Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

A-Bomb just smiled.

“Let me smell it.”

“Hey, get your own,” said A-Bomb, grabbing the cup away. “Next you’re gonna be stealing my Tootsie Roll Pops.”

“You’re awful quiet this morning, Dixon,” said Doberman, looking over at him. “You awake?”

“Yeah,” he said, trying to force some of the adrenaline rampaging in his stomach up into his voice.

“What do you think, real Dunkin’ Donuts or what?”

“Probably real,” Dixon told Doberman. “He had a Big Mac last night.”

“Jesus, kid, thanks a lot,” A-Bomb barked in mock anger. “Why don’t you just tell the whole base? Dog man here would kill his own mother for Mickey D fries.”

“They weren’t real,” said Doberman.

“The hell it wasn’t,” said A-Bomb. He had finally managed to get his protective suit on and was pulling on his custom-designed G suit. It was the envy of the squadron, if not the entire Air Force. A-Bomb’s bulk made it possible to cram an incredible number of compartments into it, and every inch of real estate was packed with extra equipment — though a high proportion might be considered extra-military, if not downright bizarre. A lot of guys carried a Walkman with them on routine flights; A-Bomb had wired his suit for sound, with a CD changer somehow stored in one of the crannies. And he habitually carried more candy with him than a well-stocked vending machine.

“What’s today’s music?” Doberman asked.

“The Boss. *Darkness on the Edge of Town.’”

“Appropriate.”

“Plus Pearl Jam. Ever hear of them?”

“Rap?”

A-Bomb spit derisively. “Yeah, that’ll be the day. I also have Guns ‘n’ Roses. You really don’t want to fly without them.”

“Yeah, how could you?”

“Only question is, what do I listen to on the bomb run?” said A-Bomb, dead serious. “I’m kind of leaning toward Springsteen and ‘Candy’s Room,’ because of the beat and all, but there’s a certain ontological dissonance with the words.”

Doberman rolled his eyes nearly out of his head.

“How can you concentrate?” Dixon asked. “I mean, seriously, doesn’t it throw you off?”

“Nah. It’s kind of like having a sound track. Theme music, you know. Kind of like Apocalypse Now, where the helicopters attack to the Ride of the Valkyries.”

“Next you’ll want to mount speakers on the wings,” sneered Doberman.

“I’ve thought about it.” A-Bomb took his helmet and adjusted it over his ears — checking not the fit but the volume control on his stereo.

“You’re one of a kind, A-Bomb,” said Doberman. “Thank God.”

“How’s that?” said the pilot, removing his helmet.

“Never mind. Come on, kid, you ready?”

“Uh-huh,” said Dixon, waddling over toward them. The chem suit tended to cut into his crotch, and walking could be a little tough at first.

“We got to come up with a better name for him,” said A-Bomb. “BJ’s too tame.”

“BJ’s fine,” said Doberman.

“Nah. He needs something with balls.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been trying to come up with something all night. Everything I think of is obscene or taken,” said A-Bomb. “We could call him Balls. What do you think?”

“Nah,” said Doberman. “Then you’d have these radio transmissions — where are your Balls?”

A-Bomb began laughing uncontrollably, as if it were the funniest joke in the world.

Mongoose nearly ran Dixon down outside the hangar where the last Hog was being readied.

“Sorry, Major,” said the pilot. “I didn’t see you.”

“I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Mongoose told him, determined to be as conciliatory and up-beat as possible. “Here, come with me just a second.”

Dixon followed him around a corner. The reflected light threw odd shadows on the ground, and made the young pilot, dressed in his survival gear and ready for flight, look like Frosty the Snowman on safari.

“Look, we’re going to do things a bit differently than we choreographed before. Same plan, just different people — you and me are going to tease the defenses, instead of you and A-Bomb.”

“Okay.”

“It makes sense to pair the most experienced guy with the least,” he explained. “I should have done that yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t.”

Dixon didn’t say anything.

“You okay, kid? I have to go tell the others.”

“I’ll be fine,” sputtered Dixon.

“I know you will. Otherwise I wouldn’t have you covering my ass, right?”

Dixon nodded. Mongoose was grateful he didn’t ask why the switch hadn’t gone the other way, with him in Doberman’s place bombing the dishes. He had a namby-pamby answer — too many people changing position, with Doberman moving up into A-Bomb’s slot because of rank and experience. But that was so obviously bullshit that the kid would instantly realize he didn’t trust him to make the bomb run right.

He might already. But at least he didn’t say it.

“Clyston rolled up Tommy Corda’s Hog for you,” he told the young pilot. “We’re running a little tight on time, so we figured we’d shuffle around the planes.”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather have the Hog I flew yesterday morning. I know its personality.”

“It’s already armed.”

Dixon’s disappointment was obvious.

Mongoose glanced at his watch. “Hey look, if they get your plane up in time, you can take it. But we’re tight — you got that?”

“Yes, sir, I do. Thank you.”

“Sure.” Mongoose took a quick look into the kid’s eyes. They told him exactly what he expected — nothing.

He chucked Dixon on the shoulder and went to find A-Bomb and Dixon.

Did the kid just use the word, “personality,” he wondered to himself as he walked away. God damn A-Bomb was infecting everybody.

Finished dressing, Doberman took a step in the direction of the door. A shiny piece of copper caught his eye. It was a penny, right side up.

Hadn’t seen one of those in a while.

He scooped down and snapped it up.

“Whatcha got?” asked A-Bomb.

“Penny,” he said sheepishly. “See a penny, pick it up, all the day you’ll have good luck.”

“Aw, you don’t believe in that crap, do you?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” said Doberman, looking at the coin. It was from 1981. Had that been a good year?

“You going to step on all the cracks out to the runway?” A-Bomb asked.

“Hey, you’re the guy who said I was lucky.”

The other pilot snorted. “Want a Tootsie Roll Pop?” “You’re out of your mind,” said Doberman, sliding the penny into his glove.

Dixon had never seen anything like it. What seemed to be the entire squadron’s worth of maintenance experts were working on the plane, slapping parts in and out, checking and rechecking equipment, fueling, arming and maybe even buff-waxing. The lieutenant had always heard that the Air Force technical experts, the people who handled the planes, were without peer in the world, but this was unbelievable. They were going at the plane like a team of surgeons doing a heart transplant. Not only had the wing been completely repaired, but it looked as if it had been repainted. It was hard to imagine this was the plane that had barely made it back to the base less than twelve hours before, a basketball-sized hole in its wing.

Someone stuck a cup of coffee — black — in Dixon’s hand. It was far too hot to drink, even if he had wanted to, but it somehow seemed wrong to refuse it.

Sergeant Clyston materialized in front of him. “Yeah, I know Lieutenant — you want your Hog, right? I don’t blame you. We’re kicking ass, but no guarantees, okay?” He pointed at the coffee. “You’re not going to drink that, are you? You’ll be peeing all the way to Baghdad.”