Better to save the letter. A treat, make it. When he really felt down and couldn’t go on.
Carefully, he folded the envelope in half and the half again. He kept it in his hand as he started to walk from the small copse, kept it between his fingers for a long time before finally tucking it away.
__PART TWO__
HOME FRONT
CHAPTER 24
Upstate New York
21 January 1991
1300
(2100, Saudi Arabia)
Ordinarily, Robby took a nap now. Kathy Johnson counted on it; she used the hour-long break from her infant son to take a shower and, sometimes, to sneak a cigarette on her mother-in-law’s porch. It wasn’t like she had to sneak out to smoke, exactly, but she’d made such a big thing about giving them up during her pregnancy that she felt she’d be letting people down if they knew she had gone back. And as welcoming as her husbands’ parents were toward her and the baby, they were still parents. It was an odd feeling, now that she was a parent herself.
But today Robby didn’t seem to want to nap. He was nearly four months old, born only a few weeks before her husband had gotten the news that he was leaving for the Gulf. She tried rocking him and singing; when that didn’t work Kathy gave him her breast again, swaying gently in the overstuffed old chair in their room. Finally, his eyes stayed closed. She waited until his arms went limp before getting up slowly and gently placing him inside the crib.
Stepping back, she suddenly felt very cold, as if wrapped in ice. She began to shudder. Her mother-in-law kept the thermostat at 72 degrees, and had double-insulated panes behind the storm windows, but Kathy felt the chill deep in her bones. She stood shivering for nearly a minute before it passed, and kept her arms wrapped tightly around her as she tiptoed from the room and headed down the hall toward the bathroom.
She had just started the water when the phone rang. She and the baby were alone in the house; there was an answering machine but she was afraid the noise would wake Robby and she rushed to take the call, even though it meant going all the way downstairs to the kitchen in only her robe.
Her brother Peter’s voice leapt from the receiver.
“Kathy?”
“Peter?”
“Go turn on CNN.”
She knew, then. The shudder she had felt a few minutes before returned with a fury; her body trembled so hard her robe fell open.
“Kath? I’ll stay on the line. Just turn on the TV.”
The phone was cordless. Kath carried it with her as she walked through the smallish Cape Cod to the living room as deliberately as she could manage.
Though she’d been here for weeks, she still hadn’t mastered the cable layout and the remote control. The screen flashed with a picture of a talk show host cajoling some guest into accepting a fashion makeover. Kathy had to go through channel by channel until finally the all-news network appeared.
Two men were talking. She thought she recognized the man on the right, a retired air force officer, though she couldn’t decide whether it was because she had actually seen him before on the channel or because he had a generic, bland sort of face.
They flashed up a picture of an A-10A Thunderbolt II, the plane her husband flew, the plane he and the other pilots called the Warthog, or more simply, “Hog.”
She waited for the rest. There was a map of Saudi Arabia and Iraq. An airbase supposedly used by the Hogs was marked out near the Gulf on the Saudi side of the border. She realized that the location of the air base was incorrect, though she wasn’t sure whether it was a mistake or something done deliberately so the Iraqis wouldn’t know where the Hogs were.
She knew it was supposed to be Jimmy’s base. All the Hogs flew from the same one.
“Kathy?”
She looked at the phone in her hand, unsure how it had gotten there.
“Kath? Are you still there? I hear the TV.”
She stared down at the worn, golden tufts of the freshly washed carpet, her eyes trailing slowly around the perfectly kept living room and its carefully arranged knickknacks and icons: the photographs of the Johnson’s three sons and two wives and their three, now four grandchildren; the souvenir from Disney World and the trophy that Jimmy had won for graduating second in his class and a medal that had been presented to his younger brother during an amateur olympics competition three years ago; and a photo in a pewter frame of the entire Johnson clan last summer at a picnic. Her eyes caught her just-rounding belly, apprehension clearly marked on her face. And then her eyes slipped over to her husband, so proud next to her, so ready to be a father after all these years of trying, so into it, having read every book as if having a child was like reading instruction manuals on a new kind of airplane. He was in his shorts and yes, he had nice legs, with sharp, thick muscles. His chest and arms were well–sculpted, too, but she’d always liked his legs and his eyes the best.
“Kathy?”
And finally, she returned her attention to the television screen, where another photo of her husband was being shown, a still from a video clip apparently taken a day or two earlier by coincidence. Beneath the scratchy frame were the words, “Believed down in Iraq.”
CHAPTER 25
King Fahd, Saudi Arabia
21 January 1991
2103
Chief Clyston had just entered the building when he saw his colonel charge through the hallway from the squadron room into his office. The door flew open and slammed shut; almost immediately there was a loud roar as Colonel Knowlington barked at some hapless military operator to get him a so-and-so and so-and-so line to such-and-such in Riyadh, and so-and-so now!
Clyston hadn’t seen the colonel like this in a long, long time— in fact, he couldn’t remember him ever being this pissed off. He realized that it must have to do with Mongoose, but couldn’t quite figure out what would have sent Knowlington ballistic.
The chief master sergeant eased his 267 pounds gingerly down the hallway as the tirade reached new heights.
