"Thanks, Chief," said Karn. "Not having one yourself?"
"I got some things to look after," said Clyston. He took a Coke from the refrigerator and sat in his easy chair, pushing it backwards. "Bobby, hit the go switch on the stereo, wouldja?"
The young specialist complied, and the room exploded with a Mozart concerto. Clyston closed his eyes. The others, who knew better than to disturb him for the next five minutes, exchanged glances and sipped their beer. It was only when the capo di capo had reopened his eyes that Karn, who was about fourth down on the squadron's NCO pecking order and Clyston’s personal work-it-out guy, ventured to remark that it had been a hell of a day.
"Sure has. Nobody broke my planes," said Clyston, taking a swig of the soda. "Though Captain Glenon took a good run at it. How's the one he tried to use as a missile catcher coming?"
"Tinman is kicking butt getting it back together," said Karn. "Can't beat the old-timers, I'll tell you."
Clyston smiled wryly. "Cursing a lot?"
"Big time. Says we need a new ‘wink'."
The capo di capo laughed. "I wouldn't be surprised if he finds one."
"Some Pentagon jerk wanted to inspect the damage," added Karn. "Tinman gave him a slab of metal and chased him away."
"Yeah, I heard. He gives you trouble, send him to me. Say Bobby, who worked on Major Johnson's INS?"
Marks was only an E-3 and a bit undernourished, but Karn had taken him under his wing. The kid showed some promise in his chosen field of electronics, and had helped locate spare parts for a down television. He also prepared a frankly superb barbecue sauce that even now lingered on Clyston's lips. It was that sort of versatility that made him a comer.
"Jeez, Chief, I'm not sure. Could have been either of a half-dozen guys."
Clyston, who not only knew damn well that it had been Sanderson but knew that Bobby knew, nodded. The noncommittal answer combined tact with deference. The kid definitely had potential.
"Goose on the rag again?" Karn asked.
"Yeah," grunted Clyston.
"Poor Parker." Parker was Mongoose's crew chief.
"He'll leave Parker be," said Clyston, taking another sip of his soda. "For now, anyway. Unless it happens again."
“The avionics unit?” Bobby said.
"They're all crap, but there's something really screwy with his," said Karn. "No matter what we replace or what we do, it gets whacked. Sometimes it’s a gyro, sometimes it’s a freaking contact, sometimes the whole thing is just, well, hexed. I'm thinking serious short somewhere, but damned if I can find it."
"You tried?" Clyston asked.
"Half the damn squadron tried. The thing is, it passes all the stinking tests. It's like voodoo. Parker and Sanderson both went over it with him," added Karn. "You know, they told the major. . ."
"I know what they told him. And I know what he told them," said Clyston. "He's right. This is war. It may be one of the few things he and I agree on."
Clyston felt Johnson was a good pilot and a decent officer, but at times a bit too prissy. Plus, Johnson didn't like Knowlington all that much; a serious character flaw, in the capo di capo's estimation.
"Good beer, Chief," said Bobby.
Clyston frowned. One thing he still had to teach the kid was not to be such a kiss-ass.
"What the hell hit Captain Glenon's plane?" asked Bobby, realizing his error and trying to back track.
That earned a nod.
"Looks like he flew it under a drill press," laughed Karn.
"Shoulder-fired missile. I've seen some strange ones," said Clyston. They looked at him, expecting him to elaborate, but he wasn't in the mood. "Glenon's got to be the F-ing luckiest pilot in the wing. Anybody else, that would have taken out the fuel tank.”
"Couple inches further forward, it would have gotten the brace and snapped it in two," said Bobby. "I heard. . ."
He was interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Come!" Clyston commanded.
Technical Sergeant Rosen squeezed her head inside.
"Rosen, get your fanny in here before one of those P-heads outside spanks it, and I have to file charges against them," said Clyston.
"Hell, just take them out by the hangar and let Rosen have five minutes with them," said Karn. "They'd wish they had a court martial."
