Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

“Jeez, Chief, I’m not sure. Could have been either of a half-dozen guys.”

Clyston, who not only knew damn well that it had been Sanderson but knew that Bobby knew, nodded. The noncommittal answer combined tact with deference. The kid definitely had potential.

“Goose on the rag again?” Karn asked.

“Yeah,” grunted Clyston.

“Poor Parker.” Parker was Mongoose’s crew chief.

“He’ll leave Parker be,” said Clyston, taking another sip of his soda. “For now, anyway. Unless it happens again.”

“The avionics unit?” Bobby said.

“They’re all crap, but there’s something really screwy with his,” said Karn. “No matter what we replace or what we do, it gets whacked. Sometimes it’s a gyro, sometimes it’s a freaking contact, sometimes the whole thing is just, well, hexed. I’m thinking serious short somewhere, but damned if I can find it.”

“You tried?” Clyston asked.

“Half the damn squadron tried. The thing is, it passes all the stinking tests. It’s like voodoo. Parker and Sanderson both went over it with him,” added Karn. “You know, they told the major… ”

“I know what they told him. And I know what he told them,” said Clyston. “He’s right. This is war. It may be one of the few things he and I agree on.”

Clyston felt Johnson was a good pilot and a decent officer, but at times a bit too prissy. Plus, Johnson didn’t like Knowlington all that much; a serious character flaw, in the capo di capo’s estimation.

“Good beer, Chief,” said Bobby.

Clyston frowned. One thing he still had to teach the kid was not to be such a kiss-ass.

“What the hell hit Captain Glenon’s plane?” asked Bobby, realizing his error and trying to back track.

That earned a nod.

“Looks like he flew it under a drill press,” laughed Karn.

“Shoulder-fired missile. I’ve seen some strange ones,” said Clyston. They looked at him, expecting him to elaborate, but he wasn’t in the mood. “Glenon’s got to be the F-ing luckiest pilot in the wing. Anybody else, that would have taken out the fuel tank.”

“Couple inches further forward, it would have gotten the brace and snapped it in two,” said Bobby. “I heard… ”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come!” Clyston commanded.

Technical Sergeant Rosen squeezed her head inside.

“Rosen, get your fanny in here before one of those P-heads outside spanks it, and I have to file charges against them,” said Clyston.

“Hell, just take them out by the hangar and let Rosen have five minutes with them,” said Karn. “They’d wish they had a court martial.”

Rosen glared briefly at Karn before turning to the capo di capo.

“Help yourself,” Clyston said, gesturing to the refrigerator.

“No thank you, Sergeant.”

“How’d it go?”

“I fixed it.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Problems?”

“Not really.”

Clyston nodded. “Freddy take care of you?” He was referring to a friend of his who had arranged transportation for her out of Al Jouf.

“More or less.”

Clyston frowned. “All right. Tell me about it. You two shut your eyes,” he added.

“The co-pilot on the KC-130 coming back was a jerk. That’s it.”

“He’s going to complain?”

“He might.”

Clyston sighed. Hopefully, the man would be so pissed off he would go right to Knowlington. The colonel would nod seriously, scratch his chin, and promise to look into it. As soon as the door closed, he ’d shake his head, roll his eyes, and do what he always did about insignificant bullshit: forget about it.

“You didn’t break any bones, did you?” the capo di capo asked, trying to make light of the situation. But Rosen didn’t take the hint.

“I shoulda,” she said.

“Relax, Rosen. Come on, have a seat.”

She glanced at the others, deepening her scowl. “I have work to do, Sergeant.”

“The hell you do. Your shift ended hours ago.”

Rosen’s face flushed momentarily. She seemed genuinely touched by his concern.

Must have been the light.

“I caught a Herc back,” she told him. “Lucky timing.”

“I guess.”

“I heard Tinman needed help on Lieutenant Dixon’s plane, the one Captain Glenon tried to break,” she said.

Clyston nodded. One of these days he was going to adopt her. “Tinman may not let you help.”

“We can get along if there’s work to be done.”

“Your call. Good work at Al Jouf.”

She flushed again, but left before it was too noticeable.

“Lesbo, right?” said Bobby.

“Nah,” said Clyston. “She just has trouble getting along with people. Officers especially. Takes them seriously. That’s where the trouble starts, as a general rule.”

Officially, the club didn’t exist.

Unofficially, it didn’t exist either.

But its thick, smoke-laden air was real enough. The bikini-clad Pakistani waitresses — with a few similarly dressed men thrown in to provide gender balance — were actual flesh and blood. Mostly flesh. The dim lights, live music, and flowing booze had a hallucinatory quality at first glance, but soon proved as physical as anything else here.

“Never been in The Depot before, huh Kid?” A-Bomb asked as he threaded his way through the crowd at the bottom of the entry stairs located just a few yards from the base property line.

“No,” said Dixon. He looked a bit like a five-year-old taking his first trip to the circus.

Or a whore house.

“Used to be a bomb shelter. I think. People get kind of bristly when you ask. My idea is, enough guys had enough wet dreams and it sprang together out of thin air. Or sand. Whatever.” He stomped Dixon’s shoulder to show he was kidding. “Here come on, this is my spot.”

A-Bomb slid in behind a round cocktail table in a corner. From here, he had a perfect view of the small stage, in case one of the unscheduled floor shows stoked up.

“Shit-faced, kid, that’s what we’re getting,” he told him. “And then, we’re going to have to cook you up a nickname. BJ sounds a little too, you know, suburban. You need something new.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. You need something that fits you. Finding the right nickname is a delicate art. How long have you had BJ?”

“All my life.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. Time for a change.” He motioned over a waitress in a black leather thong. “Pair of Buds,” said A-Bomb. “And maybe later, talk to the kid a little.”

“I’d love to,” she purred, running her fingers lightly across his head before disappearing.

A-Bomb laughed as the kid turned paler. “Lighten up, BJ. Hell, you were in combat today. You’re a man from now on. Cherry broken.”

“I don’t know.”

“Hey, relax. Uncle A-Bomb isn’t going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.” He leaned across the table. “And they all get shots once a week.”

Doberman found them sitting in A-Bomb’s favorite corner.

“How much have you guys had to drink?” he asked.

“Hello to you, too,” said A-Bomb.

The pilot pointed to the half-emptied bottles. “How many?”

“Relax,” said A-Bomb. “We just got here. I’ve had a sip and Junior’s been too interested in the floor show. You’ll catch up in no time.”

“I’m not catching up. Knowlington’s called a big meeting over at Cineplex.”

“For when?”

“Now.” Doberman glanced at Dixon. He expected to find A-Bomb here, but the kid — hell, he went to church services, for crying out loud. Doberman glared at him; Dixon, who looked paler than the albino strip artist on stage, remained silent.