Going Deep h-1 Page 13

  “Oh yeah. A lot of people bruising elbows bumping into each other over here. Guy like Wong? Well, let’s call him a fish out of water over here.”

  “We can always use help,” said Knowlington.

  “Borrow him for as long as you want. The admiral won’t mind.”

  “You sure?”

  “Use him for something important; cleaning latrines, if you have to.”

  “Oh, we’ll find something better than that.”

  The general’s tone abruptly changed. “Say, Mike, you’re not thinking of getting back in the air on this one, are you?”

  Knowlington laughed, brushing aside the obvious concern in the general’s voice, brushing aside a mountain of unspoken reservations. The question hurt more than he expected; more than it would have yesterday, certainly. But he buried the resentment. “Well, maybe a few months from now. I’m afraid I’m the least proficient pilot on the base.”

  “That’s an exaggeration, I’m sure.”

  “These guys are good.”

  “I know they are. I’m counting on them.”

  CHAPTER 33

  KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

  2000

  It was Chief Master Sergeant Allan Clyston’s everlasting regret that his assignment here had come at what amounted to the very last minute. By the time he’d gotten to King Fahd, all of the good quarters were long gone; he had had to scrimp and practically beg for the bare necessities. Granted, he procured an over-sized temper tent for his home, but really, it was only the metal equivalent to a canvas GP job. He felt limited by the fact that it was equipped with only three air conditioners, though admittedly they were over-sized units. Since only one was actually necessary at any given moment, he alternated their use, but you could never have enough air conditioners in the middle of a desert.

  The refrigerator was standard operating equipment, as was the freezer, though perhaps there had been a clerical misunderstanding about the nature of the medical supplies to be kept inside it. The sergeant had a prescription entitling him to a special over-stuffed mattress, though the particular unit in his tent had been intended for a staff officer until misdirected to Clyston; he deemed it wise to hold onto it until its proper owner could be located.

  The large generator unit outside the tent was a squadron backup. Not the Devils’, actually; it belonged to a marine unit located at another base. One thing about the Corps; they always stowed their gear where it was safest.

  The satellite dish had been rescued from a garbage heap and was currently undergoing “operational testing,” thanks to some video and television equipment which bore a serial number identifying it as Navy property. Clyston realized that its delivery here had been a clerical error, and had assigned one of his best men to check into the matter.

  Actually, there was one non-military, non-accounted-for item in his quarters — a Laz-E-Boy recliner. But as transporting it out of the premises and off base would require the requisition of resources critical for the war effort, the sergeant thought it his duty as a non-commissioned officer to guard it until it could be disposed of.

  He was headed for his tent and that very chair when two of his most trusted crew members — Kevin Karn and Bobby Marks — appeared from around the corner. He grunted in acknowledgment. They followed him inside, where they pulled up seats as he completed the chore he had put off all day; transporting the newest batch of C Brew to the fridge. When the twenty-four bottles of homemade porter were safely ensconced, he retrieved two bottles of his previous home-brewing effort — a passable pilsner, though perhaps too heavy on the hops — and handed them to his men.

  “Thanks, Chief,” said Karn. “Not having one yourself?”

  “I got some things to look after,” said Clyston. He took a Coke from the refrigerator and sat in his easy chair, pushing it backwards. “Bobby, hit the go switch on the stereo, wouldja?”

  The young specialist complied, and the room exploded with a Mozart concerto. Clyston closed his eyes. The others, who knew better than to disturb him for the next five minutes, exchanged glances and sipped their beer. It was only when the capo di capo had reopened his eyes that Karn, who was about fourth down on the squadron’s NCO pecking order and Clyston’s personal work-it-out guy, ventured to remark that it had been a hell of a day.

  “Sure has. Nobody broke my planes,” said Clyston, taking a swig of the soda. “Though Captain Glenon took a good run at it. How’s the one he tried to use as a missile catcher coming?”

  “Tinman is kicking butt getting it back together,” said Karn. “Can’t beat the old-timers, I’ll tell you.”

