Two soldiers, actually, though he had only a good idea of where one of them was. Wong suspected there were even more manning the small guard post just beneath the summit of the hill.
Sergeant Golden crouched about six feet to his left, training his MP-5 in the Iraqis’ direction. While Golden had a silenced version of the Heckler & Koch, “silence” was a relative term for submachine-guns; the weapon would be heard by anyone nearby. The sergeant was therefore unsheathing his combat knife, hoping the guards would come close enough to be plucked.
One good thing— the Iraqis wouldn’t be there if they didn’t have an excellent view of the highway and village.
On the other hand, they probably wouldn’t be there without some sort of radio.
Wong slid his hand into the back of his desert-chip fatigues, pulling out his own knife. Molded and tempered from titanium to his specifications, the weapon’s blade was barely six inches long— 150 mm to be precise. Honed like a barber’s razor, the single-edged cutting blade was 45 mm at its widest point, shaped for what Wong had determined by careful study of several obscure medieval Korean texts was the best angle for severing the arteries of the neck and throat.
Medieval Korean was a job to translate, but the labor excited a certain mental vigor difficult to duplicate. And nobody knew as much about knives as ancient Koreans, in his opinion.
Knife ready and eyes trained on the summit, Wong carefully worked a small grenade into his launcher so that the weapon would be ready to fire if needed. The gun was a breech loader, admirable in its simplicity— and liable to be set off accidentally or by the enemy once he put it down between the rocks, only semi-hidden. But the contingencies demanded a certain percentage of risk.
Golden looked at him. Wong removed the Beretta from his belt— a stock but nonetheless dependable weapon— and nodded. He understood that the sergeant intended on taking the man on the left whose foot was just now appearing at the top of the hill. He would take the man closest to him, whose footsteps were now conveniently approaching up the hill parallel to his comrade. Wong would attempt to take him silently with the knife, reserving the pistol.
Contrary to popular belief, most if not all elite troops considered the knife a weapon of absolute last resort. It exposed the user to an immense amount of danger, and no matter how good the weapon, represented the least potent force multiplier available. Wong ranked it far below his preferred options, which naturally started with ten-megaton nuclear warheads. Still, there was no denying the primal thrill a knife represented. The knife wielder joined a long string of ancients, a royalty that included the ancient slayer of Beowulf, a glorious slob of a man who rolled a thick blade into the belly of the archetypal beast.
Wong’s aim was considerably higher as he sprung on the guard. His right hand jerked across the front of the Iraqi’s throat as his left hand brought the butt-end of his pistol hard against the soldier’s skull. As the man coughed and began to fall Wong saw a third Iraqi four yards down the slope, turning toward him with a rifle in his hand. He drew his hand back and whipped the knife forward, striking the Iraqi in the throat with such force that he dropped his AK-47. Wong rushed forward before the man could recover, applying a kick to render him unconscious.
Technically speaking, the kick to the head was not particularly well executed; his karate master would have been appalled. But it did its job, incapacitating the Iraqi. Wong dropped to a knee, scanning the area with his handgun as he retrieved his knife.
“Damn good work with the ragheads,” said Sergeant Golden between hard breaths. His man lay in the dirt a few yards away, his skull broken and neck slashed.
“Ragheads is probably not technically correct,” said Wong.
Golden began to laugh. “You’re a pisser. Where’d you get that sense of humor, Wong?”
“The appellation ‘raghead’ would seem to be meant for nomadic tribesmen or, with less precision, to members of the Islamic faith in general,” said Wong. “Neither of which any of these men were. For example, this man has a cross around his neck, and . . .”
“Jesus, Captain, you’re a ballbuster,” said Golden. “That’s their radio.”
As Wong surveyed the slope looking for other Iraqis, he wondered why everyone in Iraq seemed to think he was a comedian. The fact that the men were not Muslims was highly unusual and undoubtedly significant, though at the moment he wasn’t sure what it might mean.
