Skull let go of the trigger and the plane bucked so sharply he thought he had flamed the engines. His stomach kicked some familiar juices up toward his chest and he recovered, knew where he was, realized the plane was fine. He lit the gun again, this time for a much quicker burst, lining up on a truck at the very end of the column, but missing it. He was by it and pulling off, his rhythm back, his heart pounding. Damn! It had been twenty-something years since this feeling of weightlessness and heartburn and adrenaline had wrecked his stomach. Twenty-something years since the rubbery plastic in his nose turned nauseous, and the straps pushed against his chest like the restraints on an electric chair. He’d missed it badly; missed the smell of sulfur that somehow whipped into his nostrils, and the suggestion of brimstone and Judgment Day he felt when dealing death to the enemy.
“We got flak coming up on your right wing,” said Bear in his ear. “Coming off a second column. You see them?”
It wasn’t Bear, it was A-Bomb. And he was telling Knowlington that one of the tracked vehicles off to the flank of the main column was a self-propelled anti-aircraft gun, the Zsu-23-4. But Skull’s brain blurred, put him in his Phantom, put him back to the last time he was trying to protect a downed squadron mate. He saw the flash of the gun out of the corner of his eye, and remembered the ridge in Laos.
The acid had burned through his stomach into his lungs that day. A whole ridge of fire came at them, unguided; a whole wall of lead. There was no way around it— just get the pedal to the metal because he was out of energy. As he nosed past, the plane seemed to be in slow motion. He heard Bear gasping for air through the open mike, trying to tell him something. His own mask was sucked up tight to his face. He was yanking the Phantom’s stick. For one of the few times since learning how to land, he was praying, realizing he actually might eat shit today.
An entire division’s worth of anti-aircraft guns. All set into the ridge. Shells were whizzing past unexploded, big shells, huge things, 57mm suckers that looked like streamlined piranha coming at him. Some moved fast and some moved slowly; all ran straight at him and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to get away from them except hang on tight.
It had taken maybe three seconds to clear the wall of lead, and no more than five seconds beyond that to push the airplane into a completely safe space. But the time passed like weeks, slower than the dark spot of a fur ball, the moment in a dogfight when the opponent is unsighted and quite probably behind you.
Bingo fuel, Bear was saying.
Bingo fuel. They’d been low on fuel even before the anti-air lit up.
The evasive maneuvers had only made things worse. By the time he recovered, there was barely enough in the tanks to get home.
So no matter what he’d done, he would have had to leave.
He was still to blame for mismanaging his fuel.
Truth was, you could always blame yourself, because you were never perfect. And you were always afraid, somewhere, somehow. Fear was always in your stomach; it was a question of whether you let it control you.
It had that day. And every time he went for the bottle after that.
No more.
No, that wasn’t true. He couldn’t say that. What he could say was that he wasn’t going to win today.
He could also say that he would come back, no matter what. He’d get back in the cockpit and head north again, feel the acid in his gut. And the next time the choice came between the prudent thing and the right thing, he would choose the right thing. Or try to.
Truth was, there were VC all over the place where Crush went down. The ridge was just the worst example. The flash Little Bear saw had more likely come from one of them than the Phantom’s crew.
His real mistake wasn’t the fuel, or even leaving his friend. His real mistake was letting fear win that night, and every night. That was his fuck up. It was something he knew, after all, but something he had to keep relearning.
“Repeat?”
It was A-Bomb.
“Repeat what?” he said, barely remembering to key the mike.
“Did you say you’re bingo fuel?”
He quick glanced at his gauges— he had enough gas to get up to Baghdad and back.
Well, almost.
“Negative.” Skull pushed through his orbit, climbing back for another run at the line of trucks. He’d flown out nearly five miles. Reorienting himself he saw some good, distinct column of smoke rising from the highway. He could see no more flak.
“Waxed the anti-air, but I think there’s another truck or two at the end of the column,” said A-Bomb. “Bastards all look the same to me.”
Skull saw A-Bomb’s A-10 above him. His wings were clean, except for the Sidewinders and ECM pod. It was all cannon-play from here on out.
“Let’s dust these guys,” Skull told him. “I don’t want anything moving.”
“My feeling exactly.”
“You got your stereo on?”
“It’s turned down.”
“Well crank it up,” said Skull, pushing into his attack.
CHAPTER 58
Over Iraq
22 January 1991
0610
A-Bomb leaned back and looked at the remains of the convoy, scattered in disarray on and along the road. No way those suckers were bothering anybody for a long, long time. He pushed the Hog to continue its climb into what was now a crowded sky— a pair of F-15s had screamed overhead, chasing the MiGs off far to the north, while a four-ship of F-16s had pulled into the neighborhood to see if they could join in the fun. Behind them two big, dark-colored grasshoppers— big ol’ MH-53J Pave Lows— were skimming toward the spot where they’d located Mongoose. Alongside them came an A-10A from another squadron, one of the SAR team’s guardian angels.
