From the air, Al Jouf looked like sand punctuated by airplanes and dust storms. On the ground, the dust storms turned into people and the rest turned to chaos. As Mongoose trundled to the end of the runway, an Army corporal appeared from nowhere and began directing him toward the edge of the desert; for a moment the pilot wondered if the guy was an Iraqi infiltrator, trying to sabotage the plane by sinking it into a sand dune. But as he turned he spotted a long row of boxes on low-slung sleds, parked behind another Hog. Next to them was a dragon, the wheeled machine used to load the A-lOA’s GAU-8/A “Avenger” Gatling cannon.
The ground crew pitting the planes wanted him as far to the right as possible, so they could fit others into the small space they’d been allotted. Mongoose pushed along as best he could. Not only was he wary about running off into the sand, but he had to take a fairly severe leak; he nearly always did at the end of a flight.
Meanwhile, men were running all around without paying any particular attention to the moving aircraft. Barely missing a Special Forces sergeant with his left wing, he decided he’d gone as far as possible. He practically flew out of the seat and onto the desert, relieving himself directly into the Saudi soil.
Few pees felt as sweet.
“Hundred mile piss, huh?” said a familiar voice behind him.
“Five hundred miles, more like it,” he told A-Bomb.
“Ought to use your piddle pack,” said the other pilot, grinning into his face.
“Can’t a guy get some privacy?”
“Sorry.” Dressed in his flight gear, A-Bomb managed somehow to look totally disheveled and cool at the same time. He’d customized the gear so completely Mongoose half-suspected he had an onboard climate control unit.
“Did Doberman make it?”
“Ah, no sweat.” A-Bomb reached into one of the myriad of pockets and pulled out a thick cigar in a protective metal tube. “Want one? Clyston got me a bunch. Says they’re from Cuba.”
“No thanks. How about Dixon?”
“Not even a scratch on his fucking plane,” said A-Bomb, puffing the cigar into flame. “He looks like he was in a parade.”
“They do BDA yet?” asked Mongoose. Bomb damage assessment was especially critical, since their targets were part of the Iraqi air defense system.
“They’re running a little behind,” said A-Bomb. “A few more people decided to stop by than they planned, I think. Man, this is good.” He paused and spit out a wad of chewing gum. “Sure you don’t want one?”
Mongoose shook his head. “We have to be back in the air in a half-hour.”
“Yeah. Just enough time to find some coffee,” said the other pilot, starting away.
“Hey, A-Bomb, hold on — where are Dixon and Glenon?”
“Up ahead, near their planes I think,” said A-Bomb, pointing. “Say, ‘Goose — better zip up, huh? You’re a little out of uniform.”
Mongoose found Dixon sitting beneath the wing of his Hog, next to the wheel, legs crossed beneath him.
“Yo Lieutenant, what the hell are you doing down here?”
Dixon gave him a blank look, said nothing.
“Doberman tells me his radio went out before you fired your Mavericks. What happened?”
Dixon continued to stare.
“Did you lose him before or after you fired your Mavericks?”
“I think it was after. He didn’t break the way I thought he would.”
“Did you try and find him?”
Dixon nodded.
“Did you have trouble reading the AWACS when they first contacted you?”
This time he shrugged.
“Cat got your tongue?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you hit the tower?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Lieutenant, get the fuck out here and tell me what the hell happened.”
The six foot-four Dixon crawled out on his hands and knees like a kindergartner.
“Something wrong with you?”
“No,” said the young pilot. His thick, close-cropped blond hair was crusted with muddy sweat. “I need a drink of water or something. I/m thirsty. Maybe I’m dehydrated. After I fired the Mavericks, I spun around and went after a couple of trailers with my CBUs.”
“They hit?”
“No. I mean I don’t think so. I was too high.”
“How come you didn’t take any flak?”
“I’m supposed to apologize because I didn’t get shot down?”
Mongoose, pissed that he’d nearly run dry searching for someone who didn’t need to be searched for, rubbed the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes down with his fingers. “What about the AWACS call?”
“I acknowledged when I heard it.”
“Why didn’t you try contacting them sooner? Or me,” he added pointedly.
“I thought I did. Maybe I selected the wrong frequency.”
Mongoose frowned. That wasn’t unheard of, especially when things got hairy. But it wasn’t necessarily something to hand out a medal for. On the other hand, there’d been a lot of traffic and there were plenty of non-screw up explanations for missing a radio call.
“See if you can find somebody to check the radio out, just in case,” Mongoose told him.
Dixon nodded.
“Hey, you okay, kid?” Mongoose asked, making his voice as calm as possible.
“I’m fine,” snapped Dixon. “I just need some water, that’s all. When are we taking off again?”
“The triple-A was heavier than hell,” said Doberman. “It started before we even got in the clouds and followed us right down. I’m not surprised he’s rattled.”
“He’s more than rattled,” said Mongoose. “He couldn’t give me a straight answer on why he didn’t go to SierraMax.”
“We got separated. I think he got lost when we came out of the bombing run.”
“Yeah.”
“His Mavericks hit. I went over and checked it out with the intelligence guys,” said Doberman. He was sitting on a pile of iron bombs waiting to be loaded beneath Mongoose’s Hog. “He probably scored with the CBUs, too. They screwed up half his video with their equipment. Watch they don’t do the same to yours.”
“So why didn’t he tell me that?”
“He ducked under the wing and took a nap or something.” Doberman shrugged. “I think he’s just being cautious about taking credit. Kid’s never been in the frying pan before.”
Mongoose didn’t bother answering. He’d made a mistake, picking Dixon for this mission. The kid was too green. He saw it in his eyes.
“You mad because he lost me?” Doberman asked. “My radio was out. Could’ve happened to anyone. Check his INS — ten bucks says it gave him the wrong coordinate and he got confused. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”
“It’s more than ego,” said Mongoose.
Why the hell had he missed it back at King Fahd? Why hadn’t he realized it when he was slotting the pilots for the missions. Dixon was the only lieutenant he’d had fly the first day.
Hell, there probably weren’t more than a dozen lieutenants flying missions in A-lOs today. Going deep, right into the heart of Iraq — shit, what was I thinking?
He was a hell of a pilot, though. He had the stuff.
No, he had moves, but not the stuff. His eyes were empty. He was a liability in combat.
I made a mistake once; I can fix it now, Mongoose decided. I have to.
“I want you to trade planes,” he told Doberman. “You take Dixon’s north with us. He can hang out until yours is fixed enough to fly home.”
“Jeez, Major, don’t you think you’re being kind of hard on him? I mean—”