Hogs #1: Going Deep by DeFelice Jim

Author:DeFelice, Jim
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Coyote, Inc.
Published: 2012-10-18T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 29

KING FAHD ROYAL AIRBASE

1900

Dixon debriefed with one of the intelligence officers in the hangar area. He answered questions about the bomb damage and other questions about the mission succinctly, with as little detail as possible. It helped that the officer had already spoken with the others and written the report. Over-burdened, the lieutenant was as anxious as Dixon to be done with the interview.

Dixon told him he’d fired the Mavericks very poorly, no matter what the tape showed. He told him about seeing the radar dish and then losing it; he admitted that his memory now was so hazy it might not even have been a dish– especially since they now were pretty sure Doberman’s missile had blown it to pieces. As for the cluster bombs, he said he hadn't seen them hit, and frankly doubted they had done much damage, because he knew he had pickled them from too high an altitude. Their fuses had undoubtedly ignited too high, causing the bomb pattern to disperse too widely.

Leaving out the details about how he'd panicked and run away might not have been lying, but he felt inside like he had committed high treason. The only thing worse was the cowardice that had led him to it.

The pilot slipped away, then wandered aimlessly through Tent City, working off the raw anxiety churning in his stomach. When anyone greeted him, he either shrugged or looked beyond them, continuing on.

He did this for more than an hour. Finally realizing he was hungry, he started in search of food, then lost interest. Somehow, he found himself in the canvas GP or general purpose tent he shared with two other lieutenants.

It was empty. Erected on a concrete pad, the tent and its furnishings were an odd mix of monkish austerity and modern luxuries. His pillow was a scavenged sack filled with T shirts; one of his "bunkies" had shipped in a stereo setup worth several thousand dollars. The stereo nightly accounted for half of the unit's theoretical power allotment.

Dixon sat on the edge of his cot, the mission replaying over and over in his head. He'd been fine, cocky even, until Doberman pushed ahead to start his Maverick run.

He followed. They started taking flak very, very high unaimed triple-A, much thicker than had been predicted.

The next thing he knew, he was in a cloud of gunfire, a few feet from making a permanent impression on Iraqi real estate. Everything streaked together in a nightmare blur.

He was such a god damn great pilot— how could he panic like that? How could he screw up? That wasn't him.

William James Dixon never ever screwed up. He had an A average through high school, and was summa cum laude in college, even with a heavy athletic schedule. Aced every test from grade school to flight school.

And failed the only one that counted.

How many linebackers had tried to shake him up on the gridiron, get him to lose his cool? Couldn't happen.

But it had.

Dixon took his silver Cross pen

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