“I think we’re clear,” said the sergeant.
“I concur.”
“You figure we can put the com gear on the ridge?”
“Or just below,” said Wong, gesturing over the hill. “In the meantime, if you lend me your glasses I will examine the village. I have a clear view.”
“Gotcha.”
A dozen small houses made of yellowish brick or cement nestled along a small road jutting against a shallow hillside. Two larger buildings sat along the only paved road, which led to the highway. Constructed of concrete block, they were perfectly suited as warehouses. Beyond the hill was a mosque. The paint on its minaret had faded somewhat, but the tower was impressive, out of proportion for the mosque itself and much newer.
Standing, Wong scanned down the road to the highway. He followed the highway several miles to the east. There were several fields with irrigation systems, though at the moment they did not seem to be under cultivation. In the distance, he could see more signs of population; houses and other buildings were scattered like pieces from a discarded Monopoly game.
The highway ran over a large culvert about three miles from the hill. A ramp had been dozed off the side, as if to prepare for a cloverleaf exit.
Or, much more likely, a Scud launching spot. The missiles could be placed beneath the roadway until ready for launch.
Golden and the rest of the team set up the dish just behind the crest of the hill. It took a few minutes to position it properly; as they did, Wong studied the culvert.
“I have contact with the A-10s,” said Golden. “They’re waiting for a target.”
“There’s an erector hidden beneath the highway in that culvert,” Wong told him, pointing out the shadow in the distance. He was just about to hand the glasses to the sergeant when he noticed a pickup truck and what seemed to be a large APC approaching on the highway. A brown tarp flapped loosely over the rear of the carrier. “Excuse me,” he said, putting the glasses back to his eyes to examine the trucks.
He watched as they approached the culvert. He was not surprised to see them stop, but Wong at first wondered why the larger vehicle did not pull down under the roadway with the pickup.
And then he saw why.
“Humph,” he said.
“What is it?” asked Golden.
“I have not seen SA-9s for some time now,” admitted Wong. He watched a pair of Iraqis adjust the netting that helped camouflage the mobile missile launcher; the battery appeared ready for action. “Frankly, I had not considered that we might encounter them.”
“Problem?” asked Golden.
“Problem is a relative word,” said Wong, handing the sergeant the glasses. “But I would not describe this as a positive development.”
CHAPTER 18
OVER IRAQ
26 JANUARY 1991
1602
Hack cursed, unable to sort out the bandits in the chaos. More than fifty contacts crowded into the F-15’s powerful radar, and now he had another problem— the RWR warned that a ground radar had just popped to life north of him.
The Piranha’s radio frequency— in theory assigned only to them— jammed with talk from two other flights as Hack’s brain began swimming with the black chaos of battle-induced stress. He flipped his radar back and forth through search modes, but he still couldn’t get a positive contact.
The AWACS did. The airborne controller identified the two Iraqi planes rising off the runway as MiG-29s and said they were on course for a flight of F-111s and a lone A-10, which was orbiting in the bushes at ten o’clock.
“Drop tanks,”
Hack ordered his wingmate. Letting go of the extra fuel rigs beneath their wings would increase the F-15s’ maneuverability and speed.
Didn’t help the radar, though. He couldn’t even find the A-10.
Saw the F-111s now, though, cutting hard to the west, out of the line of fire.
The radio blared with static and more cross talk. The AWACS controller asked for silence on the circuit, his voice several octaves higher than at the start of the mission. Then he gave Hack and Johnny a new vector.
“Okay, okay!” Hack shouted as the Eagle’s APG-63 radar flicked two contacts about where the MiGs should be, ghosting them on the heads-up display at the front of the glass. That didn’t absolutely mean it had found the Iraqis— the vast majority of planes in the air were Coalition bombers tearing up Iraq. And he still hadn’t found the A-10, which he assumed would have a wingmate somewhere behind him. Hack “tickled” the contacts with the Eagle’s electronic query system, checking the planes for their IDs.
