Until now, they hadn’t been particular friends. But Dixon wasn’t particular friends with anyone to be honest, not even the other lieutenants.
“Yo, kid, what’s up?” A-Bomb asked, realizing he was trailing him.
“Nothin’.”
“You want something?”
“A drink.”
A-Bomb laughed. “I thought you didn’t drink.”
“I do. Sometimes.”
“I’m on my way over to The Depot. Come on.”
Dixon fell in alongside as A-Bomb sauntered through the back alleys of Tent City. En route, he launched into an explanation of why the A-10A Thunderbolt II — also known as the Warthog, or Hog to those who knew her ugliness the best — was the finest warplane ever created, bar none.
“Maneuverability and toughness. That’s what it comes down to,” explained A-Bomb, whose dissertation was more like a rant than a lecture. “Those are the only things that count. Speed? Hey, that’s fine, you want to run away. You know what I’m talking about?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Turning radius. Get me into a one on one with a pointy nose, okay? Let’s call it a two-turn deal, all right? Hey, screw him, I’m inside, I’m on his tail, I’m signing my name with my cannon in two seconds, right? That’s what I’m talking about. Pick your plane. What do you want? Hornet? Okay, good choice. But I’m on it. I don’t care if there’s a marine in the stinking cockpit and he’s brought a Deuce with him. You know what a Deuce is, kid? It’s a .50 caliber machine-gun. Oldie but goodie. I’m going to get me one and strap it to my seat. Kind of thing that makes you want to eject, just to use it. Anyway, I don’t care who the hell is flying the damn plane, put Doolittle in the cockpit. Hey, put Knowlington in there, okay? In his prime, that is. You know, back in the old days. I’ll spot him a dozen rounds in my tail. Because as soon as I light up my gun, he’s a dead man. No shit. You think a Hornet could last as long as a Hog?”
“No.”
“Fuck no. That’s what I’m talking about. Hell of a nice airplane. Very nice screens. But stick and rudder? No, no, no. You were supposed to be in F-15s, right?”
“Well, not supposed to be… ”
“Yeah, I heard the deal. Too bad about your mom. But listen, let’s say you have an Eagle and a Hog, okay? Now I got to grant you the magic missile bullshit, but I’m not talking missiles at a million miles. I’m talking up close and in your face, where it counts. You know what I’m talking about?”
There were, of course, logical arguments to counter A-Bomb, but even if Dixon weren’t a Hog driver he wouldn’t have offered them. A-Bomb’s enthusiasm made it seem possible — hell, likely — that he could take apart anything he came up against in a dogfight.
Maybe that’s all I need, Dixon thought to himself. Enthusiasm.
But how do you get it? By eating Big Macs?
The older pilot seemed to know everyone he passed, no matter their rank or occupation. Occasionally he would stop and have a quick conversation. Dixon waited dutifully, nodding when introduced but inevitably saying nothing.
“Kind a quiet tonight, kid,” A-Bomb told him as they continued on. “Something eating you?”
“No,” he said quickly. But then he grabbed the older pilot’s arm. “Hey, let me ask you a question.”
“Shoot,” said A-Bomb, still walking along. His gait had a hop to it, like either he had just won the lottery or planned to that evening.
“You ever get scared?”
“Shit yeah. All the time. Why? You scared right now?”
“On the mission.”
A-Bomb snorted. “Only an asshole doesn’t get scared.” He slapped him on the back. “Come on. Let’s find you that drink.”
CHAPTER 32
The GCI site turned out to be very important: it had to be taken out tomorrow.
And, as a matter of fact, the mission planners at Black Hole were looking for someone to do it.
“We volunteer,” Knowlington told Al Harris, a young captain on the staff who happened to be a friend.
Actually, his father had been a friend. But Harris was a lot like his dad. Knowlington had helped him in some minor ways during his first year or so in the service, and they got along well.
“I have to have the general get back to you on it,” said Harris. “This is his call.”
“My guys would really appreciate it,” Knowlington told him. “And so would I.”
Five minutes later, the sharp, direct voice of the general in charge of planning the air war came over the secure line. Besides being one of the bright lights of the Air Force, the brigadier was a flexible if demanding officer who had been convinced early on that the Hogs had a place beside the glamour boys in waging the air war. He was also the kind of guy who got right to the point.
“Mike, you see your frag yet?”
“Just trying to make sure I have enough planes to fill it,” said Knowlington.
“And?”
“More than enough, General.”
“I hear your boys want to take a shot at that radar station near Mudaysis.”
“That’s right.”
“The dish itself isn’t the major problem. They’ve only come up once since your boys hit it, and we’ll have a weasel in the area tomorrow. But their anti-air guns are a problem.
“How’s that?”
We have to run a Special Forces unit through first thing in the morning. Looking for a downed Englishman. We’ve been scrambling to get everything together. We might make it without taking out the guns — there’s a bit of leeway. Still, I’d prefer not to cut it too close.”
Knowlington sucked air. The turnaround was going to be a major problem — not only for Mongoose, who wanted to be part of the group hitting the site — but for the rest of the squadron, which was already fully committed to other tasks. But he wasn’t going to back out now.
“No sweat,” he told the general. “We can take it.”
“Short notice.”
“Not for these guys.”
There was silence on the other end of the line as the general conferred with one of his staff members. “You’re going to have to hit the target around oh-six, six-ten, somewhere in there,” he said finally. “Harris will get the details.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” The general’s voice relaxed a little. “How’d it go today, old-timer?”
“Damn good. One of my guys got a missile right through the wing. Made it back.”
“Through the wing?”
“Blew a hole the size of a watermelon and the plane kept flying. Maintenance guys claim they’ll have it patched and ready to go tomorrow. By the way, somebody from joint chiefs came over to check it out. Apparently the pentagon doesn’t think the Iraqis have the latest Russian missiles.”
“Yeah, I know,” grumped the general. “Wong, right? Sorry, but we had to give him something to do.”
“Hell of a sense of humor.”
“Captain Wong?”
“Yeah. He had me rolling on the floor.”
“Really? Wong?”
“Reminds me of a guy I used to fly with. Very droll.”
“Say listen, Mike, can you use him for anything? He knows a hell of a lot about Russian weapons. Supposed to be the world expert. Outside of Russia that is. At least, he says he is.”
“He’s available?”
“Oh yeah. A lot of people bruising elbows bumping into each other over here. Guy like Wong? Well, let’s call him a fish out of water over here.”
“We can always use help,” said Knowlington.
“Borrow him for as long as you want. The admiral won’t mind.”
“You sure?”