Hogs #4:Snake Eaters

by DeFelice, Jim

  “I suggest we examine the map your sergeant discovered and see where the truck has been,” said Wong. “And then we attempt to act on that information.”

  “I knew we’d get around to blowing something up eventually,” said A-Bomb.

  *****

  The Iraqis were not so cooperative as to have marked their drop-off with an X, but Wong worked over the map like a forensic scientist— or, as A-Bomb put it, a witch doctor summoning the dead. He claimed that the folds and pen impressions in the paper showed that the truck had followed a course from somewhere near or in Jordan, continuing west into some hills about fifteen miles from Sugar Mountain, where Doberman and A-Bomb had blown up a storage bunker that morning.

  Had it stopped at the bunker? Wong couldn’t say. Had it made a delivery or picked something up there? Wong couldn’t say. What had it done afterwards? Wong couldn’t say.

  And somehow, everybody nodded and called him a genius.

  Doberman nodded as Hawkins said he would authorize a recon mission to the village where the truck had apparently turned around. It was called Al Kajuk on the map. None of the Delta teams Scud hunting up north were close enough to check it out. Fort Apache would have to send its own people.

  “There are three or four buildings large enough to be storage facilities there,” Hawkins told Wong as they examined the maps and some satellite photos near the truck. “It’s pretty close to Sugar Mountain. Maybe the buildings there house Scuds.”

  “The facility at Sugar Mountain may well be related,” said Wong. “They might have kept the chemicals there, then moved them with this or another vehicle. Or it could be a coincidence. It could conceivably be a decoy.”

  “Doubt it,” said Hawkins.

  “So this could be a wild goose chase,” said Doberman. It seemed to him they were jumping to way too many conclusions here. Hawkins glared at him; the Army guy definitely had a stick up his butt, Doberman decided. Tall guys always did.

  “If it’s a wild good chase,” said Hawkins sharply, “it’s my wild goose chase.”

  “Not if we’re giving you air cover,” said Doberman.

  “Bullshit.”

  “What do you mean bullshit?” said Doberman. “What the hell do you think we’re doing here?”

  “One of your planes is still grounded,” said the Delta Force captain. “And as for you. . .”

  “Captain O’Rourke’s plane is good to go,” announced Rosen, joining the small group huddled in Hawkins’ command post.

  “You found a patch?” asked A-Bomb.

  “I borrowed a few things from the tanker truck. I don’t think the Iraqis will be needing brakes anytime soon, do you? Or hose clamps?”

  “Will the patch hold?” Doberman asked her.

  “As long as he doesn’t stop for candy. I even got the pressure up, borrowing off fluid from the other . . . uh . . . I made it work.” Something caught in Rosen’s throat as they looked at each other. Rosen’s face flushed and then became very serious. “Yes, sir, I think it will.”

  Sir?

  Why had her face flushed?

  “We don’t need air cover. I have my helos,” said Hawkins. “Thanks for the report, Sergeant.”

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” said A-Bomb. “Dog Man and me ride out there and see what’s going on. We find something moving, we shoot it up. We don’t, you guys sneak in at night.”

  “We can’t wait for night,” said Hawkins. “We have to be out of here by then.”

  “You’re bugging out?” said Doberman.

  “That’s right, Captain. If it’s okay with you.”

  “So why are we having this discussion?”

  “We are not having this discussion,” said Hawkins. “I am talking about the situation with Captain Wong.”

  “Wong works for me.”

  “Begging your pardon,” said Wong, who was crossing his legs like he was standing on a ten-hour pee, “but in fact I am assigned to Admiral . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, my point is, why are we wasting our time talking about this if you guys are going home?” said Doberman.

  “Because there’s plenty of time to check this out in the meantime,” said Hawkins. “We’re not leaving until nightfall. This is a potential Scud site with chemical warheads.”

  “So is every damn town in Iraq, by your criteria,” said Doberman. “You just want to play Rambo.”

  “You’re out of line, Captain!” roared Hawkins.