No IDs.
MiGs.
Or coalition planes too shot up to have working transponders.
Possible. Where was that damn A-10?
“I’m spiked!” Johnny yelled. An unfriendly radar had found and targeted him— and they hadn’t even sorted the enemy fighters yet. “That MiG is on me.”
One of the unidentified contacts disappeared from Hack’s radar. He didn’t have time to wonder why— the other, apparently the one that had turned its radar onto Johnny, began angling for his wingmate.
Bandit?
Or a confused allied plane with battle damage?
The Eagles and the unidentified contact were moving toward each other now at just under 1200 miles an hour. They were thirty miles apart; Hack had sixty seconds to decide whether to fire.
Maybe less. The RWR warned that a ground radar ahead had begun tracking him. Hack ignored it, trusting that the Eagle’s advanced avionics and his altitude would protect him, at least for the moment.
The bottom of Hack’s heads-up display indicated he had four Sparrow III AIM-7 air-to-air missiles, ready to go. He took a breath, narrowing his focus on the boogie. He was just coming into range.
He queried again. Still no ID. His heart was pounding on overdrive, but something in his head was warning him away – the plane wasn’t acting like a MiG, he thought.
“Tiger, I’m locked on a target,” he told the AWACS controller as calmly as possible. “I want IDs. I can’t find that A-10.”
But the transmission was overrun. He tried again; if he got through he didn’t hear the reply.
“Piranha One, I’m still spiked,” said Johnny.
If the boogie was a MiG-29s with beyond visual range weapons, Hack’s wingmate was going to be history in about twenty seconds.
If it was a beat-up Warthog, friendly fire was going to claim its first victim of the air war.
“Fox One, Fox one!” he shouted to his wingmate, warning him that he was firing a medium-range radar missile.
CHAPTER 19
ABOVE IRAQ
26 JANUARY 1991
1603
As soon as Doberman heard the Eagle pilot call the radar missile shot, he slammed his plane back toward Wong and the rest of the Snake Eaters ground team. Their radio frequency buzzed with static; he worried that maybe the MiGs had been coming after them.
“Devil One, this is Snake Eater. Please reply,” said Wong. The transmission crackled and broke up.
“Devil One,” said Doberman, pointing his nose back in the direction of the highway. He was roughly eight miles south of the village. “Hey, Wong, you got a target for me?” he snapped.
“We have a tel erector approximately three miles west of Kajuk beneath a culvert on the highway,” Wong told him.
“Okay, good. Yeah, okay.” Doberman could see the hill in front of him on the left; the culvert would be almost dead on. He immediately began a sharp turn west, deciding to work the Hog down to a thousand feet for the attack. He’d swoop out of the north, turning around the village, riding down toward the culvert, trading a little bit of angle for a longer, better view.
“There are other developments,” said Wong before he had completed his turn.
“Yeah?”
“A Gaskin SA-9 mobile launcher has been set up on the hill behind the erector, immediately to the north. Excuse me,” added Wong. “I’m told another is approaching.”
Doberman cursed but didn’t alter course. The Gaskin was a seventies-era missile with a heat-seeking warhead. Compared to missiles like the SA-2, its range and altitude were relatively limited— but it was sitting just to the side of his attack route.
It would fire as soon as he pulled up. He could let off diversionary flares and jerk his butt around, but it’d be tight.
At best.
Doberman’s eyes hunted through the terrain, spotting the hills where the village was located. He was too far away to make out any buildings there, let alone the highway and SAMs.
He could go for the antiair first, but that would be a bitch with two of them. By the time he splashed the first— if he splashed the first— the second might be ready to fire.
And without a wingman.
“Give me the layout, Wong,” he said. “Are those SAMs set up or what?”
“One definitely is. The other has taken a position at the south side of the road. The mean time for launch . . . ”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”
It was too risky. Especially since he’d have a hard time seeing the launcher under the roadway.
