by Jim DeFelice
But truly, it was a shot in the dark. And truly, finding Dixon was going to take more than a little luck.
If anyone could do it, Wong could. Skull knew that. But still— a long shot.
And the slingshot they planned to use to get them out— that wasn’t even worth thinking about. The best hope was that helo flights would be cleared into the area by the time the mission took off— possible, but not likely.
Best to worry only about his part of the mission. Because he wasn’t allowed to disrupt his other missions, Knowlington’s planes would be over hostile territory for as much as six hours, from the drop to the pickup. They had to stay low to avoid being picked up by the sophisticated Iraqi defenses— and they had to remain unseen (and unheard) to avoid tipping off anyone of the ground team’s presence. At the same time, they had to back up the F-111s and drop the pods containing the STAR gear. To do all this, he’d have only four planes— assuming Chief Clyston lived up his promise that he could have four ready without disrupting the other missions.
Easy. For a maniac or a Hog driver.
If the mission succeeded - if they got Saddam— Skull and the others were going to be world class heroes. Every last one of them could run for President.
But Saddam wasn’t why he’d sketched the 7 and V on the pad, or why he’d pushed so hard to get the mission approved, or why he’d decided he was flying it himself. He wanted Dixon back. If there was even a small chance that he might be able to get him— an infinitesimally small, minute chance— he had to go for it.
No MIA bracelets in this war.
It was an arrogant, foolish thought. Guys got killed, guys got captured, guys got lost. Who the hell was he to wipe that out? What gave him the right to risk somebody’s else’s neck on a wild goose chase for a corpse?
Rank gave him the right. He made these kinds of judgments every day.
All the more reason to be sane now, to assess the odds carefully, calmly— like the CinC and his staff. Not a word they had said at the meeting had been out of line or wrong. The odds were long, long, long.
“We’re here to volunteer.”
Skull snapped around, startled by Doberman’s voice at the door. He hadn’t heard the door being opened, much less a knock.
“We’re going,” said A-Bomb, entering the small room behind Glenon. “What’s the game plan?”
“Where is it you’re going?” Knowlington asked them.
“Don’t bullshit us, Colonel,” said Doberman. His face was tinged red; his voice snapped with the bark that had earned him his nickname. “We just talked to Wong. We’re in.”
“Wong?” Skull folded his arms into his chest. Both Doberman and Glenon had just gotten back from an incredibly taxing gig supporting Scud hunting operations north of the border. By rights, they deserved at least a few days off.
If not months.
“You guys get any sleep last night?”
“We slept like babies,” said Doberman. “When we taking off?”
“Close the door,” Knowlington said. He sat back, examining the two men standing side by side in front of him. They couldn’t be more different physically. Doberman was short even for a pilot and probably weighed no more than one-twenty. A-Bomb loomed over six feet; his burly frame had to be at least twice as heavy as Doberman’s.
They were different temperamentally as well: Doberman ready to go off like a bomb fuse set too high; A-Bomb about as laid back as a human could be, at least until he was diving on his target.
Typical Hog drivers, though, each in his own way.
“You giving us the deal, or do we have to torture it out of you?” asked A-Bomb finally.
“Our end’s straightforward,” said Skull. “Four planes total, two elements. Take off from here around dusk. Zig out from KKMC around one or two SAM sites, then northwest to a point about sixty miles south of Kajuk, the village you hit yesterday. Two planes go up toward Kajuk to cover a drop about three miles south of the village; two hold back as reserves. Most of that is at fifty feet to hide from some serious missiles Wong’s worried they’re movin’ in.”
“Twinkie material,” said A-Bomb. “Piece of cake.”
“That’s sixty miles at fifty feet, in the dark,” said Knowlington.
“Devil Dogs,” said A-Bomb. “Cream filling on the inside.”
“We wait for word from the controller, then we move up and check an LZ southwest of the village,” continued the colonel, “make sure it’s clean, then clear an MC-130 in. At the same time, F-111s take out two of the SAM sites. We drop retrieval pods, then circle south in case we’re needed. We don’t want to be too close or we draw attention to the ground people. On the other hand, we don’t want to be too far away. Our linger time is what gets us in the picture. Nobody else can stay up there that long. Other element comes north, we swap jobs. Keep going back and forth as long as we have to. Drop should happen right at 2100; pickup should be four hours later. That’s two tanks apiece; could be less, depending on how we manage our fuel and what else happens. Could be more.”
“Lota flyin’ time,” said A-Bomb, nodding. “I like it.”
“What’s happening on the ground?” Doberman asked.
“MH-130 drops three men— two Delta boys and Captain Wong. They wait for Saddam and they look for Dixon. Saddam’s due at midnight.”
“What if he’s late?” said A-Bomb.
“Wong says if he’s late he’s not coming,” Skull told him. “From our perspective, that just gives us a little more time to find Dixon.”
“That’s a long time to fly up there,” said Doberman. “A lot of tanking.”
“Could be,” Skull admitted.
“A-Bomb and I can handle it.”
“The only thing I want you guys handling is sleep,” said Knowlington.
