corda's Hog for you,"
he told
the young pilot.
"We're running a little tight on time, so
we
figured we'd shuffle around the planes."

"If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd rather have
the
Hog I flew yesterday
morning. I know its personality."

"It's already armed."

Dixon's disappointment was obvious.

Mongoose glanced at his watch. "Hey look, if they
get
your plane up in
time, you can take it. But we're tight—
you
got that?"

"Yes, sir, I do. Thank you."

"Sure." Mongoose took a quick look into the
kid's eyes.
They told him
exactly what he expected— nothing.

He chucked Dixon on the shoulder and went to find
A-Bomb and Dixon.

Did the kid just use the word, "personality,"
he
wondered to himself
as he walked away. God damn A-Bomb was
infecting
everybody.

***

Finished dressing, Doberman took a step in the
direction of the door. A shiny piece
of copper caught
his eye. It was a penny,
right side up.

Hadn't seen one of those in a while.

He scooped down and snapped it up.

"Whatcha got?" asked A-Bomb.

"Penny," he said sheepishly. "See a penny,
pick it up,
all the day you'll have good
luck."

"Aw, you don't believe in that crap, do you?"

"Couldn't hurt," said Doberman, looking at the
coin. It
was from 1981. Had that been a good
year?

"You going to step on all the cracks out to the
runway?" A-Bomb asked.

"Hey, you're the guy who said I was lucky."

The other pilot snorted. "Want a Tootsie Roll
Pop?" "You're out of your mind," said Doberman, sliding the
penny into his glove.