Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

“Nice laser sight you got there,” he told the gun’s owner, pushing the barrel away. “You got any coffee?”

“Excuse me, sir,” spat the man, a sergeant who spoke with a very pronounced Texas drawl. “This here area’s off limits.”

A-Bomb smiled into the sergeant’s face. The thicker the accent, the further north they were born. “So you got any coffee?”

The soldier scowled. A-Bomb was at a slight disadvantage; he’d already decided he wanted to save his other cigar, and so had nothing to barter. His only option was flattery.

Fortunately, he had an easy subject.

“You do the work on that gun yourself, Chief?” he asked.

“This is a standard piece of machinery.”

“Shit. Besides the sight, the barrel’s reworked, and if that’s a stock trigger I’m Buck Rogers.”

The sergeant’s lip upturned ever so slightly, but his expression could not be considered a smile. “Jealous, Buck?”

“Nope. I’m just trying to figure a way to get my parachute rigger to fit a holster for one on my vest here.”

“You probably have enough trouble not shooting yourself with that Beretta in your pocket. Sir.”

A-Bomb smiled. “Pick out a target.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pick out a target. You hit it first, I go away. I hit it, you point me toward some coffee.”

“Just go away.”

A-Bomb unsnapped the top of his holster — not on the Beretta, but on his personal weapon, tucked into the opposite corner of his belt.

“Sir — ”

“Don’t think you can outshoot a pilot?” grinned A-Bomb.

The sergeant’s face balled up in anger, but he got only halfway into his crouch before the discarded bottle he’d eyed forty yards away exploded in dust. He looked up at A-Bomb in disbelief.

“At least, I figure that’s what you were aiming at,” said the pilot, pushing the custom-built 1911 A2 Colt back into its pouch. “I don’t bring the good sight with me because you have to conserve weight and all. With the plane.”

“You a gun nut?” asked the sergeant.

“Nah. I just like coffee. What do you say? Hate to kill Iraqis without a good shot of joe going through my veins, you know what I’m talking about?”

The sergeant grunted, frowned, then pointed toward a pair of general purpose tents a few yards off. “Coffee’s in there. Anyone barks at you, tell ‘em Rusty sent you.”

“Thanks, Rusty.”

“Don’t push it, sir,” said the sergeant, lumbering away.

Doberman found a corner of the desert near the bomb skids and resituated himself. He took out his anger at the way Mongoose had treated him on his equipment snaps, adjusting and readjusting his anti-g pants and the rest of his gear.

He was mad at Mongoose, but the sergeant — Jimbo — had shaken him with all his talk about dead men and luck.

Luck was a strange thing. It could easily run out.

Hell, he wasn’t lucky. His skill got him here. He was a kick-ass pilot, one of the best in the squadron. Everybody knew that. You relied on luck, they brought you home in a bag.

Doberman looked up and saw A-Bomb ambling over, a Styrofoam cup hanging out of his mouth.

“Want some coffee?” A-Bomb asked.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Hey, relax, Dog Man. It’s too early for a beer, right? Besides, we got more work to do.” He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a small cupcake. “Want a Twinkie?”

“That’s not a Twinkie. Twinkie’s are rectangular. That’s round.’’

“No shit?” said A-Bomb, examining it. “All of them?”

“Yup.”

“How about that. Guy told me it was a Twinkie.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Special Forces.” He thumbed back in their direction. “Tell them Rusty sent you.”

“I don’t have time. Neither do you.”

“Shit, you’re going to be here all day. Guy told me it’d be a miracle to have that plane back in the air by dark. Guess they lost their manuals or something.”

“No, I’m going up with you and Johnson. I’m flying Dixon’s plane.”

“Really? How come?”

“Because the major told me to, that’s why. And he had a rake up his butt when he did it.”

“Really? What happened to Dixon?”

Doberman shrugged. “Johnson thinks he screwed up.”

“Did he?”

“No way,” said Doberman. He wasn’t sure why he felt so protective of the younger pilot all of a sudden. Today had been only the third or fourth time they’d flown together. “The kid got turned around after dropping his bombs and didn’t hear the AWACS calling, that’s all. I think he was looking for me and just ignored them so he could stay up there longer. Hell, that’s what I would do.”

A-Bomb nodded. Any self-respecting wingman would ignore his own skin to save a buddy.

“Johnson got righteous about it,” Doberman added. “He shoves his hand in my face and says, no discussion.”

This was a difficult concept for A-Bomb to fathom and he blinked his eyes trying to process it. He pushed the cupcake into his mouth and gulped down the rest of the coffee. A full third of what was in the cup splashed across his face and onto his suit, where it joined a well-established montage.

“He acts like he’s got a stick up his ass sometimes,” Doberman said. “A fucking rake. He just about told me I screwed up by getting my plane hit.”

“Ah, you’re exaggerating.”

“Listen, I heard a lot of stuff from guys who served in Germany with him. He’s probably frustrated because he’s not head of the squadron.”

“That’s not Mongoose. He’s a good guy, I told you. I’ve flown with him before. He knows his stuff and he sticks by you. What the hell else do you want?”

Doberman realized he was being harsh. It made sense to put your best pilots in the planes that were going to the dance; he probably would have done the same thing.

It was just the way the major went about it that had burned him. He could have been, well, more diplomatic.

“He could have asked me if I wanted to bump the kid,” said Doberman.

“Yeah, and what would you have said?”

“I don’t know.” Doberman shrugged, not wanting to admit he’d have pushed Dixon aside. “Hell, he could at least have been more diplomatic.”

“There’s a fucking war on,” argued A-Bomb. “How diplomatic do you expect him to be?”

“I don’t know,” Doberman conceded.

“How’d the kid take it?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

“See? You don’t even know if he was diplomatic or not.”

“I meant with me.”

“Oh, fuck yourself. Nobody has to be diplomatic with you. You’re the Dog Man. And a god damn Hog driver, for christsake. Diplomatic. Give me a break.”

“Hey, where are you going? The planes are this way, remember?”

“I’m thinking refill before we take off,” said A-Bomb. “There’s time.”

“No there isn’t.”

“Shit, I can make it.”

“Hey A-Bomb, hold up. a second.” Doberman jogged the few steps toward his friend. “You think I’m lucky?”

“How’s that?”

“Lucky. You know.”

The pilot laughed. “You? You’re the least lucky person I know. Why the hell do you think we let you play poker with us? 7’

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Sure you don’t want no coffee?”

Doberman shook his head and watched as A-Bomb ambled off in search of more caffeine.

Not having to take a leak while you were flying — now that was luck, especially after twenty cups of coffee.

What Doberman had was skill.

Mostly.

Mongoose walked Dixon off into the sand, trying for a little privacy. A big MH-53J Pave Low helicopter idled a short distance away, its throaty whine filling the air with anxious energy. The big special ops chopper sounded like it wanted to fly all the way to Baghdad and personally take out Saddam.