Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

Tears dripped from his eyes. He bent his legs, lowering himself down in an Indian crouch as the flow became uncontrollable.

He couldn’t have picked out a specific reason. He didn’t know any of these men very well, with the exception of Mongoose, his operations officer. And yet he knew them all too well, as well as the Blazeman, Cat and Clunker.

Each a wingman. Each dead.

An F-4 Wild Weasel Phantom, diverted to the base because of mechanical problems, squealed in behind the Hog. The familiar whine of its engines as it touched down, the squeal of its wheels, the heavy suck of oxygen through the pilot’s mask snapped Skull’s head straight up.

He was back in the Philippines, months after his second ‘Nam tour had ended with his splash in the Tonkin Gulf. Still younger than most of the men he trained, he’d already gotten the hot-shot star tag and the medals to justify it.

Knowlington had been standing at the edge of a strip like this one day when he saw a Phantom smack down, just implode right there on landing. No one really knew why it happened; mechanical failure of some sort, since the landing itself had looked perfect.

He’d been due to take that plane up, but a hangover and a sympathetic duty officer saved him. Only his second hangover in the service to that point, a true accomplishment.

It had taken forever to unlearn the lesson he thought he learned that day.

Knowlington pushed himself past the memories, past regrets, back to the present. A chill whipped across the back of his neck. It startled him; the chill was familiar, though he hadn’t felt it now in a long, long time.

He had a job to do; it was time to stop wallowing and do it.

Captain Bristol Wong jumped from the chopper a good five feet before it hit the ground. He was higher than he thought. A lot. But he was so annoyed at being here he didn’t let it bother him. His legs sprung a bit, absorbing the shock, then steadied as he half-walked, half-ran from the commandeered army Huey. The exasperated pilot mouthed a silent curse — Wong had been a less than ideal passenger, even for an Air Force officer — and skipped away without touching down.

It took Wong several minutes to get himself pointed in the direction of the 535 thtactical fighter squadron, and considerably more time for him to arrive at the ugly clump of trailers that served as its headquarters. Scowling at the hand-painted “Hog Heaven” sign nailed near the front door, he barged inside and strode down the hall, looking for Colonel Michael Knowlington, the unit commander. He was surprised to hear laughter coming from the squadron room, and even more surprised to find it dominated by several couches and a large-screen TV.

The fact that none of the officers inside could tell him where Knowlington was stoked his anger higher. He stomped into the hallway, nearly running over an airman who volunteered that he had seen the colonel near the runway some time before. The man was not otherwise helpful; it was only by sheer luck and some desperation that Wong managed to stumble across Knowlington inspecting several A-lOAs in the squadron’s maintenance area. The captain’s ill humor had long since passed from impatience to irritation. By now he knew he would never keep his evening dinner date in the foreign section of Riyadh; the deprivation riled him because he had been unable to contact his friend, which would undoubtedly make future dinner dates a difficult proposition.

Still, this was his first encounter with Knowlington, though he had of course heard of him; Wong coaxed as much energy as he could into seeming polite, giving him a false smile and a smart salute, then asked if they could speak in private.

“Shoot,” said Knowlington.

There were at least a dozen enlisted men, mechanical specialists and other grease monkeys from the look of them, within earshot. As far as Wong was concerned, anyone of them could have a cell phone and Saddam’s home number in his locker.

He shook his head, trying to retain the veneer of politeness. He did, after all, respect Knowlington’s rank. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, sir,” he told him. “We need a secure room.”

“A what?”

“I have code-word material to discuss.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Sir?”

“Where are you from, Captain?”

“The Pentagon.”

“Don’t bullshit me, son. Are you with CENTCOM? Or what?”

“I’m afraid it’s ‘or what’ sir, until we are in a secure facility.”

“You think there’s a spy crouching behind that A-10 over there?”

“I try to follow procedure, sir. I work for Admiral McConnell,” added Wong. McConnell — the head of Joint Chief of Staff’s J-2 — was a heavy, and mentioning his name always tended to soothe the waters.

Except now.

“So?”

“You do know who the admiral is, sir?”

Knowlington’s expression left little doubt that he did — and could care less. “You know what, Wong? I have about three thousand better things to do than stand here and be unimpressed by you. Either make me interested real fast, or disappear.”

It’s because I’m Asian, Wong thought. The geezer scumbag flew in Vietnam, so he thinks I’m a gook.

He’d run into that before. Not a lot — most officers were extremely professional, especially when they saw his work product. But every so often there’d be an old-timer who wanted to tell him to go back to commie land.

“Sir, this has to do with one of your men,” he said, feigning a note of concern. “Could we discuss it in your office?”

Knowlington looked like he’d eaten a peach pit as he finally put his feet into motion.

The crisply pressed fatigues were what pissed Knowlington off.

He could deal with someone who went around with a stick up his ass — just nod and listen. Being uptight didn’t necessarily make you a jerk; plenty of excellent pilots and commanders were by-the-book pricks.

But a fucking captain who ironed his slacks and spit-polished his boots in a war zone belonged to a special class of idiot.

Knowlington’s office door wasn’t locked. Not that Wong was surprised.

The colonel pulled out his simple metal chair from the desk and waved Wong into the other. “Shoot,” he told him.

“Colonel, we have a report that one of your pilots was hit by an SA-16.”

“Captain Glenon. That’s right.” Knowlington nodded. “Did a kick-ass job getting that plane back. Wait until you see it.”

“I’d like that very much. I would also like to speak with him as soon as possible.”

“Why?”

“I’m investigating the missile strike.”

Knowlington’s face screwed up. “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Colonel — ”

“No, wait a second Wong. This whole production is about a shoulder-fired missile? You marched me back here to find out who it was? Are you shitting me? We’re fighting a war.”

“Colonel, I ’ve had a long day and… ”

“You’ve had a long day?”

“Perhaps we should start from the beginning. I am Captain Bristol Wong; I’m from Joint Staff/J-2 intelligence, on loan to General Glossom in Riyadh. My area is weapons, Russian weapons in particular. One of your pilots reported being hit by an SA-16. Naturally, I’m here to check it out.”

“What do you mean, naturally?”

“Saddam Hussein doesn’t have SA-16s.”

“Says you,” sneered Knowlington.

“No, actually, sir, I don’t say any fucking thing at all,” snapped Wong, his patience finally gone. “As far as I know, Saddam shoots down planes by putting his head between his legs and farting.”