He shook his head, trying to retain the veneer of politeness. He did, after all, respect Knowlington’s rank. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, sir,” he told him. “We need a secure room.”
“A what?”
“I have code-word material to discuss.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Sir?”
“Where are you from, Captain?”
“The Pentagon.”
“Don’t bullshit me, son. Are you with CENTCOM? Or what?”
“I’m afraid it’s ‘or what’ sir, until we are in a secure facility.”
“You think there’s a spy crouching behind that A-10 over there?”
“I try to follow procedure, sir. I work for Admiral McConnell,” added Wong. McConnell — the head of Joint Chief of Staff’s J-2 — was a heavy, and mentioning his name always tended to soothe the waters.
Except now.
“So?”
“You do know who the admiral is, sir?”
Knowlington’s expression left little doubt that he did — and could care less. “You know what, Wong? I have about three thousand better things to do than stand here and be unimpressed by you. Either make me interested real fast, or disappear.”
It’s because I’m Asian, Wong thought. The geezer scumbag flew in Vietnam, so he thinks I’m a gook.
He’d run into that before. Not a lot — most officers were extremely professional, especially when they saw his work product. But every so often there’d be an old-timer who wanted to tell him to go back to commie land.
“Sir, this has to do with one of your men,” he said, feigning a note of concern. “Could we discuss it in your office?”
Knowlington looked like he’d eaten a peach pit as he finally put his feet into motion.
The crisply pressed fatigues were what pissed Knowlington off.
He could deal with someone who went around with a stick up his ass — just nod and listen. Being uptight didn’t necessarily make you a jerk; plenty of excellent pilots and commanders were by-the-book pricks.
But a fucking captain who ironed his slacks and spit-polished his boots in a war zone belonged to a special class of idiot.
Knowlington’s office door wasn’t locked. Not that Wong was surprised.
The colonel pulled out his simple metal chair from the desk and waved Wong into the other. “Shoot,” he told him.
“Colonel, we have a report that one of your pilots was hit by an SA-16.”
“Captain Glenon. That’s right.” Knowlington nodded. “Did a kick-ass job getting that plane back. Wait until you see it.”
“I’d like that very much. I would also like to speak with him as soon as possible.”
“Why?”
“I’m investigating the missile strike.”
Knowlington’s face screwed up. “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Colonel — ”
“No, wait a second Wong. This whole production is about a shoulder-fired missile? You marched me back here to find out who it was? Are you shitting me? We’re fighting a war.”
“Colonel, I’ve had a long day and… ”
“You’ve had a long day?”
“Perhaps we should start from the beginning. I am Captain Bristol Wong; I’m from Joint Staff/J-2 intelligence, on loan to General Glossom in Riyadh. My area is weapons, Russian weapons in particular. One of your pilots reported being hit by an SA-16. Naturally, I’m here to check it out.”
“What do you mean, naturally?”
“Saddam Hussein doesn’t have SA-16s.”
“Says you,” sneered Knowlington.
“No, actually, sir, I don’t say any fucking thing at all,” snapped Wong, his patience finally gone. “As far as I know, Saddam shoots down planes by putting his head between his legs and farting.”
Knowlington’s angry expression evaporated with a sheet of laughter. “Jesus, Wong, you had me going there. I thought you were a real tight ass. Your uniform threw me off.”
“My uniform?”
The colonel shook his head. “You’re a fuckin’ funny guy. I didn’t realize you were busting my chops back at the hangar. I’m sorry. I’m a little tense, I guess.”
“But — ”
“You have to be careful though; a lot of people don’t have our sense of humor. Not when they’re tired, at least.” Knowlington waved Wong’s perplexed protests away. “What’d you do to get sentenced to J-2? Screw somebody’s wife? I mean, you’re on the level about that, right?”
The captain turned red — which made Knowlington laugh and clap him on the shoulder as he rose from his chair.
“Ah, the admiral isn’t that bad,” said the colonel. “I mean, for a Navy guy. Fucking sailors. Working for the joint chiefs’11 help your career. No really. Don’t take it so hard. As long as you don’t pull this kind of stuff on the wrong guy. Who put you up to it? Sandy?”
“I, uh… ”
“Come on, let’s go get you some coffee and find Glenon.” He stopped short, suddenly serious. “Let me ask you, though: What do you know about Hog drivers?”
“Well, uh, nothing.”
“You’re not shitting me this time?”
“No, sir. Not at all.”
“Good men, all of them, but a breed apart. I mean that in a weird way, but good weird. They all have a little bit of a grudge, because, hell, a lot of people put the plane down. And by extension, them. Shit, I’ll tell you the truth,” Knowlington added as he ushered him out of his office, “I thought the Hog was a piece of crap when I first saw it. Swear to God. You check the records. I was on an advisory board that said get rid of it ten years ago. No shit. But now, I have to tell you, I’m a believer. Damn converted. Every one of those suckers came back today. You should see Doberman’s plane. Glenon, that’s Doberman — the guy who took the SA-16.”
“Colonel… ”
“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t exist.” Knowlington nearly doubled over with laughter. “Jesus, you’re a ball buster. I have to tell you, though, you made my day. Broke me right up. You remind me of a couple of guys I knew in Vietnam. Your dad in the Air Force?”
“Navy, sir.”
Knowlington laughed even louder. “Glenon’s probably around Hog Heaven somewhere. What a fucking ball-buster you are,” he added, leading him down the hallway.
Wong decided it was best not to set the record straight on that particular point, and followed silently.
CHAPTER 27
Even Clyston was amazed at the amount of damage on the A-10 Doberman brought in. While the structure of the wing was intact — a miracle in itself — a good chunk of the surface panel was gone or chewed up, with the nearby interior guts twisted beyond recognition. It looked nearly impossible to fix.
Which was why he’d called the Tinman in.
“I don’t know, Chief,” said the Tinman. The ancient mechanic — rumor had it he had worked on Billy Mitchell’s planes in World War II — shook his head. The Tinman had an odd accent, though no one could figure out where it came from. Besides dropping the occasional verb, he stretched out words in odd ways.
“I don’t know, Chief,” said the mechanic. “You want a new wing.”
Wing, in Tinman’s mouth, sounded like “wink.”
“Nah,” said Clyston. “We don’t need a whole wing. Come on, Tinman. You got spare parts. Use them.”
“Chief. Demolition derby cars I’ve seen in better shape.” Tinman shook his gray head. He stood about six and a half feet tall and weighed perhaps 160 pounds. “You could slap new sheet metal on it, maybe, but heck. I don’t know.”
“See, there we go. Now you’re getting creative,” said Clyston. “Georgie and his guy’s’11 get the new motor up while you’re taking care of the wing. What do you think, a couple of hours?”