  Clyston smiled wryly. “Cursing a lot?”

  “Big time. Says we need a new ‘wink’.”

  The capo di capo laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds one.”

  “Some Pentagon jerk wanted to inspect the damage,” added Karn. “Tinman gave him a slab of metal and chased him away.”

  “Yeah, I heard. He gives you trouble, send him to me. Say Bobby, who worked on Major Johnson’s INS?”

  Marks was only an E-3 and a bit undernourished, but Karn had taken him under his wing. The kid showed some promise in his chosen field of electronics, and had helped locate spare parts for a down television. He also prepared a frankly superb barbecue sauce that even now lingered on Clyston’s lips. It was that sort of versatility that made him a comer.

  “Jeez, Chief, I’m not sure. Could have been either of a half-dozen guys.”

  Clyston, who not only knew damn well that it had been Sanderson but knew that Bobby knew, nodded. The noncommittal answer combined tact with deference. The kid definitely had potential.

  “Goose on the rag again?” Karn asked.

  “Yeah,” grunted Clyston.

  “Poor Parker.” Parker was Mongoose’s crew chief.

  “He’ll leave Parker be,” said Clyston, taking another sip of his soda. “For now, anyway. Unless it happens again.”

  “The avionics unit?” Bobby said.

  “They’re all crap, but there’s something really screwy with his,” said Karn. “No matter what we replace or what we do, it gets whacked. Sometimes it’s a gyro, sometimes it’s a freaking contact, sometimes the whole thing is just, well, hexed. I’m thinking serious short somewhere, but damned if I can find it.”

  “You tried?” Clyston asked.

  “Half the damn squadron tried. The thing is, it passes all the stinking tests. It’s like voodoo. Parker and Sanderson both went over it with him,” added Karn. “You know, they told the major… ”

  “I know what they told him. And I know what he told them,” said Clyston. “He’s right. This is war. It may be one of the few things he and I agree on.”

  Clyston felt Johnson was a good pilot and a decent officer, but at times a bit too prissy. Plus, Johnson didn’t like Knowlington all that much; a serious character flaw, in the capo di capo’s estimation.

  “Good beer, Chief,” said Bobby.

  Clyston frowned. One thing he still had to teach the kid was not to be such a kiss-ass.

  “What the hell hit Captain Glenon’s plane?” asked Bobby, realizing his error and trying to back track.

  That earned a nod.

  “Looks like he flew it under a drill press,” laughed Karn.

  “Shoulder-fired missile. I’ve seen some strange ones,” said Clyston. They looked at him, expecting him to elaborate, but he wasn’t in the mood. “Glenon’s got to be the F-ing luckiest pilot in the wing. Anybody else, that would have taken out the fuel tank.”

  “Couple inches further forward, it would have gotten the brace and snapped it in two,” said Bobby. “I heard… ”

  He was interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Come!” Clyston commanded.

  Technical Sergeant Rosen squeezed her head inside.

  “Rosen, get your fanny in here before one of those P-heads outside spanks it, and I have to file charges against them,” said Clyston.

  “Hell, just take them out by the hangar a
nd let Rosen have five minutes with them,” said Karn. “They’d wish they had a court martial.”

  Rosen glared briefly at Karn before turning to the capo di capo.

  “Help yourself,” Clyston said, gesturing to the refrigerator.

  “No thank you, Sergeant.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “I fixed it.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. Problems?”

  “Not really.”

  Clyston nodded. “Freddy take care of you?” He was referring to a friend of his who had arranged transportation for her out of Al Jouf.

  “More or less.”

  Clyston frowned. “All right. Tell me about it. You two shut your eyes,” he added.

  “The co-pilot on the KC-130 coming back was a jerk. That’s it.”

  “He’s going to complain?”

  “He might.”

  Clyston sighed. Hopefully, the man would be so pissed off he would go right to Knowlington. The colonel would nod seriously, scratch his chin, and promise to look into it. As soon as the door closed, he’d shake his head, roll his eyes, and do what he always did about insignificant bullshit: forget about it.

