Dan Hampton - Viper Pilot

Suddenly the TV screens began flashing red.

“What the…” The guy next to me pointed. Then the Giant Voice, the base public-address system, penetrated the walls.

“INCOMING… INCOMING… ALARM RED… ALARM RED…”

This meant something had been shot at the base and everyone was supposed to take cover immediately. The Crud players laughed and kept playing, and the drinkers didn’t even look up. The civilian staff did dive under the tables, but the only ones in flight suits who vanished were the AWACS crews. Go figure. The fighter pilots took the opportunity to go to the bar, and when the Turkish bartender refused to come up from under the ice machine, everyone helped themselves.

I noticed the two staff officers, also known as Shoe Clerks, were huddled together under a table, clutching the center pedestal. One of them had opened his satchel and was pulling out the gas mask.

“Why the fuck do they think a half-inch of plywood is gonna save them from anything?” I slapped one of the Phantom pilots next to me on the arm.

“Dunno.” He shrugged and poured a big scotch. “I’d rather die drinking.”

“C’mon,” said Cujo, another Phantom pilot, and jerked his head toward the tables. “Let’s sit.” We pulled up chairs and settled down at the table the staff guys were using as a bomb shelter. There was some shuffling and muttered curses from under the table as our boots violated their personal space.

So, for about ten minutes, as the TV continued to flash, we drank and played Crud, and the weenies hid under the tables. When the all-clear sounded, they wriggled out and stood up.

“Hey… glad you could join us.” Cujo wasn’t very subtle. “It was pretty hairy up here.”

He hiccupped loudly and lurched off to the bar, leaving me alone.

“I suppose you think you’re funny,” one of the staff guys said. I thought he was talking to his buddy, so I just watched the Crud game. Turned out he was talking to me and didn’t like being ignored, because he walked around to stand between me and the game.

“Did you hear me?”

I glanced up at him. He was in his thirties, with beady eyes and that slightly pudgy, well-fed look that most staff officers get. Too much food, coffee, and no stress. He was also wearing major’s oak leaves and no wings. Of course.

“Trying not to,” I answered. “You’re in my way.” Cujo had returned and chuckled loudly. The major put his chubby little square hands on his wide hips.

“Get up.”

“Fuck off.”

The skin around his eyes tightened a bit at that. “I’m Major Carlson and you can’t talk to me that way… captain or lieutenant or whatever you are.”

Our ranks and patches were attached with Velcro and we took them off to fly combat. I’d forgotten to put anything back on.

“Maybe I’m a major, too. Ever think of that?”

He kind of smirked and said, “No chance. You’d have to grow up first.”

“Your wife thinks I’m grown up.”

He turned red at that and began to inflate. Normally I’d never speak to a major that way, but this guy didn’t have wings, so in my book he just didn’t count. Besides, he was an asshole. And a dumb asshole, because he didn’t let it go.

“Why are you wearing a weapon in a bar?”

And a jackass.

I mean, what type of ass-clown would say something like that on the first day of a war? If I’d spent the first day of the war staring at a computer, like he did, I’d be in my room, crying and measuring my dick.

“Fuck off .”

I felt movement behind me and then saw several of my buddies standing there. Apparently, they’d smelled confrontation through the burned popcorn and Drambuie.

“I want your name, rank, and unit. You will also give me your weapon.” This guy was a real work of art.

“Why? Are you taking me prisoner?”

“Name,” he snapped.

“I lost it somewhere over Iraq today while you were eating doughnuts.”

His entire face tightened at that. Like someone just shoved something up his butt.

“You arrogant bastard. I’m a major … you can’t talk to me that way!”

“Well,” a new voice drawled unpleasantly. “Maybe he can’t but ah can.” The pilot who spoke up was called “Lips” and always reminded me of David Lee Roth. Same hooked nose and intense eyes. He was also a superb pilot and a totally irreverent, excellent man. Moving around beside me, he looked at this Shoe Clerk like he was a cockroach. “Ah’m a major, too. So I’ll say it fur us both. Fuuuck off.”

To help him on his way and make sure there were no hurt feelings, my squadron buddies immediately started to sing the “Wild Weasel Song”—a gentle, rather touching hymn.

“We are dirty bastards… scum of the earth…”

The staff guy’s face suddenly lost its color as he realized that he was more or less surrounded by large, armed men who’d had too much to drink.

“Filth of creation… motherfucking sons-a-bitches and fornicators…

Known in every whorehouse… smoke, drink, and screw…”

His buddy realized it, too, and I saw him tug the first guy’s arm. Carlson took a step back and jabbed a stubby finger in my direction. “I’ll be back.”

“ We are the Wild Weasels… so… FUCK… YOU!”

Everyone laughed as he angrily waddled away.

About thirty minutes later, I’d had enough and was trying to muster enough energy to leave when the doors swung open. A big, lean man about fifty years old strode in and stopped just inside the doors. He had iron-gray hair, cut very short on the sides, high cheekbones, and a faded flight suit. He was also wearing on his shoulders the eagles of a full colonel.

I was wondering if he was one of the wing commanders, as they’re all full colonels, when Major Carlson’s puffy face peered around this guy’s shoulders.

“Uh-oh.” Cujo and Lips saw him, too.

The major was pantomiming something about what a first-class prick I was, and pointing in my direction. The colonel looked at me and nodded. You can always tell a truly tough man by his eyes, and this pilot had a hard, steady look. As he approached, I got to my feet, which is what you did when a colonel showed up. He looked me up and down slowly, then stared at my face.

“And you are… ?”

I cleared my throat. “They call me Two Dogs.”

“Sir.”

“They call me Two Dogs, sir.”

He had a dry chuckle with absolutely no humor whatsoever. Like he was clearing a hairball.

“Rank.”

“I’m a captain, sir.”

“When? Yesterday?”

“No sir. The day before.” This was actually true, but he obviously thought I was being a wiseass. My buddies helped me out by chortling loudly, and this did not amuse the colonel.

He leaned forward and said, very softly, “Get your feet together when you speak to me.” It was much more menacing than a shouted command, and I sort of shuffled my heels toward each other.

The colonel looked around at his audience, and I noticed that he was wearing the star and wreath of a command pilot on his chest. He was also wearing a U.S. Air Forces in Europe shield and, most significant, a gray-and-black Fighter Weapons School patch on his left shoulder. I swallowed and, for the first time, felt uneasy. Whoever this man was, he was no rear-echelon staff puke.

Looking back at me like a cat about to eat a canary, he calmly asked, “Didn’t somebody once teach you that captains can’t tell majors to take a hike?”

“That’s not what I said, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. “No?”

“I told him to fuck off.”

“Sir.”

“I told him to fuck off, sir.”

“So did I, Colonel,” Lips chimed in helpfully, and the older man glanced at him.