Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

“I’m wondering if you think the squadron should ask to take another shot at them,” said Knowlington, trying to step lightly.

“I was thinking about it.”

“We can swing Smith and… ”

“I want to lead it myself.”

“Okay.” Knowlington nodded. “They may want it hit soon, though.”

“So?”

In theory, pilots were supposed to have a decent rest between missions, but Knowlington didn’t push the point. He would have felt the same way. Besides, it was all moot until he talked to Black Hole and the general.

“I don’t think it was a fuck up,” added the colonel.

“Why not?”

Johnson’s snap surprised him so much Knowlington took a step backwards. “I’m just saying, this happens… ”

“Dixon froze.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he lost it. He panicked. I saw it in his eyes. He came back like a rabbit in shock. I found him puking out his guts beneath his plane.”

“Glenon didn’t say anything about that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my responsibility.”

And mine, Knowlington thought. “Is that why you had them switch planes?”

“I would’ve had them do that anyway.”

Knowlington nodded. “First time in combat can be pretty tough.”

“It was the first time for all of us.”

“You’re not blaming him for the station still being on the air?”

“No, of course not. But he lost Glenon. He should have been there when the mirage jumped him. Hell, Doberman’s lucky to be alive.”

“You don’t think the radio going out had something to do with that?”

“He still should have been on his butt.”

Knowlington really couldn’t argue with that. Except — well, shit happens. “What’d you have in mind?” he asked.

“I want him to sit down, for starters. Take him out of the cockpit.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

That’s kind of harsh, don’t you think? What did he tell you happened.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“He was very vague.”

Knowlington began rocking gently on his feet, considering the situation. “Something bothering you, Goose?” he asked.

“No.”

“You feel strongly about this?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let’s take some time and think about it. Saturday he’s flying?”

Mongoose shrugged. Knowlington saw Wong coming out of the tent. “He’s all yours,” the colonel said, leaving the major to be entertained by Wong while he went to find out how important the GCI site really was.

A-Bomb nearly flattened Dixon as he stepped out of his tent.

“Whoa! what the hell are you doing out here, BJ?” he said to him, physically lifting him out of his path. “You trying to sniff Mickey D fumes?”

“Mickey D?”

“Got a shipment today. Big Macs, large fries. Should’ve gone for a double order, though. I’m still hungry.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, sorry, it’s gone. Check with me tomorrow.” A-Bomb took a step away. Dixon followed.

Until now, they hadn’t been particular friends. But Dixon wasn’t particular friends with anyone to be honest, not even the other lieutenants.

“Yo, kid, what’s up?” A-Bomb asked, realizing he was trailing him.

“Nothin’.”

“You want something?”

“A drink.”

A-Bomb laughed. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

“I do. Sometimes.”

“I’m on my way over to The Depot. Come on.”

Dixon fell in alongside as A-Bomb sauntered through the back alleys of Tent City. En route, he launched into an explanation of why the A-10A Thunderbolt II — also known as the Warthog, or Hog to those who knew her ugliness the best — was the finest warplane ever created, bar none.

“Maneuverability and toughness. That’s what it comes down to,” explained A-Bomb, whose dissertation was more like a rant than a lecture. “Those are the only things that count. Speed? Hey, that’s fine, you want to run away. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Turning radius. Get me into a one on one with a pointy nose, okay? Let’s call it a two-turn deal, all right? Hey, screw him, I’m inside, I’m on his tail, I’m signing my name with my cannon in two seconds, right? That’s what I’m talking about. Pick your plane. What do you want? Hornet? Okay, good choice. But I’m on it. I don’t care if there’s a marine in the stinking cockpit and he’s brought a Deuce with him. You know what a Deuce is, kid? It’s a .50 caliber machine-gun. Oldie but goodie. I’m going to get me one and strap it to my seat. Kind of thing that makes you want to eject, just to use it. Anyway, I don’t care who the hell is flying the damn plane, put Doolittle in the cockpit. Hey, put Knowlington in there, okay? In his prime, that is. You know, back in the old days. I’ll spot him a dozen rounds in my tail. Because as soon as I light up my gun, he’s a dead man. No shit. You think a Hornet could last as long as a Hog?”

“No.”

“Fuck no. That’s what I’m talking about. Hell of a nice airplane. Very nice screens. But stick and rudder? No, no, no. You were supposed to be in F-15s, right?”

“Well, not supposed to be… ”

“Yeah, I heard the deal. Too bad about your mom. But listen, let’s say you have an Eagle and a Hog, okay? Now I got to grant you the magic missile bullshit, but I’m not talking missiles at a million miles. I’m talking up close and in your face, where it counts. You know what I’m talking about?”

There were, of course, logical arguments to counter A-Bomb, but even if Dixon weren’t a Hog driver he wouldn’t have offered them. A-Bomb’s enthusiasm made it seem possible — hell, likely — that he could take apart anything he came up against in a dogfight.

Maybe that’s all I need, Dixon thought to himself. Enthusiasm.

But how do you get it? By eating Big Macs?

The older pilot seemed to know everyone he passed, no matter their rank or occupation. Occasionally he would stop and have a quick conversation. Dixon waited dutifully, nodding when introduced but inevitably saying nothing.

“Kind a quiet tonight, kid,” A-Bomb told him as they continued on. “Something eating you?”

“No,” he said quickly. But then he grabbed the older pilot’s arm. “Hey, let me ask you a question.”

“Shoot,” said A-Bomb, still walking along. His gait had a hop to it, like either he had just won the lottery or planned to that evening.

“You ever get scared?”

“Shit yeah. All the time. Why? You scared right now?”

“On the mission.”

A-Bomb snorted. “Only an asshole doesn’t get scared.” He slapped him on the back. “Come on. Let’s find you that drink.”

The GCI site turned out to be very important: it had to be taken out tomorrow.

And, as a matter of fact, the mission planners at Black Hole were looking for someone to do it.

“We volunteer,” Knowlington told Al Harris, a young captain on the staff who happened to be a friend.

Actually, his father had been a friend. But Harris was a lot like his dad. Knowlington had helped him in some minor ways during his first year or so in the service, and they got along well.

“I have to have the general get back to you on it,” said Harris. “This is his call.”

“My guys would really appreciate it,” Knowlington told him. “And so would I.”

Five minutes later, the sharp, direct voice of the general in charge of planning the air war came over the secure line. Besides being one of the bright lights of the Air Force, the brigadier was a flexible if demanding officer who had been convinced early on that the Hogs had a place beside the glamour boys in waging the air war. He was also the kind of guy who got right to the point.