  “You didn’t break any bones, did you?” the capo di capo asked, trying to make light of the situation. But Rosen didn’t take the hint.

  “I shoulda,” she said.

  “Relax, Rosen. Come on, have a seat.”

  She glanced at the others, deepening her scowl. “I have work to do, Sergeant.”

  “The hell you do. Your shift ended hours ago.”

  Rosen’s face flushed momentarily. She seemed genuinely touched by his concern.

  Must have been the light.

  “I caught a Herc back,” she told him. “Lucky timing.”

  “I guess.”

  “I heard Tinman needed help on Lieutenant Dixon’s plane, the one Captain Glenon tried to break,” she said.

  Clyston nodded. One of these days he was going to adopt her. “Tinman may not let you help.”

  “We can get along if there’s work to be done.”

  “Your call. Good work at Al Jouf.”

  She flushed again, but left before it was too noticeable.

  “Lesbo, right?” said Bobby.

  “Nah,” said Clyston. “She just has trouble getting along with people. Officers especially. Takes them seriously. That’s where the trouble starts, as a general rule.”

  CHAPTER 34

  THE DEPOT, SAUDI ARABIA

  2030

  Officially, the club didn’t exist.

  Unofficially, it didn’t exist either.

  But its thick, smoke-laden air was real enough. The bikini-clad Pakistani waitresses — with a few similarly dressed men thrown in to provide gender balance — were actual flesh and blood. Mostly flesh. The dim lights, live music, and flowing booze had a hallucinatory quality at first glance, but soon proved as physical as anything else here.

  “Never been in The Depot before, huh Kid?” A-Bomb asked as he threaded his way through the crowd at the bottom of the entry stairs located just a few yards from the base property line.

  “No,” said Dixon. He looked a bit like a five-year-old taking his first trip to the circus.

  Or a whore house.

  “Used to be a bomb shelter. I think. People get kind of bristly when you ask. My idea is, enough guys had enough wet dreams and it sprang together out of thin air. Or sand. Whatever.” He stomped Dixon’s shoulder to show he was kidding. “Here come on, this is my spot.”

  A-Bomb slid in behind a round cocktail table in a corner. From here, he had a perfect view of the small stage, in case one of the unscheduled floor shows stoked up.

  “Shit-faced, kid, that’s what we’re getting,” he told him. “And then, we’re going to have to cook you up a nickname. BJ sounds a little too, you know, suburban. You need something new.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. You need something that fits you. Finding the right nickname is a delicate art. How long have you had BJ?”

  “All my life.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. Time for a change.” He motioned over a waitress in a black leather thong. “Pair of Buds,” said A-Bomb. “And maybe later, talk to the kid a little.”

  “I’d love to,” she purred, running her fingers lightly across his head before disappearing.

  A-Bomb laughed as the kid turned paler. “Lighten up, BJ. Hell, you were in combat today. You’re a man from now on. Cherry broken.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hey, relax. Uncle A-Bomb isn’t going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.” He leaned across the table. “And they all get shots once a week.”

  * * *

  Doberman found them sitting in A-Bomb’s favorite corner.

  “How much have you guys had to drink?” he asked.

  “Hello to you, too,” said A-Bomb.

  The pilot pointed to the half-emptied bottles. “How many?”

  “Relax,” said A-Bomb. “We just got here. I’ve had a sip and Junior’s been too interested in the floor show. You’ll catch up in no time.”

  “I’m not catching up. Knowlington’s called a big meeting over at Cineplex.”

  “For when?”

  “Now.” Doberman glanced at Dixon. He expected to find A-Bomb here, but the kid — hell, he went to church services, for crying out loud. Doberman glared at him; Dixon, who looked paler than the albino strip artist on stage, remained silent.

  Obviously in shock.

  “No shit,” said A-Bomb. “What’s up?”

