Read HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) for Free Online Page A

colonel, thought Dixon. He’d
been to Vietnam, nailed at least three MiGs there, lost some wingmen, flown
black missions against the Soviets in the ‘70s. The years had burned themselves
into the flesh of his face, pulling the skin tight against the bones of his
skull— probably not why he had gotten his nickname, but appropriate now. He was
wise and brave, the one guy you could always count on to tell you what to do,
to come to you through the static and bullshit.
    But had he seen anything like a little boy
convulsing with the shock of a grenade?
    “There just isn’t a slot for you on this ride,
BJ,” said the colonel. “I’m sorry.”
    “That’s all right.”
    “I know you want back in the game. There’ll be
plenty of time.”
    Dixon shrugged, or thought he did. He didn’t
really care one way or another.
    He rubbed his chin with his hand and stared at his
palm. It was whiter than the walls.
     
     
     

CHAPTER 8
    KING FAHD AIRBASE, SAUDI
ARABIA
    28 JANUARY 1991
    1255
     
    The temptation to jump in and lead the
mission himself lingered even as he finished giving them the lowdown. Colonel
Knowlington wanted nothing else in the world but to fly again, to grip his hand
around the stick and push the plane’s nose into a hail of antiaircraft fire.
    And stay there until the plane caught fire? Did he
have a death wish?
     Better to go out that way than in disgrace.
    Death wish— wasn’t that what drinking really was?
    Not for him.
    He couldn’t take the mission. He couldn’t, in
fact, stay on as commander any longer. He was finished.
    Telling them would be impossibly hard. Cleaner to
slip out, avoid the inevitable scene.
    He’d do it tonight, after they were off. He’d make
the calls as soon as this was taken care of, talk to the general, get the
paperwork in order, slip over to Riyadh and then home. He had friends who could
smooth the way.
    Knowlington asked if there were any questions,
scanning the pilot’s faces one more time, indulging a twinge of nostalgia. He’d
come to know them well:
    Doberman, who walked through life with a chip on
his shoulder because he was a good six or eight inches shorter than the rest of
the world, but was a better pilot than most of the world.
    Dixon, the nugget who’d come to the Gulf with tons
of raw skill but was a green as a fresh Christmas tree. Not green anymore, poor
kid.
    Hack, the former pointy-nose pilot who wanted
Skull’s job, and was now about to have it handed to him on a silver platter.
    Gunny, whose two months with the Marines had
convinced him he was a Marine. Antman, a Don Juan-type who seemed incapable of
breaking a heart or saying a bad word about anyone.
    And A-Bomb— hell, what could you say about A-Bomb?
A first-class one-of-a-kind screwball who could fly with his eyes closed, nail
his target, and then go back for more.
    There were others in the room, too, hundreds— ghosts
he’d flown with, guys who’d saved his butt and whose butt he’d saved, a whole
wing of them.
    “Colonel, I’d like to see about that reconnaissance
flight,” prompted Wong from the sideline.
    “Right. Let’s get going.” Skull snapped back to
the present, his mind churning down the to-do list. “We’ll brief the mission at
1400. Planes will be waiting.”
    He wasn’t going. He was quitting.
    “Hack, see me in my office a minute, would you?”
he added, heading toward the doorway and his duty. His tongue and throat felt
as if they had been scraped by steel wool.
    A quick drink would cure that.
    Knowlington had flown with a thousand guys in all
sorts of circumstances. Most of them had retired long ago.
    How had they done it? What had they said?
    Listen, the time’s here, I’m getting on, got to
watch out for my family, don’t have the thrill, getting tired of the bullshit,
need to make a little money for a bit . . .
    “Colonel?”
    Skull spun around in the hallway. Preston stopped
short and winced as if he expected Knowlington would slug him.
    “What,