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

green-hulled warplane waddled
off the runway: bits and pieces of flesh scattering in the wind, soot covering
his face. The boy’s eyes open and clear, irises a brilliant green.
    Why did God let that happen? Why the kid and not
him? It was Dixon’s job to die, not the boy’s.
    BJ rubbed his cheeks, then stared at his hands. He
expected them to be black with soot, but they were clean.
    There hadn’t been time to buy the kid, or even do
more than make sure he was dead. Dixon had been jerked away by the others on
the team, strapped into a harness, and snatched from the ground by a MC-130E
Combat Talon Fulton Surface-to-Air Recovery. Propelled through the air by a
flying slingshot, he’d dangled in the wind before being cranked into the bay of
the big combat cargo plane. The grenade, the kid, the plane blurred into the
tunneling hush of air around his ears. Infinite shades of black and brown wove
ribbons around his head as he rambled weightless, helpless, through space.
    Had it happened at all?
    He saw himself going to the child, bending down.
    But he hadn’t done that, had he? He’d stayed back,
afraid of what he would see.
    No, he’d been there, holding the kid when the
grenade exploded. He remembered that specifically.
    But no way he would have survived if he had held
the kid.
    But he remembered it, could feel the shock wave
reverberating through his bones, shaking his arm nearly out of its socket.
    Too much of this . He was losing his mind.
    Dixon rubbed his fingers across his face and began
walking toward Oz, Devil Squadron’s maintenance area. Four of the squadron’s
eleven planes— they’d lost one earlier in the war— were being repaired and
prepped for action. Techies swarmed back and forth, oblivious to him.
    Dixon looked at his hands. His fingers ought to be
filthy dirty, but they remained clean, stark white, not even pink. The deep
bruises on his ribs and arms had already begun to heal; soon, there’s be no
trace of his ordeal.
    Too much of this.
    “Yo, BJ, what are you doing out of bed?”
    Dixon turned. Captain John “Doberman” Glenon, one
of the squadron’s senior pilots, stood in front of an empty bomb trolley,
shaking his head.
    “What are you doing?” Doberman repeated. “You’re
supposed to be resting?”
    BJ shrugged.
    “Restless?” Glenon didn’t bother waiting for the
obvious answer. “Come on. Colonel’s rounding up some guys for a meeting. He’d
probably want you there.”
    Without saying anything, Dixon fell in behind
Doberman as he cut past the hangars and aircraft in a beeline for Hog Heaven,
the squadron’s headquarters building. Though several inches shorter than Dixon,
Glenon threw his legs forward like he was flicking switchblades; Dixon fell
steadily behind.
    “Yo, Antman,” Doberman shouted to a thin black
lieutenant talking to a pair of women officers near the building.
    Lieutenant Stephen Depray turned around abruptly.
    “Come on. Old Man’s looking for heroes.”
    “Excuse me ladies,” said Antman, bowing.
    Ladies? Did anyone call women ladies anymore?
Ladies— like it was all a fairy tale.
    Maybe it was. Dixon’s eyes seemed to have lost
their focus. Stray sounds cluttered his ears. His boot stubbed against the
metal steps as he followed the others into the building. He caught his balance
on the door jamb, and pushed inside. When the door slammed shut behind him the
muscles in his throat gripped at his windpipe. He felt claustrophobic.
    Colonel Knowlington had commandeered Cineplex for
the meeting. Cineplex, a largish open room with refrigerators, a microwave, and
a couch, featured a massive big-screen TV, hence its name. The television had
been turned off— Knowlington obviously meant business.
    “Captain, Lieutenant,” said the colonel as they
entered. “BJ? What are you doing here?”
    “I thought you wanted me, sir,” said BJ.
    Knowlington’s eyes burned into his forehead.
    Maybe that’s where the soot was— Dixon reached his
fingers to rub it