Mongoose held his hands out. “I’m sorry,” he said, turning and repeating the words to his guards. Then he pulled himself up onto the truck, hesitating for just a second as he got his legs under him, wincing because of his knee, and willing the Hog to return.
CHAPTER 42
Over Iraq
22 January 1991
0450
Skull leaned into the Maverick’s screen, trying to sort out the shadow. It was small and faint, but wouldn’t that be what a body would look like? It was about a half mile east of a trio of abandoned, probably burnt-out buildings. That was exactly where a pilot hoping to vector a rescue helicopter in might end up— close enough to give the helicopters an easy landmark, but not too close to be found when the enemy searched the obvious hiding places.
Colonel Knowlington pitched the plane around and had it move through the bank quicker than he expected; he fought the impulse to snap back, letting himself ease onto the new course. He was right about the similarities with the old Spad. Not that you flew it the same, of course; it was more the way you thought about it, more the mindset. You saved those hard turns for when you were walking through shit.
“We got something?” A-Bomb asked.
“Not sure. Something warm, but I can’t tell yet. East of the buildings.”
“This is still a little south of where he’d be,” said A-Bomb. “But he could have walked down. Makes sense.”
Skull was too busy trying to wish the shadowy fuzz into focus to answer. The seeker head in the Maverick had been designed to home in on hot engines, and in fact all the experts said it could absolutely not be used as a night-vision device. As much as Knowlington would love to prove them wrong, he had to admit they had a point.
“Hey, we got something moving on the road ten, maybe twelve miles south,” said A-Bomb. “Uh, nine, ten o’clock.”
Skull immediately changed course. This time, there was no question what he was looking at — though it still felt a little like staring at an X-ray machine on monochrome acid.
“Yeah, okay,” he told A-Bomb. “Two trucks. Not very fast.” He glanced back at the artificial horizon, made sure he was level— without real points of reference and your eyes on the TV screen, it was very easy to get discombobulated. But his sense of balance was still at spec— his wings were perfectly paralleling the ground.
“They must be coming for him,” said A-Bomb.
The IR seeker glowed with the two vehicles moving slowly along the highway. The Hogs were approaching from seven o’clock at about eight thousand feet, moving at 320 knots. He flicked the viewer into narrow mode, increasing the magnification to six times but temporarily losing the trucks because the view was narrower. He held his course and they reappeared, fat and slow.
They might be going for Mongoose, but only if that shadow was really him. They might also just be passing through. They were still pretty far off; odds were they’d miss him, even if they searched the buildings.
Attack them and anyone in range of their radio might put things together.
Or not. Best just to splash them. Odds were they were working alone.
“We’ll do a quick circuit, see what else is around,” Skull told him. “You hear the beacon yet?”
“Negative. I keep trying.”
“Me too.”
They passed over the two trucks and rode out about three miles before banking back. There didn’t seem to be anything else out here.
Plinking the truck with the Maverick was child’s play. You flagged the crosshairs onto the target and locked it; the missile took care of the rest. Skull pushed the nose of his Hog down, accelerating slightly as he came back around toward the truck from the northeast. He had 5,500 feet, no wind to speak of, a nice smooth ride and a good view of the trucks on the screen. He was lower than he probably had to be but that would only increase his accuracy.
Skull locked on the engine and ready to fire.
As he closed, the reconsidered the situation. There were only two Mavericks aboard. He had to keep one if he was going to use it to see. That meant he had only one shot, and it seemed like a waste to take out such a soft target with it.
Better to use the cannon. Except that it was dark and they’d have to go even lower.
“Whatchya doin’, Skip?” asked A-Bomb.
“I don’t think these guys are worth a missile,” said Skull.
“They’re heading toward Goose. I can feel it,” said A-Bomb.
Skull pulled the Hog’s nose up, breaking his approach and swinging back to the north. “Want to get some shooting in?” Knowlington asked his wingman.
“Shit yeah.”
“Here’s the game plan. We’ll go back, fly a trail, you behind me. Get good separation. I’ll hit a flare; you come in and smoke ‘em. If we time it right, you should be able to splash both trucks on one pass. I’m pulling up and to the left; you go right.”
“I’m with you, Colonel. Let’s do it.”
“Watch your eyes. If you’re blinded, pull off and take another turn. I’ll be spinning around for your six.”
“Sounds good.”
Skull brought his Hog onto the course and reached for the throttle, pulling it out and bringing the nose down at the same time. The plane jumped downward, air shrieking around her as she bolted into the attack. He used the Maverick screen to help measure the distance, one finger up on the panel to kick out the LUU-2 flare. The Hog was low enough now to be heard and he expected ground fire at any second. It wouldn’t amount to anything but an annoyance— unless, of course, one of the Iraqis was packing the silver bullet.
Silver bullet came and got you no matter what. So you couldn’t waste your worry on that one.