Fuckin’ Goose. He’d laid out half the stinking Iraqi army and was just hanging out having a smoke, right? Or just about. Because damn straight the guy waving down there was Mongoose, no way it was anybody else. Maybe A-Bomb was at a thousand feet and moving over three hundred knots, but his eyes were still sharp as hell. There was no way, absolutely no way, he could mistake his ol’ section leader. There was a guy standing alone down there— well, kneeling maybe— and it had to be Mongoose. Could only be.
Son of a bitch probably be flying tomorrow. Plus, A-Bomb was going to have to stand him a whole slew of drinks for letting him get waxed.
Only fair.
Probably have to throw in some Micky D bags, too.
One thing he had to say— for a guy who hadn’t sat in a Hog cockpit all that long, Knowlington had kicked butt. You could tell Skull liked to wallow in the mud the way he laughed at the flak on that last run, just went in and kissed it, got three stinking APCs and a truck on one run— not bad for a rookie.
Or an old coot, come to think of it.
Of course, he’d probably flown against those same guns in Viet Nam, and in something not nearly as good as a Hog. So he’d had practice.
“We’re going back south and make sure their flank is clear,” Skull told him. “I don’t want nothing screwing us up now that we’ve worked up a sweat.”
“I’m right behind you,” said A-Bomb. He nudged his stick to get a slightly better angle off his wing, scanned his wedge of the world, and reached into his survival vest for his reserve cache of Good & Plenty. They weren’t his favorite candy to eat while flying. The slick little torpedoes could shoot down your throat if you didn’t pay attention, and then you lost all that flavor. But this was war and you had to take some chances.
CHAPTER 59
On the ground in Iraq
22 January 1991
0610
He was played. He could feel the desert warming into daylight around him, felt the relentless approach of his enemy, but Mongoose could do nothing but stare upwards at the emptiness. He’d tried to stand but got no further than his knees; he leaned back on them, wanting to collapse back but unable even to do that.
He no longer felt any pain. His consciousness was squeezed into a
two inch by two inch rectangle, the space defined by his eyes, which saw only the blank sky.
When the Iraqis found him, they would shoot him. It was only fair.
He hadn’t had a chance to read the letter. He regretted that. It was the only thing he regretted.
Maybe he would die before the soldiers found him. His knee was twisted and his arm broken. He was probably dehydrated beyond belief, and who knew what other injuries he had. He certainly didn’t. All he knew was the blank space above.
Blank space filling with a dark angel.
Death.
The earth roared at the end, he thought, just like he’d heard it would.
Someone shouted at him over the din.
The angel was asking his name.
“James Johnson,” he said.
“Major, you just ease back now, sir; we want to hop you into a stretcher just as a precaution. We got all the time in the world. Your colonel’s blasted the shit out of half the Iraqi army to save you,” said the para-rescueman, squatting with him and helping him move his legs into a sitting position. “We’ll have you home faster than you can say, ‘Kiss my ass Saddam.’”
CHAPTER 60
Over Iraq
22 January 1991
0619
Skull heard the Pave Low pilot practically yahoo as he got the thumbs-up from the rescue crew. Mongoose was alive.
“Shit yeah,” he acknowledged.
Not precisely military, except that it was, totally.
“Shit yeah,” said A-Bomb.
Knowlington checked the Hog’s dials as he ran a lazy arc south past the two choppers. At spec and with plenty of gas. Damn, he loved this plane.
Two Super Jolly Greens squatted in the hardscrabble terrain, fetching his pilot and making sure the Iraqis were dead.
Big, beautifully-ugly choppers, just like in Nam.
Except, they weren’t the same. They might look it from a distance, but they’d been rebuilt from the ground up— stronger, meaner, much more capable.
More considered. More deliberate. Living by intelligence, not sheer brute force or instinct.
The facts were just the facts, back there, obscured by memory and smoke, fog of war, and all that bullshit. It didn’t change or get negated by the present; it stayed back in the past.
You had to deal with the present. It wasn’t fair to blame his drinking on that ride over Laos. He’d been drinking before that. Laos was what it was— a bad day with bad decisions and some luck for him, not for his buddy. It was back there now, squashed with the remains of bridges and guns and MiGs and APCs he’d wrecked or managed to evade. He had to deal with what was in front of him in the windscreen.
Fact was he still wanted a drink. Fact was the sting of whiskey in his throat would feel great.
But he wasn’t going to taste it. Not today. Today he was going to struggle against it, and find a lot to do back at the base to take his mind off it.
It’d be hard, though.
Knowlington checked his instruments again. He was just a mediocre pilot now, compared to most of the others in the squadron. Hell, this was going to look damn good, but the reality was it had been a turkey shoot; poor slobs had only one AAA gun, and they hadn’t even set it up right.
More time in the cockpit wouldn’t help. His reflexes were a touch slower. And his eyes— his eyes were just normal eyes now.
Probably still had his share of luck, though. Must have, to have gotten the chance to get back up here.
