“Were you serious that you can cut power ten percent and still fly that thing?” he asked.
“Shit yeah.”
“Do it.”
“What’s going on?” asked A-Bomb.
“I may have to take it lower,” said Doberman.
“Go where you feel comfortable,” said Mongoose. He could tell Doberman had already figured out what he was thinking. “Just don’t put it into the sand.”
“We have to correct three degrees back north.”
“Affirmative. I’ll have the controller tell King Fahd we’re on the way. A-Bomb, go to the replacement tanker, top off and come find us. There’s a track ahead that I’ll jump on as soon as you’re back. Doberman, listen — let’s talk it up the rest of the way back.”
“You think I’m falling asleep?”
“Man, I’m tired,” said Mongoose. “You got to be exhausted.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m a little beat. What do you want to talk about?”
“Who’s gonna win the Super Bowl?”
“Washington.”
“They’re not in it.”
“They will be by the time I land this thing.”
According to Doberman’s calculations, the stricken Hog had precisely enough gas to fall one hundred feet short of King Fahd. And no amount of math could change that.
What he hoped for was a strategic gust of wind at the last moment. Or maybe the incalculable effect of fumes and pilot willpower.
But even if he managed enough glide to make the strip, he needed several things to happen. First of all, he needed clearance. While the tower had relayed word that he would get it, things had a way of changing at the last minute.
Secondly, an A-lOA’s flaps were generally set at twenty degrees to land. Doing that on only one side would be like telling the plane to pretend it had been made by Black & Decker. He figured he would be going so damn slow he might be able to fake it. There was enough runway to roll for quite a ways — unless the strip was cluttered with too much traffic. Then he’d have to stand on very thin brakes and pray.
Assuming the right-side landing gear worked, of course. There was no way of knowing until final approach.
But aside from those minor considerations and the fact that for all he knew the wing could sheer off at any second, he was having a wonderful day.
The thing was, A-Bomb had a double standard. If it had been him flying the Hog, sure as shit, he’d have argued for King Fahd and told Mongoose not to sweat it.
But he wasn’t flying it — and that was no reflection on Doberman’s flying abilities because the dog man was a hell of a balls-out driver — but damn it, he should have punched out as soon as they were over the border. True, they would have lost the A-10 in the process. But better safe than sorry. You just didn’t fly a Hog with a hole in the wing.
Oh sure, you could. A-Bomb could. But he had a double standard.
“Doberman, you read that?” A-Bomb asked when the pilot didn’t immediately acknowledge the tower’s instruction that he was cleared to take it in any way he could.
“I got it,” snapped Doberman.
“You okay with this?”
“You’re sounding like my fucking mother today, A-Bomb. I don’t know which one of you assholes is worse, you or Mongoose. Why don’t you guys relax, huh?”
“Just making sure, prick-face. You ready to try your gear?”
“You gonna hold my dick for me while I pee, too?”
“I might.”
A-Bomb slipped his Hog lower, trying to get a good look beneath Doberman’s wings. The front wheel was down smooth, and so was the wheel beneath the damaged right wing.
But of all things, his left wheel was stuck.
“Uh, Doberman, you’re not going to believe this — ”
“I’m already trying to get it down manually. It must have been hit when the missile struck.”
“No, man, the left wheel. The right one looks fine.”
“You sure you know your left from your right?”
“What’s your indicator say?”
“Damn.”
Doberman hit the handle to lower the gear twice more. He couldn’t for the life of him figure what the hell the problem was. Like nearly all other aircraft flying, a hydraulic system automatically snapped the landing gear in place. But the Hog also had a safety system; because the wheels folded backwards, they could be manually released and locked into place with help from the slipstream or wind beneath the plane. And that should have happened by now.
One good thing — dropping the right wheel hadn’t snapped the wing in two. Not yet, anyway. But it hadn’t made it any easier to fly.
The runway was maybe a hundred feet away, and damned if the engine wasn’t starting to choke.
He reached for the handle and once again dropped it. Finally, he felt it move.
Or thought he did. Or hoped he did. There was no turning back now.
Mongoose felt a surge of relief as Doberman’s Hog rolled along the tarmac, smart and sharp as if she’d just been up for a quick qualifying spin. Right behind her came an HC-130 Spectre gunship, also low on fuel and just about trailing an engine.
The major gunned his engine. Looking for his place in the landing stack, he realized that he had to pee so bad he was going to have to duck under the wing once he touched down.
Assuming he could wait that long.
CHAPTER 24
Technical Sergeant Rosen did a decent job with the Hog, good enough to get the radio and all of the instrumentation working. Between her and the scrub base’s own mechanics, the A-10 was patched and ready to go in what must have been world record time. In fact, for a few minutes it seemed like the base colonel was going to stick it into a four-ship element tasked to go north and bomb trucks.
Dixon felt a twinge of panic when he heard that. But he was also disappointed when the idea was dropped and he was told just to go home instead.
The fuel queue was backed up worse than the entrance ramp to the LA Freeway at rush hour. There was an HC-130 at the head of the line, and damned if the big four-engined monster didn’t look like she was going to drain the trucks dry.
Dixon tried to look disinterested as he sat in the cockpit, checking his way points and all of the marginalia critical for his return trip through King Khalid Military City and back on to King Fahd. He was nervous, and he wasn’t nervous. He could do this in his sleep; it was an easy ferry trip home through friendly skies.
As long as he didn’t come under fire. Then all bets were off.
No they weren’t, he told himself. He’d gotten spooked, sure, but that was because it was the first time and he didn’t know what to expect. The next time would be better. The next time he’d nail the son of a bitch.
He hated the fact that he had lied to Mongoose about dropping the bombs. But on the bottom line, it really didn’t matter. He’d dropped them. He’d gotten his plane back in one piece. That was what was important.
He wondered if he shouldn’t feel a little pissed off at being moved into Doberman’s plane. Yeah, he was the lowest ranking pilot, the least experienced by far, but damn! That was his plane.
And the son of a bitch had kept him from redeeming himself.
You fall off a horse, you get right back on.
He could. He knew he could.
Whether the Herc was finally topped off or had just exceeded the limit on its credit card, the gas line began to move. Dixon eased up, wondering at the succession of jets that kept straggling onto the desert strip. The end of the runway and the access ramp were crowded with planes. If Jouf was this packed, he wondered what the home dome, King Fahd, would look like. Though much further behind the lines, it housed a full list of units, not to mention every A-10 in the theater. And its long, smooth runways would make it a convenient rest stop for battle weary planes based further south or on one of the two carriers in the nearby Gulf.