“I don’t know,” Doberman conceded.
“How’d the kid take it?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
“See? You don’t even know if he was diplomatic or not.”
“I meant with me.”
“Oh, fuck yourself. Nobody has to be diplomatic with you. You’re the Dog Man. And a god damn Hog driver, for christsake. Diplomatic. Give me a break.”
“Hey, where are you going? The planes are this way, remember?”
“I’m thinking refill before we take off,” said A-Bomb. “There’s time.”
“No there isn’t.”
“Shit, I can make it.”
“Hey A-Bomb, hold up. a second.” Doberman jogged the few steps toward his friend. “You think I’m lucky?”
“How’s that?”
“Lucky. You know.”
The pilot laughed. “You? You’re the least lucky person I know. Why the hell do you think we let you play poker with us?7’
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“Sure you don’t want no coffee?”
Doberman shook his head and watched as A-Bomb ambled off in search of more caffeine.
Not having to take a leak while you were flying — now that was luck, especially after twenty cups of coffee.
What Doberman had was skill.
Mostly.
CHAPTER 13
Mongoose walked Dixon off into the sand, trying for a little privacy. A big MH-53J Pave Low helicopter idled a short distance away, its throaty whine filling the air with anxious energy. The big special ops chopper sounded like it wanted to fly all the way to Baghdad and personally take out Saddam.
“Listen, kid, I’m putting Doberman in your plane for the rest of the day. I want you to babysit his Hog until it’s patched together well enough to get back to King Fahd. They may have to scrounge around for some spare parts, but the crew chief swears he’ll have it back well enough for you to fly. Jimbo’s a good guy; he crewed for me a couple of years ago. But listen, you look at it real careful, and you think it won’t fly, that’s your call. Then you stay here, all right? I don’t want you taking any chances. I’ve talked to the commander and I sent word back to Hog Heaven about what’s up. You got it? You all right, Dixon?”
“I’m fine.”
“This isn’t a grounding or anything. You don’t have to get pissed off or anything.” Mongoose had to tilt his head upwards to look into Dixon’s face. None of the emotions he’d expected — anger, resignation — showed through the dazed stare. “I just want the most experienced guys in the cockpit today. All right?”
Dixon shrugged.
Really, what more did he expect? What would he have done in his situation?
“You got something you want to talk to me about?” Mongoose asked.
“Should I?”
Yeah, thought Mongoose. You ought to fight me on this. If you’re smart, you’ll tell me to go to hell. You’ll tell me I’m out of my mind to keep you from going up. You’ll tell me you’re the best god damn pilot in the Air Force, anything to keep flying.
Because if you don’t, if you just keep standing here with a look that’s only half angry, I’m going to think you screwed up big time back there, for no reason but my gut tells me.
“I just think there’s something on your mind,” Mongoose offered. “You feel bad about losing Doberman when things got tight?”
“I guess.”
“The Mavericks look like they all hit. You got the tower. It’s on tape.”
Dixon nodded.
“You weren’t sure?”
“Things were moving so fast. The images weren’t sharp.”
“Well, this isn’t training. What about the CBUs? You saw them hit?”
Dixon hesitated. “I think I was too high.”
“You sure?”
He shrugged. “Pretty sure.”
“Did you have your targets in the sight, or what?”
“Yeah. Jeez.”
Mongoose couldn’t tell whether the kid was being overtly conservative. Hell, the kid might not even know.
No use belaboring this.
“All right. Hang in there,” said Mongoose. “I got to get going.”
Dixon watched Major Johnson walk back toward the planes. He felt the wind grip the sides of his face, rubbing sand against his cheeks.
Guys like Johnson and Glenon, it was easy for them. They didn’t think about what they were doing. They just went up and punched buttons, held on for dear life. Pilots like A-Bomb, shit, he was oblivious to half the world. He flew by the seat of his sticky pants.
BJ Dixon was different. He thought about things. Maybe he thought too much, but that was the way it was.
A fatal, deadly flaw.
CHAPTER 14
“This is CNN.”
James Earl Jones’ voice shook the walls of Cineplex. The network’s logo spun around and filled the immense television screen had not only given the Devils’ squadron room its unofficial nickname but had made it a very popular hangout.
Especially now. Off-duty pilots and most of the intelligence officers who shared the Devils’ Hog Heaven trailer complex crowded the room, watching as the TV flashed a picture of the night sky over Baghdad, shot from a downtown hotel room. One second, the night was dark, blank, peaceful. The next second, more triple-A than Skull had seen over Hanoi during the Linebacker raids filled the heavens.
Knowlington listened in fascination as one of the television correspondents described what it was like to watch an air raid outside your window. He’d never been on that end of it.
On screen, the sky erupted with flash after flash, reflections of explosions on the ground. The F-117As were hitting their targets.
“Take that, you god damn son of a bitch!” said someone in the room.
And with that, Cineplex erupted in a cheer.
Colonel Knowlington was still standing by the door, eyes glued to the television, when someone grabbed his sleeve fifteen minutes later.
He looked across at the balding head of Chief Master Sergeant Alan Clyston. Clyston had started as an airman crewing Knowlington’s Thud three decades before; he was now the squadron’s chief sergeant, in charge of everything from paperclips to cluster bombs. Knowlington called him capo di capo; the people who worked for him just said “Chief” — and genuflected. Pudgy, with gray whiskers and jowly cheeks, the man could still strip and reassemble an engine blindfolded faster than anyone on the base. He was a walking encyclopedia on everything the Air Force flew, but what Clyston was really an expert on was people. Anybody who crewed for him would march barefoot to Baghdad if he asked.
And any officer who crossed him would wish he’d done that instead.
“’Scuse me, sir,” said Clyston. He smiled — mostly, Knowlington thought, at using the word ‘sir,’ which he always did in public. “Can I catch you outside a minute?”
“You remember that guy on TV doing the commentary?” the colonel asked him in the hallway. “He flew F-4s.”
“Didn’t catch him,” said Clyston.
“Shot me down in a training exercise once.” Knowlington led him down his office. “Your manuals on the Maverick are on the way,” he added. “A congressman is hand delivering them.”
“Really? Jeez, sir, good work.”
Knowlington laughed. He half-suspected that tracking down the manuals had been something of a test: Clyston seemed able to locate and appropriate anything he really wanted.
Like the TV and the trailers.
“I got good news and I got bad news,” said Clyston, once inside Knowlington’s spartan office.