at King Fahd? Why
hadn't he realized it when he was slotting the pilots for the missions. Dixon was the only
lieutenant he'd had fly the first day.
Hell, there probably weren't more than a dozen lieutenants flying missions in A-lOs
today. Going deep, right
into the heart of Iraq— shit, what was I thinking?
He was a hell of a pilot, though. He had the stuff.
No, he had moves, but not the stuff. His eyes were empty. He was a liability in combat.
I made a mistake once; I can fix it now, Mongoose decided. I have to.
“I want you to trade planes,” he told Doberman. “You take Dixon's north with us. He can
hang out until yours is fixed enough to fly
home.”
“Jeez, Major, don't you think you're being kind of hard on him? I mean—”
“It's an order,” snapped Mongoose. “No discussion.” He turned before Doberman could react,
and went off to see how much
longer it would be before the planes were ready to go.
CHAPTER 11
AL JOUF FOB
0900
H e was a failure. He'd frozen and puked under
fire. Worse, he'd
just lied about it. Now he was trapped and ashamed.
But god, he'd never felt so scared in his life.
CHAPTER 12
AL JOUF FOB
0915
The way A-Bomb figured it, any base that had more
than a pup tent to it to have
at least a dozen coffeemakers going at any given moment. All he had to do was find one.
True, it was a bare-bones, front line operation, but
that was no reason to skimp. He figured the maintenance monkeys were just holding out on him
when they answered his questions about scoffing some joe with cross-eyed
stares.
You'd think he asked for tea or something.
A Special Forces unit had taken over a good portion of the base, adding homey touches like
sandbags and trenches. A-Bomb figured his best bet lay in that direction. He
soon found himself
staring into the business-end of a highly modified
Squad Automatic Weapon.
“Nice laser sight you got there,” he told the gun's owner, pushing the barrel away. “You
got any coffee?”
“Excuse me, sir,” spat the man, a sergeant who spoke
with a very pronounced Texas drawl. “This here area's off limits.”
A-Bomb smiled into the sergeant's face. The thicker the
accent, the further north they were born. “So you got any coffee?”
The soldier scowled. A-Bomb was at a slight disadvantage; he'd already decided he
wanted to save his other
cigar, and so had nothing to barter. His only option was flattery.
Fortunately, he had an easy subject.
“You do the work on that gun yourself, Chief?” he asked.
“This is a standard piece of machinery.”
“Shit. Besides the sight, the barrel's reworked, and if that's a stock trigger I'm Buck Rogers.”
The sergeant's lip upturned ever so slightly, but his expression could not be considered a
smile. “Jealous, Buck?”
“Nope. I'm just trying to figure a way to get my parachute rigger to fit a holster for
one on my vest here.”
“You probably have enough trouble not shooting yourself with that Beretta in your pocket. Sir.”
A-Bomb smiled. “Pick out a target.”
“Excuse me?”
“Pick out a target. You hit it first, I go away. I hit it, you point me toward some coffee.”
“Just go away.”
A-Bomb unsnapped the top of his holster— not on the Beretta, but on his personal weapon,
tucked into the opposite corner of his belt.
“Sir— ”
“Don't think you can outshoot a pilot?” grinned A-Bomb.
The sergeant's face balled up in anger, but he got only halfway into his crouch before the
discarded bottle he'd eyed forty yards away exploded in dust. He looked up at A-Bomb in disbelief.
“At least, I figure that's what you were aiming at,” said the pilot, pushing the
custom-built 1911 A2 Colt back into its pouch. “I don't bring the good sight
with me because you have
to conserve weight and all. With the plane.”
“You a gun nut?” asked the sergeant.
“Nah. I just like coffee. What do you say? Hate to kill Iraqis without a good shot of joe
going through my veins, you
hadn't he realized it when he was slotting the pilots for the missions. Dixon was the only
lieutenant he'd had fly the first day.
Hell, there probably weren't more than a dozen lieutenants flying missions in A-lOs
today. Going deep, right
into the heart of Iraq— shit, what was I thinking?
He was a hell of a pilot, though. He had the stuff.
No, he had moves, but not the stuff. His eyes were empty. He was a liability in combat.
I made a mistake once; I can fix it now, Mongoose decided. I have to.
“I want you to trade planes,” he told Doberman. “You take Dixon's north with us. He can
hang out until yours is fixed enough to fly
home.”
“Jeez, Major, don't you think you're being kind of hard on him? I mean—”
“It's an order,” snapped Mongoose. “No discussion.” He turned before Doberman could react,
and went off to see how much
longer it would be before the planes were ready to go.
CHAPTER 11
AL JOUF FOB
0900
H e was a failure. He'd frozen and puked under
fire. Worse, he'd
just lied about it. Now he was trapped and ashamed.
But god, he'd never felt so scared in his life.
CHAPTER 12
AL JOUF FOB
0915
The way A-Bomb figured it, any base that had more
than a pup tent to it to have
at least a dozen coffeemakers going at any given moment. All he had to do was find one.
True, it was a bare-bones, front line operation, but
that was no reason to skimp. He figured the maintenance monkeys were just holding out on him
when they answered his questions about scoffing some joe with cross-eyed
stares.
You'd think he asked for tea or something.
A Special Forces unit had taken over a good portion of the base, adding homey touches like
sandbags and trenches. A-Bomb figured his best bet lay in that direction. He
soon found himself
staring into the business-end of a highly modified
Squad Automatic Weapon.
“Nice laser sight you got there,” he told the gun's owner, pushing the barrel away. “You
got any coffee?”
“Excuse me, sir,” spat the man, a sergeant who spoke
with a very pronounced Texas drawl. “This here area's off limits.”
A-Bomb smiled into the sergeant's face. The thicker the
accent, the further north they were born. “So you got any coffee?”
The soldier scowled. A-Bomb was at a slight disadvantage; he'd already decided he
wanted to save his other
cigar, and so had nothing to barter. His only option was flattery.
Fortunately, he had an easy subject.
“You do the work on that gun yourself, Chief?” he asked.
“This is a standard piece of machinery.”
“Shit. Besides the sight, the barrel's reworked, and if that's a stock trigger I'm Buck Rogers.”
The sergeant's lip upturned ever so slightly, but his expression could not be considered a
smile. “Jealous, Buck?”
“Nope. I'm just trying to figure a way to get my parachute rigger to fit a holster for
one on my vest here.”
“You probably have enough trouble not shooting yourself with that Beretta in your pocket. Sir.”
A-Bomb smiled. “Pick out a target.”
“Excuse me?”
“Pick out a target. You hit it first, I go away. I hit it, you point me toward some coffee.”
“Just go away.”
A-Bomb unsnapped the top of his holster— not on the Beretta, but on his personal weapon,
tucked into the opposite corner of his belt.
“Sir— ”
“Don't think you can outshoot a pilot?” grinned A-Bomb.
The sergeant's face balled up in anger, but he got only halfway into his crouch before the
discarded bottle he'd eyed forty yards away exploded in dust. He looked up at A-Bomb in disbelief.
“At least, I figure that's what you were aiming at,” said the pilot, pushing the
custom-built 1911 A2 Colt back into its pouch. “I don't bring the good sight
with me because you have
to conserve weight and all. With the plane.”
“You a gun nut?” asked the sergeant.
“Nah. I just like coffee. What do you say? Hate to kill Iraqis without a good shot of joe
going through my veins, you
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