  “Hey Dog Man, time for a walk,” said A-Bomb, grabbing Doberman by the arm before he could respond with a roar of his own. His wingman picked him up by the arms and carried him fifty yards into the desert before finally letting go.

  “Damn it, A-Bomb. Let the hell go of me.”

  “You’re out of line, Dog. Way out of line. Those guys saved our butts.”

  A-Bomb’s voice had a tone to it so rare that Doberman felt as if he’d been slapped across the face. He felt his throat thicken as he lowered his voice, managing to calm his tone if not all his anger.

  “That doesn’t mean we can let them go off and get themselves greased on a wild goose chase,” said Doberman.

  “Wong thinks it’s worth taking a look.”

  “Wong.”

  “Braniac’s an expert, Dog Man. Besides, what the hell do you think these Delta guys were sent up here for? They’re in the wild-goose-chasing business, don’t you think? That’s half the fun of Spec Ops.”

  “Yeah, fun. This isn’t a game, A-Bomb. We lost a squadron mate today.”

  “I know that.” A-Bomb gave him a disapproving frown. “But we’ve got a job to do. I agree with you, we go where they go. But we have to play it their way.”

  “I hate it when you get serious, A-Bomb,” Doberman said. “You’re a lot more fun joking around.”

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  “Yeah. All right. Shit.” Doberman stamped his feet against the ground. “We ought to be the ones to check out the village.”

  “If we do that, we’re going to have to get real close and personal, which’ll definitely tip them off. Think about it,” said A-Bomb. “We can’t stand back with Mavericks and play push-button bye-bye. No sir. If we only have the cannons to take them out, it’d be better to know what we were shooting at before we went in. I mean, I like dodging flak as much as anybody, but it sure helps to know where you’re going when you’re duckin’.”

  A-Bomb’s voice had gradually resumed its normal bounce, and now the desert practically shook with his overstated enthusiasm. “What we ought to do is have the Delta boys go in there, scout the area, then call us in once they have a target. This way we’re just in and out, no fooling around. That’s what I’m talking about. No muss, lots of fuss.”

  “Yeah,” said Doberman. “But that fucker was holding out on us with the fuel. I could have been killed.”

  “Nah. He’s just blowing his reserves now because they’re leaving,” said A-Bomb. “Besides, you’re too damn lucky to get killed.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  Doberman still wasn’t convinced, but there was nothing to do about it now. “You think Rosen’s fix on the hydraulic line’ll hold?” he asked.

  “Ah, there’s two different lines, for cryin’ out loud. Hey, I can fly the Hog without hydraulics. Jeez, plane and me been flying together so long I can steer her on thought power if I have to. Now what I’m worried about is finding some decent coffee. Have you tasted the stuff they’re trying to pass off as joe up here? My aunt brews better stuff for her cat. And she hates her cat.” A-Bomb shook his head sadly. “Was a time being a Delta operator meant you were skilled in basic survival skills. Standards are going right down the poop chute. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  CHAPTER 13

  TABUK AIR BASE

  WESTERN SAUDI ARABIA

  26 JANUARY, 1991

  1540

  Finally lashed into his F-15C Eagle cockpit, seat restraints cinched, Major
Horace “Hack” Preston gave his crew chief a thumbs-up. The sergeant nodded, then reached over and removed the last safety pin from the ejector seat before disappearing down the boarding ladder. Hack said his customary prayer and turned his eyes to his kneepad. He’d already memorized nearly all of the details of his mission— he’d been blessed with a nearly photographic memory— but repeating each bit of flight data aloud had become an important part of the preflight ritual. He’d have sooner left his waterproof underwear back in the barn than takeoff without flipping through the neat rows of carefully lettered notes. Navigation points, frequencies, tanker tracks, even some weather notes filled the small pages on the pad. He worked through quickly but methodically, thumbing his way to the board at the bottom.

  The thin piece of wood had flown with him now for nearly five years. The top half contained two sayings. Hack dutifully read and recited both to himself:

  “Wisdom excelleth folly, as far as light excelleth darkness.”

  “Do your best.”

  The first saying was from Ecclesiastes. The second one he had heard from his father nearly every day until leaving for the Air Force Academy.

