Going Deep h-1

by Jim DeFelice

  Knowlington laughed as if Wong had made the joke of the year. “You crack me up. Go on, get out of here, tell me if you need me to sign anything. Impossible, Jesus.”

  “What was that all about?” Mongoose asked as he closed the door behind the perplexed Wong. There were only two chairs in the small office; all three men remained standing.

  “Oh, nothing. He’s just a world class ball buster,” explained Knowlington.

  “Seemed serious to me.”

  “Yeah, better watch out — he’s exactly the kind of guy who kills you with practical jokes when things get too tense. I knew a guy like that, somehow convinced half the squadron to show up naked for a visiting general.” Knowlington’s expression grew more serious. “So what’s up, guys?”

  “I lied, sir,” Dixon said

  The two men stared at him as the words gushed from his mouth.

  “I dropped my CBUs blind yesterday, without a target.”

  Mongoose’s face turned ashen. Knowlington’s looked grim, but he nodded. “The Mavericks, too?”

  “No, sir, I–I fired the first two I think without a lock, like I said, and then on my second run I thought I was losing the target so I panicked and fired. With the flak, and with everything going crazy, I froze. I flew away from the site in a daze lost. Finally I pickled the cluster bombs and got the hell out of there. I just ran away.”

  Dixon made it clear that he had dropped the bombs over what he knew now was empty desert — and that he had then lied about it. Mongoose slipped back into the nearby chair as the story finally ran out.

  “Okay,” said Knowlington somberly. “Go on over and see those media people. Tell about the helicopter.”

  Dixon nodded. His confession had been cathartic, but he wasn’t necessarily looking forward to what would happen next.

  “Goddamn,” said Mongoose as soon as the lieutenant had left. “Goddamn. He fucking lied to me.”

  Knowlington nodded. It was one thing for the kid to chicken out; he’d guessed something close to that had happened, after all. But not giving up the entire story when he had the chance — when Knowlington asked him point-blank — was unforgivable.

  “What are we going to do?” Mongoose asked.

  “Good question. CNN started talking about the helicopter shoot-down ten minutes after it happened.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  Knowlington smirked. Sometimes his DO could be very naive. “Brass is in serious search of heroes. Not that I blame them. They don’t want this to be Vietnam. The media will eat it up. And there are plenty of A-lOers floating around who’ll use this to defend the plane against the pointy nose mafia. Not that I blame them.”

  “What kind of story is it going to be when they find out the hero’s a coward?”

  Knowlington shook his head.

  “Yeah,” said Mongoose. “What the hell do we do?”

  “I’m going to have to think about it. When’s he supposed to fly again?”

  “Saturday I think. I’d have to check at this point. I’m a little tired.” The major tightened his hand into a fist. “I’ll tell you, my first instinct… ”

  “That isn’t going to get us anywhere, Goose,” said Knowlington.

  * * *

  The colonel closed the door behind Mongoose. He sat at his desk, staring at the blank wall for a minute. Finally his rage exploded and he smashed his arm down against the desktop so hard it stung.

  In the kid’s defense, he had come to them and told them what happened. If he hadn’t, it was doubtful they would ever have found out.

  Dropping the CBUs blind — not good, but not the worst thing he could have done.

  Not answering the AWACS hail? Less than optimum, but again, it wasn’t as if he had flown to Jordan and sat out the war.

  Quite frankly, Knowlington couldn’t hold any of what happened over the site the first day against him; he understood fear quite well. And the kid had gotten through it. Knowlington knew enough about people to know it wouldn’t happen again.

  But the issue now was trust. Willfully misleading a superior officer. Lying. Even Knowlington, as far from a by-the-book guy as there was, couldn’t allow that to just slip by.

  In his opinion, it deserved serious disciplinary action.

  Which would piss a hell of a lot of people off. And with the media hanging around, someone was going to get a very black eye.

  Knowlington didn’t care how he would look. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t, let the Air Force look bad. Not in this war. Never again.