The thing was, he’d traded some of his flying ability for experience, for leadership. He’d figured out where Mongoose was, walked his head through it like a commander should. He didn’t have to prove himself in the cockpit anymore; that wasn’t his job. His job was to get these guys up here— and back.
“Hey, we got a knot of soldiers down here near those trees,” radioed A-Bomb over the squadron frequency as the two planes passed the area. “Kinda huddled down like maybe I won’t see them.”
“What are they doing?”
“Beats me. Maybe they’re having breakfast. Shit, they’re waving.”
“Waving?”
“Yeah. What do you think?”
Knowlington began circling back. He gave the plane a smidgen of rudder as he settled on a precise line to the trees.
They were waving all right. And they made a show of tossing away their guns.
“They want to surrender,” Knowlington told A-Bomb.
“Hot damn. Hog-tied prisoners. That’s what I’m talking about. You cannot do this in any other plane. You ever see anybody surrender to an F-16? I don’t think so. F-15. Ha, there’s a joke.”
Skull suppressed a laugh. But sure as hell, those soldiers did want to surrender.
“I accept your surrender in the name of the President of the United States, the commander in chief, and Kevin Karn,” announced A-Bomb.
“Who’s Kevin Karn?” Skull asked.
“My homeroom teacher in tenth grade. He said I ought to go into the Air Force.”
“I don’t know what we’re going to do with these guys,” Knowlington told him. “It’s a hell of a long walk back.”
“Hell, stash them in one of the choppers. If they can’t take ‘em, I’ll land and lash ‘em onto the wings,” said A-Bomb.
I’ll bet you will, Skull thought. “Stand by while I talk to the Pave Low.”
CHAPTER 61
Over Iraq
22 January 1991
0620
Dixon jumped from the helicopter into a whirl of dust and sand, running behind one of the soldiers. He’d meant to stay aboard, but something about the adrenaline of the others pushed him out.
The one thing he hoped was that he didn’t need to use his gun. Because sure as shit, then he was going to fuck up.
No one was firing, though. He ran forward a few steps, then stopped as he caught the silhouette of a Hog low and slow to the south. He turned and saw a second Pave Low landing about fifteen yards south of the chopper he’d just left; one of the commandos on the ground was waving its team out to help secure the area.
He turned back and saw the men from his Pave Low huddled around a man kneeling ahead.
Major Johnson.
He ran forward, the gun almost slipping from his hands. He slid onto his knees and stopped right at Johnson’s chest.
“Mongoose, it’s Dixon. Hey, Major, you okay?”
Mongoose groaned.
“Got a broken arm,” said the sergeant. “Not sure what else. We’re putting him on a stretcher.”
Dixon nodded, leaned back over Johnson. “You’re gonna be okay, Major.”
Johnson blinked his eyes. Dixon looked him over, saw him move his feet. One of the para-rescuemen came up with a med kit; Dixon stepped back and let the man do his job.
“Looks like he shot that guy there,” said the sergeant. He pointed to an Iraqi captain. “Maybe the rest of them, too. Your Hogs must’ve smoked the trucks.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah. You fucking Hog drivers. Jesus, you guys want to win the whole war by yourselves, don’t you?”
Dixon stood back and watched the Special Ops troops secure the area, checking over the dead Iraqis. He trotted over to the truck; he’d never seen the damage an A-10A could do to an enemy before.
The destruction was amazing. The vehicle looked as if it had been ripped in two by a school of metal-eating sharks.
“Hey, you Lieutenant Dixon?” asked one of the helicopter crewmen, running up to him. “Major needs you to take care of something.”
“I’m Dixon.”
The soldier pointed toward the road. “Your guys captured a squad of Iraqis. You have to accept their surrender.”
“What?”
“’Cause you’re an officer and part of their squadron. Major Greer says the pilots wants to make sure the air force gets full credit. Don’t sweat it, these guys’ll go with you.”
Dixon looked over to the highway, thinking that Greer had somehow arranged a practical joke
.
Six unarmed Iraqi soldiers, each one fluttering a piece of white cloth above their heads, approached slowly, huge smiles on their faces. A pair of Hogs crisscrossed above them, wagging their wings.
“Fucking Hogs,” said the sergeant, sidling up next to Dixon as the Iraqis came forward. “What the hell are you guys going to do next?”
__EPILOGUE__
HOMEWARD
BOUND
Chapter 62
Hog Heaven
22 January 1991
2100
In the rush that followed his return to base, Mongoose didn’t have a chance to read the letter. He barely had a chance to do anything besides drink water, have his arm fixed and talk to people.
Talk to people mostly. First there were the official de-briefers, including a pair of colonels from General Schwarzkopf’s staff who were anxious to find out everything they could about the soldiers he’d encountered. There were so many Air Force people he lost track of whom he was telling what to. He even gave a short and undoubtedly uninformative brief to a pair of British colonels wondering about the Roland.
Hogs #2: Hog Down Page 20