Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

Knowlington’s angry expression evaporated with a sheet of laughter. “Jesus, Wong, you had me going there. I thought you were a real tight ass. Your uniform threw me off.”

“My uniform?”

The colonel shook his head. “You’re a fuckin’ funny guy. I didn’t realize you were busting my chops back at the hangar. I’m sorry. I’m a little tense, I guess.”

“But — ”

“You have to be careful though; a lot of people don’t have our sense of humor. Not when they’re tired, at least.” Knowlington waved Wong’s perplexed protests away. “What’d you do to get sentenced to J-2? Screw somebody’s wife? I mean, you’re on the level about that, right?”

The captain turned red — which made Knowlington laugh and clap him on the shoulder as he rose from his chair.

“Ah, the admiral isn’t that bad,” said the colonel. “I mean, for a Navy guy. Fucking sailors. Working for the joint chiefs’11 help your career. No really. Don’t take it so hard. As long as you don’t pull this kind of stuff on the wrong guy. Who put you up to it? Sandy?”

“I, uh… ”

“Come on, let’s go get you some coffee and find Glenon.” He stopped short, suddenly serious. “Let me ask you, though: What do you know about Hog drivers?”

“Well, uh, nothing.”

“You’re not shitting me this time?”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

“Good men, all of them, but a breed apart. I mean that in a weird way, but good weird. They all have a little bit of a grudge, because, hell, a lot of people put the plane down. And by extension, them. Shit, I’ll tell you the truth,” Knowlington added as he ushered him out of his office, “I thought the Hog was a piece of crap when I first saw it. Swear to God. You check the records. I was on an advisory board that said get rid of it ten years ago. No shit. But now, I have to tell you, I’m a believer. Damn converted. Every one of those suckers came back today. You should see Doberman’s plane. Glenon, that’s Doberman — the guy who took the SA-16.”

“Colonel… ”

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t exist.” Knowlington nearly doubled over with laughter. “Jesus, you’re a ball buster. I have to tell you, though, you made my day. Broke me right up. You remind me of a couple of guys I knew in Vietnam. Your dad in the Air Force?”

“Navy, sir.”

Knowlington laughed even louder. “Glenon’s probably around Hog Heaven somewhere. What a fucking ball-buster you are,” he added, leading him down the hallway.

Wong decided it was best not to set the record straight on that particular point, and followed silently.

Even Clyston was amazed at the amount of damage on the A-10 Doberman brought in. While the structure of the wing was intact — a miracle in itself — a good chunk of the surface panel was gone or chewed up, with the nearby interior guts twisted beyond recognition. It looked nearly impossible to fix.

Which was why he’d called the Tinman in.

“I don’t know, Chief,” said the Tinman. The ancient mechanic — rumor had it he had worked on Billy Mitchell’s planes in World War II — shook his head. The Tinman had an odd accent, though no one could figure out where it came from. Besides dropping the occasional verb, he stretched out words in odd ways.

“I don’t know, Chief,” said the mechanic. “You want a new wing.”

Wing, in Tinman’s mouth, sounded like “wink.”

“Nah,” said Clyston. “We don’t need a whole wing. Come on, Tinman. You got spare parts. Use them.”

“Chief. Demolition derby cars I’ve seen in better shape.” Tinman shook his gray head. He stood about six and a half feet tall and weighed perhaps 160 pounds. “You could slap new sheet metal on it, maybe, but heck. I don’t know.”

“See, there we go. Now you’re getting creative,” said Clyston. “Georgie and his guy’s’11 get the new motor up while you’re taking care of the wing. What do you think, a couple of hours?”

“Days, Chief. Days. We could fly in a new wing.”

“No time for that,” said Clyston. “I need this plane tomorrow.”

“I don’t know, Chief.”

“Just as a backup.” Clyston turned his palms to heaven. “No big deal. Come on, Tinman — I’m counting on you here. I know you can do it. We’re in a war.”

The Tinman shook his head again, but then he put his bony fingers to his face and pinched his nostrils together — the sign Clyston had been looking for.

“Good man,” the capo di capo told him. “Tell me what you’ll need and it’s yours.”

“A new wing.”

“Besides that. Ten extra guys?”

“Maybe some coffee.”

“Good man.”

Captain “Doberman” Glenon had long since left Hog Heaven. He would, in fact, have been celebrating his safe return home with a very sound sleep had it not been for A-Bomb, who was standing over his bed, urging him to get up and party.

“Screw off,” said Glenon. “Get out of my tent. I’m tired.”

“Doberman, you are one lucky motherfucker. You have to celebrate.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Anybody else would have been shot down.”

“I call that skill.”

“You’re on a roll, man. It’s time to celebrate. Come on, let’s hit the Depot before it wears off.”

“I’m not going near Depot for the rest of the war.”

“Well at least come and play cards. Shit, I want to sit next to you.”

“Why, so you can look at my hand?”

“So your luck rubs off on me. Hell, man, today’s the day you win the lottery.”

“Damn it A-Bomb, leave me alone. I ’m not lucky. I’m unlucky.”

“How do you figure that?” asked Mongoose, coming into the room.

“Doesn’t anybody knock anymore?” complained Doberman.

“I did. The canvas doesn’t make much noise,” said the major. “What are you doing in your underwear?”

“I was trying to jerk off until A-Bomb got here.”

“Aw, you always let me watch,” said A-Bomb.

“No shit, I got something serious to talk about,” said Mongoose, pulling over a small camp chair.

The major amenity of Doberman’s tent was its cement slab. He and the other Devil squadron pilots had arrived at King Fahd far too late to command any of the good berths. After a few days, the fact that they were living in tents had become a point of honor among them. They voted to refuse the offer of better quarters — trailers being considered moderately better — when it was made.

Doberman hadn’t been present for the vote. No one took his request for a recall seriously.

“What do you think I ought to do about Dixon?” Mongoose asked.

“What do you mean, do about him?” said Doberman.

“He fucked up.”

“He lost me because my radio went dead,” said Doberman.

Mongoose shook his head. “No. It was more than that. He totally missed SierraMax, didn’t call in, didn’t answer the AWACS until he was halfway back to Al Jouf.”

“Jeez, Goose,” said A-Bomb. “Give the kid a break. None of that’s worth hanging him on. He got turned around. You know how garbled the radio transmissions were. All his Mavericks scored.”

“He could have cost Doberman his life,” said the major. “He should have been on his back when the Mirage jumped him.”

“Aw Geeze, leave the kid alone,” said Doberman. “It was my fault.”

“Your fault? How the hell do you figure that?”

“I should have looked for him after my bomb run. Things got busy. I didn’t realize the radio was screwed up.”