Going Deep h-1

by Jim DeFelice

  “Because he lost Doberman?”

  “No. It’s more than that. Think about it, Colonel. Doberman’s plane comes back like Swiss cheese and his is clean.”

  “There’s no question he was over the target,” said Knowlington.

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “Well what then? Are you saying he was too lucky?”

  “No.” Mongoose sighed. “He flew today. He’s tired as hell.”

  “I have to tell you, Goose, I think you need a pretty specific reason to hold him back. He knows the site, and if he’s tired, what about you?” Knowlington paused, scanning the major’s face for fatigue. It had to be there, but it didn’t show. “Is there something else? I mean, obviously Dixon screwed up firing the Mavericks and he’s taking it hard, but I don’t think that’s a reason to ground him.”

  “I’m not grounding him,” snapped the major. “I just don’t want him on this mission.”

  Knowlington again studied Johnson’s face, but he was really trying to sort out his own thoughts. On the one hand, the major ought to have the right to choose who went on this mission. On the other hand, keeping Dixon back without a solid reason wasn’t fair to the lieutenant, and would probably affect him for weeks if not forever. Knowlington had seen more than one pilot completely tank after being treated unfairly; he’d had a buddy shot because he did stupid things after losing his self-confidence.

  There were other considerations. The way they had it drawn up, Dixon would have to be replaced with a pilot from another mission. Sure, he could get plenty of volunteers, but what did he do with the slot it left open? And if there were doubts about Dixon’s abilities, wouldn’t it be better to fly him in a place he already knew — and had volunteered for?

  It seemed to Knowlington better all around to keep Dixon on the mission. But he decided he had to defer to Johnson, if he felt strongly about it.

  “Let me tell you a story,” the colonel started.

  “I don’t want to hear another of your goddamn stories. This is our war we’re fighting,” said Mongoose, storming away.

  CHAPTER 37

  KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

  2255

  Dixon curled on his cot, trying to calm his stomach and slice away maybe half of what was in his head.

  He was getting his chance to redeem himself.

  What had the old guy said in the letter? He thought about pulling it out and reading it again, but the words came back without effort.

  Keep your head up and moving toward the next battle.

  Not particularly profound, but the best advice never was.

  But what if Dixon screwed up again? What if this time they lost someone in the squadron because of him?

  Should he go to Major Johnson right now and tell him he wasn’t up to it?

  And be forever branded a coward?

  Was that better than fucking up again?

  Maybe it was better to go, get shot down and die a hero.

  No, die as someone people thought was a hero. There was a difference.

  A voice cut through the tangle of contradictions racing in his brain. Dixon turned over toward the door, startled.

  “Excuse me for barging in like this, guys,” said Colonel Knowlington. “If you’re up.”

  Dixon bolted upright. His feet found the floor as he jumped up and started to salute.

  The colonel laughed softly, glancing at the tent’s other two cots. One was empty; on the other, Lieutenant Phaze snored peacefully, deep in oblivion.

  “Geez, BJ, relax. What do you think, we’re in the army? I don’t think even GIs salute in tents. Besides, relax.” Knowlington took a chair and pulled it close to the cot. “Phazer asleep?”

  “Bomb wouldn’t wake him,” said Dixon.

  “You tired?” the colonel asked, keeping his voice soft.

  “No.”

  Knowlington smiled. His grayish-white hair seemed like a halo of light around his balding skull. The colonel had the subdued air of a college professor nearing retirement, not the gung-ho, in-your-face attitude of a television war hero. But that only awed Dixon all the more.

  “I want you to know, there’s no problem deciding to sit down. According to regulations, you shouldn’t be flying anyway. You’re supposed to get a good long break. Even in war. Especially then.”

  Dixon started to mumble something, but felt his throat choke off.

  “You can stay home. No problem.”

  He knows I’m a coward, Dixon thought. He’s giving me an out. “I, uh, I want to fly, Sir. Really.”

  Knowlington nodded. He was silent for a moment, considering what to say next. “Anything happen up there you want to tell me about?”

  Dixon considered telling him he’d dropped the CBUs in the sand. But if he did that — if he admitted how badly he’d panicked — wouldn’t Knowlington take him off the mission?

  He couldn’t chance that.

  “Nothing much,” said the pilot. “I screwed up.”

  Knowlington squinted, but said nothing.

  “I was too high with the CBUs,” said Dixon weakly.

  The colonel was silent for a while longer. Dixon stifled an urge to blubber out the whole truth.

  It wouldn’t help, he told himself. It’s too late. Keep your trap zipped.

  “On my first combat mission, God, I was petrified,” Knowlington said finally. “I think I took twelve dumps in the hour before I got dressed. Ten at least. Hell, I think I wore out two dozen pair of underwear my first week.”

  “You were scared?”

  “Shitless. Literally.” Knowlington seemed far away, reliving the flight. “You get used to it. Part of you does. You learn how to deal with everything coming at you. You get pretty good at that, actually. That’s when you have your real problems. That’s when you start taking things for granted.”

  Dixon nodded.

  “I remember the first time I ever flew an F-4,” continued the colonel. “I’d kicked some butt in a Thud. I already had two air-to-air shootdowns. You didn’t get too many of those on the missions we were flying, believe me. So the first time I checked out a Phantom, boy, I thought I was something. Then I nearly ran the plane through the concrete on takeoff. Seems I set the flaps wrong. Tried turning it into a tank instead of an airplane.”

  Knowlington’s head snapped up quickly, his soft laugh choked off. His eyes swept around and grabbed Dixon’s.

  “You up for this?”

  The pilot nodded.

  “Good.” The colonel slapped him loudly on the back, then realized someone else was sleeping nearby. “Break things into pieces if you feel it starting to get away from you,” he whispered. “Step by step. Shit’s coming at you, the world’s going crazy, look over and check your belt

  My belt?

  That or your throttle.” Knowlington winked. “Do something that makes you start all over from scratch. If you feel like you’re losing it, check it, take a breath, come back fresh like a new man. Step by step.”

  “My throttle?”

  “Anything that will get your brain to hiccup back into gear. Breath’s important, too. Hyperventilating will kill you. Look away, take a breath, then go back. Just slow down.” He studied the young pilot. “If you feel yourself losing it, that’s what you have to do.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you,” mumbled Dixon as the colonel left.

  CHAPTER 38

  KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

  2355

  When 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. Kiss 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.

  See, 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

  PART THREE

  FIRE FOX HOG

  CHAPTER 39

  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.”