Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

“I don’t see how it was your fault,” said Mongoose. “You’re lucky you’re alive.”

“Stop calling it luck!” shouted Doberman.

A-Bomb listened to the two pilots debate what had happened on the mission for a while longer. They were rehashing what they’d said at the debriefing without going anywhere, and finally he just left. Mongoose seemed bent on keelhauling Dixon — though he never specified how — and Doberman was determined to defend him. Both men were getting angrier by the minute.

A-Bomb had little patience for formal debriefings, let alone this bullshit. He was just deciding whether to find the poker game or slip into The Depot when Colin Walker, one of the clerks assigned to squadron supply, ran up to him with a pair of envelopes.

“These just got here,” said the clerk. “I didn’t know they had Federal Express in Saudi Arabia.”

A-Bomb nodded solemnly as he took the package.

“You gonna open it?” Colin asked.

“Can’t out here, kid. Sorry.”

Colin’s eyes opened wider than the opening on a sewer pipe. “Classified?”

A-Bomb leaned toward him. “I didn’t say that, right?”

“No, sir. Never. Jeez, what’s in there?”

“Did you see the manifest?”

“No, sir. I mean, well, you mean the air bill? Says it’s from D.C.”

A-Bomb winked, then turned quickly and walked to his tent.

Which quickly filled with the aroma of McDonald’s as he ripped open the envelope.

With the help of a few old friends, A-Bomb had managed to have a happy meal overnighted to Saudi Arabia. Two Big Macs, extra large fries and strawberry shake.

Separate bags, of course. To keep the shake cool.

As he finished his first Big Mac, A-Bomb wondered if there was some way to get his Harley over. Not by Fed Ex, of course. That was the sort of thing you left to UPS.

Dixon debriefed with one of the intelligence officers in the hangar area. He answered questions about the bomb damage and other questions about the mission succinctly, with as little detail as possible. It helped that the officer had already spoken with the others and written the report. Over-burdened, the lieutenant was as anxious as Dixon to be done with the interview.

Dixon told him he’d fired the Mavericks very poorly, no matter what the tape showed. He told him about seeing the radar dish and then losing it; he admitted that his memory now was so hazy it might not even have been a dish — especially since they now were pretty sure Doberman’s missile had blown it to pieces. As for the cluster bombs, he said he hadn’t seen them hit, and frankly doubted they had done much damage, because he knew he had pickled them from too high an altitude. Their fuses had undoubtedly ignited too high, causing the bomb pattern to disperse too widely.

Leaving out the details about how he’d panicked and run away might not have been lying, but he felt inside like he had committed high treason. The only thing worse was the cowardice that had led him to it.

The pilot slipped away, then wandered aimlessly through Tent City, working off the raw anxiety churning in his stomach. When anyone greeted him, he either shrugged or looked beyond them, continuing on.

He did this for more than an hour. Finally realizing he was hungry, he started in search of food, then lost interest. Somehow, he found himself in the canvas GP or general purpose tent he shared with two other lieutenants.

It was empty. Erected on a concrete pad, the tent and its furnishings were an odd mix of monkish austerity and modern luxuries. His pillow was a scavenged sack filled with T shirts; one of his “bunkies” had shipped in a stereo setup worth several thousand dollars. The stereo nightly accounted for half of the unit’s theoretical power allotment.

Dixon sat on the edge of his cot, the mission replaying over and over in his head. He’d been fine, cocky even, until Doberman pushed ahead to start his Maverick run.

He followed. They started taking flak very, very high unaimed triple-A, much thicker than had been predicted.

The next thing he knew, he was in a cloud of gunfire, a few feet from making a permanent impression on Iraqi real estate. Everything streaked together in a nightmare blur.

He was such a god damn great pilot — how could he panic like that? How could he screw up? That wasn’t him.

William James Dixon never ever screwed up. He had an A average through high school, and was summa cum laude in college, even with a heavy athletic schedule. Aced every test from grade school to flight school.

And failed the only one that counted.

How many linebackers had tried to shake him up on the gridiron, get him to lose his cool? Couldn’t happen.

But it had.

Dixon took his silver Cross pen from his pocket and stared at it, working the point up and down with his hands by slowly revolving the casings. His mother and father — his mom, really, since dad was pretty much shot by then — had given him the pen for his high school graduation.

She was an odd woman, his mom. Hard working and loving, but the kind of person who kept her only son at arm’s length. She’d never been too crazy about his joining the Air Force, even though he’d talked about flying jets since he was nine or ten. It was the only way he could afford college, one of the rock bottom goals she’d given him; still, there was a certain look on her face whenever he wore his uniform.

What the hell was he going to do? Ask to be grounded?

Maybe Major Johnson had already done that.

What sense was being in the Air Force make if he couldn’t fly?

He wasn’t scheduled for another mission until Saturday. Johnson would undoubtedly be on his ass before then. He didn’t buy what Dixon had told him. Who could blame him?

And Colonel Knowlington. A no-bullshit bona fide war hero, with two flying crosses and a piece of shrapnel in his back for good measure. A couple of guys whispered that he was a washed out drunk, and everybody knew he had been assigned to command the Hogs more or less by accident — but hell, he’d earned those medals.

Sitting on his bunk, Dixon fought the bile that kept creeping up his throat. He’d never been much of a drinker, but he considered it now, only to decide it would depress him more. Sleep was impossible. He’d read nearly everything in the tent, including the mattress labels, at least twice. Finally his eyes fell on the pile of “Any Servicemen Letters” on a nearby footlocker. The CO had suggested that squadron members take a few at random and respond; good for morale at home. A clerk had delivered the lieutenants’ modest allotment of two letters apiece the other day; since then, the six letters had been moved only to get to the gear stored in the footlocker.

Dixon picked up the top two and took them to his bed. He fished out a yellow pad, and began reading.

The first letter was from a fifth grader in Florida.

Dear Sir or Madam:

Thank you for taking the time to fight for our country. My classmates and I want you to know that we appreciate it. Thank you for losing your blood.

James Riding

An easy one, Dixon thought, beginning to write:

Dear James:

Thanks for your letter. I’m real proud of being here to serve you…..

His pen stopped; he considered for a second being completely honest with the kid; tell him how bad he’d choked.

As if he didn’t have enough trouble. He continued:

Myself and my buddies are thankful for your support.

Believe me, I’m trying not to spill any blood. My own, especially.

Lt. BJ Dixon

The second writer had enclosed a photograph of herself; she was nineteen, attractive, and Dixon suspected she was looking for a husband. She wrote in frank terms about how lonely she was back home and how happy she was to have this chance to cheer someone up. The photo would undoubtedly supply someone with several weeks worth of fantasies; Dixon slipped the letter and snapshot back into the envelope.