Rosen glared briefly at Karn before turning to the capo di capo.
"Help yourself," Clyston said, gesturing to the refrigerator.
"No thank you, Sergeant."
"How'd it go?"
"I fixed it."
"Yeah, I noticed. Problems?"
"Not really."
Clyston nodded. "Freddy take care of you?" He was referring to a friend of his who had arranged transportation for her out of Al Jouf.
"More or less."
Clyston frowned. "All right. Tell me about it. You two shut your eyes," he added.
"The co-pilot on the KC-130 coming back was a jerk. That's it."
"He's going to complain?"
"He might."
Clyston sighed. Hopefully, the man would be so pissed off he would go right to Knowlington. The colonel would nod seriously, scratch his chin, and promise to look into it. As soon as the door closed, he’d shake his head, roll his eyes, and do what he always did about insignificant bullshit: forget about it.
"You didn't break any bones, did you?" the capo di capo asked, trying to make light of the situation. But Rosen didn't take the hint.
"I shoulda," she said.
"Relax, Rosen. Come on, have a seat."
She glanced at the others, deepening her scowl. "I have work to do, Sergeant."
"The hell you do. Your shift ended hours ago."
Rosen's face flushed momentarily. She seemed genuinely touched by his concern.
Must have been the light.
“I caught a Herc back,” she told him. “Lucky timing.”
“I guess.”
"I heard Tinman needed help on Lieutenant Dixon's plane, the one Captain Glenon tried to break," she said.
Clyston nodded. One of these days he was going to adopt her. "Tinman may not let you help."
"We can get along if there's work to be done."
"Your call. Good work at Al Jouf."
She flushed again, but left before it was too noticeable.
"Lesbo, right?" said Bobby.
"Nah," said Clyston. "She just has trouble getting along with people. Officers especially. Takes them seriously. That's where the trouble starts, as a general rule."
CHAPTER 34
THE DEPOT, SAUDI ARABIA
2030
Officially, the club didn't exist.
Unofficially, it didn't exist either.
But its thick, smoke-laden air was real enough. The bikini-clad Pakistani waitresses— with a few similarly dressed men thrown in to provide gender balance— were actual flesh and blood. Mostly flesh. The dim lights, live music, and flowing booze had a hallucinatory quality at first glance, but soon proved as physical as anything else here.
"Never been in The Depot before, huh Kid?" A-Bomb asked as he threaded his way through the crowd at the bottom of the entry stairs located just a few yards from the base property line.
"No," said Dixon. He looked a bit like a five-year-old taking his first trip to the circus.
Or a whore house.
"Used to be a bomb shelter. I think. People get kind of bristly when you ask. My idea is, enough guys had enough wet dreams and it sprang together out of thin air. Or sand. Whatever." He stomped Dixon's shoulder to show he was kidding. "Here come on, this is my spot."
A-Bomb slid in behind a round cocktail table in a corner. From here, he had a perfect view of the small stage, in case one of the unscheduled floor shows stoked up.
"Shit-faced, kid, that's what we're getting," he told him. "And then, we're going to have to cook you up a nickname. BJ sounds a little too, you know, suburban. You need something new."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. You need somet
hing that fits you. Finding the right nickname is a delicate art. How long have you had BJ?"
"All my life."
"That's what I'm talking about. Time for a change." He motioned over a waitress in a black leather thong. "Pair of Buds," said A-Bomb. "And maybe later, talk to the kid a little."
"I'd love to," she purred, running her fingers lightly across his head before disappearing.
A-Bomb laughed as the kid turned paler. "Lighten up, BJ. Hell, you were in combat today. You're a man from now on. Cherry broken."
"I don't know."
"Hey, relax. Uncle A-Bomb isn't going to make you do anything you don't want to do." He leaned across the table. "And they all get shots once a week."
***
Doberman found them sitting in A-Bomb's favorite corner.
"How much have you guys had to drink?" he asked.
"Hello to you, too," said A-Bomb.
