Hogs #2: Hog Down

by DeFelice, Jim

  Still, he kept his curses to himself. Even if the guy was just a Marine, you didn’t dis him in the air.

  Certainly not when he was ahead of you in the tanking queue.

  When it was his turn, A-Bomb practically rammed his nose into the long nozzle at the back of the KC-135. The boomer, sitting in the rear of the plane and controlling the refueling apparatus, was supposed to do all the work, but A-Bomb didn’t have time to mess around; case like this, he figured, they ought to have do-it-yourself service. Stick your credit card in the slot and pump it yourself.

  The pilot thumped his leg with his hand as the fuel rushed into the Hog’s empty tanks, trying to increase the flow with his own hurried beat. He was off the straw and cranking back toward Iraq faster than a kid skipping out on a bar bill.

  Not that he didn’t trust the F-16s to do a good job looking for Mongoose and protecting him. It was just that, some things were better done by a Hog.

  The F-16C Fighting Falcon was a good aircraft, a fine, all-around, all-purpose jet. Designed and first flown in the seventies, it had been built ground-up as a close-in dogfighter, a lightweight plane that could actually out-duel an F-15 up tight and carry a full load of bombs through high-g maneuvers. Except for the odd position of the stick – it was alongside you instead of in front of you– it was a sweet thing to fly. There were a million of them in theater, doing everything from reconnaissance to bombing to combat air patrol.

  But they weren’t Hogs. A Hog carried sixteen thousand pounds of bombs without thinking about it. A Hog lived in the mud. A Hog just flew and flew and flew.

  And a Hog took care of its own. Part of the rescue package or not, equipped for night operations or not, A-Bomb belonged there. Hell, he’d haul Mongoose into the helicopter himself if it came to that. Land in the desert, hop out, pitch him in, and take off again.

  An A-10 probably could do that. Just no one thought to try it yet.

  A-Bomb tracked back in a straight line, or as straight as any fighter pilot would fly riding into Injun territory without stealth or 120,000 feet between him and the ground.

  “You’re back?” Boa One asked as A-Bomb returned to the area where Mongoose had gone down. “I thought you just left.”

  “Where’s my guy?”

  The Vipers hadn’t heard a thing. They had scanned the wreckage pretty well, and gone low and slow— for F-16s— over the entire area. But they’d seen and heard nothing. Nor had any of the other assets.

  Not good news.

  A-Bomb nosed the Hog down toward the mud, deciding to trace this thing out. First stop was the underpass where they had encountered the SAMs. The site had been pounded again and it absolutely glowed, as if it were a radioactive dump.

  As he approached, aiming to duplicate Mongoose’s pass, he saw a black shadow coming down the road. He nosed forward, made it as an Iraqi army vehicle, a deuce-and-a-half troop-type truck. He lit his cannon, splashing bullets into the thick vehicle. As it veered off into the sand, A-Bomb caught the ground sparkle of the soldiers emptying their rifle clips at him as he started to pull off. The bullets helped him hone in on the target despite the darkness; he pressed on and fired his own cannon, whacking the truck with a quick burst that ignited a pretty fireball from the gas tank.

  The Viper pilots were jabbering in his ear as he pulled off, asking if he needed assistance.

  “Next time,” he told them, taking a quick orbit around the truck roast. When he was sure nothing was moving down there or nearby, he spun his plane in the direction he had last seen Mongoose taking. He couldn’t be precisely sure of where the major had been, though, and the difference of a small angle would mean a lot.

  Plus it was really dark now. Too dark to see with anything but his gut.

  Here was the wrecked Hog, lying in pieces strewn across the earth.

  A-Bomb pushed his plane down, trying to get another look at the fuselage. He had to face the fact that Mongoose might not have gotten out.

  He was going almost slow enough to land. Even so, there was no way to see anything more than a few mangled shadows. Three circuits and he still couldn’t tell for sure if he’d really found the plane, let alone whether Mongoose was still in it.

  For what felt like the millionth time, A-Bomb keyed the emergency frequency, looking for his flight leader. The only answer was static.

  He put the Hog at two thousand feet and made for the buildings again.

  If Mongoose was down there, too much close attention like this would draw the enemy. But damn it, he had to find him so the helos could come and pick him up. All he needed was one little flare, and he’d have the choppers here in no time. They liked making their pickups in the dark.

  The Boas handed off to a second pair of F-16s.

  Still nothing.

  “We’re not giving up on you,” the controller assured A-Bomb when he suggested Devil Two return to base. “But, uh, you’ve been flying a long time now.”

  “I’ve got plenty of fuel.”

  “We copy, sir. We copy.”

  He didn’t add “but,” though it was clearly implied.

  But.

  But common sense said the longer A-Bomb stayed up, the less efficient he was going to get. And hell, it was dark. The Hog was many things, but it wasn’t a night fighter.

  Shit, thought A-Bomb, all I need is a damn flashlight.

  At some point, even U.S. Air Force Captain Thomas O’Rourke had to be realistic. Common sense said that there was a reason they weren’t getting a transmission from Mongoose.

  Common sense said he wasn’t going to find him in the dark. Sooner or later he would have to call it a day.

