Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

“Looks like a cat’s whisker to me.”

“A very deadly meow. So you make your attack at six thousand feet, thinking you are safe, but you are not. Your plane had that problem today. They will be difficult to spot until they begin firing: you see how concealed they are. Most experts would miss it, thought of course not someone like me. Now, this camouflaging I have seen only in a few other places. I think that the idea came from a Major Andre… ”

“Yeah, okay,” said Doberman. “So what do you suggest?”

Wong smiled. “If you know where they are, you can attack them safely from a distance. For that, you must use their tactics to your advantage. If they acquire you here first,” said Wong, pointing at his X’s on the bottom, “and think you are attacking from this direction, all of the guns will be aimed in this arc. Let the radars think they have you. They all fire. Then you come quickly from the rear. You will have no less than ten seconds to make your attack.”

Somebody in the back whistled.

Wong shrugged. “Of course, sooner or later, they run out of ammunition. The Iraqi supply… ”

“Thanks Captain,” cut in Knowlington. “Okay, so we have four guns down here that have to go, plus the dishes. How do we get close enough to see them?”

“What if we tickle them at twelve thousand, look for the sparks, and then hit them?” suggested Corda.

“Then, we’d need more than two planes,” said Doberman. “The first two come in on the south, turn around, and the others nail the bastards.”

“You’re going to need four planes just to make sure you hit everything,” said Corda. “Can we take them off another mission?”

“This is more complicated than a stinking ballet,” said A-Bomb. “I say just pour on the gas and take out the mothers. Hogs weren’t made to bomb from twelve thousand feet. We got to get in the mud, man. That’s our job.”

“Our job is to take out those radars,” said Knowlington. “And to come back in one piece. Everyone. Wong’s idea makes a hell of a lot of sense. The problem is, we need four planes. Every Hog we have capable of flying is allotted.”

“We have two more,” said Clyston. “We’ve been holding back the two Hogs Captain Glenon tried to crash. We’ll have them ready by 0400.”

There were a few worried looks on the faces of Clyston’s sergeants, but none of them said a word.

“Not enough time,” said Knowlington.

Even pushing as fast as they could go, the Hogs would take close to an hour to get to King Khalid Military City; gassing up there would cost at least thirty minutes. Add an hour to Al Jouf, another pit, and then thirty to find the target — all of the times were optimistic, in everyone’s opinion. You were talking at least three and a half hours, with no margin for error and a hell of a lot of luck riding along as your wingman.

“You just know Al Jouf is going to be a mad house,” said A-Bomb. “Ask Dixon what it was like this afternoon.”

“Why stop at Al Jouf?” said Doberman. “If we refuel by air we can cut some time off.”

“And if we miss the tanker?”

“We won’t miss a tanker.”

“It’s dark outside, A-Bomb, or haven’t you noticed?”

“What if you went straight there from KKMC?” suggested Clyston. “You can make it if we lighten your load.”

Mongoose rose and got a calculator from the desk, working the numbers. He hated to admit it, but having the entire squadron involved in planning the mission generated a certain amount of energy that wouldn’t have been there if just a few of the pilots worked it out alone.

“The problem is, what do you leave behind?” asked Doberman.

Clyston poked one of the sergeants sitting next to him. “You go with only four Mavs apiece, no iron,” said the man. “That gets us to two and a half hours, pushing the speed north a bit. Even with a good time over the target, you can make it with about ten minutes of reserves to spare, assuming you refuel just over the border.”

It took Mongoose, pressing the calculator buttons madly, several minutes to discover the sergeant was correct.

“Ten minutes is tight,” said Knowlington. “And four mavericks doesn’t give us much backup.”

“The sergeant’s right about the time,” said Mongoose, looking up from the calculator. “But the planes have to go like hell to KKMC.”

“Four o’clock is still a half hour short,” said Knowlington.

“We’ll make it by 0300,” said Clyston. He caught a glance from one of his men and amended his prediction to 0330. “And what if we put six Mavericks on two of the planes? Just load up the triple rails.”

Clyston held up his hand as one of his weapons specialists whispered in his ear. They talked back and forth a second, then the capo-di-capo announced that they could work it out. Though designed as a triple rail, the launchers ordinarily carried only two Mavericks.

“Fuel-wise, it’ll work,” announced Mongoose. “The tank on the way out has to be a quickie, though, or the fourth plane drops into the sand.”

“Kind of risky,” said Corda. “I almost ran dry waiting on line this afternoon.”

“Me, too,” said Hobbes. “All these stinking Navy guys were waiting in line.”

“Go to separate tanker tracks after the attack,” suggested Wong.

It was one of those solutions so obvious everyone had missed it.

“You sure you’re from the Pentagon?” asked Clyston.

“Sure he is,” said Corda. “The pen he used on the dry-erase board is a permanent marker.”

As the meeting was starting to run out of steam, Mongoose leaned toward Knowlington. “I’d like to have a word.”

There was no mistaking the tone, but Knowlington took it mildly. He nodded, and gestured toward his office.

“You’ve got a beef,” Knowlington said when they got there.

“Several.”

“Shoot.”

“Number one, why the round robin discussion?”

“I thought getting everybody involved would be good,” said Knowlington. “And not just for morale.”

“Having the techs in… ”

“You don’t think they contributed?”

“I didn’t say that,” sputtered the pilot.

“I don’t think anyone abused the privilege. This was a special situation. What were the other things you wanted to say?”

“Dixon.”

“What about him?”

“I don’t trust him on the mission.”

Knowlington had expected to be questioned on the meeting, which had been a spur of the moment decision. He knew that Johnson’s real problem with it was that it signaled he was taking a much more aggressive role directing the squadron than he had until now. Not that he wasn’t doing his job, just that he hadn’t really done it until now.

He’d felt tentative, out of his element with the unfamiliar planes, an old pilot good for nothing more than initialing requisitions. Watching the Hogs land had somehow changed that.

It was natural that the major, who’d more or less been filling the void, would have his nose slightly out of joint. But that didn’t account for his feelings about Dixon.

“Why don’t you trust him?” the colonel asked.

“I think he’s a liability.”

“Because he lost Doberman?”

“No. It’s more than that. Think about it, Colonel. Doberman’s plane comes back like Swiss cheese and his is clean.”

“There’s no question he was over the target,” said Knowlington.

“I’m not saying that.”

“Well what then? Are you saying he was too lucky?”

“No.” Mongoose sighed. “He flew today. He’s tired as hell.”

“I have to tell you, Goose, I think you need a pretty specific reason to hold him back. He knows the site, and if he’s tired, what about you?” Knowlington paused, scanning the major’s face for fatigue. It had to be there, but it didn’t show. “Is there something else? I mean, obviously Dixon screwed up firing the Mavericks and he’s taking it hard, but I don’t think that’s a reason to ground him.”