Dixon sat on the edge of his cot, the mission replaying over and over in his head. He’d been fine, cocky even, until Doberman pushed ahead to start his Maverick run.
He followed. They started taking flak very, very high unaimed triple-A, much thicker than had been predicted.
The next thing he knew, he was in a cloud of gunfire, a few feet from making a permanent impression on Iraqi real estate. Everything streaked together in a nightmare blur.
He was such a god damn great pilot — how could he panic like that? How could he screw up? That wasn’t him.
William James Dixon never ever screwed up. He had an A average through high school, and was summa cum laude in college, even with a heavy athletic schedule. Aced every test from grade school to flight school.
And failed the only one that counted.
How many linebackers had tried to shake him up on the gridiron, get him to lose his cool? Couldn’t happen.
But it had.
Dixon took his silver Cross pen from his pocket and stared at it, working the point up and down with his hands by slowly revolving the casings. His mother and father — his mom, really, since dad was pretty much shot by then — had given him the pen for his high school graduation.
She was an odd woman, his mom. Hard working and loving, but the kind of person who kept her only son at arm’s length. She’d never been too crazy about his joining the Air Force, even though he’d talked about flying jets since he was nine or ten. It was the only way he could afford college, one of the rock bottom goals she’d given him; still, there was a certain look on her face whenever he wore his uniform.
What the hell was he going to do? Ask to be grounded?
Maybe Major Johnson had already done that.
What sense was being in the Air Force make if he couldn’t fly?
He wasn’t scheduled for another mission until Saturday. Johnson would undoubtedly be on his ass before then. He didn’t buy what Dixon had told him. Who could blame him?
And Colonel Knowlington. A no-bullshit bona fide war hero, with two flying crosses and a piece of shrapnel in his back for good measure. A couple of guys whispered that he was a washed out drunk, and everybody knew he had been assigned to command the Hogs more or less by accident — but hell, he’d earned those medals.
Sitting on his bunk, Dixon fought the bile that kept creeping up his throat. He’d never been much of a drinker, but he considered it now, only to decide it would depress him more. Sleep was impossible. He’d read nearly everything in the tent, including the mattress labels, at least twice. Finally his eyes fell on the pile of “Any Servicemen Letters” on a nearby footlocker. The CO had suggested that squadron members take a few at random and respond; good for morale at home. A clerk had delivered the lieutenants’ modest allotment of two letters apiece the other day; since then, the six letters had been moved only to get to the gear stored in the footlocker.
Dixon picked up the top two and took them to his bed. He fished out a yellow pad, and began reading.
The first letter was from a fifth grader in Florida.
Dear Sir or Madam:
Thank you for taking the time to fight for our country. My classmates and I want you to know that we appreciate it. Thank you for losing your blood.
James Riding
An easy one, Dixon thought, beginning to write:
Dear James:
Thanks for your letter. I’m real proud of being here to serve you…..
His pen stopped; he considered for a second being completely honest with the kid; tell him how bad he’d choked.
As if he didn’t have enough trouble. He continued:
Myself and my buddies are thankful for your support.
Believe me, I’m trying not to spill any blood. My own, especially.
Lt. BJ Dixon
The second writer had enclosed a photograph of herself; she was nineteen, attractive, and Dixon suspected she was looking for a husband. She wrote in frank terms about how lonely she was back home and how happy she was to have this chance to cheer someone up. The photo would undoubtedly supply someone with several weeks worth of fantasies; Dixon slipped the letter and snapshot back into the envelope.
In its place, he found one written in a shaky hand on unlined white paper, obviously labored over, with cross-outs and corrections.
Dear Serviceman:
I know what you’re going through. I served in the Second Marine Division on Okinawa. I won’t bore you with the details; you’ve probably read in your history books enough already. There isn’t anything that words can do about it, anyway. Things are always more important than you can say.
I hope that you will remember two things while you are over in Saudi Arabia.
Number one is, your family and your country love you. No matter what you hear. We had our Tokyo Roses, too.
Number two is, you will survive. No matter what happens. You will see a great many things. You will be changed. Some of the things that you find out about yourself, you will not like. Believe me, I know. When you see a buddy get shot and have to leave him there, screaming, etc., because if you moved, then you would be the next to die — that is the most horrible experience of all. But somehow, you get through it.
Remember that. Remember to keep your head up and moving toward the next battle.
I wish you the best. I know you will do very well. I know all of the men, and now I guess women too, will.
Make us proud.
Sincerely yours,
Lance Corporal
Frank L. Simmons (ret.)
Finished reading, Dixon stared at the letter a while, the shaky blue letters blurring into a haze. Finally he folded it and put it back into its envelope. He started to put it back in the pile, then stopped; he slid it into his pocket. Getting up from the cot, he told himself maybe having a drink wasn’t all that horrible an idea.
CHAPTER 30
Colonel Knowlington decided to help Wong find Doberman himself. Ordinarily, he didn’t like guys who worked in intelligence or for the joint chiefs, but this one had a quirky sense of humor that made it impossible not to.
“I have to confess that I don’t know Captain Glenon all that well,” Knowlington told Wong as they wove their way toward the pilot’s quarters. “This unit has only been together a few weeks. But he’s a short guy, really short, and I’d be careful about his temper. Short guys always have quick fuses. Plus, he’s going to be tired.”
“I try to be professional at all times,” pronounced Wong.
Knowlington smirked. “See Captain, that’s what I’m talking about. You and I get the joke, but he might be a little sensitive, you know? Tread lightly.”
Now he got it. Knowlington realized that Wong reminded him of his first Phantom backseater, Jay Dalton, a snide-talking, sharp-eyed prankster whom he’d first met in the Philippines. Jay, a major at the time, was only so-so as an RIO, but a world class cut up. And he’d made general before he retired.
“This is his tent,” he announced. The lights were on, but he held Wong back. “Have to knock first.”
“Colonel?”
“Knock, knock,” Knowlington announced in a loud voice. “Hey Doberman, you decent?”
“Go away,” growled a voice inside.
Knowlington winked, then led the way. Major Johnson was sitting on a camp chair across from Doberman, who had his arms over his eyes, trying to block out the light.
“Tommy, I got somebody here from Black Hole who wants to talk to you about the missile you took in the wing.”