“Not enough time,” said Knowlington.
Even pushing as fast as they could go, the Hogs would take close to an hour to get to King Khalid Military City; gassing up there would cost at least thirty minutes. Add an hour to Al Jouf, another pit, and then thirty to find the target — all of the times were optimistic, in everyone’s opinion. You were talking at least three and a half hours, with no margin for error and a hell of a lot of luck riding along as your wingman.
“You just know Al Jouf is going to be a mad house,” said A-Bomb. “Ask Dixon what it was like this afternoon.”
“Why stop at Al Jouf?” said Doberman. “If we refuel by air we can cut some time off.”
“And if we miss the tanker?”
“We won’t miss a tanker.”
“It’s dark outside, A-Bomb, or haven’t you noticed?”
“What if you went straight there from KKMC?” suggested Clyston. “You can make it if we lighten your load.”
Mongoose rose and got a calculator from the desk, working the numbers. He hated to admit it, but having the entire squadron involved in planning the mission generated a certain amount of energy that wouldn’t have been there if just a few of the pilots worked it out alone.
“The problem is, what do you leave behind?” asked Doberman.
Clyston poked one of the sergeants sitting next to him. “You go with only four Mavs apiece, no iron,” said the man. “That gets us to two and a half hours, pushing the speed north a bit. Even with a good time over the target, you can make it with about ten minutes of reserves to spare, assuming you refuel just over the border.”
It took Mongoose, pressing the calculator buttons madly, several minutes to discover the sergeant was correct.
“Ten minutes is tight,” said Knowlington. “And four mavericks doesn’t give us much backup.”
“The sergeant’s right about the time,” said Mongoose, looking up from the calculator. “But the planes have to go like hell to KKMC.”
“Four o’clock is still a half hour short,” said Knowlington.
“We’ll make it by 0300,” said Clyston. He caught a glance from one of his men and amended his prediction to 0330. “And what if we put six Mavericks on two of the planes? Just load up the triple rails.”
Clyston held up his hand as one of his weapons specialists whispered in his ear. They talked back and forth a second, then the capo-di-capo announced that they could work it out. Though designed as a triple rail, the launchers ordinarily carried only two Mavericks.
“Fuel-wise, it’ll work,” announced Mongoose. “The tank on the way out has to be a quickie, though, or the fourth plane drops into the sand.”
“Kind of risky,” said Corda. “I almost ran dry waiting on line this afternoon.”
“Me, too,” said Hobbes. “All these stinking Navy guys were waiting in line.”
“Go to separate tanker tracks after the attack,” suggested Wong.
It was one of those solutions so obvious everyone had missed it.
“You sure you’re from the Pentagon?” asked Clyston.
“Sure he is,” said Corda. “The pen he used on the dry-erase board is a permanent marker.”
As the meeting was starting to run out of steam, Mongoose leaned toward Knowlington. “I’d like to have a word.”
There was no mistaking the tone, but Knowlington took it mildly. He nodded, and gestured toward his office.
“You’ve got a beef,” Knowlington said when they got there.
“Several.”
“Shoot.”
“Number one, why the round robin discussion?”
“I thought getting everybody involved would be good,” said Knowlington. “And not just for morale.”
“Having the techs in… ”
“You don’t think they contributed?”
“I didn’t say that,” sputtered the pilot.
“I don’t think anyone abused the privilege. This was a special situation. What were the other things you wanted to say?”
“Dixon.”
“What about him?”
“I don’t trust him on the mission.”
Knowlington had expected to be questioned on the meeting, which had been a spur of the moment decision. He knew that Johnson’s real problem with it was that it signaled he was taking a much more aggressive role directing the squadron than he had until now. Not that he wasn’t doing his job, just that he hadn’t really done it until now.
He’d felt tentative, out of his element with the unfamiliar planes, an old pilot good for nothing more than initialing requisitions. Watching the Hogs land had somehow changed that.
It was natural that the major, who’d more or less been filling the void, would have his nose slightly out of joint. But that didn’t account for his feelings about Dixon.
“Why don’t you trust him?” the colonel asked.
“I think he’s a liability.”
“Because he lost Doberman?”
“No. It’s more than that. Think about it, Colonel. Doberman’s plane comes back like Swiss cheese and his is clean.”
“There’s no question he was over the target,” said Knowlington.
“I’m not saying that.”
“Well what then? Are you saying he was too lucky?”
“No.” Mongoose sighed. “He flew today. He’s tired as hell.”
“I have to tell you, Goose, I think you need a pretty specific reason to hold him back. He knows the site, and if he’s tired, what about you?” Knowlington paused, scanning the major’s face for fatigue. It had to be there, but it didn’t show. “Is there something else? I mean, obviously Dixon screwed up firing the Mavericks and he’s taking it hard, but I don’t think that’s a reason to ground him.”
“I’m not grounding him,” snapped the major. “I just don’t want him on this mission.”
Knowlington again studied Johnson’s face, but he was really trying to sort out his own thoughts. On the one hand, the major ought to have the right to choose who went on this mission. On the other hand, keeping Dixon back without a solid reason wasn’t fair to the lieutenant, and would probably affect him for weeks if not forever. Knowlington had seen more than one pilot completely tank after being treated unfairly; he’d had a buddy shot because he did stupid things after losing his self-confidence.
There were other considerations. The way they had it drawn up, Dixon would have to be replaced with a pilot from another mission. Sure, he could get plenty of volunteers, but what did he do with the slot it left open? And if there were doubts about Dixon’s abilities, wouldn’t it be better to fly him in a place he already knew — and had volunteered for?
It seemed to Knowlington better all around to keep Dixon on the mission. But he decided he had to defer to Johnson, if he felt strongly about it.
“Let me tell you a story,” the colonel started.
“I don’t want to hear another of your goddamn stories. This is our war we’re fighting,” said Mongoose, storming away.
CHAPTER 37
Dixon curled on his cot, trying to calm his stomach and slice away maybe half of what was in his head.
He was getting his chance to redeem himself.
What had the old guy said in the letter? He thought about pulling it out and reading it again, but the words came back without effort.
Keep your head up and moving toward the next battle.
Not particularly profound, but the best advice never was.
But what if Dixon screwed up again? What if this time they lost someone in the squadron because of him?
Should he go to Major Johnson right now and tell him he wasn’t up to it?