  But how would the Air Force survive if pilots lied about what happened during their missions?

  He slammed his fist down on the desk again, this time so hard it felt as if he broke it.

  CHAPTER 61

  KING FAHD AIRBASE

  1900

  “I say, we call him Blaze, because he blazed the chopper.”

  “How about Chopper? That’s different.”

  “Blaze is better,” insisted A-Bomb. He and Doberman were sitting in A-Bomb’s tent, alternately teasing Dixon and congratulating him. A-Bomb had broken open his daily Fed Ex Happy Meal and Doberman had brought along a bottle of shampoo, which had proven to contain Jack Daniels bourbon.

  The older pilots had napped after their flight and were raring to party. Dixon, on the other hand, had spent the past eight or nine hours telling camera crews and reporters — along with several dozen Air Force officers and enlisted personnel — how the Iraqi helicopter had gone bye-bye. His eyelids felt heavier than a pair of BLU-109B 2,250 pound bombs.

  “Air War God, that’s it,” snorted Doberman, sipping the whiskey.

  “Just God,” said A-Bomb. “How’s that for a call sign? This is God talking.”

  The two men laughed like school kids watching a Three Stooges movie.

  Since telling Knowlington and Johnson what had happened on the first mission, Dixon hadn’t said anything to anyone else. He wasn’t keeping it a secret, necessarily; everybody would know sooner or later anyway. But he just didn’t want to deal with telling people on top of everything else.

  Except for Doberman. He’d been his wingmate, his flight leader, and he owed him an apology. His screw-up could have killed him.

  It was better to do that sooner rather than later. That was why he was here, rather than sleeping; he’d spent the last ten minutes or so getting ribbed, hoping eventually to get Doberman alone so he could apologize. He wanted to tell the captain himself before he heard about it from anyone else.

  “What do you think, kid?” A-Bomb asked. “You want God or Blaze?”

  “What’s wrong with BJ?” asked Dixon.

  A-Bomb laughed. “Too suburban. Preppy, you know. Fuckin’ Hog pilot’s got to have a good name, that’s what I’m talking about.”

  “My mom used to call me BJ.”

  Doberman and A-Bomb burst out laughing.

  “I’m serious.”

  “We know you’re serious, kid,” said Doberman. “Have a drink.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to fall asleep.”

  “So?” asked Doberman.

  “How about Grunt?” said A-Bomb. “Now there is a Hog name. Grunt. Yeah, I like that.”

  “BJ.”

  “Hey, okay,” said Doberman, holding up his glass in a toast. “BJ it is. For your mom.”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  “I’m serious. BJ.”

  “Nah. That ain’t gonna do it.” A-Bomb got up. “I got to take a leak. Hold my place.”

  Finally alone, Dixon exhaled deeply and turned to Glenon. “Captain, I got to tell you something. You’re gonna hate me, but I got to tell you something.”

  The word “captain” struck Doberman like an ice ball in the back of the head. He’d had just enough of the bourbon to feel comfortably mellow, but the next words from the pilot sobered him immediately.

  “I lied to you about yesterday,” said Dixon. “I lied to everybody.”

  Doberman poured himself another shot as Dixon slowly
detailed what had happened. He sipped this one, not so much listening to the younger man’s words as absorbing them.

  It was a damn hard thing to admit you had been a coward, Doberman thought. Damn hard.

  Then again, the kid had redeemed himself today. Shit, not too many guys got that chance, not with so much style.

  Now that was luck, wasn’t it?

  Doberman curled his toe in his boot, feeling the penny. He’d plopped it into his sock for his nap, then decided to keep it there.

  Luck, skill; who knew what part of either played in the equation? One thing he did know, though — he was holding on to the damn penny. You couldn’t be too certain of anything.

  “It wasn’t your fault I got hit with the triple A,” Doberman told Dixon when the pilot stopped talking. “They aimed at me because I was the first one through, and I just happened to hit the route where all the guns were. You were lucky they didn’t nail you, too.”