  A-Bomb keyed the emergency frequency again, then cut his throttle back ten percent, hoping to push “sooner or later” a bit further out.

  Chapter 23

  Southern Iraq

  21 January 1991

  1945

  Mongoose had walked nearly a half mile from the road, and begun to parallel it south toward a clump of low trees, before realizing that he had left the seat’s survival pack back where he landed. He stopped, nearly slapping his forehead with his right hand, though he was still holding his pistol.

  He spun around to go back, then stopped himself.

  “Checklist mode,” he said aloud. “Think, don’t react.”

  To get the pack, he would have to cross the road again. It was getting truly dark and he might not make it back here, let alone to the trees. He wanted to be near them to direct the helo in when it came.

  The seat pack had a spare radio and more flares. Mongoose debated whether they were worth getting. He already had a radio. He had his water, the gun, his knife, some flares. Going back would take at least a half-hour, maybe more; he might or might not find his way back.

  If the Iraqis had found the chute and seat, they might be there now, setting an ambush or booby-trapping them.

  He had to keep away from the enemy, make contact with an allied plane, and hang tight until the rescue team got there. The seat pack wasn’t essential. It was a backup really. He could do without it.

  Probably get picked up in a few minutes.

  Mongoose felt a twinge in his knee as he squatted and holstered his gun. The pain at the back of his head had settled into a steady but low rhythm, vaguely reminiscent of the throb of an out-of-tune Chevy Camaro he’d owned as a teenager. He could live with the thump and his slightly strained knee; all things considered he was in great shape.

  The survival radio felt like a thin Walkman in his hand as he made another transmission. The squelch sounded a bit different, but there wasn’t an acknowledgment. He flipped over to the beacon, broadcast a while, waited.

  A-Bomb would have the helos on their way. Best to find a landmark to steer them toward.

  The trees. He started walking again.

  * * *

  When he was less than fifty yards from the trees’ shadows, they began to move. He stopped, drew his pistol, slid down into his crouch. Mongoose told himself it must be t
he wind, even though the movement seemed human. He rocked his upper body back and forth, scanning with the gun, waiting for the shadows to either stop moving completely or separate.

  Neither happened. He straightened slowly, pulling the gun back close to his body. The trees were hardly tall enough to be worth calling them that; they had thin, bent trunks and scraggly tops. Not even a kid could have hidden behind them had there been daylight.

  But in the dark their shadows were a thick blur. Though he’d been watching the copse for probably close to an hour now, Mongoose was no longer sure of it, or himself; he couldn’t trust his eyes. He began sidestepping, moving to his right, gun still drawn against an ambush.

  If an Iraqi soldier was hiding in the copse, he’d have wasted him by now. This distance with a rifle, he’d be diced.

  Or maybe not. The guy might be scared, not know whether Mongoose was armed or not— might not even know he was the enemy.

  Why would he be waiting, then?

  Mongoose ducked as he saw something move. He pushed the gun out, steadied it with both hands.

  Nothing.

  He sidestepped some more. The copse was small, with a half-dozen trees, its circumference twenty yards tops. The ground tilted toward it, as if it were the bottom of a bowl.

  The night was as quiet as the inside of a funeral home at midnight.

  Something moved again. This time Mongoose was sure it was a man taking aim at him, and fired.

  * * *

  The crack of the gun had a hollow sound that lasted for what seemed like hours, not an echo but the long strand of the only noise in a deep vacuum of silence. Mongoose strained to keep his finger from pushing the trigger again, waiting for a muzzle flash to show him where to aim. Sweat started to drip across the back of his cheek, even though he was colder than he’d ever been in his life.

  There was no muzzle flash. He resumed his sidestep, quicker now, knowing that if no one had returned his fire there was no one there. The movement and shadows had only been his imagination, but still he felt his stomach boil.

  * * *

  When he had circled the copse, Mongoose pushed forward to the trees, closing his eyes as he passed between two trunks into the small clearing at its center. When no one rushed him, he opened them again and saw there was a small depression here, almost a trench. He plopped down and took one more look around, told himself aloud he was all right, then laid his pistol aside and yanked at his vest, grabbing for one of the water packets. He tore it clumsily and drank in a gulp, losing a good portion down his face and neck.

  It took a lot to keep from ripping open another.

  “You have to make this stuff last a while,” he said to himself, against speaking out loud, though this time in a whisper. “It’s your job.”

  Mongoose took his radio out and came up on the emergency frequency once again, broadcasting first in beacon mode and then voice.

  Still no answer. He couldn’t understand that. Except for the brief flutter when he first landed, the radio had been silent. There ought to be a good amount of traffic up here; certainly someone should be in range to pick him up.

  Mongoose gave another burst, held the small radio to his ear, listening.

  Was the damn thing even working? He could hear static. He shook it, listened again. Half the air force ought to be close enough to hear him.

  Not to mention A-Bomb.

  Unless he’d been bagged, too. Mongoose didn’t know what had hit him; it had happened so fast he hadn’t really been able to tell. He thought it was probably a shoulder-fired heat-seeker, even though there had felt like too much damage for that.

