Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

The young man nodded.

“When I ask a question, I expect a full and complete answer. No bullshit. That’s the bottom line with me. You understand?”

“I fucked up, sir. I know you gave me the chance and I blew it.”

“Understand me, it’s not about getting scared. Everybody gets scared. But we can’t afford to have people lying about it.”

“I know.”

“Excuse me, not lying, just not filling in the blanks.”

“Same thing.”

“You’re damn lucky it’s not,” said Knowlington. He blew air through his teeth.

The reality was, you could interpret what the kid said during the debrief as a pretty full and accurate account; he said he had lost track of where he was and that he did not think the bombs had hit their targets. Technically, that agreed with what Dixon had said later, although the colonel wasn’t particularly fond of technicalities.

But Dixon had also said he had screwed up the Mavericks; the evidence showed he did not. It was still possible that he was being harder than hell on himself because he had been afraid.

“You’re going to be on administrative duty for a while,” said the colonel. “You’ll rotate into Riyadh as an assistant to the fighter operations officer.”

“Assistant?”

“It’s a new position. Very temporary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The matter is closed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Knowlington hesitated. They’d all seen something in this kid during his first days training. And they’d been right, too — his tangle with the chopper proved it.

And maybe his coming clean about panicking proved it, too. Really, it was more than you could expect from most men, facing up to the worst about yourself.

How long had it taken Knowlington to do that? Even now he felt the familiar ache in his throat, the incessant urge for just one tiny, meaningless drink.

“Mongoose told me he ordered you to return home when he went back for the chopper,” added the colonel.

“I was his wingman,” said Dixon. “I couldn’t desert him. Besides, I felt like I had to make things right.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you for hanging in there.” Knowlington managed a smile. “You came around and did the right thing. You’re a good pilot, BJ. You have talent. When you get back in the cockpit, don’t blow it.”

“I won’t sir.”

“Good work on the Hind. Fire Fox Hog, huh?”

“Actually, sir, I used my cannon.”

Knowlington’s smile came easier this time. Probably for the rest of his life, the kid would be accurate to a fault — not a horrible character flaw to have, all things considered. “You have to be at Riyadh at 0800,” he told him. “Don’t be late.”

Dixon cupped his face in his hands as Knowlington walked away.

Skull Knowlington was proud of him. Vietnam War Ace Colonel Michael Knowlington, with more medals than a museum, had just called him a good pilot.

Bailed his fanny out of the fire, too, something he didn’t deserve.

But damn. Skull Knowlington was proud of him.

Dixon made a fist and swirled his body around in celebration — nearly smashing Tech Sergeant Rosen as she walked by.

“Lieutenant?”

“I just… wow, I’m sorry,” said Dixon.

“Congratulations on shooting down that helicopter.” Rosen put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side. “We’re all proud of you.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you. All of you, I mean,” he managed, still flustered. “You guys, I mean, you all did a hell of a job on that plane.”

“What’d you expect?”

A pause followed that was more awkward than the one after his punch.

“Maybe, uh, maybe I’ll be seeing you around,” said the pilot.

Rosen laughed, but there was a twinge of nervousness in her voice. “Probably.”

“I got to go to Riyadh tomorrow.”

“More hero stuff, huh? Well, don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t. I mean, wait!” he shouted as she started to walk away.

Surprised, she turned back.

“Thanks, really,” he told her, stepping forward to kiss her on the cheek.

At least, he aimed for the cheek. She turned and met him with her lips.

“You’re welcome,” she said, slipping away.

A few minutes later, back in his tent, Dixon took out Lance Corporal Simmons’ letter and read it again. Then he fished out his pad and a pen. He wanted to tell the old marine how right he was.

But he couldn’t. He tried a few times, starting sentences only to stop and rip up the page.

He wanted the corporal to know that he’d inspired him, that his lesson had maybe helped save his life, or at least his career. But it was too hard to put into words. Finally, he read the letter one more time, then slipped it back into its envelope and returned it to the pile for someone else to answer.

Exhausted, even though he’d had a nap earlier, Mongoose sat back on his cot. He had one more duty to perform before calling it a day. For maybe the first time in his career, he was actually glad he wasn’t flying tomorrow. He felt old and achy, his legs especially. Even the plastic fountain pen in his hand felt heavy, though that was somehow reassuring.

Dear Kathy:

Hell of a day today. My wingman shot down a helicopter. I nearly waxed him by mistake. But it turned out all right.

He paused, unsure whether to keep those last two sentences or not. His wife might misinterpret them, think he was in danger.

It wasn’t a misinterpretation. But he didn’t want to reinforce it.

He’d told Knowlington to go easy on the kid. In fact, he’d told the colonel to forget it. He’d had to argue, actually.

Knowlington was a funny guy. He could make you think he didn’t give a shit about a lot of things, starting with military protocol, but when it came to flying and fighting, he was hard line. He didn’t like anything less than 100 percent verifiable truth. He hadn’t really wanted to cut Dixon any slack, despite Mongoose’s arguments.

Until yesterday, Mongoose had resented him, mostly, figuring he was a washed up drunk. But he knew now he was wrong about that. His interminable stories were a pain in the ass, but they did have a point. And in the end, he too had decided the kid deserved a break.

They both knew Dixon was going to be all right. That was the one thing the colonel couldn’t argue. The kid had had to get through that first mission, the first real gut-check under fire.

Everybody did.

Hell, he wasn’t even mad at Dixon any more. Mongoose had thought about it a lot. Tomorrow, or maybe the next day when Knowlington hauled the kid’s butt back from Riyadh, Mongoose would stick his finger in the lieutenant’s chest and tell him how bad he would pound the shit out of him if he ever pulled a stunt like that again.

Then he’d slap the kid on the back and buy him a near-beer.

Mongoose ripped the page out of the pad and started again.

Dear Kathy:

Hell of a day today. Wingman shot down a helicopter. You probably saw it on the news. He’s just a kid, at least he was until this morning.

I keep looking for camels, but I don’t see any. Other guys tell me they’re all over the place. Maybe they’re hiding from me. I guarantee I’m going to get a ride on one before long. I promise to wear my helmet.

Miss you and Robby a lot. Give him a kiss for me.

I’ll write tomorrow.

He went wild with his Xs and Os, tore off the sheet and folded it carefully, placing it in its envelope. He thought maybe he’d gotten too sentimental, decided what the hell. Then Major James Johnson drew a long breath, and began to write his second letter home, the one he hoped his wife would never get.