  “I was scared. Nothing like that’s ever happened to me. Not like that.”

  Doberman nodded. “You got through it. And you’re past it. Hell, you’re a hero now.”

  “But I lied to the colonel. I just ditched the bombs and ran.”

  Doberman scratched his chin. True enough, the kid did remind him of his younger brother. There was a physical resemblance, and hell if he didn’t have the same sincere crap in his voice. Not made up, either.

  “Sooner or later, we all do things we’re ashamed of,” said Doberman. “It’s what happens next that matters.” He got up from the chair. “Hey, let’s go get something to eat. I never really liked Big Macs, to tell you the truth.”

  CHAPTER 62

  KING FAHD AIRBASE

  1945

  Forty-five minutes later, Colonel Knowlington found Dixon walking toward his tent. He had just finished eating with A-Bomb and Doberman.

  “Come with me, Lieutenant,” he snapped, leading him down a short alleyway not far from the hangars where they could be alone. The light cast a yellow pall over the lieutenant’s face; he was struggling to keep his eyes open and his cheeks sagged with fatigue.

  “I’ve read through the reports on your mission, and talked to Major Johnson. There doesn’t seem to be any basis for bringing formal charges against you, at least none that are likely to be upheld,” said Knowlington. “The major concurs.”

  The words about formal charges sparked Dixon’s eyes, as Knowlington knew they would.

  “That doesn’t mean I condone what you did. You can’t leave things out, not like that. Not when people’s lives are depending on you. It may seem trivial, but everything is connected, usually in ways we don’t know about until it’s too late.”

  The young man nodded.

  “When I ask a question, I expect a full and complete answer. No bullshit. That’s the bottom line with me. You understand?”

  “I fucked up, sir. I know you gave me the chance and I blew it.”

  “Understand me, it’s not about getting scared. Everybody gets scared. But we can’t afford to have people lying about it.”

  “I know.”

  “Excuse me, not lying, just not filling in the blanks.”

  “Same thing.”

  “You’re damn lucky it’s not,” said Knowlington. He blew air through his teeth.

  The reality was, you could interpret what the kid said during the debrief as a pretty full and accurate account; he said he had lost track of where he was and that he did not think the bombs had hit their targets. Technically, that agreed with what Dixon had said later, although the colonel wasn’t particularly fond of technicalities.

  But Dixon had also said he had screwed up the Mavericks; the evidence showed he did not. It was still possible that he was being harder than hell on himself because he had been afraid.

  “You’re going to be on administrative duty for a while,” said the colonel. “You’ll rotate into Riyadh as an assistant to the fighter operations officer.”

  “Assistant?”

  “It’s a new position. Very temporary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The matter is closed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Knowlington hesitated. They’d all seen something in this kid during his first days training. And they’d been right, too — his tangle with the chopper proved it.

  And maybe his coming clean about panicking proved it, too. Really, it was more than you could expect from most men, facing up to the worst about yourself.

  How long had it taken Knowlington to do that? Even now he felt the familiar ache in his throat, the incessant urge for just one tiny, meaningless drink.

  “Mongoose told me he ordered you to return home when he went back for the chopper,” added the colonel.

  “I was his wingman,” said Dixon. “I couldn’t desert him. Besides, I felt like I had to make things right.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you for hanging in there.” Knowlington managed a smile. “You came around and did the right thing. You’re a good pilot, BJ. You have talent. When you get back in the cockpit, don’t blow it.”

  “I won’t sir.”

  “Good work on the Hind. Fire Fox Hog, huh?”

  “Actually, sir, I used my cannon.”

  Knowlington’s smile came easier this time. Probably for the rest of his life, the kid would be accurate to a fault — not a horrible character flaw to have, all things considered. “You have to be at Riyadh at 0800,” he told him. “Don’t be late.”

  * * *

  Dixon cupped his face in his hands as Knowlington walked away.

  Skull Knowlington was proud of him. Vietnam War Ace Colonel Michael Knowlington, with more medals than a museum, had just called him a good pilot.

