know what I'm
talking about?”
The sergeant grunted, frowned, then pointed toward a pair of general purpose tents a few
yards off. “Coffee's in there.
Anyone barks at you, tell ‘em Rusty sent you.”
“Thanks, Rusty.”
“Don't push it, sir,” said the sergeant, lumbering away.
***
Doberman found a corner of the desert near the bomb skids and resituated himself. He took
out his anger at the way
Mongoose had treated him on his equipment snaps, adjusting and readjusting his anti-g pants and the
rest of his gear.
He was mad at Mongoose, but the sergeant— Jimbo— had shaken him with all his talk about
dead men and luck.
Luck was a strange thing. It could easily run out.
Hell, he wasn't lucky. His skill got him here. He was a kick-ass pilot, one of the best in
the squadron. Everybody knew that. You relied on luck, they brought you home in
a bag.
Doberman looked up and saw A-Bomb ambling over, a Styrofoam cup hanging out of his mouth.
“Want some coffee?” A-Bomb asked.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Hey, relax, Dog Man. It's too early for a beer, right? Besides, we got more work to do.” He
reached into one of his pockets
and pulled out a small cupcake. “Want a Twinkie?”
“That's not a Twinkie. Twinkie's are rectangular. That's round.''
“No shit?” said A-Bomb, examining it. “All of them?”
“Yup.”
“How about that. Guy told me it was a Twinkie.”
“Where'd you get it?”
“Special Forces.” He thumbed back in their direction. “Tell them Rusty sent you.”
“I don't have time. Neither do you.”
“Shit, you're going to be here all day. Guy told me it'd be a miracle to have that plane
back in the air by dark.
Guess they lost their manuals or something.”
“No, I'm going up with you and Johnson. I'm flying Dixon's plane.”
“Really? How come?”
“Because the major told me to, that's why. And he had a rake up his butt when he did it.”
“Really? What happened to Dixon?”
Doberman shrugged. “Johnson thinks he screwed up.”
“Did he?”
“No way,” said Doberman. He wasn't sure why he felt so protective of the younger pilot all of
a sudden. Today had been only the third or fourth time they'd flown together. “The kid got turned around after
dropping his bombs and didn't hear the AWACS calling, that's all. I think he
was looking for me and just ignored them so he could stay up there longer.
Hell, that’s what I would do.”
A-Bomb nodded. Any self-respecting wingman would ignore
his own skin to save a buddy.
“Johnson got righteous about it,” Doberman added. “He shoves his hand in my face and
says, no discussion.”
This was a difficult concept for A-Bomb to fathom and he blinked his eyes trying to process
it. He pushed the cupcake into his mouth and gulped down the rest of the coffee. A full third of what was in
the cup splashed across his face and onto his suit, where it joined a well-established montage.
“He acts like he's got a stick up his ass sometimes,” Doberman said. “A fucking rake. He
just about told me I screwed up by getting my
plane hit.”
“Ah, you're exaggerating.”
“Listen, I heard a lot of stuff from guys who served in Germany with him. He's probably
frustrated because he's not head of the
squadron.”
“That's not Mongoose. He's a good guy, I told you. I've flown with him before. He knows his
stuff and he sticks by you. What the hell else
do you want?”
Doberman realized he was being harsh. It made sense to put your best pilots in the planes
that were going to the dance;
he probably would have done the same thing.
It was just the way the major went about it that had burned him. He could have been, well,
more diplomatic.
“He could have asked me if I wanted to bump the kid,” said Doberman.
“Yeah, and what would you have said?”
“I don't know.” Doberman shrugged, not wanting to admit he'd have pushed Dixon aside. “Hell,
he could at least have been more diplomatic.”
“There's a fucking war
talking about?”
The sergeant grunted, frowned, then pointed toward a pair of general purpose tents a few
yards off. “Coffee's in there.
Anyone barks at you, tell ‘em Rusty sent you.”
“Thanks, Rusty.”
“Don't push it, sir,” said the sergeant, lumbering away.
***
Doberman found a corner of the desert near the bomb skids and resituated himself. He took
out his anger at the way
Mongoose had treated him on his equipment snaps, adjusting and readjusting his anti-g pants and the
rest of his gear.
He was mad at Mongoose, but the sergeant— Jimbo— had shaken him with all his talk about
dead men and luck.
Luck was a strange thing. It could easily run out.
Hell, he wasn't lucky. His skill got him here. He was a kick-ass pilot, one of the best in
the squadron. Everybody knew that. You relied on luck, they brought you home in
a bag.
Doberman looked up and saw A-Bomb ambling over, a Styrofoam cup hanging out of his mouth.
“Want some coffee?” A-Bomb asked.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Hey, relax, Dog Man. It's too early for a beer, right? Besides, we got more work to do.” He
reached into one of his pockets
and pulled out a small cupcake. “Want a Twinkie?”
“That's not a Twinkie. Twinkie's are rectangular. That's round.''
“No shit?” said A-Bomb, examining it. “All of them?”
“Yup.”
“How about that. Guy told me it was a Twinkie.”
“Where'd you get it?”
“Special Forces.” He thumbed back in their direction. “Tell them Rusty sent you.”
“I don't have time. Neither do you.”
“Shit, you're going to be here all day. Guy told me it'd be a miracle to have that plane
back in the air by dark.
Guess they lost their manuals or something.”
“No, I'm going up with you and Johnson. I'm flying Dixon's plane.”
“Really? How come?”
“Because the major told me to, that's why. And he had a rake up his butt when he did it.”
“Really? What happened to Dixon?”
Doberman shrugged. “Johnson thinks he screwed up.”
“Did he?”
“No way,” said Doberman. He wasn't sure why he felt so protective of the younger pilot all of
a sudden. Today had been only the third or fourth time they'd flown together. “The kid got turned around after
dropping his bombs and didn't hear the AWACS calling, that's all. I think he
was looking for me and just ignored them so he could stay up there longer.
Hell, that’s what I would do.”
A-Bomb nodded. Any self-respecting wingman would ignore
his own skin to save a buddy.
“Johnson got righteous about it,” Doberman added. “He shoves his hand in my face and
says, no discussion.”
This was a difficult concept for A-Bomb to fathom and he blinked his eyes trying to process
it. He pushed the cupcake into his mouth and gulped down the rest of the coffee. A full third of what was in
the cup splashed across his face and onto his suit, where it joined a well-established montage.
“He acts like he's got a stick up his ass sometimes,” Doberman said. “A fucking rake. He
just about told me I screwed up by getting my
plane hit.”
“Ah, you're exaggerating.”
“Listen, I heard a lot of stuff from guys who served in Germany with him. He's probably
frustrated because he's not head of the
squadron.”
“That's not Mongoose. He's a good guy, I told you. I've flown with him before. He knows his
stuff and he sticks by you. What the hell else
do you want?”
Doberman realized he was being harsh. It made sense to put your best pilots in the planes
that were going to the dance;
he probably would have done the same thing.
It was just the way the major went about it that had burned him. He could have been, well,
more diplomatic.
“He could have asked me if I wanted to bump the kid,” said Doberman.
“Yeah, and what would you have said?”
“I don't know.” Doberman shrugged, not wanting to admit he'd have pushed Dixon aside. “Hell,
he could at least have been more diplomatic.”
“There's a fucking war
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