“Use him for something important; cleaning latrines, if you have to.”
“Oh, we’ll find something better than that.”
The general’s tone abruptly changed. “Say, Mike, you’re not thinking of getting back in the air on this one, are you?”
Knowlington laughed, brushing aside the obvious concern in the general’s voice, brushing aside a mountain of unspoken reservations. The question hurt more than he expected; more than it would have yesterday, certainly. But he buried the resentment. “Well, maybe a few months from now. I’m afraid I’m the least proficient pilot on the base.”
“That’s an exaggeration, I’m sure.”
“These guys are good.”
“I know they are. I’m counting on them.”
It was Chief Master Sergeant Allan Clyston’s everlasting regret that his assignment here had come at what amounted to the very last minute. By the time he’d gotten to King Fahd, all of the good quarters were long gone; he had had to scrimp and practically beg for the bare necessities. Granted, he procured an over-sized temper tent for his home, but really, it was only the metal equivalent to a canvas GP job. He felt limited by the fact that it was equipped with only three air conditioners, though admittedly they were over-sized units. Since only one was actually necessary at any given moment, he alternated their use, but you could never have enough air conditioners in the middle of a desert.
The refrigerator was standard operating equipment, as was the freezer, though perhaps there had been a clerical misunderstanding about the nature of the medical supplies to be kept inside it. The sergeant had a prescription entitling him to a special over-stuffed mattress, though the particular unit in his tent had been intended for a staff officer until misdirected to Clyston; he deemed it wise to hold onto it until its proper owner could be located.
The large generator unit outside the tent was a squadron backup. Not the Devils’, actually; it belonged to a marine unit located at another base. One thing about the Corps; they always stowed their gear where it was safest.
The satellite dish had been rescued from a garbage heap and was currently undergoing “operational testing,” thanks to some video and television equipment which bore a serial number identifying it as Navy property. Clyston realized that its delivery here had been a clerical error, and had assigned one of his best men to check into the matter.
Actually, there was one non-military, non-accounted-for item in his quarters — a Laz-E-Boy recliner. But as transporting it out of the premises and off base would require the requisition of resources critical for the war effort, the sergeant thought it his duty as a non-commissioned officer to guard it until it could be disposed of.
He was headed for his tent and that very chair when two of his most trusted crew members — Kevin Karn and Bobby Marks — appeared from around the corner. He grunted in acknowledgment. They followed him inside, where they pulled up seats as he completed the chore he had put off all day; transporting the newest batch of C Brew to the fridge. When the twenty-four bottles of homemade porter were safely ensconced, he retrieved two bottles of his previous home-brewing effort — a passable pilsner, though perhaps too heavy on the hops — and handed them to his men.
“Thanks, Chief,” said Karn. “Not having one yourself?”
“I got some things to look after,” said Clyston. He took a Coke from the refrigerator and sat in his easy chair, pushing it backwards. “Bobby, hit the go switch on the stereo, wouldja?”
The young specialist complied, and the room exploded with a Mozart concerto. Clyston closed his eyes. The others, who knew better than to disturb him for the next five minutes, exchanged glances and sipped their beer. It was only when the capo di capo had reopened his eyes that Karn, who was about fourth down on the squadron’s NCO pecking order and Clyston’s personal work-it-out guy, ventured to remark that it had been a hell of a day.
“Sure has. Nobody broke my planes,” said Clyston, taking a swig of the soda. “Though Captain Glenon took a good run at it. How’s the one he tried to use as a missile catcher coming?”
“Tinman is kicking butt getting it back together,” said Karn. “Can’t beat the old-timers, I’ll tell you.”
Clyston smiled wryly. “Cursing a lot?”
“Big time. Says we need a new ‘wink’.”
The capo di capo laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds one.”
“Some Pentagon jerk wanted to inspect the damage,” added Karn. “Tinman gave him a slab of metal and chased him away.”
“Yeah, I heard. He gives you trouble, send him to me. Say Bobby, who worked on Major Johnson’s INS?”
Marks was only an E-3 and a bit undernourished, but Karn had taken him under his wing. The kid showed some promise in his chosen field of electronics, and had helped locate spare parts for a down television. He also prepared a frankly superb barbecue sauce that even now lingered on Clyston’s lips. It was that sort of versatility that made him a comer.
“Jeez, Chief, I’m not sure. Could have been either of a half-dozen guys.”
Clyston, who not only knew damn well that it had been Sanderson but knew that Bobby knew, nodded. The noncommittal answer combined tact with deference. The kid definitely had potential.
“Goose on the rag again?” Karn asked.
“Yeah,” grunted Clyston.
“Poor Parker.” Parker was Mongoose’s crew chief.
“He’ll leave Parker be,” said Clyston, taking another sip of his soda. “For now, anyway. Unless it happens again.”
“The avionics unit?” Bobby said.
“They’re all crap, but there’s something really screwy with his,” said Karn. “No matter what we replace or what we do, it gets whacked. Sometimes it’s a gyro, sometimes it’s a freaking contact, sometimes the whole thing is just, well, hexed. I’m thinking serious short somewhere, but damned if I can find it.”
“You tried?” Clyston asked.
“Half the damn squadron tried. The thing is, it passes all the stinking tests. It’s like voodoo. Parker and Sanderson both went over it with him,” added Karn. “You know, they told the major… ”
“I know what they told him. And I know what he told them,” said Clyston. “He’s right. This is war. It may be one of the few things he and I agree on.”
Clyston felt Johnson was a good pilot and a decent officer, but at times a bit too prissy. Plus, Johnson didn’t like Knowlington all that much; a serious character flaw, in the capo di capo’s estimation.
“Good beer, Chief,” said Bobby.
Clyston frowned. One thing he still had to teach the kid was not to be such a kiss-ass.
“What the hell hit Captain Glenon’s plane?” asked Bobby, realizing his error and trying to back track.
That earned a nod.
“Looks like he flew it under a drill press,” laughed Karn.
“Shoulder-fired missile. I’ve seen some strange ones,” said Clyston. They looked at him, expecting him to elaborate, but he wasn’t in the mood. “Glenon’s got to be the F-ing luckiest pilot in the wing. Anybody else, that would have taken out the fuel tank.”
“Couple inches further forward, it would have gotten the brace and snapped it in two,” said Bobby. “I heard… ”
He was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come!” Clyston commanded.
Technical Sergeant Rosen squeezed her head inside.
“Rosen, get your fanny in here before one of those P-heads outside spanks it, and I have to file charges against them,” said Clyston.
“Hell, just take them out by the hangar and let Rosen have five minutes with them,” said Karn. “They’d wish they had a court martial.”