  Bailed his fanny out of the fire, too, something he didn’t deserve.

  But damn. Skull Knowlington was proud of him.

  Dixon made a fist and swirled his body around in celebration — nearly smashing Tech Sergeant Rosen as she walked by.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “I just… wow, I’m sorry,” said Dixon.

  “Congratulations on shooting down that helicopter.” Rosen put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side. “We’re all proud of you.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you. All of you, I mean,” he managed, still flustered. “You guys, I mean, you all did a hell of a job on that plane.”

  “What’d you expect?”

  A pause followed that was more awkward than the one after his punch.

  “Maybe, uh, maybe I’ll be seeing you around,” said the pilot.

  Rosen laughed, but there was a twinge of nervousness in her voice. “Probably.”

  “I got to go to Riyadh tomorrow.”

  “More hero stuff, huh? Well, don’t let it go to your head.”

  “I won’t. I mean, wait!” he shouted as she started to walk away.

  Surprised, she turned back.

  “Thanks, really,” he told her, stepping forward to kiss her on the cheek.

  At least, he aimed for the cheek. She turned and met him with her lips.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, slipping away.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, back in his tent, Dixon took out Lance Corporal Simmons’ letter and read it again. Then he fished out his pad and a pen. He wanted to tell the old marine how right he was.

  But he couldn’t. He tried a few times, starting sentences only to stop and rip up the page.

  He wanted the corporal to know that he’d inspired him, that his lesson had maybe helped save his life, or at least his career. But it was too hard to put into words. Finally, he read the letter one more time, then slipped it back into its envelope and returned it to the pile for someone else to answer.

  CHAPTER 63

  KING FAHD AIRBASE

  2000

  Exhausted, even though he’d had a nap earlier, Mongoose sat back on his cot. He had one more duty to perform before calling it a day. For maybe the first time in his career
, he was actually glad he wasn’t flying tomorrow. He felt old and achy, his legs especially. Even the plastic fountain pen in his hand felt heavy, though that was somehow reassuring.

  Dear Kathy:

  Hell of a day today. My wingman shot down a helicopter. I nearly waxed him by mistake. But it turned out all right.

  He paused, unsure whether to keep those last two sentences or not. His wife might misinterpret them, think he was in danger.

  It wasn’t a misinterpretation. But he didn’t want to reinforce it.

  He’d told Knowlington to go easy on the kid. In fact, he’d told the colonel to forget it. He’d had to argue, actually.

  Knowlington was a funny guy. He could make you think he didn’t give a shit about a lot of things, starting with military protocol, but when it came to flying and fighting, he was hard line. He didn’t like anything less than 100 percent verifiable truth. He hadn’t really wanted to cut Dixon any slack, despite Mongoose’s arguments.

  Until yesterday, Mongoose had resented him, mostly, figuring he was a washed up drunk. But he knew now he was wrong about that. His interminable stories were a pain in the ass, but they did have a point. And in the end, he too had decided the kid deserved a break.

  They both knew Dixon was going to be all right. That was the one thing the colonel couldn’t argue. The kid had had to get through that first mission, the first real gut-check under fire.

  Everybody did.

  Hell, he wasn’t even mad at Dixon any more. Mongoose had thought about it a lot. Tomorrow, or maybe the next day when Knowlington hauled the kid’s butt back from Riyadh, Mongoose would stick his finger in the lieutenant’s chest and tell him how bad he would pound the shit out of him if he ever pulled a stunt like that again.

  Then he’d slap the kid on the back and buy him a near-beer.

  Mongoose ripped the page out of the pad and started again.

  Dear Kathy:

  Hell of a day today. Wingman shot down a helicopter. You probably saw it on the news. He’s just a kid, at least he was until this morning.

  I keep looking for camels, but I don’t see any. Other guys tell me they’re all over the place. Maybe they’re hiding from me. I guarantee I’m going to get a ride on one before long. I promise to wear my helmet.