Worth it if he could be sure he was getting missiles— especially if they had chemical warheads.
Hell, if he had to bail he could always hook up with Wong and his Delta Force buddies. Wouldn’t that be fun?
“What about the Scuds themselves?” he asked Wong. “Are they there too?”
“We’re working on it, Captain. Please be patient.”
“I have less than twelve minutes of fuel to play with,” Doberman said. “Don’t take all day.”
He banked the Hog back westwards, barely. The village and hill were between him and the SAMs, he was within their range; they could hit a hot target from five miles out.
Best thing to do, get low and go after the SA-9s first. Fifty feet head-on, no way they’d nail him.
Could be get both launchers in one run?
The Iraqis would have to be pretty stupid to line them up for him.
Duh.
“Devil One, we have a pickup truck entering the village. We are observing it now. It appears to be a command vehicle,” added Wong. “Please stand by.”
Doberman jostled his legs nervously, barely keeping himself from upsetting the rudders. He felt like he was waiting on the express line at a supermarket with a week’s thirst and a six pack in his hand, stuck behind a fat lady with a month’s supply of groceries.
The woman morphed into Rosen.
This was not the time to be distracted. Doberman pushed his head down and ran through the instrument readings, trying for a routine, trying to keep his edge and his focus. He began a steady climb as he slid his orbit further north toward the river. He turned and lined up to come into Al Kajuk with the Avenger cannon blazing. All he needed was a target. He’d smoke it, then use the hill for cover from the SAMs.
Tight, but doable.
“Come on Wong, what’s the story,” said Doberman. He now had five minutes of fuel left before he’d be at bingo and have to go home. “Is that pickup truck heading anywhere, or what.”
“We’ve found the storage facility,” said Wong finally. “We believe we have identified two missiles, but we do not have a positive confirmation.”
“That’s enough for me. I’m going in,” he said, bolting upright against his seat restraints. “Give me directions. I have that tower thing dead on.”
“The tower thing,” Wong said slowly, “is a minaret, and it is part of the target. We believe the missiles are being stored in a mosque.”
“Repeat?”
�
��Affirmative, a mosque. Please break off your attack until we have received authorization for the strike.”
“Son of a bitch,” said Doberman. Standing orders prevented an attack on a mosque without explicit approval.
“Repeat?”
Mosque or no mosque, if there were Scuds with chemical warheads down there, they needed to be taken out. He could see the building in the lower right quadrant of his screen.
In five seconds, he cross into the SA-9s’ range. They were going to get a strong whiff of his exhaust if he waited any longer to turn.
“Captain Glenon?”
“Yeah, I’m breaking off,” he told Wong. “Let’s think this through. I’m going to be bingo pretty damn quick. Shit.”
CHAPTER 20
OVER IRAQ
26 JANUARY 1991
1610
By the time the two F-15s had recovered from their evasive maneuvers, the MiG had disappeared from the screen. Hack knew that his shot had missed; he blamed himself for waiting too long, probably giving the Iraqi time to hit his counter-measures and run away.
He and his wingmate swept north, their radars once again beating the weeds.
Hack’s screen popped up a fresh contact at a bare thousand feet, almost dead ahead.
Exactly where the MiG would be if it had hit its afterburners and dove into the ground effects, trying to duck his radar.
“I have a contact,” he told Johnny, giving him a bearing. “We’re close, we’re close.”
“You got a visual.”
“Negative. I’m locked.”
“I’m tickling— shit, shit, he’s friendly! He’s ours, he’s ours.”
Hack cursed too. The plane his radar had just locked up was an A-10A Warthog.
What the hell was it doing way up here? It sure as hell wasn’t on the air tasking order, at least not that he had seen.
The AWACS controller was yelping in his ear.
“Piranha One acknowledges,” Hack said coolly. “I understand that is a friendly. Tell him not to sweat it. We’re coming south.”
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