Hogs #3 Fort Apache Read Free Page A

possibility
of winning with a flush or a straight, let alone a royal flush. But he was so far ahead tonight, he could afford to play a
wild long shot. In fact, he’d been doing that all night, a complete reversal of
his usual poker operandi, which had brought completely unexpected
results: He was winning.
    The pilots were playing in a back room of the Depot,
an off-base club located in what seemed to have been an old bomb shelter
literally yards from the King Fahd runway. Who ran it, let alone who had built
it, was unknown. Some guys said it sprung whole from the desert after too many
GIs had too many wet dreams; you didn’t have to take more than a step into the
hazy interior to believe that was true. The uniforms the waitresses wore
covered less than the average postage stamp. There was a floor show, a cage
show, and a ceiling extravaganza – not to mention several rooms that even A-Bomb
advised weren’t to be entered.
    The official attitude toward the club was difficult to
gauge. On the one hand, it was the epitome of everything prohibited in Saudi
Arabia. On the other hand, at least one two-star general was known to be among
the frequent “guests.” The Devil Squadron Commander, Colonel Knowlington,
didn’t approve but didn’t censure, either. The other squadron commanders were
equally ambiguous.
    “I’ll see Wong’s raise, and go five more,” snapped the
player to Doberman’s left, Kevin Sullivan. Captain Sullivan had three fours on
the table. Normally, his cherubic expression could be counted on to give his
hold cards away. But he had worn a consistent scowl from the very first hand,
and for the past hour had growled nearly as sharply as the plane he piloted, an
AC-130 mean-ass gunship armed with a variety of cannons and a very nasty
temper. Sullivan was a particularly poor loser, and like everyone else at the
table except Captain Bristol Wong, was down heavily to Doberman.
    Who had been advertised as the night’s pigeon.
    “You guys are too rich for me,” said A-Bomb, folding.
Richie Stevens did the same. Wong, who was showing two pair, aces high, pushed
forward five chips. The intelligence officer, on loan from the Pentagon G2 staff, had been advertised as the night’s
pigeon. He’d proven anything but: only Doberman’s incredible string of luck had
held him in check.
    Not that Doberman thought it was luck exactly.
    “Out,” said Hernandez, throwing down his cards.
    The bet was back to Doberman. Statistically speaking,
his best hope was to land another three, and that wouldn’t even beat what
Sullivan was showing. The way he read the table, Sullivan and Wong were both
riding full houses; all he was doing was making the pot fatter for them,
something he’d been doing all night.
    And yet, if he pulled a jack of spades, how sweet that
would be. The odds on getting a royal flush were astronomical: well into the
millions. On the other hand, having been dealt the four cards to start with,
the odds really weren’t that ridiculous. In fact, they were no worse than 1 out
of 32, since Doberman already knew the card he needed wasn’t lying face up on
the table.
    Still a long shot. But he’d never had a night like
this before.
    “Call,” he said, pushing forward a five-dollar chip.
    “Feeling lucky?” mocked A-Bomb. “Oh, I forgot, you
don’t believe in luck. So how come you’re in?”
    “Just deal the cards,” Doberman told him.
    “For somebody that doesn’t believe in luck, he’s sure
riding high,” said Sullivan.
    “I got the luck of Job,” said Doberman.
    “Anybody want a beer?” Hernandez asked.
    “I’ll take one,” said A-Bomb. “See if you can get some
of those scorcher wings. I showed Manny or whatever his name is in the back how
to pep them up with that hot sauce I got the other day.”
    “When did you have time to do that?” asked Hernandez.
Like A-Bomb and Doberman, he was a Devil Squadron Hog driver. “Don’t you
sleep?”
    “Shit, I sleep all the time,” said