  He stopped himself from replaying the hit. He had to stay in the present, the future. Mongoose tried the radio again, then checked his watch. He’d wait fifteen minutes before transmitting again. The battery wouldn’t last forever.

  It was possible that there was something wrong with the radio. He might be transmitting, but not receiving. Or some vagary with the altitude, the clouds, sun spots, or fate might be screwing him up.

  Checklist mode.

  Time to move on. He had to face the possibility that he was going to be spending the night.

  A very strong possibility.

  It was cold. The wind was starting up again, and that only made things worse.

  This was the only sheltered area nearby, and any group of Iraqi soldiers would undoubtedly head for it if they were searching the area. He would have to leave it, go far enough away to be safe, but still close enough to use it to guide the air-rescue chopper in if it came.

  Not if. When it came.

  Now the shadows of the trees felt comforting, as if they could protect him. And there was wood on the ground, maybe enough to start a small fire, something to keep warm.

  Not enough wood to make it last very long. And it would definitely risk alerting the Iraqis.

  The guy in the pickup might have taken care of that already.

  The time to start the fire was an hour or two before dawn. He’d minimize his exposure to the Iraqis. Most of them would have given up searching by then, or at least taken a break.

  But shit, he’d be frozen solid if he didn’t do something to warm up.

  The faint whisper of Hog fan jets in the distance turned his head around with a jolt.

  His imagination?

  Or A-Bomb, looking for him?

  He listened again, trying to blank his mind. Nothing. It had been a trick of his imagination, a tease of fear like the shadows had been.

  Even so he took out his flare set, loaded the small gun with a pencil flare, poised to fire.

  Complete silence and not a moving shadow in the sky.

  Checklist mode.

  He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but he didn’t feel hungry yet. Which was a fairly good thing – there were no Big Macs lying around, and the nearest falafel stand was quite a hike.

  He had to leave the copse. He squatted down and began to re–inventory his gear, justifying the delay with the thought that it was the last time he might have a chance to do so before morning. He took each item out and placed it directly in front of him, the way a little kid might take stock of his Hot Wheels or baseball card collection. The ritual of touching each piece of equipment was comforting, reminding him that he had the tools to get out of this alive. Besides the survival radio and gun, Mongoose had a flashlight, three smoke-flares, the tiny flare gun and its bandoleer of flares, a compass, a strobe light, a whistle and matches, his maps, and Kath’s letter.

  He held the still-sealed envelope in his hand as he continued examining his equipment. A magnesium striker — ought to be good for a few laughs, trying to spark kindling.

  Hell, he’d done that in Boy Scouts, for christsakes. Pretty damn well, too. He had a merit badge for camping, didn’t he?

  A couple of them. No shit.

  He loved the survival hikes; just take a backpack and walk for a couple of days. What you carry is what you got. You can live off the land, if you’re tough enough.

  For some reason he remembered his Boy Scout days better than the survival course he’d taken. Maybe because they had been so much fun, and the SERE had just been wet. His buddies in the Scouts would have loved a challenge like this.

  Well, they would have said they would. Deep in enemy territory, on your own? They probably had talked about this kind of thing, not dreaming or wishing it, exactly, just kind of playing, the way kids did.

  Wouldn’t his friends Blitz and Beef like to get their hands on this knife? Huge, well-sharpened blade and a round pearl handle, acquired two years before at a pawn shop in Germany.

  Not a pawn shop. Some sort of specialty store.

  Whatever. Checklist mode. Stow memory lane and play it back forever, to warm you up.

  Stock taken, his next job was to move away from here. Again he contemplated firing a flare, but told himself he had to conserve them, wait until he heard something nearby. Besides, the Iraqis would be searching for at least a few more hours. Even though the
flares were made so they would be difficult to see from the ground, they were not necessarily invisible, and he didn’t want to do anything that might encourage them to keep looking.

  When he heard a plane or got an acknowledgment on the radio, of course, that would be different. But in the meantime, Job One, Item A, was to survive. And that meant being as low-key as possible.

  Mongoose returned all of his equipment to its various nooks and crannies in his survival suit.

  The last item was the letter.

  He considered reading it, and even slid his finger to the pasted flap before stopping.

  It could be bad news. Kathy could be telling him she’d found someone else and wanted a divorce.

  Oh, yeah, right. Like that would really happen.

  They were always good news. In the last letter, she’d written about how Robby could almost say “daddy.”

  Not bad for a three-month-old.

  He was almost four-months now. He didn’t feel a picture in the envelope, but you never knew unless you opened it.

  A picture would keep him going.

  Mongoose slipped his finger under the side of the paper. It was one of those tissue-thin jobs, where the writing paper folds up to become the envelope.

  He’d feel a photo, and there wasn’t one here. If he opened the letter, it would be impossible to keep from reading it.

  He ought to ration it like the water, spread it out so it would last. Read a few lines then stop.

  No way he could do that. It wasn’t like stopping at just one water packet. He would read one sentence and his eyes would automatically grope for the next. And then the next. He’d have to use his flashlight and it would take five, ten, fifteen minutes.

  He had to get going. This was the first place the Iraqis would look if they came for him.