Knowlington focused on the screen. He pushed himself down into the seat, trying to melt himself into the plane, make his muscles merge with it. The trucks glowed brighter and brighter in the TVM. He was just about to pass them and he yanked the stick— too hard he could tell— but he caught it quick, fired the flare, and now had his hands full, the Hog bucking above the flash. Temporarily he was lost. There was light everywhere and something popped in his head— a light snap and a burst, a thin string breaking— and he was in control, flying the plane, pushing up through five and then six thousand feet, going faster than he expected and banking into a turn, positioning himself to watch A-Bomb’s butt but also step in if he missed.
CHAPTER 43
On the ground in Iraq
22 January 1991
0500
This time, he knew it was a Hog, and he knew it was coming back. It came at him close and sudden, and he jumped to his feet in the moving truck, as excited as if a guardian angel had suddenly appeared in the sky. He pitched around toward the front of the truck, looked over the cab into the darkness, up at the crescent moon. He thought he saw the plane’s shadow pass in front, the moon winking at it as it dove to rescue him; thought he felt the thick wings of the Hog swoop to grab him and pluck him to safety.
In the next second, an LUU-2 parachute flare exploded overhead, the light of two million candles turning the desert brighter than a ballpark during the World Series. His whole face stung with the sudden light. Rifles next to him started to fire.
Then he realized what was happening:
The Hogs were going to smoke the truck.
Head down, still temporarily blinded, he pushed to get away, leaping and flailing toward the side of the vehicle. The earth roared behind him, hell opening up and spitting sulfur. Major James “Mongoose” Johnson felt himself lifted up, then flying through the air, brimstone and molten metal stinging his nostrils.
CHAPTER 44
Upstate New York
21 January 1991
2100
(22 January 1991; 0500, Saudi Arabia)
When she’d told them she’d speak at nine p.m., it had seemed like a very long time off. But it was here, and even though she had nothing to say, nothing more than she could have said a few hours ago, or even days, Kathy Johnson felt as if she h
ad to keep her commitment. She pushed the palms of her hands across her freshly laundered blue skirt and stood up from the couch.
Jean, her mother-in-law, turned her face from the television screen and looked up from her side.
“It’s time,” Kathy told her.
None of the others moved, not her father-in-law Bob on the small upholstered chair, or the two Air Force officers on the love seat at the far end of the room. Major Barbara Figundio, an information specialist and PR troubleshooter, stood in the door frame to the kitchen, where she had been helping herself to a sandwich.
“I’m ready,” Kathy said.
“You don’t have to go out there if you don’t want to,” said Figundio.
“I told them I would.”
“It’s still your call. You’re in charge.”
Kathy had no idea who might really be in charge of this thing, but it wasn’t her. “How’s my makeup?”
“Perfect,” said Jean.
“Looks good,” said the major.
She walked toward the door, pausing to catch her reflection in the mirror that hung near the far hallway.
She was still heavy from the baby. The knit sweater, a light blue, hid a bit of her midsection. Her hair needed to be cut, but she looked presentable.
The news people on the front lawn let out a shushing noise as she came out from the house, a cross between a sigh and a deep breath. They stood back a moment as she stepped forward, as if they were surprised she had remembered she said she would come out. Kathy gave a half-wave to the policeman, then beckoned the media people forward as if she were signaling to a shy child.
No shy child would have moved so quickly up the lawn. By now, there were more than two dozen reporters from all media, as well as their assorted camera crews and assistants. They came right up to the steps, barely leaving her six inches worth of personal space as they jostled to get their microphones and cameras into position. She smiled as best she could, waiting for them to settle in. When one or two pushed forward a little too close, she held her hand out, motioning them back like Halloween trick-or-treaters who’d gotten a little too eager for their candy.
She waited until everyone stopped fussing. It was remarkable what good manners they actually had.
She saw her breath in front of her as she opened her mouth to speak.
“My name is Kathleen Johnson and obviously you know why I’m here,” she heard herself say.
It was a good start. She remembered tricks from her college speech class: look people in the eye, be upbeat, replace the ums and uhs with pauses. When in doubt, silence looked smart.
“I really can’t say anything beyond what the Air Force has told you. My husband was a pilot when I met him and I’ve understood the risks since before we were married. He has an important job to do and . . . the, uh, the other members of the squadron are professionals and they have a job to do, too.”
Her voice wavered. All of a sudden she wasn’t sure what she was talking about— professionals? Well of course they were, but what was the point?
She could feel her lips starting to waver.
She was out here not just to answer questions, but to inspire others who might be in the same position. She couldn’t break down; that wouldn’t inspire anyone, except maybe the people who had shot down her husband.
She wanted to call an end to this quickly, but stopping would just make it worse. She ducked her head ever so slightly the way a horse might during a tough part of a race. “I’m sure Jimmy will be back in one piece very, very soon,” she said. “In the meantime, I’m fine and the rest of the family is fine. We appreciate the country’s concern.”