  Beneath the words was a Gary Larson cartoon. It showed an entomologist in a bug fetal position above the caption, “How entomologists pass away.”

  There was no reason, really, for the cartoon, except that it had once struck him as hilarious. He looked at it, smiled, and flicked the paper back in place, completing his routine.

  The cartoon was the only frivolous thing in the gleaming Eagle, unarguably the most potent operational interceptor in the world. To Hack and his squadron mates, it was certainly the star of the Gulf War.

  Ready for his mission, Hack waited while the huffer— a diesel-powered device on a large mobile cart used by the ground crew to start the plane’s engine— kicked the fighter’s F100-PW-200 turbofans to life. Hack allowed himself a moment to soak in the rumble, then proceeded through his pre-takeoff checklist, slowly but surely making sure the plane was ready to go.

  While the interceptor could be quickly scrambled into action, under normal circumstances the preflight briefings and prep work stretched past two hours; sometimes twice as long as the “working” portion of the mission. This was normal for Hack, who was notorious for demanding a high level of preparation before any Eagle under his command took to the sky. Better to take care of a problem on the ground, he figured, than at thirty thousand feet.

  Piranha Flight’s four interceptors were slated to patrol a wide swatch of western Iraq this afternoon, working in pairs as roving marshals on the Wild Western frontier. Their missions had become progressively more aggressive and free-wheeling as the air war proceeded. While other Eagles and Coalition fighters might be part of large packages of planes with specific flights to escort, the Piranhas had been tasked today as roving interceptors. Working with a controller in an AWACS E-3 Sentry, Hack and his flight would Fly a long loop or racetrack high over enemy territory. At the first sign of activity, they would be vectored in for a kill.

  While the other Piranhas had flown several such missions already, they had yet to fire in anger. Today, however, promised to be different. For the first time, their track would take them near a large enemy air base. It housed at least a dozen MiGs and its runway had survived numerous bombings by the British RAF. The intelligence specialists at Black Hole reported that the Iraqis were getting anxious; a U-2 spy plane had caught support vehicles moving around the ground. Word was, the Iraqi planes were going to try and make a run for it, maybe to Iran.

  Which pleased Hack no end. His mission— his job and his life— was dedicated to splashing MiGs. He hoped and had even prayed last night to get his chance to do that today.

  He’d also prayed that he wouldn’t screw up.

  Hack snapped the mike button and requested clearance from ground control. Acknowledged and approved, he slipped the Eagle’s dual throttles out of idle and eased out from his parking spot.

  Hack hated this part of the flight. His stomach stirred with anticipation, juices building. Inevitably he poked the stick around like a novice, shaking the plane’s control surfaces like a new lieutenant queuing for his first flight.

  “Tower, Piranha One, in sequence,” he began, asking the controller for his departure ticket.

  “Piranha, the wind three-two-zero at 12 knots, cleared for take-off.”

  “Piranha,” he acknowledged, leading the rest of his flight toward the long gray splash of runway where they would take off. His stomach jerked back and forth furiously, bile climbing up his windpipe as he glanced through the large bubble canopy at his wingman Captain “Johnny” Stern.

  Stern gave him a thumbs up. Hack returned it, then got serious about his throttle, poking his Pratt & Whitneys to full military power while checking his instruments. RPM, turbine inlet temp, oil pressure and fuel flow were at spec. He checked them off in his head, working quickly through the numbers for engine two. His stomach boiled— the temp gauge for the inlet read 322 degrees Celsius, about 900 Fahrenheit, and he might have believed that was measuring his own temperature.

  Do your best.

  When the brakes were released, the Eagle didn’t roll down the runway— it bolted, pushing itself against his back as it jumped from zero to 120 knots in nothing flat. Hack brought the stick back steadily. The F-15 could literally fly straight up off the runway, but there was no need to show off. The Eagle ascended into the desert air, past the fine mist of sand, beyond the heated air radiating in waves off the concrete. The fire in his stomach subsided. He settled into the routine, cleaning up the airplane by cranking in the wheels and adjusting his flaps. The Eagle was already moving through the air at over 220 nautical miles an hour.

