Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

At least it took his mind off the Mirage. He was still pissed off that he’d lost his chance at shooting it down. He’d decided now that he definitely would have creamed the SOB if the F-15s hadn’t gotten in the way.

The scratch of concrete spreading out in his windshield was the centerpiece of a forward airbase. It had been carved out in the middle of the wastelands only as a staging area for some Special Forces units and Hogs, but Doberman saw all sorts of planes lining up in landing patterns. The sharp, businesslike commands of the tower personnel were punctuated by even sharper breaths for air; it was doing a brisk business in emergency landings today.

But hell, there weren’t any wrecks that he could see. Things must be going reasonably well.

Doberman did a last-second check of his instruments as the Hog’s wheels snapped into position beneath the fuselage, helped by the jet’s slipstream. Nosing toward the concrete, the plane finally shook off her shudder. Doberman felt a shock of relief run through his body as he pushed her onto the ground.

Doberman felt another kind of shock a few minutes later, surveying the rear of his plane from the ground. The back third of the A-10A looked as if it had been used as a backstop for a platoon’s machine-gun practice. Foot-long pieces of the interior were exposed, wires and fried metal falling through the jagged gaps. The engine cowling was nicked in a star burst pattern, and it looked as if someone had tried to write his name on the rear stabilizer. The radar warning antennas, light and most of the rest of the center part of the tail section had been ground into chewing gum. The fuselage in front of the twin tailfin was creased, spindled and corroded. Bits and pieces of the bag-like fuel tank was exposed; it looked slightly singed.

A-Bomb whistled, shaking his head as he trotted over. “Jesus, Doberman, the assholes who shot at you would have taken off your tail if you’d been going any faster,” he said. “Here’s why your radio was out. You lost the antenna.”

The pilot pointed toward the top of the fuselage. Somehow, the UHF/TACAN fin on the very top of the plane directly behind the cockpit had been blown clear away.

“Damn,” said Doberman. The fin was only a few inches from his seat. Why the hell hadn’t he heard — or felt — what hit it?

“Put a new one in, Dog Man, and you’ll be set,” said A-Bomb. “Hell, this is nothing. Hog eats this kind of stuff up. Shit, it likes taking flak. That’s what I’m talking about.”

“I guess so. Looks bad, though.”

“Nah. This is all sheet metal. It’s like on a car. Hell, they just take out a screw here, screw there, bam, you’re back to normal.”

A mechanic who had been listening to the conversation rolled his eyes, then left to get his chief so they could decide what to do. His guess was, put a bullet through the A-lOA’s nose and call it a day.

“The plane shook a little on the way back,” said Doberman. “But the instruments said I was fine.”

“That’s what I’m talking about.” A-Bomb held out his arms as if he had had to explain the facts of life to a raw recruit. “This fucking plane was made to get hit. Not like those sissy pointy noses. Now, you’re flying an F-16, right? You couldn’t have ejected fast enough. F-15? Man, Saddam’s serving you lunch right now. But this — God, all you need’s a new paint job and you’re outta here.”

“I don’t see any bullet holes in your stinking plane.”

“Hey, that’s not my fault,” said A-Bomb. He turned his head back toward the runway. “What do you think Dixon’s plane’ll look like?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of wondering what happened to him.”

“He wasn’t too talkative on the radio coming in,” said A-Bomb. “I think he got rattled. First day and all.”

“He’ll be okay,” said Doberman. It was a reflex, like he was sticking up for his kid brother.

“Shit, I didn’t say he wouldn’t, did I?” A-Bomb pointed to a Hog steadying itself for a landing at the far end of the strip. “Maybe that’s him. We ought to start a pool on the number of bullet holes. Whoever gets the most wins.”

“Wins what?”

“I don’t know. A case of homemade beer.”

“Gee, there’s a prize,” said Doberman. “And how the hell would you count them on my plane?”

“Good point.”

The hot Saudi air whipped into Dixon’s face like a blast from an afterburner. He caught his balance against the fairing strip of the cockpit’s windshield, checked to make sure the ladder had scrolled itself downwards, then hoisted his long legs around and over the Hog sfront end. The uncontrollable urge to get his feet onto the pavement kept him from noticing the shake in his legs, kept him from noticing anything until he was down, leaning against the darkened green camo of the A-lOA’s body, leaning and then sinking.

Dixon had never puked from flying before, not even the first time he’d pulled negative g’s, but he lost his cookies now, guts erupting in a bilious flow that spread out below the big jet like oil from a ruptured tanker. He puked and puked, stomach and chest exploding as if they had just invented the phenomenon. His mind flew out with the fluids, evaporating on the tarmac.

Exhausted, still shaking, the lieutenant found himself on his hands and knees beneath the jet’s wing. He was soaked, though thankfully from sweat, not puke. Carefully, his stomach still turning, he backed out from under the plane. Still bent over, he found himself face to face with Doberman.

“Yo, Lieutenant, where the hell have you been?”

Dixon fell back, startled, his heart stoking up as if he’d been caught off-guard in an alley by a couple of thugs. He fell against the hard metal of the airplane, trapped there.

“Lost your breakfast, huh?” laughed A-Bomb, standing behind Doberman. “They teach you that in F-15 school? Oh that’s right — you never matriculated, right?”

“Ease off, A-Bomb,” said Doberman.

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything,” said the pilot. “You okay, kid? You look a little, you know, loose in the head.”

“I’m okay.” Dixon heard his voice crack, like he was nine years old. He pushed himself off the plane, standing on his own two feet for the first time. He towered over Doberman, who was short even for a pilot.

“What happened?” demanded Doberman. “Did the Mirage jump you, too?”

Dixon shook his head. “I lost you somewhere in the flak.”

“My radio went out,” the captain added. “Is that why you lost me?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“What happened?”

What had happened? Dixon started to tell him everything — how the plane and world had started moving in slow motion; how he’d lost track of where he was and fired his Mavericks poorly; how he’d risen through the flak and gotten rattled; how panic had flooded his bloodstream.

Something stopped him. Whether it was ego or A-Bomb’s grin or the look on Doberman’s face — a look that expected a right-stuff playback — Dixon couldn’t find the words to tell the truth with.

“Uh, I don’t know exactly,” was the best he could manage.

A-Bomb laughed. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“After I called the antiair battery when you started lining up your mavericks, I thought we were breaking the figure eight,” Dixon said.

I didn’t hear the call,” Doberman said. “My radio must have been out already.” He nodded. “Did your Mavericks hit?”

Dixon shrugged.

“Did you get the tower?” Doberman asked.

“I don’t think so

“No?”

“I don’t know. I thought I locked at first, but then I realized it wasn’t it.”