Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

But his opinion didn’t count. His being here in Hog Heaven was only a freak of war, someone else’s unlucky throw of the dice. A few weeks before, these planes were headed for the scrap heap, and he’d been given “command ”of them to make sure they got there. Then General Schwarzkopf himself decided there should be more Hogs in theater, and that was that.

Real War Rule Number One: Things Change. Rarely for the better.

What really bothered Knowlington watching the Warthogs take off wasn’t a premonition or pessimism, but a realization that for the first time in his life he didn’t care to have his fanny in the cockpit. He didn’t care, really, to be here at all.

What he did care for, what he wanted more than anything else, was a drink. But instead, Colonel Michael Knowlington, paper commander of the 535th Tactical Fighter Squadron (Provisional) of the 99th Air Wing (Temporary), picked up the phone and asked for help connecting to the stateside number. Yes, he told the communications expert on the other end, he was well aware of the time back in D.C. And yes, it was a private number. This was Colonel Knowlington on the line.

He waited. The building rattled as a misplaced Hercules crossed overhead.

The phone was answered on the fourth ring, just as he worried that the answering machine would take it and he’d have to try again later.

A sleepy voice asked, rather than said, hello.

“I’m looking for Nitro,” Knowlington said.

“What?”

“Hey Nitro. This is Skull. How the hell are you?”

“Mikey?”

“One and the same.” Knowlington slipped back in the stiff desk chair, relaxing a little, picturing his old wingman asleep in his pajamas.

“Jesus, Mike — where the hell are you? You in trouble?”

“Not exactly. Well, sure, I guess I’m always in some sort of trouble.” The phone line wasn’t secure. “You probably can figure out where I’m at,” he added. “It’s pretty warm, but I’m not getting a tan.”

“Jesus, Mike. You know what time it is back here?”

“I need an important favor. Today if possible.”

“I’m listening.”

Knowlington smiled, remembering another time Nitro — Captain Grenshaw at the time — had used that exact phrase. It was over a UHF radio as Knowlington — he hadn’t earned the Skull handle yet — tried to help vector in a Jolly Green to pick up the downed pilot.

“This is going to sound really, really dumb,” the colonel told his old friend, “but my chief needs a manual for something you guys make.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

Knowlington laughed. He’d had the same response himself when the chief of his maintenance section — actually, his capo di capo, Chief Master Sergeant Alan Clyston — told him two days ago that the Air Force had somehow neglected to supply anyone in Saudi Arabia with a manual for the AGM-65G heat-seeking Maverick missile.

Something of an oversight, considering they were being used today. Everybody said they worked the same as the other models, except for the fact that they had shaped charges, were a lot heavier, and used infra-red instead of video.

Same thing, except different.

“I wish I were kidding,” Knowlington told Grenshaw. “My guys claim they’ve figured them out, but I want to make sure, you know?”

“Some things never change. Shit.”

The colonel’s telephone wasn’t secure, and while he doubted Saddam was listening still, he was squeamish about giving out too much information over an open line. But he wanted to make sure Grenshaw knew what he was talking about. “It’s a G,” he hinted. “Does that make any sense to you?”

His friend had to think for a second or two. “We’re talking about something we first used back in our war, right?”

“Well, you might have used it there,” said Knowlington, “I dropped strictly iron potatoes.”

“It was a piece of shit in those days, right?” asked Grenshaw.

“I was hoping your joining the company would make it work a lot better.”

“Fuck you. Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. It works great now. I can’t believe you don’t have the manual.”

“Can you do it?”

“Of course. I’ll get you a dozen.”

“There’s a friend of ours who can get them over quick, Bozzone-”

“That old phony is still in uniform?”

“Tucks his shirt in and everything.”

“Damn. I would have thought they’d kicked him out years ago.”

Bozzone was several years younger than Knowlington, but Grenshaw didn’t realize the irony.

“I think they tried, but he wouldn’t go,” said Knowlington. “Billy’s a general now.”

“Yeah, I heard. I thought they gave him the star to get rid of him.”

“Didn’t take the hint.”

“You know what, Mikey, I can get them there faster.”

“Really?”

“One of our congressmen is going over on a fact-finding tour. He’ll be leaving in a few hours, as a matter of fact. I can make some calls. It’s done.”

Our congressmen. Knowlington shook his head, but said nothing.

“Listen, you want some steaks?” added Grenshaw. “We’ll get you a crate. You still drinking Jack Daniels?”

His men would love the steaks. But the colonel declined. “Just the manuals,” he said.

“I’m not trying to bribe you,” Grenshaw laughed.

“No, we’re fine out here. Got more of that sort of thing than you’d think. It’s the manuals I need.”

The voice on the other end of the line changed. “How you doing, Mike?”

“I’m hanging in there. Have my own wing.”

“Your own wing?”

“Yup.” Knowlington didn’t bother explaining the paperwork, much less the fact that most of his meager supply of Hogs were under de facto control of other commanders here. Nor did he say that he had ceded much of his actual responsibilities to Johnson.

Maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe it was common knowledge that he was played out. Because Grenshaw immediately asked if he was being screwed.

“Nah.”

“You know, I can help if you need it,” said Grenshaw. “Shit, we can use somebody with your background ourselves.”

“Maybe after all this is over,” said Knowlington.

“Honor and country, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Don’t go punching out again. Leave that to the younger guys.”

“Don’t worry.”

“It’s been great talking to you, Mikey. We have to get together next time you’re in town. Dissect a few old missions.”

“Sure thing.”

“Fly straight,” said Grenshaw, his voice nearly thirty years younger as he recalled the first half of their personal motto.

“And get shot down,” answered Knowlington, hanging up.

It began as a wobble so slight Doberman didn’t even realize the plane was shaking. But by the time he was ready to line up for his landing at Al Jouf behind A-Bomb, the A-10A was bucking sideways worse than an out of balance washing machine about to explode. Nothing he did seemed to calm it.

The funny thing was, the instruments were at spec and the wobble didn’t seem to affect the plane’s ability to fly. It was like driving a race car with one wheel way out of alignment on an empty track — it might whack the hell out of your perception, to say nothing of your body, but you were never in any danger of crashing.

At least, the pilot hoped that was the case. The plane didn’t seem to want to go down, or spin in, or implode — just slide back and forth a whole lot. It tried to move left, then right, then left and left, and then right. Doberman wasn’t entirely sure what would happen if he let it. And he didn’t intend to find out. He corrected constantly with the rudder and stick, eyeing the engine gauges carefully to make sure they were running precisely in parallel. No amount of adjustment or cursing cured the problem.