  “The GCI site BJ and I hit this morning is still on the air. Apparently the stinking radar dish I hit didn’t stay hit. There’s a British flier on the ground somewhere near there that they want to rescue first thing in the morning, and the squadron’s been tasked to shack the shit out of the dish and the guns on the southern side.”

  “Ouch. Who’s going?”

  “Believe it or not, Mongoose wants to.”

  “Figures.” A-Bomb pushed the beer away. “And here I thought I’d get some sleep. Oh well — who needs sleep when you can fly?”

  “You’re going?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” said Doberman. “But I ain’t fucking happy about it.”

  “Who’s happy?”

  “You’re crowing,” said Doberman. “Like you’re happy.”

  “Nah.”

  “I’m going because it was my job in the first place,” said Doberman. “I screwed it up; I’ll fix it. You stay home.”

  “Tie me to the fucking bed and I’ll bring it along,” said A-Bomb. “No way I’m not going.”

  “I screwed it up,” blurted Dixon.

  “Relax kid,” said Doberman. “Drink your beer.”

  “I blew it. I saw the dish and then I lost it. I thought you took it out.”

  “Hey, nobody blew it.” said A-Bomb. “You guys have to learn to deal with reality. Sometimes you miss.”

  “You’re giving lessons on reality?” said Doberman.

  A-Bomb started to say something, but then just waved his hand. “Let’s get back,” he said instead, standing. “How’d you know we were here, anyway?”

  Doberman rolled his eyes, then stuck his finger into Dixon’s chest. “Him, I’m surprised about.”

  “Hey, easy on the kid,” said A-Bomb. “BJ’s okay. Hell, he’s coming on the mission, too. Right kid?”

  “I, uh — ”

  “Look at his face, Dog Man. Kid’s a Hog driver. All we got to do is come up with a new nickname for him.”

  “Like?”

  “I don’t know. But BJ sounds like he ought to be on Little House on the Prairie, don’t you think?”

  * * *

  Lieutenant Dixon followed along as they threaded out of the club, heart pounding wildly. It had begun as soon as he heard the words, British pilot.

  He was being handed a chance to redeem himself. He had to get back in the sky and grab it. Everything he had been wanted to
make it right.

  But another part of him said no. Another part said stay home. You’ll never make it. You’ll screw up again.

  It wasn’t that he was afraid of dying. He was afraid that he’d panic again. He felt his hands trembling as he gripped for the stair rail, climbing back toward the night air.

  CHAPTER 35

  KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

  2105

  Rosen found Tinman grumbling as he leaned head-first into the wing of the damaged Hog. In her opinion, his curses had a Celtic-Scandinavian lilt to them, though she was as clueless as anyone about his background.

  “Sergeant Clyston asked me to help you out,” she called up.

  Tinman grunted something in her general direction.

  “What happened to the rest of your crew?”

  “Go sleep. Tired.”

  “What about you?”

  “Work. Work,” he said, adding more unintelligible words.

  Rosen surveyed the wing from the bottom. The hole had been squared off and the interior guts replaced — quick work, all things considered.

  “Was the wing spar okay?” she asked.

  “Checked out, yes,” he answered. “Bones okay. New lines. Check, check. Lots of work.”

  I’ll bet, she thought to herself. Lots of work for a lot of people. And it wasn’t like this was the only A-10A that had been damaged — the plane Dixon had flown back was sitting not very far away, the last bullet hole being patched by an airman with a trusty drill set.

  “Hey, Tinman, you got any electrical work that needs fixing?” she yelled up. “Otherwise, I’m going to bed.”

  “New wink, that’s what we need,” grumbled the mechanic, pulling himself up. “But Chief doesn’t want to hear about it. Have to do this from scratch.”

  “You put this aileron in by yourself?” she asked incredulously, looking at the large and obviously new wing section.

  “No time to fool around,” he said, hopping down the scaffold. “Chief wants it flying tomorrow.”

  “Chief is out of his mind.”

  “You tell him.”

  Not even Rosen would try that. “If there’s anybody who can fix it by then, it’s you,” she said.