The pilot pointed to the half-emptied bottles. "How many?"
"Relax," said A-Bomb. "We just got here. I’ve had a sip and Junior’s been too interested in the floor show. You’ll catch up in no time."
"I'm not catching up. Knowlington's called a big meeting over at Cineplex."
"For when?"
"Now." Doberman glanced at Dixon. He expected to find A-Bomb here, but the kid - hell, he went to church services, for crying out loud. Doberman glared at him; Dixon, who looked paler than the albino strip artist on stage, remained silent.
Obviously in shock.
"No shit," said A-Bomb. "What's up?"
"The GCI site BJ and I hit this morning is still on the air. Apparently the stinking radar dish I hit didn’t stay hit. There's a British flier on the ground somewhere near there that they want to rescue first thing in the morning, and the squadron's been tasked to shack the shit out of the dish and the guns on the southern side."
"Ouch. Who's going?"
"Believe it or not, Mongoose wants to."
"Figures." A-Bomb pushed the beer away. "And here I thought I'd get some sleep. Oh well— who needs sleep when you can fly?"
"You're going?"
"Aren't you?"
"Yeah," said Doberman. "But I ain't fucking happy about it."
"Who's happy?"
"You're crowing," said Doberman. "Like you're happy."
"Nah."
"I'm going because it was my job in the first place," said Doberman. "I screwed it up; I'll fix it. You stay home."
"Tie me to the fucking bed and I'll bring it along," said A-Bomb. "No way I'm not going."
"I screwed it up," blurted Dixon.
"Relax kid," said Doberman. "Drink your beer."
"I blew it. I saw the dish and then I lost it. I thought you took it out."
"Hey, nobody blew it." said A-Bomb. "You guys have to learn to deal with reality. Sometimes you miss."
"You're giving lessons on reality?" said Doberman.
A-Bomb started to say something, but then just waved his hand. "Let's get back," he said instead, standing. "How'd you know we were here, anyway?"
Doberman rolled his eyes, then stuck his finger into Dixon's chest. "Him, I'm surprised about."
"Hey, easy on the kid," said A-Bomb. "BJ's okay. Hell, he's coming on the mission, too. Right kid?"
"I, uh— "
"Look at his face, Dog Man. Kid's a Hog driver. All we got to do is come up with a new nickname for him."
"Like?"
"I don't know. But BJ sounds like he ought to be on Little House on the Prairie, don't you think?"
***
Lieutenant Dixon followed along as they threaded out of the club, heart pounding wildly. It had begun as soon as he heard the words, British pilot.
He was being handed a chance to redeem himself. He had to get back in the sky and grab it. Everything he had been wanted to make it right.
But another part of him said no. Another part said stay home. You'll never make it. You'll screw up again.
It wasn't that he was afraid of dying. He was afraid that he'd panic again. He felt his hands trembling as he gripped for the stair rail, climbing back toward the night air.
CHAPTER 35
KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE
2105
Rosen found Tinman grumbling as he leaned head-first into the wing of the damaged Hog. In her opinion, his curses had a Celtic-Scandinavian lilt to them, though she was as clueless as anyone about his background.
"Sergeant Clyston asked me to help you out," she called up.
Tinman grunted something in her general direction.
"What happened to the rest of your crew?"
"Go sleep. Tired."
"What about you?"
"Work. Work," he said, adding more unintelligible words.
Rosen surveyed the wing from the bottom. The hole had been squared off and the interior guts replaced— quick work, all things considered.
"Was the wing spar okay?" she asked.
"Checked out, yes," he answered. "Bones okay. New lines. Check, check. Lots of work."
I'll bet, she thought to herself. Lots of work for a lot of people. And it wasn't like this was the only A-10A that had been damaged— the plane Dixon had flown back was sitting not very far away, the last bullet hole being patched by an airman with a trusty drill set.
"Hey, Tinman, you got any electrical work that needs fixing?" she yelled up. "Otherwise, I'm going to bed."
