“Jamaican,” said A-Bomb, nodding approvingly.
“Jamaican it is,” said Clyston. “Go ahead, have a cup.”
A-Bomb realized there would be payback involved, but he was too committed now to stop himself. He grabbed one of the sergeant’s porcelain buckets and chugged.
“Except for Dunkin’ Donuts,” he said, three sigs later, “this is the best joe I’ve had since the air war started.”
“Em privake stack,” said Tinman.
Like everyone else on base, A-Bomb couldn’t understand a word the Tinman said. “Excuse me?”
“He says it’s his private stock,” said Clyston. “I hear you and Captain Glenon are flying pretty far north today.”
“Yeah. Gonna play with some Special Ops guys.”
The capo nodded, then took a long sip of his coffee. “Far to go in a Hog.”
“We can handle it.”
“How’s Captain Glenon doing these days?”
“Doberman?” A-Bomb was genuinely surprised by the question. “He’s fine.”
“Luck holding out?” said the sergeant.
A-Bomb laughed. “Dog Man doesn’t believe in luck.”
“Do you?”
There was a serious note in Clyston’s voice, a hint that he wasn’t just making conversation. A-Bomb realized the time for payback had come.
But what the hell. This was real joe.
“Shit yeah, I’m superstitious as hell,” said A-Bomb. “What’s the matter, Chief? You worried we’re going to break your planes?”
“You guys? Nah.” Clyston nodded at the Tinman, who bent over an old toolbox below one of the workbenches. He opened it and removed a small, silver cross.
“Es got, no hurt,” said the Tinman, holding the small piece of metal in front of him as if it were a holy relic.
“What’s that?” asked A-Bomb.
“Kind of a good-luck charm the Tinman wants you to have,” explained the capo as the Tinman carefully handed over the small medal to A-Bomb. “St. Christopher’s Cross. Came from St. Peter’s. Blessed by the Pope in 1502.”
“No shit. Were you there, Tinman?”
The Tinman said something unintelligible to A-Bomb. Clyston only smiled. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was.”
A-Bomb turned the small pieces of metal over in his hand. It was tarnished and worn smooth. It had definitely been around.
“What’s the deal?”
The Capo gave him a half-wink. “Karma thing. Morale.”
“Iff will kept Cap G wholk,” said Tinman.
Clyston was still grinning. Obviously, this was a morale kind of thing for the Tinman’s benefit, part of some sort of elaborate capo plot to keep the old-timer churning.
The things you had to do to be top sergeant.
“He wants you to give it to Captain Glenon,” said the capo. “Go ahead, have some more coffee.”
A-Bomb eyed the pot but stayed where he was. “That’s going to be a problem,” he told them. “Doberman gets kind of touchy about superstitious stuff. You know him, Chief. He won’t even take souvenirs, right?”
The Tinman’s face had begun to grow red, and he looked obviously agitated. He started to say something, but Clyston put his hand up, silencing him immediately.
“Thing is, Captain,” said the Capo, “I’d appreciate it if you talked to him about.”
“I can’t make him do something he doesn’t want to do,” said A-Bomb.
“If you say you’ll ask him, that would be enough,” said Clyston, glancing at Tinman to make sure he was in agreement.
The old-timer nodded.
“I’ll see what I can do,” A-Bomb told them. Tin Man nodded some more. Obviously satisfied, he drifted off to another part of the shop, while A-Bomb helped himself to another cup of coffee.
“So where’s my cross?” he asked Clyston. “Don’t I need karma, too?”
The capo made a face. “You don’t believe in that superstitious crap, do you, Captain?”
“Nah,” said A-Bomb. “All I need is a good cup of joe. Mind if I fill my thermos? This is the kind of stuff you want to be drinking when you blow something up.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Doberman told A-Bomb when he mentioned the cross an hour or so later. They were suiting up for their mission.
“See the thing is, Tinman’s kind of superstitious is what I think,” said A-Bomb. “And Clyston has to keep him happy because the colonel’s sending him to Al Jouf…”
“Why does he have to be happy?”
“Dog, Tinman pretty much bends metal with his eyes, you know what I’m talking about? The guy really knows his shit.”
“He’s a fucking loony bird.”
“Yeah, but he’s gonna keep us in the air. Maybe he’s a shaman or something. Yeah, gotta be.”
“It’s all superstitious bullshit,” said Doberman. “I don’t believe in that crap.”
“How about that penny you carry around?”
As the words left his mouth, A-Bomb realized he had made a major mistake, but it was too late to take them back.
“That’s different.” Doberman’s face was so hot his bristle-top hair seemed to flutter with the heat. “That’s fuckin’ different.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean nothin’.”
“You think I’m lucky? I got the fuckin’ luck of Job. I busted my ass to learn to fly. I studied and practiced, that’s what I did.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Haunted crosses, shit.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to keep Clyston happy,” said A-Bomb. “He gave me this thermos full of coffee. Want some?”
Doberman zipped his flight suit. “Next thing you know, we’re going to have some stinking voodoo priest dancing on the wings. How the hell do you get involved in this crap, anyway?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
CHAPTER 11
Doberman rechecked the flap settings, then ran his eyes over the Hog’s instrument panel for one final make-sure-I’m-ready-to-go pass. He wasn’t rushing anything, especially today. Laying his hand gently on the throttle bar, he flexed his fingers and loosened his shoulder muscles, willing himself into something approximating a relaxed state. He swung his eyes back around the cockpit, inspecting the paraphernalia of his office: altimeter, fuel gauges, radio controls. These were the desk accessories no Warthog executive could live without.
At spec and ready to rock.
The plane whined gratefully as he fed her engines a full dose of octane and began galloping down the runway. Doberman blew an easy breath out of his lungs, pushing the battle-loaded Hog into the sky.
Designed in the 1970s, the A-10A was conceived as a close-in ground-support plane, built to give a lickin’ and keep on tickin’. Partly inspired by the success of the A-1 Skyraider in Vietnam, the plane was an excuse to dump serious iron on an enemy. The two AGM-65Bs Mavericks and four SUU-30s clusterbombs tied to Doberman’s wings represented one of several dozen ordinance variations typically carried by the Hogs. The Mavericks were guided with the help of an optical (in this case) or infrared camera in the missile’s nose; once locked on target by the pilot, the missile flew itself, leaving him free to play with others. A small screen on the right side of the dash was devoted to the Maverick’s display. While originally designed as an antitank weapon, the missile was effective against a variety of targets, as it had proven since the first day of the war.