Back at the nose of the plane, he gave the cannon a good tug, just to let it know he was counting on it. Satisfied that the Warthog was ready to go, A-Bomb pulled on his helmet and gave his flight gear a quick check— the last thing he wanted was to misplace his Three Musketeers chocolate bar during combat. Satisfied that he was ready to go, the pilot hoisted himself up onto the wing and clambered atop the plane. He settled against the fuselage, legs extended out from the wing root, head back, trying to grab a Z or two while he waited for the colonel to arrive with the Mavericks.
Hope Mongoose is half as comfortable as this, he thought as his eyelids closed.
CHAPTER 33
Sargeant Clyston took a turn around the back end of the avionics shop, making sure there were no problems before heading out to find Colonel Knowlington. He hadn’t decided on what he was going to do or even say; probably the words wouldn’t be anywhere near as important as the glance that would pass between them.
All of the squadron’s Hogs had returned to base intact after a long day of missions. Clyston’s men — and a sprinkling of women — had inspected each one, repairing and refurbishing them with the speed of an Indy race car crew and the precision of a team of Mercedes mechanics. The Hog was a fantastically tough airplane, designed not only to withstand hot zones but also made to be easily maintained during war. Still, she couldn’t quite take care of herself, and people like Rosen were critical to keeping the squadron in the air.
Which was why he put up with her.
“Chief, we need more tacan fins,” she complained as soon as she spotted him.
“Why? We lose one?”
“Not yet. But—”
“Don’t be jinxing me with that kind of talk then,” said Clyston, sliding away. He could see the colonel walking from the hangar where he’d suited up for the flight.
“Yah, Sergeant, I haft a problem with a ving hinch,” said one of Clyston’s chiefs, a geezer named Tinman who knew nearly as much about the planes as Clyston but was considerably better with an acetylene torch. Tinman’s only drawback was his thick accent, which few could easily identify, much less decipher.
“Wing hinge? What the hell are you doing, making these planes ready for carrier duty?” Clyston asked.
“Daht Tomcat landed earlier. They askt me to inspect. I find damache from flak.”
“Okay, Tinman, I’ll be with you in a second.”
Clyston managed to squeeze away and had Knowlington in sight when another of his sergeants, Pearlman Greene, tapped him on the shoulder. Greene’s black face glistened with sweat and his eyes were narrowed down to slits.
“Chief, could I have a word?”
Greene wasn’t the kind of guy who asked for “a word.” Clyston realized immediately what was up— Greene headed the squadron’s survival equipment shop and had undoubtedly rigged Mongoose’s chute.
He let Greene lead him a few yards away, around the side of one of the hangars.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping, Pearly,” he said when the rigger finally stopped.
“I heard there wasn’t a chute.”
“Ah shit, that’s bullshit. Who told you that? Captain Wong? He’s from the goddamn Pentagon. He doesn’t know what’s going on.”
“Not Wong. Not an officer.”
Clyston scowled, holding it a little longer in case Greene couldn’t quite catch it in the darkness. “It’s still bullshit. Was the guy there? No. Geez, you know how these rumors get going. How long you been in the air force?”
“I never lost a guy. Never.”
“And you didn’t now.”
“I checked the rig as carefully as I could.”
“I know you did, Pearly. Listen, if something fucked up, it wasn’t the chute. I guarantee that. You’re the best rigger I ever met, and let me tell you, I’ve met a bunch. What the hell are you letting yourself worry for, huh? Crap, I guarantee the chute opened.”
Greene didn’t answer. A few guys, not many, but some, could totally divorce themselves from the job. Plane goes down, well hey, that’s show business.
Most though, and certainly the ones the Capo di Capo wanted working for him, felt it to the core. Caring was part of what made them so good. Guys like that, you could logic them to death about how it wasn’t their fault, and they still felt like they’d pulled the trigger on the SAM that took down the plane.
“Thing is, A-Bomb saw the chute,” offered Clyston.
“He did?”
“Damn straight. That’s what I heard, and you know no one’s lying to me and living to tell about it. A-Bomb saw the ejection. Which means he saw the chute. You know Captain O’Rourke. He doesn’t bullshit anybody, right?”
“Captain O’Rourke is okay.”
“Damn straight he’s okay. Listen, Johnson is on the ground cooking up some MREs right about now, probably heating them with one of your flares. Fucking officer, right?”
Greene laughed— weakly, but still it counted for something.
“Thing is, we’re going to get him back,” Clyston told him. “Colonel Knowlington’s going up himself.”
Even in the dark, Clyston could see Greene’s face light up. “The colonel. Wow.”
Clyston nodded solemnly. “You know if the colonel’s going up there, Major Johnson is on the way back.”
“No shit.”
“So the chute must have worked. Because Knowlington isn’t wasting his time heading into bad guy land for someone who’s not there.”
“Yeah, no way. Not the colonel. And he’ll get him back, too.”
“Damn straight. Go catch some Z’s, Sergeant.”
“I will. Thank you, Alan.”
“Yeah, yeah,” grunted Clyston, his legs already churning as he headed away.
By the time he found the colonel, Skull was partaking of a flight ritual his old crew chief recognized well from Thailand.
The pre-flight, below-wing pee. The good-luck piss. The best leak in the business, Knowlington called it.
Unofficially, of course. Doing your business on the edge of a runway wasn’t something a pilot ever did under any circumstances ever, not in the jungle, not in the desert, not anywhere.
And luck? No officer of the U.S. military was that superstitious.
“Combat has some advantages, huh Sergeant?” said Knowlington, business done. His aw-shucks grin made him look twenty-three again. “Have to try that at Andrews sometime and see what the reaction is. What’s up?”
“Nothin’.”
“Plane looks like she’s ready to fly. One of the candy men told me you had them rope on a pair of LUU-2 flares.”
“Thought they might come in handy.”
“I’m coming back. Don’t worry about me.”
“I wasn’t.”
Knowlington laughed. “Sure you were. That was the first time in your life you took a compliment without growling. Make sure the rest of the planes get off okay. If the frag gets screwed up because I took the spares, someone’s going to be pissed.”
It wasn’t like he’d come to say a lot, but Clyston found his tongue tied. “I will,” he managed, smiling and stepping back. Two airmen came over to make some final check and Clyston felt himself drifting back as the colonel jumped up the ladder and slipped inside the A–10A cockpit.