Dan Hampton - Viper Pilot

“Major, you’ll know when I want your opinion, ’cause I’ll kick you in the balls.”

“Be hard to miss those… sir.”

The colonel’s eyes went sort of flinty and shifted long enough to make Lips melt back into the crowd. It occurred to me that I might actually be in some trouble here. Nevertheless, I felt a little thrill of anger shoot through me.

“And why did you tell him that?”

Because he’s a pussy and a toady and he was hiding under a table. Because he sat here in his creased uniform 900 miles behind the lines while I got shot at today. Because he’s got a smug smirk on his fat face, and I’d enjoy tearing his throat out. These were all good answers but what I really said was, “He wanted my weapon, sir.”

“Is that so?”

Apparently, that was news to him, and he shot the major a brief look that wasn’t good. He stared at the Crud game and the dancers like he’d seen it a thousand times before. Actually, I thought he was listening to the music. It was “Viva Las Vegas” again, by the way.

“Well, he happens to be correct. A bar is no place for weapons. Even during a war.” No one moved. He stared at me and held out his hand.

He was probably right about that. However, we hadn’t set up our armory yet and there was no place to store our guns. Besides, we were all on twenty-four-hour ops now and had to be constantly armed.

“I can’t do that, sir.”

Tilting his head back slightly, the colonel looked at me like I was a bug. After a long few seconds, he flipped his thumb at the door. “Come with me, Captain.”

What could I do but follow? The major smirked again and my hands began itching. I really, really wanted to smash this Shoe Clerk’s teeth in.

I thought the colonel was being remarkably calm until we got to the front door, which he proceeded to open with a tremendous kick. My second miscalculation of the evening. This man was really, really pissed off.

“Out!”

I swallowed again and stepped out. “Stay,” he barked at the major, who promptly dropped his smirk on the tile floor.

I breathed in the cool night air, straightened my shoulders, turned around, and got a face full of finger. This made an immediate impression on me, because somewhere along the way he’d lost the fingertip. Like maybe it had been shot off.

“Listen to me you little shit,” he snarled. I backed up a step, but the finger followed. “I flew 127 combat missions over North Vietnam. I’ve killed gooks and saved lives and been through more crap than a snot-nosed puppy like you could understand at this point in your so-called career. Your one combat mission doesn’t impress me… one… fucking… bit.” The finger, now about ten feet long, jabbed in time with his words, and I tried not to back up any farther.

“Get it?” He didn’t wait for a reply but stabbed at my nose again. “I was shot down twice, rescued once, and I’ve fucked the Elephant. Now—” and I swear his eyes actually narrowed—“give me… the… fucking… gun.”

For an incredibly long moment, we stared at each other. My slight buzz had long since evaporated, and I was fully aware that this was one extremely agitated senior officer. But I was still a man, and he was wrong—at least from my point of view. Besides, how the hell would I get my weapon back for the morning mission?

“I can’t do that, sir.”

He looked genuinely shocked. And before he shot me, I added, as respectfully as I could, “I have another mission in ten hours, and I’ll need the gun, Colonel.”

He stared at me again, but as I met his gaze I saw some of the anger slowly leak from his eyes. They were brown, by the way, except the parts that were red. Finally, he sort of puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. Looking down at his boots, he slowly shook his head then gazed out past the street at the lights of the flight line. The night mission was getting cranked up and the unmistakable whine of jet engines floated over the trees.

For a second, I saw a younger version of the same man. Just like me, only flying his combat missions over the jungles of North Vietnam instead of the Iraqi plains. With rare insight, I thought of how hard it must be to sit and watch this when you’ve done it for real. Maybe that was the reason this guy was so angry. He was completely frustrated.

The colonel looked up. “Captain. You are without a doubt the cockiest prick in an O’Club full of cocky pricks.” He stared out over the trees again for a few seconds, sniffed the jet fuel, and then looked back at me and sighed. “So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna call it a night. You keep your weapon, and you go back to your foul little hooch and get some sleep.”

I blinked. He wasn’t going to kill me.

“And don’t show up in the bar again with a gun.”

I had an out. Brainless fighter jock that I was, even I could see that. So I got my heels together all on my own, straightened my slouch, and saluted like a cadet.

“Yessir.”

He gave me a direct, steady look and then slowly returned the salute. He started to turn away and then did something I didn’t expect and would never forget. He slowly held out his hand. Somewhat cautiously, I took it, and he nodded, shook once, and let go.

“You’re still a pain in the ass. Now get the hell outta here before I stab you in the eye.”

MY HOOCH WAS A TEN-BY-TEN WOODEN SHACK WITH A CORRUGATED tin roof and several pairs of feral cats that mated continuously in the tiny attic. The noise was interesting and the smell was repulsive. This hooch, and the others like it, would normally house two enlisted men who worked on jets. As it was, we had eight officers in each one. This spectacular feat of spatial geometry was only possible because we “hot-bunked.” That is, I shared a cot with another pilot, who flew night missions, and vice versa. Incidentally, he was an Italian who always left a fine layer of dark hair on the blanket. This stuck to my face, so I usually looked like a young werewolf with mange.

In any event, there was a critical billeting shortage, and, naturally, the really nice quarters had to go to the transport pilots, who flew in once a month with more toilet paper. The staff guys also needed rest, so they could keep the coffeepots full. But it was war, and we were all too tired to care at the time.

As I lay down on my cot that night, I stared up at the ceiling and thought about all that had happened during this long and dangerous day. I was glad to be alive, and I’d heard there were many others who hadn’t survived. I’d never doubted myself or my abilities, but it was good to have my youthful overconfidence confirmed. Still, I was smart enough to realize that this alone might not save me. We’d lost planes and good pilots elsewhere in Iraq, and I knew I’d face a worse threat tomorrow now that the enemy was awake and ready.

I’d always been proud—it goes with the occupation. But right then my heart was pressed against my chest. I’d passed the test. I’d fought and survived.

I’d seen the Elephant. In fact—I smiled, as I finally drifted off to sleep—I’d kicked him right in the nuts.

THIRTY MINUTES PAST SUNRISE, THE FIGHTER’S WHEELS RETRACTED and the F-16 was airborne over central Egypt. It was 0601:45 on a Wednesday in January 1992.

I glanced rapidly between the outside world and the HUD’s green digital airspeed reading. A ruined Soviet-era bomber, a fence line, and even a small crumbling pyramid all flashed past as the dirty runway unrolled beneath the speeding jet.

This was one of the beautiful moments of being a fighter pilot. Thundering down a piece of concrete in the calm, cool, early-morning air. Strapped into an intimately familiar cockpit filled with warmly glowing displays. The metal around me throbbed with the power of forty thousand angry, charging horses, and I held the jet perfectly steady at twenty feet off the ground. The runway was 12,000 feet long, a bit over two miles, and I’d covered most of it with twenty seconds of full afterburner. As the little green number reached 510 knots, I took one more glance at the engine instruments, stared straight ahead, and smoothly pulled back on the stick at 0602:03.