Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

“I’m not grounding him,” snapped the major. “I just don’t want him on this mission.”

Knowlington again studied Johnson’s face, but he was really trying to sort out his own thoughts. On the one hand, the major ought to have the right to choose who went on this mission. On the other hand, keeping Dixon back without a solid reason wasn’t fair to the lieutenant, and would probably affect him for weeks if not forever. Knowlington had seen more than one pilot completely tank after being treated unfairly; he’d had a buddy shot because he did stupid things after losing his self-confidence.

There were other considerations. The way they had it drawn up, Dixon would have to be replaced with a pilot from another mission. Sure, he could get plenty of volunteers, but what did he do with the slot it left open? And if there were doubts about Dixon’s abilities, wouldn’t it be better to fly him in a place he already knew — and had volunteered for?

It seemed to Knowlington better all around to keep Dixon on the mission. But he decided he had to defer to Johnson, if he felt strongly about it.

“Let me tell you a story,” the colonel started.

“I don’t want to hear another of your goddamn stories. This is our war we’re fighting,” said Mongoose, storming away.

Dixon curled on his cot, trying to calm his stomach and slice away maybe half of what was in his head.

He was getting his chance to redeem himself.

What had the old guy said in the letter? He thought about pulling it out and reading it again, but the words came back without effort.

Keep your head up and moving toward the next battle.

Not particularly profound, but the best advice never was.

But what if Dixon screwed up again? What if this time they lost someone in the squadron because of him?

Should he go to Major Johnson right now and tell him he wasn’t up to it?

And be forever branded a coward?

Was that better than fucking up again?

Maybe it was better to go, get shot down and die a hero.

No, die as someone people thought was a hero. There was a difference.

A voice cut through the tangle of contradictions racing in his brain. Dixon turned over toward the door, startled.

“Excuse me for barging in like this, guys,” said Colonel Knowlington. “If you’re up.”

Dixon bolted upright. His feet found the floor as he jumped up and started to salute.

The colonel laughed softly, glancing at the tent’s other two cots. One was empty; on the other, Lieutenant Phaze snored peacefully, deep in oblivion.

“Geez, BJ, relax. What do you think, we’re in the army? I don’t think even GIs salute in tents. Besides, relax.” Knowlington took a chair and pulled it close to the cot. “Phazer asleep?”

“Bomb wouldn’t wake him,” said Dixon.

“You tired?” the colonel asked, keeping his voice soft.

“No.”

Knowlington smiled. His grayish-white hair seemed like a halo of light around his balding skull. The colonel had the subdued air of a college professor nearing retirement, not the gung-ho, in-your-face attitude of a television war hero. But that only awed Dixon all the more.

“I want you to know, there’s no problem deciding to sit down. According to regulations, you shouldn’t be flying anyway. You’re supposed to get a good long break. Even in war. Especially then.”

Dixon started to mumble something, but felt his throat choke off.

“You can stay home. No problem.”

He knows I’m a coward, Dixon thought. He’s giving me an out. “I, uh, I want to fly, Sir. Really.”

Knowlington nodded. He was silent for a moment, considering what to say next. “Anything happen up there you want to tell me about?”

Dixon considered telling him he’d dropped the CBUs in the sand. But if he did that — if he admitted how badly he’d panicked — wouldn’t Knowlington take him off the mission?

He couldn’t chance that.

“Nothing much,” said the pilot. “I screwed up.”

Knowlington squinted, but said nothing.

“I was too high with the CBUs,” said Dixon weakly.

The colonel was silent for a while longer. Dixon stifled an urge to blubber out the whole truth.

It wouldn’t help, he told himself. It’s too late. Keep your trap zipped.

“On my first combat mission, God, I was petrified,” Knowlington said finally. “I think I took twelve dumps in the hour before I got dressed. Ten at least. Hell, I think I wore out two dozen pair of underwear my first week.”

“You were scared?”

“Shitless. Literally.” Knowlington seemed far away, reliving the flight. “You get used to it. Part of you does. You learn how to deal with everything coming at you. You get pretty good at that, actually. That’s when you have your real problems. That’s when you start taking things for granted.”

Dixon nodded.

“I remember the first time I ever flew an F-4,” continued the colonel. “I’d kicked some butt in a Thud. I already had two air-to-air shootdowns. You didn’t get too many of those on the missions we were flying, believe me. So the first time I checked out a Phantom, boy, I thought I was something. Then I nearly ran the plane through the concrete on takeoff. Seems I set the flaps wrong. Tried turning it into a tank instead of an airplane.”

Knowlington’s head snapped up quickly, his soft laugh choked off. His eyes swept around and grabbed Dixon’s.

“You up for this?”

The pilot nodded.

“Good.” The colonel slapped him loudly on the back, then realized someone else was sleeping nearby. “Break things into pieces if you feel it starting to get away from you,” he whispered. “Step by step. Shit’s coming at you, the world’s going crazy, look over and check your belt

My belt?

That or your throttle.” Knowlington winked. “Do something that makes you start all over from scratch. If you feel like you’re losing it, check it, take a breath, come back fresh like a new man. Step by step.”

“My throttle?”

“Anything that will get your brain to hiccup back into gear. Breath’s important, too. Hyperventilating will kill you. Look away, take a breath, then go back. Just slow down.” He studied the young pilot. “If you feel yourself losing it, that’s what you have to do.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” mumbled Dixon as the colonel left.

When you were in war, the night was never a friend. You could learn to fight in it, learn to exploit it, but it was never truly on your side. Technology could help you see through it, sheer guts could make you survive it, but the darkness remained forever foreign.

It enveloped Mongoose now, standing at the edge of the hangar area, watching the crews bust their butts trying to get the planes ready in time. His eyes swung around, fixing on the vanishing flare of jet exhaust, shrinking and shrinking into a small dot. He guessed it was an F/A-18, diverted here from one of the carriers because it was low on fuel, but its actual identity was irrelevant; he watched it only to watch something.

He should be taking a nap. He’d have to preflight in another two hours. But there was no way he could rest, and he doubted the others could either.

Well no. A-Bomb definitely would be sleeping. He could sleep through anything.

He was mad at himself for snapping at the colonel. The guy deserved a little bit of respect.

He hadn’t been drinking, at least not that Mongoose could tell. To be honest, he seemed more sober than anybody on the base.

No matter what, you had to give the guy one thing — he’d been there and done that until the cows came home.