“Who the fuck gave out the fucking information!” the colonel shouted. “What the hell were they thinking? Using his name! Get me that scumbag because I am going to tear him three new fucking assholes! Johnson has a goddamn wife and a little fucking baby. Shitting hell!”
The stream of curses continued unabated for at least five minutes. Clyston felt himself actually shudder when the colonel hung up the phone. It had been a long time since anything Knowlington did actually scared him. Hell, it had been eons since anything scared him. But here he was, graybeard and all, standing in the hallway and feeling not a little like newbie private on his first assignment. He actually knocked on the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me. Chief Master Sergeant Clyston.”
“Come,” snapped Knowlington.
“Colonel?”
“Alan. What the fuck’s up? You hear this bullshit?”
“Major Johnson being shot down?”
“It’s on fucking CNN. Every fucking detail.”
“CNN?”
“Some douche bag with his head up his ass talked to the fucking network! I can’t fucking believe it. They confirmed his name and everything. They could just as well have given the fucking Iraqis a map. Wait until I find out who it was. Just wait.”
There was little doubt in Clyston’s mind that his boss would tear the person in two, no matter what his or her rank was— even if it had been the President himself. Knowlington wasn’t a particularly big man, but at the moment he looked like he could wipe the floor with Mike Tyson.
“Well, what the fuck’s up?”
“I wanted you to know that Devil Three has a clean bill of health,” said Clyston. “And the rest of the squadron is primed and ready, so you’re not going to need any backups sitting back here in the hangars. They can take off at first light. Sooner, if you want.”
Knowlington’s heart rate descended to merely apocalyptic levels. “You read my mind,” he said.
“I thought you’d want us in the mi
x.”
Knowlington nodded. He was staring beyond the chief master sergeant, as if he could see through the walls all the way to Iraq. “I hate those motherfucking newspeople, Alan,” he said finally. “They screwed us in ‘Nam. Man, they screwed us bad.”
The chief gave him an all-purpose “yup.” This wasn’t Vietnam, though he wasn’t about to point that out. He also had a somewhat different view on the media– in his opinion, it was the brass and politicians who had fucked up; a lot of the newspeople who weren’t jerks were just trying to show how it was from a grunts’ eye-view. Nothing wrong with that. But Skull had personal reasons for his interpretation, and the Capo respected that.
“I got to find Goose’s wife’s phone number,” Knowlington told him.
“You’re going to call her?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Wouldn’t, uh, wouldn’t be my place.”
“Yeah, well, I have to take care of this myself. She’s probably watching the fucking television right now. Jesus H. Christ. Do me a favor, would you? A-Bomb stayed north to try and help the search. He hadn’t gotten back to King Khalid last time I checked. Find Wong and tell him I want to talk to A-Bomb as soon as he lands there. Tell him I don’t care if he has to go up to KKMC himself and lasso him, I want to be talking to him within the hour.”
“Wong?”
“Yeah. He’s got a screwy sense of humor but he’s exactly the kind of guy you can count on in the clutch with something like this. Got those intel and Pentagon connections. Wong’s OK.”
Clyston nodded.
“How’s the crew taking it?” Knowlington asked.
“Everybody wants to do what they can to get him back.”
“You tell them we’re bringing him back if I have to fucking hike up to Baghdad myself and carry him out on my back.”
“Yourself?”
“Yeah. Me.”
“This mission approved by Black Hole?”
“You know, Chief, with all due respect, I can’t remember making you officer of the day, let alone director of operations.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Knowlington’s frown and silence indicated he expected the Capo to tell him what was on his mind, no matter whether it was something he wanted to hear or not.
“Well, uh, taking the mission yourself,” Clyston told him.
“You think I’m too old?”
“No. You’re just, you’re getting a little excited. Usually, you’re ice.”
“Yeah, well I’m pissed. The CNN crapola. I’ll calm down, enough to nail these fuckers anyway.”
“You sound like A-Bomb,” Clyston told him.
Knowlington didn’t answer. His eyes were back in their far-away stare.
The colonel actually sounded like another pilot Clyston had known– Captain Knowlington, Thud and Phantom pilot extraordinaire. The captain had been a hell of a stick man, a balls-out jock as lucky as he was skilled, and smarter than both. That wasn’t a combination you found in a lot of officers.
Brash as all hell, though; forgot to use his smarts and got himself into situations where he needed every ounce of that skill and more than his share of luck.
Clyston liked Captain Knowlington, admired the hell out of him. Captain Knowlington had balls the size of watermelons and a will to match. But even back in Vietnam, the chief had enough experience to know that wasn’t the sort of man who should command a fighter squadron, even during a war. He was too hot headed, too quick to react, too close to the situation to think slowly and carefully. Leading by impulse got a lot of people killed.
Colonel Knowlington had his faults, but Colonel Knowlington was one hell of a boss. Saying he was like ice didn’t cover a quarter of it. Hell, he was as cold and calculating as a goddamn computer, and twice as smart. And he not only cared about his people, but trusted them to do their jobs without his hand on their shoulders. He even asked NCOs what they thought– and admitted taking their advice once in a while.