"New wink, that's what we need," grumbled the mechanic, pulling himself up. "But Chief doesn't want to hear about it. Have to do this from scratch."
"You put this aileron in by yourself?" she asked incredulously, looking at the large and obviously new wing section.
"No time to fool around," he said, hopping down the scaffold. "Chief wants it flying tomorrow."
“Chief is out of his mind."
"You tell him."
Not even Rosen would try that. "If there's anybody who can fix it by then, it's you," she said.
"Thank you. I'm your friend, too," he said, nodding. "How was Al Jouf?"
"Not bad. I was talking to one of our pilots there. Lieutenant Dixon. He's actually kind of cute."
Tinman shook his head, "Bad idea, sergeants and pilots."
Rosen felt her face blush. "You need help or not?"
Something in the crusty old mechanics eye twinkled. "You help me find patch metal?"
"Patch metal?"
Rosen started to protest, but Tinman blinked mischievously. "Chief said we could have anything we need. Come, you can work acetylene with me."
“Acetylene? Hold on a minute. Tinman? Where are you going?”
Rosen followed as the skinny old-timer walked briskly, not into the parts area, but back behind the hangar where a damaged C-130 had been stowed two days before, waiting for engine parts.
"Oh, Tinman," she moaned. "You're not thinking what I think you're thinking."
"Why not? Need new wink."
"Wing. You mean wing."
He shook his head up and down, pointing at the big general cargo plane.
"You mean the C-130?” she protested. “That one doesn't need a new wing."
"It will," he said. "Come on. Help me get torch. Then, we need some paint."
CHAPTER 36
KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE
2140
Mongoose nearly fell over when he walked into Cineplex and found it filled not only with all of the squadron's pilots but a good portion of the NCOs as well.
"There you are, Major," said Knowlington, standing at the front. He rocked a bit on his legs, smiling bashfully— as if Mongoose had caught him talking about him behind his back. A rough diagram of the GCI site Doberman and Dixon had hit had been sketched on the large easel behind him. "I was just bringing everyone up to speed on Mudaysis."
Mongoose was so flustered he wasn't sure what to say. Until now, Knowlington had pretty much left him to run the squadron. He actually felt disoriented, slipping into a seat near the door as the colonel relayed a generalized version of his conversation with Blac
k Hole.
"I'm not going to kid you guys," concluded Knowlington, "this isn't an easy mission. It's long and grueling, as the pilots who undertook it this morning can tell you. Cloud cover is going to be very low, which will make things a hell of a lot more dangerous. We have to hit the site at 0600. The helicopters will be coming through this way, close enough to get into trouble if something goes wrong. There’ll be a Weasel in the area, but the odds are the dish itself will stay off; it’ll be our job to make sure it sleeps permanently. Now, participation will be voluntary . . ."
"Hey, I'm leading the flight," said Mongoose.
Knowlington looked at him, nodding as if he had been going to suggest that.
"A-Bomb and me are going, too," said Doberman. The pilot was sitting in the back of the room, arms folded and frowning. "And BJ. We're the volunteers. We missed it and we're going back to nail the mother fucker."
He was so emphatic that no one stated the obvious objection— the pilots would have no, or nearly no, sleep before the mission.
Not that Mongoose would have let that stop him. But he would have used it as an argument to keep Doberman and A-Bomb home.
And as for Dixon, no way did he want him on the mission.
"That's great guys," said Knowlington. "But slow down for a second. We only have two planes. I think Johnson and Glenon, if they're up for it, get the first shot. Rank and time of service."
"I'm up for it," snapped Mongoose.
"Great."
Before he could say anything else, Knowlington swept the group into a discussion of tactics, as if they were all sitting around a bar discussing possible baseball trades. It wasn't that anyone was saying anything particularly stupid or wrong. There were only so many ways to go after the radar dish and trailers. What Mongoose objected to was the discussion itself. Planning a raid wasn't a team sport.
Hogs #1: Going Deep Page 13
