Hogs #3 Fort Apache Read Free Page B

A-Bomb. “Hell,
we’re flying and things are slow, I take a nap in the cockpit. Right, Dog Man?”
    “The snores are unreal,” said Doberman. “Now deal the fuckin’
 cards.”
    “You want a beer, Wong?” asked Hernandez.
    “He ought to pay for a round,” suggested Sullivan.
”He’s the new guy.”
    “I am not drinking beer,” said Wong. “And I will not
contribute to your dereliction by purchasing any. It is against the custom and
law of the country.”
    “Shit, Wong, are you for real?” asked Hernandez.
    “He’s busting your chops. Go ahead, it’s on him,” A-Bomb
said. “He’s got a tab.”
    “Why does everyone on this base think I’m making jokes?”
Wong asked. “And since when do I have a tab here?”
    “I set it up,” said A-Bomb. “You can thank me later.”
    “Hey, are we playing cards or what?” demanded
Doberman.
    “You’re pretty antsy for somebody who’s got butkus,”
said Sullivan. “Or do you suddenly believe in luck?”
    “Fuck you.”
    “Dogman ain’t lucky at planes or cards,” said A-Bomb.
    “Shit, yeah, he is,” said Sullivan. “Nobody in the world
could take so many bullets and keep flying.”
    “Hell, that ain’t luck. Hog loves to take bullets,”
said A-Bomb. “Holes in the wing make it fly faster.”
    “Just because I know what I’m doing and you don’t,
doesn’t mean I’m lucky,” said Doberman.
    “Yeah, right,” Sullivan said.
    “You ever fly your crate home without hydraulics?”
    “Last card down,” said A-Bomb, dishing Wong’s card to
begin the final round.
    The plastic beads walling off the room parted,
revealing Lieutenant Jack “Happy Face” Gladstone , who, contrary to his nickname,
perpetually frowned.
    “Colonel needs to see you right away, Captain,” he
told Doberman. “Wants you, too, sir,” he told Wong.
    Wong immediately pushed his chair back and rose.
    “Whoa! Wait a second. We got a hand to finish here,”
said Sullivan.
    “Guess I might as well come, too,” said A-Bomb,
putting the deck down and standing. “What’s going on, Smile Boy?”
    “Hey come on, let’s finish the hand,” said Doberman.
“Where the hell are you guys going? Wong, get back here. A-Bomb.”
    “Colonel’s pissed about something,” said Gladstone.
“The capo told me he was over in the Bat Cave a little while ago. That’s all I
know.”
    “Uh-oh,” said A-Bomb. The “capo” was the wing’s top
sergeant, Chief Master Sergeant Allen Clyston, a man wise in all things and
with more sources than the CIA. A-Bomb scooped up the pot.
    “Hey,” said Sullivan. “We can finish the hand.”
    “Colonel wouldn’t be asking to see us this time of
night unless it was real important,” said A-Bomb. “I’ll cash out everybody on
the way over to Hog Heaven.”
    “Shit, he doesn’t want all of us,” said Doberman. He
had already decided this must be an administrative thing; the squadron DO was
due to be shipped home, and Doberman was among those in line for the job.
    Not that he wanted it.
    “You ain’t goin’ nowhere without your wingman watching
your butt,” said A-Bomb. “I’m trusting you guys to remember what you bet that
last round,” he added, stalking away.
    Sullivan cursed and tossed his cards down. Doberman
took a deep breath and rose, the last one in the room.
    His next card was lying face down on the top of the
pile.
    He hesitated for a second.
    More than likely, it was a five or a seven or even
another king or queen, something in diamonds or hearts.
    More than likely, Gladstone had just saved him a
bundle.
    He started to walk out the room, got as far as the
beads, turned back. Doberman reached down and flipped over the card.
    Jack of spades.

CHAPTER 4
    OVER
IRAQ
    24
JANUARY 1991
    2203
     
     
    T he first
thing Dixon felt was overwhelming
numbness.
    The next thing he felt was a severe yank against his
chest.
    The chute had opened.
    Already? It should have taken at least twenty seconds
to fall down to 30,000 feet. He’d