Since coming to Saudi Arabia, Knowlington had somehow gotten beyond the booze and doubts that had dogged him for years. Something had clicked, and all his experience and the better parts of his personality just fell into place. Maybe the war had brought out the best in him.
They needed Colonel Knowlington to lead the squadron, not Captain Knowlington. They needed cold, well-thought-out decisions that would keep everyone alive while still doing the maximum hurt to Saddam. Morale-boosting respect for even the lowest airman, respect that was genuine, not bullshit, the kind of thing that got a homesick nineteen-year-old out of his tent in the morning determined to check every bolt twice just because the old man was counting on him.
But there was no way to talk about that now.
Damn– was he kidding about flying north himself?
“Something else?” Skull asked.
“Not that I can think of,” Clyston told him. “I’ll see if I can find Captain Wong for you.”
Knowlington didn’t bother answering, already reaching for the phone on his desk.
CHAPTER 26
King Khalid, Saudi Arabia
21 January 1991
2105
The Hog was moving a bit too fast for a picture-perfect landing, but A-Bomb didn’t particularly care. He jerked the poor plane onto the concrete with an uncharacteristic screech, annoyed that he had to come down at all. He’d left the area where Mongoose had been hit with only the greatest reluctance. Even if he couldn’t see anything, he felt he belonged nearby.
True, the Air Force had different jobs for different people, and for all he knew as he began taxiing at the end of the airstrip, a division of Special Forces troops were carrying Mongoose back home on their freakin’ shoulders right now. The point was he ought to be there. Hog pilots looked after their own. He was the guy’s freakin’ wingman, and it was half or maybe three-quarters his fault he’d gone down in the first place.
Maybe not, but it was the principle of the thing.
A-Bomb told this in so many words to the airman who was waving the Hog off the landing strip to make way for other planes. Fortunately for the airman, he was several yards away, outside the aircraft, and wearing ear protection.
“What I’m talking about here,” A-Bomb shouted as he moved toward a refitting area, banging on his canopy, “is getting refueled like yesterday. And I need the cannon reloaded. You with me? I’m thinking we can rig an extra set of landing lights, maybe put together some sort of lens that’ll make them into search lights. That’s what I’m talking about. Ten minute’s worth of work. What I’m talking about is smoking any Iraqi that comes within ten miles of him. Can’t be smoking anybody with no bullets. You’re showing me to a candy man, right? To get some new iron? I don’t see no dragon down there and I can use some new bullets in the cannon. Hey kid, you listening to me?”
The jerry-rigged landing light idea had occurred to him as he flew back to base. It wasn’t a bad idea, except for the fact that it would alert every anti-air operator within a hundred miles that he was coming. Sure, the Hog could take a lot of abuse, but the rescue helicopters might catch some of the flak, too. The Iraqis were notoriously bad shots.
What he needed was a pair of Maverick G’s— the enhanced air-to-ground missiles had an excellent infrared seeker that could be pressed into service as night-vision equipment. A squadron had been practicing the technique for weeks.
And if he could find an Army Apache pilot, he’d really strike gold. The Apache drivers had kick-ass night goggles, which worked off the reflected light from the stars and the moon. Have to adapt them a bit for the Hog, but shit, what would that take? A little fiddling with a screwdriver? Some duct tape to completely black out the Hog cockpit, or create a little shade to see through? War was about experimentation.
How would he get an Apache pilot to give his up glasses? Poor shit would probably have to pay for them out of his own pocket.
Maybe a swap— he could trade his customized Colt,
a very serious personally modified .45, the kind of gun a real army guy ought to salivate over— for a mere temporary loan. Have them back before sundown, no harm done. Say they were misplaced or in the shop if anyone asks.
Hell, he’d even throw in a couple of Twinkies.
No self-respecting member of the U.S. Army could refuse such a deal. His plan set, A-Bomb shuttled into a parking area a few hundred yards from the end of the runway. He was disappointed— no choppers in sight.
He was just checking his gas gauges to see if he might somehow persuade the fumes to take him a bit further when an army officer ran toward the front of the plane, waving his arms like a jumping jack. The man made a motion as if he wanted him to cut his engines.
A-Bomb leaned his large body out the side of the plane to see if the officer could direct him to the nearest Apache.
“Cut your engines and crank down your ladder!” shouted the man.
He was definitely Army. You could tell by the overly serious expression on his face.
And the fact that he kept his distance from the airplane. In A-Bomb’s experience, the overwhelming majority of Army officers were afraid of flying. Otherwise they would have joined the Air Force.
“I said, where can I find an Apache?” he shouted down to the man.
“Cut your engines and crank down your ladder,” repeated the officer, motioning with his hand to make A-Bomb understand.
Since it was designed to work from front-line bases with minimal amenities, the A-10A was equipped with its own ladder, which the pilot could operate from the cockpit. A-Bomb cut his motors and complied, though unwinding the ladder felt a bit too much like putting down an anchor, under the circumstances.
A flush-red face belonging to an Army major quickly appeared over the side.
“Why the hell didn’t you shut your engines when I told you to?” the officer asked.
“When did you tell me to shut off the engines?”
“You couldn’t see me?”
Hogs #2: Hog Down Page 10