  As the unsafe gear lights blinked off, Hack checked through his instruments quickly, making sure he was in the green. Then he swept his head around the cockpit glass nearly three hundred degrees, from one end of the ejector seat cushion to the other, back to front to back again, before beginning a bank to set course to the flight’s rendezvous point.

  Once airborne, the four Eagles split into two sections. Hack and his wingmate went north. The second group stayed south, queing up to tank. They would trade places in roughly forty-five minutes, one group in reserve while the other zipped over southwestern Iraq at roughly twenty-five thousand feet.

  Hack and his wingman were just falling into their first sweep when the AWACS broke the loud hush in his ears with the words he’d prayed to hear.

  “Boogies coming off the runway at H-2.”

  Oh yeah, thought Hack. Oh yeah!

  CHAPTER 14

  FORT APACHE

  26 JANUARY 1991

  1540

  A-Bomb adjusted the harness on his seat restraint, rocked back and forth and played with the rudder pedals as he sat off to the side of the runway, waiting for Doberman to clear so he could trundle into takeoff position. His Hog had been fueled, he had close to a full combat load in the Gatling-style cannon beneath his chair, and the plane had just been given a personal going over by the best A-10A maintenance tech this side of the capo di capo.

  Still, he couldn’t help feeling a little discombobulated.

  Not anxious, exactly, not worried or nervous. Those words weren’t in his vocabulary, at least not as they pertained to flying. Just off.

  Part of it was the fact that, in order to conserve fuel, the Warthog was going to be pushed to the far end of the runway. Not that he personally cared, but the plane was apt to feel embarrassed, especially with all these Special Ops guys watching. In the pilot’s opinion, the eleven seconds or so of flight time that would be gained weren’t worth the indignity, but Doberman was in such an obviously bad mood today that A-Bomb had just nodded when he suggested that.

  No, what was bothering him went beyond the Hog’s sense of self-esteem. A-Bomb had a full load of coffee, such as it was, in the thermos. The Boss was cued up on the custom-rigged CD system that had been integrated into his personal flightsuit and helmet. But his
cupboard was practically bare: no Twizzlers, no Three Musketeers, not even an emergency M&M.

  In fact, his entire store was represented by a single Twinkie. He eyed its bulge in his shiny pocket longingly, aching to swallow it but not wanting to be without hope of sustenance at a critical moment in battle.

  War was hell, but this was total bullshit. It was the kind of thing that really made him mad. Not to mention hungry.

  A-Bomb was aware that most combat pilots, perhaps even all combat pilots, never ate on the job. There was all the flight gear to deal with – the mask, the helmet, the pressure suit. There was gravity and there were vague altitude effects, which played havoc with your taste buds. And admittedly, the wrong crumb in the navigational gear could send you to Beijing instead of Baghdad, though that was the sort of mistake you had to make the most of.

  But A-Bomb wasn’t another combat pilot; he was a Hog driver, and Hog drivers were genetically equipped to do the impossible. He had stuffed a Tootsie Roll in his mouth on his very first flight in an A-10A, savoring the chewy caramel flavor through his first roll. Few things in the world could compare to the shock of four or five gs hitting you square in the esophagus as you bit down on a Drake’s cherry pie. It made the blood race; it made you feel like you were an American, connected to the great unbroken chain of 7-Elevens strung across the Heartland. It was what he was fighting for, after all.

  A-Bomb shook his head and watched as Doberman lit his Hog’s twin turbofans at the far end of the Apache base and start down the runway. Unlike many other planes, the Hogs were equipped with on-board starters that allowed them to operate at scratch bases like these; they were just one of the many features that made the A-10 the ultimate do-it-yourself airplane. Doberman’s mount picked up speed, jerking herself in the sky two hundred feet before the wadi.

  Rosen ran in front of A-Bomb’s Hog and gave him a thumbs up. The pilot released the brakes, sighing to himself as the soldiers began pushing the plane forward. He could tell the Hog didn’t like this – she grunted and creaked, dragging her tail across the concrete like a dog yelled at for peeing on the rug.