Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

Mongoose blamed himself for the kid’s getting lost. He should have put him on his wing, not Doberman’s. Granted, intelligence had tagged their site as the more difficult one, but he should have had the kid with him no matter what. He could have put Doberman and A-Bomb on the tougher target.

Then what would have happened? Would his radio have gone out?

Would he have been as lucky as Doberman?

That was his fuck-up, and he wasn’t about to sit down for it. He was being hard on Dixon because they were in war, and one little screw-up could kill you. But wasn’t part of it that the kid reminded him of himself? Starting out, at least? Dixon had that cocky kid thing about him, made you want to like him, want to think he was you before you got a bit wiser.

And slower. Just a little.

Jesus, he was a natural stick and rudder man. He’d hit his targets with his AGMs, even though he had said he’d missed. He deserved another chance.

Bottom line was, he had to go with Knowlington on this.

In the darkness of the night, the canvas enclosure Mongoose called home seemed like a safe haven, a small cave against the harshness all around. It was lit by a small “mood lamp” his wife had given him as a joke; the sixties’ relic had some sort of moving liquid inside that was supposed to reflect his changing moods.

It was green purple tonight. Hard to tell what mood that was supposed to be.

Mongoose lifted his mattress off the cot and pulled out a battered manila folder. As he opened it, his wife’s last letter slipped onto the bedding. He considered rereading it, but thought it might slip him into terminal homesickness; he simply slipped the letter back inside and sat down to write her instead.

Every night, he wrote two letters. The first usually flowed quickly, even though the emotions were carefully guarded:

Hey:

Thanks for your letter and keep them coming. Big morale boost. Fun and games today. All went well.

I can’t tell you how much I miss you and Robby. In my head, he’s up to my chest now. Though of course I know it’s only been three weeks and that makes him — two months old!

Send me a new picture of him as soon as you can.

Send a picture of you, too.

Don’t let my mom drive you crazy. She does mean well.

I’m sorry this is so short. I confess to being tired. But happy with a job well done — I have to get some sleep now, not overworking myself, I promise.

I’ll write tomorrow.

Love Jimmy.

kisses and hugs. Kiss Robby for me

He drew a succession of small hearts with arrows through them, then folded the paper. Impulsively, he wrote “I love you” on the back; before stuffing it into the envelope he wondered if it was too much: too sappy, or maybe too depressing. Too late, it was done. He sealed and addressed the envelope.

The second letter took much longer. It was similar to a letter he had written the day before, but it felt important to take a new shot every day.

Dear Kathy:

I know, hon, how terrible it will feel to read this. Seeing you in my mind at the kitchen table, unfolding the paper- I’m shaking. I think of poor Robby, crying, though he doesn’t know why.

I want you to remarry. Things are tough now. But I know you’ll pick up and go on. You’ve always been a survivor- you said that the first night we met.

Well, the second really.

See, even now you can smile.

I don’t want you to feel guilty about it. I trust you’ll do the best thing for our little sweet potato sonny boy.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

That’s why I want you to be happy.

The mission that I went on today, the reason you’re reading this, was an important one. The Iraqi radar site we bombed was in a location that made it difficult if not impossible for our special ops units to get deep into Iraq undetected. If it had been allowed to stay operating, pilots who were shot down would have no chance of being rescued. I’m sure that they gave you the old cliché about, “He died so others could live, etc., etc.” but in this case it was true.

I know, that’s really not much comfort.

The guys I flew with, no exceptions, are great pilots and good men. They did their best.

I’m sitting here thinking of the night in the hospital. God, I was scared. Rob, you looked like a Martian coming out of your mom, you really did. And when that nurse took you and everything started flying, it was crazy. But they pulled together and you pulled out and are fine. There were a few seconds there where I was holding your little hand, and I had mom’s little hand, and I didn’t know what was going to happen to you both. And I prayed in that instant, if you could both make it, I’d take anything else that came. God could have anything, me included, as long as he saved you both.

So I have no regrets.

I love you, Kath. I wish I could hold you and Robby one more time.

Think of me doing that, and I will

Jim

“Here’s my point,” said A-Bomb, trying to pinch his belly back far enough to pull the stiff charcoal flight suit over it, “What are the odds of getting scudded in a Hog? You think Saddam’s going to waste his chemicals on me?”

“Hell no,” said Doberman, already dressed in the protective undergear. “He’ll just poison your coffee.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” said the pilot, struggling with the suit. He momentarily lost his balance and fell back against his locker. The rebound helped loosen the zipper. “Goddamn carpet makes it tough to take a leak.”

“I thought you never had to pee,” countered Doberman.

“Never say never.” A-Bomb paused in his struggle to get dressed, reaching over to his extra-large coffee sitting on the table. Steam poured from the Styrofoam cup, which had a large Dunkin’ Donuts logo on the side. “The secret to flying is to be prepared for any contingency. First flight instructor told me that.”

“Did he tell you to drink a gallon of coffee before you took off?”

“Shit, you wouldn’t believe what he drank before he took off.” A-Bomb took a slurp from the cup and went back to suiting up. “Guy was a barnstormer, that’s what I’m talking about. But man, he knew his shit.”

Dixon kept to himself as he put on his G suit across the room. With nearly everyone else in the squadron either sleeping or scrambling to get the Hogs ready for their mission, the three pilots had the shop completely to themselves.

The G suit wasn’t just an over-tailored air hose, designed to counter the effects of high-speed maneuvers. Its pockets were a pilot’s suitcase, stuffed with maps, survival gear, extra water and candy bars for energy. As he triple-checked his leg straps, Dixon ran his fingers over the breast pocket where he’d stuffed Lance Corporal Simmons’ letter. Sitting next to it was a set of rosary beads his mother had given him years before as good luck.

Not that he — or she, for that matter — was Catholic, but some things went beyond religious beliefs.

Dixon next pulled on his nylon mesh survival vest. This was more an excuse for pockets than a garment. It held his survival radio, compass, flares and a first aid kit, not to mention one of the sharpest knives he’d ever owned.

And ammo for his gun. Dixon had a standard-issue, old-style .38 caliber revolver that he had fired exactly once.

Over the vest came a parachute harness. This would be attached to the chute in the plane, where it was housed in the ejection seat.

“‘Gun, is that really Dunkin’ Donuts coffee?” asked Doberman.