“Days, Chief. Days. We could fly in a new wing.”
“No time for that,” said Clyston. “I need this plane tomorrow.”
“I don’t know, Chief.”
“Just as a backup.” Clyston turned his palms to heaven. “No big deal. Come on, Tinman — I’m counting on you here. I know you can do it. We’re in a war.”
The Tinman shook his head again, but then he put his bony fingers to his face and pinched his nostrils together — the sign Clyston had been looking for.
“Good man,” the capo di capo told him. “Tell me what you’ll need and it’s yours.”
“A new wing.”
“Besides that. Ten extra guys?”
“Maybe some coffee.”
“Good man.”
CHAPTER 28
Captain “Doberman” Glenon had long since left Hog Heaven. He would, in fact, have been celebrating his safe return home with a very sound sleep had it not been for A-Bomb, who was standing over his bed, urging him to get up and party.
“Screw off,” said Glenon. “Get out of my tent. I’m tired.”
“Doberman, you are one lucky motherfucker. You have to celebrate.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Anybody else would have been shot down.”
“I call that skill.”
“You’re on a roll, man. It’s time to celebrate. Come on, let’s hit the Depot before it wears off.”
“I’m not going near Depot for the rest of the war.”
“Well at least come and play cards. Shit, I want to sit next to you.”
“Why, so you can look at my hand?”
“So your luck rubs off on me. Hell, man, today’s the day you win the lottery.”
“Damn it A-Bomb, leave me alone. I’m not lucky. I’m unlucky.”
“How do you figure that?” asked Mongoose, coming into the room.
“Doesn’t anybody knock anymore?” complained Doberman.
“I did. The canvas doesn’t make much noise,” said the major. “What are you doing in your underwear?”
“I was trying to jerk off until A-Bomb got here.”
“Aw, you always let me watch,” said A-Bomb.
“No shit, I got something serious to talk about,” said Mongoose, pulling over a small camp chair.
The major amenity of Doberman’s tent was its cement slab. He and the other Devil squadron pilots had arrived at King Fahd far too late to command any of the good berths. After a few days, the fact that they were living in tents had become a point of honor among them. They voted to refuse the offer of better quarters — trailers being considered moderately better — when it was made.
Doberman hadn’t been present for the vote. No one took his request for a recall seriously.
“What do you think I ought to do about Dixon?” Mongoose asked.
“What do you mean, do about him?” said Doberman.
“He fucked up.”
“He lost me because my radio went dead,” said Doberman.
Mongoose shook his head. “No. It was more than that. He totally missed SierraMax, didn’t call in, didn’t answer the AWACS until he was halfway back to Al Jouf.”
“Jeez, Goose,” said A-Bomb. “Give the kid a break. None of that’s worth hanging him on. He got turned around. You know how garbled the radio transmissions were. All his Mavericks scored.”
“He could have cost Doberman his life,” said the major. “He should have been on his back when the Mirage jumped him.”
“Aw Geeze, leave the kid alone,” said Doberman. “It was my fault.”
“Your fault? How the hell do you figure that?”
“I should have looked for him after my bomb run. Things got busy. I didn’t realize the radio was screwed up.”
“I don’t see how it was your fault,” said Mongoose. “You’re lucky you’re alive.”
“Stop calling it luck!” shouted Doberman.
A-Bomb listened to the two pilots debate what had happened on the mission for a while longer. They were rehashing what they’d said at the debriefing without going anywhere, and finally he just left. Mongoose seemed bent on keelhauling Dixon — though he never specified how — and Doberman was determined to defend him. Both men were getting angrier by the minute.
A-Bomb had little patience for formal debriefings, let alone this bullshit. He was just deciding whether to find the poker game or slip into The Depot when Colin Walker, one of the clerks assigned to squadron supply, ran up to him with a pair of envelopes.
“These just got here,” said the clerk. “I didn’t know they had Federal Express in Saudi Arabia.”
A-Bomb nodded solemnly as he took the package.
“You gonna open it?” Colin asked.
“Can’t out here, kid. Sorry.”
Colin’s eyes opened wider than the opening on a sewer pipe. “Classified?”
A-Bomb leaned toward him. “I didn’t say that, right?”
“No, sir. Never. Jeez, what’s in there?”
“Did you see the manifest?”
“No, sir. I mean, well, you mean the air bill? Says it’s from D.C.”
A-Bomb winked, then turned quickly and walked to his tent.
Which quickly filled with the aroma of McDonald’s as he ripped open the envelope.
With the help of a few old friends, A-Bomb had managed to have a happy meal overnighted to Saudi Arabia. Two Big Macs, extra large fries and strawberry shake.
Separate bags, of course. To keep the shake cool.
As he finished his first Big Mac, A-Bomb wondered if there was some way to get his Harley over. Not by Fed Ex, of course. That was the sort of thing you left to UPS.
CHAPTER 29
Dixon debriefed with one of the intelligence officers in the hangar area. He answered questions about the bomb damage and other questions about the mission succinctly, with as little detail as possible. It helped that the officer had already spoken with the others and written the report. Over-burdened, the lieutenant was as anxious as Dixon to be done with the interview.
Dixon told him he’d fired the Mavericks very poorly, no matter what the tape showed. He told him about seeing the radar dish and then losing it; he admitted that his memory now was so hazy it might not even have been a dish — especially since they now were pretty sure Doberman’s missile had blown it to pieces. As for the cluster bombs, he said he hadn’t seen them hit, and frankly doubted they had done much damage, because he knew he had pickled them from too high an altitude. Their fuses had undoubtedly ignited too high, causing the bomb pattern to disperse too widely.
Leaving out the details about how he’d panicked and run away might not have been lying, but he felt inside like he had committed high treason. The only thing worse was the cowardice that had led him to it.
The pilot slipped away, then wandered aimlessly through Tent City, working off the raw anxiety churning in his stomach. When anyone greeted him, he either shrugged or looked beyond them, continuing on.
He did this for more than an hour. Finally realizing he was hungry, he started in search of food, then lost interest. Somehow, he found himself in the canvas GP or general purpose tent he shared with two other lieutenants.
It was empty. Erected on a concrete pad, the tent and its furnishings were an odd mix of monkish austerity and modern luxuries. His pillow was a scavenged sack filled with T shirts; one of his “bunkies” had shipped in a stereo setup worth several thousand dollars. The stereo nightly accounted for half of the unit’s theoretical power allotment.