She smiled. Good enough.
She reached behind her for the door handle.
“You have no information on where your husband went down?” asked a reporter.
It caught her slightly off-guard. “Of course not,” she said. “And if I did, do you really think I would broadcast it to Saddam? He’s sure to be watching these reports. The man is a murderer; I’m not going to lead him to my husband.”
“The Air Force won’t tell you?”
The major bristled beside her; Kathy squeezed her arm before she could say anything. “The Air Force has been exceedingly helpful. They’re family,” she said, her voice sharp. “Are there other questions?”
“How is your little boy?” asked a woman reporter on her left. She recognized the voice— it was the person who had left the phone message.
“Well, almost sleeping through the night these days,” Kathy told her.
It was the same thing she told all the relatives— but the reporters took it as a joke and laughed.
“I remember those days,” said the woman.
“Could we have his age?” asked a man near her.
“Three months. Almost four.”
“Wow. That’s tough.”
“A lot of military families have more children and are in the same position as I am— well almost the same,” Kathy said. “What about you? Do you have children?”
“Two. And the first one had colic. I don’t think my wife or I slept for the first six months.”
“He took after his dad,” quipped one of the reporters. The others laughed.
“Well, Robby doesn’t have colic, thank God,” said Kathy. “But I really should get back to him. Are there other questions?”
“Has the President called yet?” said a man on her right.
“Why would the President call?” she asked him. His face looked vaguely familiar; Kathy believed she had seen him on TV but couldn’t quite place him.
“He said he would.”
“Could we listen in?” asked the jerk who had wanted her to direct Saddam to her husband.
“I’m sure anything he’d have to say would be private,” said Kathy. “And anything I’d say would be trivial. I don’t think he’s calling; I mean, I wouldn’t think he would. Not for this. It’s not, it’s not necessary.”
She felt her lip quivering. The Air Force people hadn’t told her about the President.
She didn’t think he’d be calling if it was good news.
The moon, a flat yellow crescent, caught her eye. Its glow seemed to brighten for a moment, twinkling with an obscure reflection. It warmed her, helped her catch her lip. She stared at it for a moment, wondered at how far away it was, how it hung there, constant.
“All right,” she said, feeling exactly how heavy and cold her hands had become. She wrapped them together across her chest. “I’m going back now. Thank you for coming.”
Thank you for coming? But what else would you say? She gave one last smile, then turned to the door.
“When will you talk to us again?” asked the jerk.
Never to you, she thought. But the cameras were still rolling; she didn’t want it to look as if she were running away.
“In the morning, unless I need you to watch the baby,” she said.
“Hey, I’m good at burping kids,” said the reporter whose child had been colicky. “Let me know if you need help.”
The others laughed and she smiled, squeezing back through the door.
Kathy took two steps inside before she began to shake. A moment later, she found herself crying on her father-in-law’s shoulder, nearly out of control even as he told her she had done real fine.
CHAPTER 45
Over Iraq
22 January 1991
0500
The first truck frothed beneath the weight of the bullets, crackling into dust as A-Bomb stood on the rudder pedals, walking the cannon back and forth through the son of a bitch like he was working a drill into a piece of diseased wood. His eyes stung a bit from the flare and the world had a bit of a washed-out tint to it but he wasn’t pausing even to blink them now. Keeping the A-10 in her dive, he eased off the trigger, giving the gun a brief rest before picking up the second truck. The bullets skipped out of the plane again, the kick pushing the Hog back as if the force of the gun alone could keep the plane in the air.
Somebody was aiming at him. He felt a flash from behind, small for a rocket and well behind him, but coming for him nonetheless. Without hesitating or waiting for Skull’s warning he goosed off some decoy flares and gave the Hog all the throttle she would take. A-Bomb closed his eyes against the new flare’s light but even when he opened them the glare was worse than flying through a blizzard with a pair of arc lamps strapped to the fuselage. It took an eternity for the plane to climb away. His eyes struggled to regain their night vision; he couldn’t even see his instruments.
Not that he needed them. This morning the Hog was just about flying herself. She did that, when the stakes got high enough. The plane wagged her fanny in the air as she climbed, now out of range of any shoulder-fired heat-seeker. From her point of view, it hadn’t taken long to get away at all. Her pilot said go and she went.
As A-Bomb brought the plane around and began looking for his lead, he saw that one of the two trucks had caught fire.
He decided he’d get the other on his next swing.
“What was with the flares?” asked Skull.
“I felt something.”
“I had your six. Bring your course around another forty degrees.”
“I was thinking another pass.”
“Negative,” snapped the colonel. “You wiped their asses on your first pass. No sense wasting any more bullets. You see me yet, or you need me to key the mike?” he added, offering to use the radio as a crude direction finder, since the A-10A’s gear could show the direction of transmission.
Hogs #2: Hog Down Page 16