Brash as all hell, though; forgot to use his smarts and got himself into situations where he needed every ounce of that skill and more than his share of luck.
Clyston liked Captain Knowlington, admired the hell out of him. Captain Knowlington had balls the size of watermelons and a will to match. But even back in Vietnam, the chief had enough experience to know that wasn’t the sort of man who should command a fighter squadron, even during a war. He was too hot headed, too quick to react, too close to the situation to think slowly and carefully. Leading by impulse got a lot of people killed.
Colonel Knowlington had his faults, but Colonel Knowlington was one hell of a boss. Saying he was like ice didn’t cover a quarter of it. Hell, he was as cold and calculating as a goddamn computer, and twice as smart. And he not only cared about his people, but trusted them to do their jobs without his hand on their shoulders. He even asked NCOs what they thought— and admitted taking their advice once in a while.
Since coming to Saudi Arabia, Knowlington had somehow gotten beyond the booze and doubts that had dogged him for years. Something had clicked, and all his experience and the better parts of his personality just fell into place. Maybe the war had brought out the best in him.
They needed Colonel Knowlington to lead the squadron, not Captain Knowlington. They needed cold, well-thought-out decisions that would keep everyone alive while still doing the maximum hurt to Saddam. Morale-boosting respect for even the lowest airman, respect that was genuine, not bullshit, the kind of thing that got a homesick nineteen-year-old out of his tent in the morning determined to check every bolt twice just because the old man was counting on him.
But there was no way to talk about that now.
Damn— was he kidding about flying north himself?
“Something else?” Skull asked.
“Not that I can think of,” Clyston told him. “I’ll see if I can find Captain Wong for you.”
Knowlington didn’t bother answering, already reaching for the phone on his desk.
CHAPTER 26
The Hog was moving a bit too fast for a picture-perfect landing, but A-Bomb didn’t particularly care. He jerked the poor plane onto the concrete with an uncharacteristic screech, annoyed that he had to come down at all. He’d left the area where Mongoose had been hit with only the greatest reluctance. Even if he couldn’t see anything, he felt he belonged nearby.
True, the Air Force had different jobs for different people, and for all he knew as he began taxiing at the end of the airstrip, a division of Special Forces troops were carrying Mongoose back home on their freakin’ shoulders right now. The point was he ought to be there. Hog pilots looked after their own. He was the guy’s freakin’ wingman, and it was half or maybe three-quarters his fault he’d gone down in the first place.
Maybe not, but it was the principle of the thing.
A-Bomb told this in so many words to the airman who was waving the Hog off the landing strip to make way for other planes. Fortunately for the airman, he was several yards away, outside the aircraft, and wearing ear protection.
“What I’m talking about here,” A-Bomb shouted as he moved toward a refitting area, banging on his canopy, “is getting refueled like yesterday. And I need the cannon reloaded. You with me? I’m thinking we can rig an extra set of landing lights, maybe put together some sort of lens that’ll make them into search lights. That’s what I’m talking about. Ten minute’s worth of work. What I’m talking about is smoking any Iraqi that comes within ten miles of him. Can’t be smoking anybody with no bullets. You’re showing me to a candy man, right? To get some new iron? I don’t see no dragon down there and I can use some new bullets in the cannon. Hey kid, you listening to me?”
The jerry-rigged landing light idea had occurred to him as he flew back to base. It wasn’t a bad idea, except for the fact that it would alert every anti-air operator within a hundred miles that he was coming. Sure, the Hog could take a lot of abuse, but the rescue helicopters might catch some of the flak, too. The Iraqis were notoriously bad shots.
What he needed was a pair of Maverick G’s— the enhanced air-to-ground missiles had an excellent infrared seeker that could be pressed into service as night-vision equipment. A squadron had been practicing the technique for weeks.
And if he could find an Army Apache pilot, he’d really strike gold. The Apache drivers had kick-ass night goggles, which worked off the reflected light from the stars and the moon. Have to adapt them a bit for the Hog, but shit, what would that take? A little fiddling with a screwdriver? Some duct tape to completely black out the Hog cockpit, or create a little shade to see through? War was about experimentation.
How would he get an Apache pilot to give his up glasses? Poor shit would probably have to pay for them out of his own pocket.
Maybe a swap— he could trade his customized Colt, a very serious personally modified .45, the kind of gun a real army guy ought to salivate over— for a mere temporary loan. Have them back before sundown, no harm done. Say they were misplaced or in the shop if anyone asks.
Hell, he’d even throw in a couple of Twinkies.
No self-respecting member of the U.S. Army could refuse such a deal. His plan set, A-Bomb shuttled into a parking area a few hundred yards from the end of the runway. He was disappointed— no choppers in sight.
He was just checking his gas gauges to see if he might somehow persuade the fumes to take him a bit further when an army officer ran toward the front of the plane, waving his arms like a jumping jack. The man made a motion as if he wanted him to cut his engines.
A-Bomb leaned his large body out the side of the plane to see if the officer could direct him to the nearest Apache.
“Cut your engines and crank down your ladder!” shouted the man.
He was definitely Army. You could tell by the overly serious expression on his face.
And the fact that he kept his distance from the airplane. In A-Bomb’s experience, the overwhelming majority of Army officers were afraid of flying. Otherwise they would have joined the Air Force.
“I said, where can I find an Apache?” he shouted down to the man.
“Cut your engines and crank down your ladder,” repeated the officer, motioning with his hand to make A-Bomb understand.
Since it was designed to work from front-line bases with minimal amenities, the A-10A was equipped with its own ladder, which the pilot could operate from the cockpit. A-Bomb cut his motors and complied, though unwinding the ladder felt a bit too much like putting down an anchor, under the circumstances.
A flush-red face belonging to an Army major quickly appeared over the side.
“Why the hell didn’t you shut your engines when I told you to?” the officer asked.
“When did you tell me to shut off the engines?”
“You couldn’t see me?”
“Saw you just now,” said A-Bomb, who had decided to be on his best behavior. “Can you direct me to the Apache pilots? There’s a Twinkie in it for you. A little crushed, I apologize, but definitely edible.”
“Listen, are you Captain O’Rourke or not?”
“I was this morning.”
“Look, I don’t have time for bullshit. We’ve just been put on a goddamn Scud alert. You got to get chem gear on and get this plane secured. Then you call your squadron commander.”