“Screw sleep.”
“What I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb. “We don’t need sleep.”
“I don’t know. You both look dog tired.”
“I’m going,” said Glenon.
A-Bomb put his hand on Glenon’s shoulder. “It would make sense for us to fly the mission,” he said. “We’ve been back and forth across this terrain a couple of times now.”
That was the thing about A-Bomb. One second he was carrying on about food and making junior high jokes and pretending he was the world’s biggest bozo. Then all of a sudden he got more serious than Johnny Quest.
“I know you guys haven’t much sleep lately,” Skull said. “And I don’t want that to be a factor.”
“Shit, all we did at Al Jouf was sleep,” said A-Bomb.
“I’m flying,” said Doberman.
“You guys both look like you’re for shit,” said Skull.
“Hey, you ain’t winnin’ no beauty contest yourself, Colonel,” said A-Bomb.
“Dixon’s a friend of ours, Skull,” said Doberman. “You have to let us go. We’re you’re best guys and you know it. You need us.”
The truth was, Knowlington knew they’d both volunteer. Because they were Hog drivers. And he knew that what Glenon had said was true— he did need them.
But he hadn’t necessarily admitted it to himself yet, at least not officially.
“Let me think about all this,” he told them.
“Shit yeah,” said A-Bomb, punching the air.
“I haven’t decided anything, except that I’m getting something to eat,” said Knowlington. He got up out of his chair then stopped, realizing he hadn’t told them about the new D.O. “Look, one other thing. We have a new pilot in the squadron. His name is Major Horace Gordon Preston. He’s a good pilot and a good office. He’s going to serve as Director of Operations. If you don’t need the rest, we’ll have a hello meeting at thirteen hundred in Cineplex.”
“We’ll be there,” said Doberman.
Glenon’s face tinged red again, and Skull wondered if he knew Preston from somewhere. But that was neither here nor there.
“All right,” said the colonel. “I’ll tell you my decision after that. Nothing is decided,
A-Bomb. You just cool your jets.”
“What I’m talking about,” said the pilot. “Question is, where am I going to find Devil Dogs on such short notice?”
CHAPTER 15
KING FAHD
27 JANUARY 1991
1240
As approved, the mission bore only the slightest resemblance to the one Wong had originally proposed. Not that it was impossible, just that it was far less than optimal. And even optimal was a hard play against the odds.
Wong and two troopers would make a parachute drop two miles southwest of a bend in the highway leading to Al Kajuk. Unfortunately, the drop could not be conducted as a high altitude, high opening HAHO jump from a C-141B as most other Iraqi infiltration missions were; there wasn’t a plane available. Besides, the SAMs would have an easy time picking out the planes— and possibly notice the chutes along the way.
Instead an MC-130 would be pressed into service, flying a low-altitude course right up to the LZ, where it would pop up for the drop from a relatively low eight hundred feet. The pop-up would have to come just seconds after F-111s hit the SAM site; between their bombing and the jamming provided by a Spark Vark, the Hercules should have an ample window to proceed undetected. It would then fly south, using its extra load of fuel to orbit in a “dark” area devoid of enemy defenses until needed. While this added to the mission difficulty, it couldn’t be avoided. There were only a small number of MC-130 Combat Talons equipped with the snagging gear in the Gulf— in the world. Even without the stranglehold on available resources, it might not have been possible to line up another plane.
In the meantime, Wong and the ground team would proceed on their mission, establishing a lookout post to observe the convoy. They would also prepare a diversion, which might be needed to slow or stop the vehicles. Mission complete, they would hike approximately two miles back to the drop point, where A-10s would have dropped the STAR retrieval pods.
Officially, Dixon wasn’t part of the plan.
While the Fulton retrieval system had been used on Spec Op missions in the past, it was admittedly far from routine. Wong had never tried it at night, and in fact had only attempted a Fulton STAR pickup once, during a training mission. The results of that attempt were not worth dwelling on.
Which was why he had avoided the direct question posed by Sergeant Davis, one of the two Delta Force volunteers he was briefing on the mission.
“Hey, answer the question, Major,” said the other sergeant, an E-5 whose last and seemingly only name was Salt. “How did that pickup go?”
Wong cleared his throat. The two Delta Force Green Berets had already seen duty north and had been involved in Panama. Davis was a demolition and com specialist; Salt was reputed to be the best sharpshooter in the Gulf.
“After being dragged fifty feet, the line was released,” said Wong.
“Shit,” said Davis.
“It happens. The second pickup went more smoothly. In any event, my experience isn’t relevant. As long as the weather is clear, the pilot should have no trouble making the pickup.”
“Unless he drags us.”
“That is why I have located the pickup on a slight rise,” noted Wong. “The direction of the plane will take us over low ground.”
“I’ve done this twice,” said Salt. “It ain’t pretty.”
“It needn’t be pretty,” Wong told him. “This is purely voluntary. If you wish to reconsider. . .”
“Screw that,” said Salt.
“As you wish.” Wong turned back to Davis. “Any other questions?”
“How many people are going to be with the bastard?” Salt asked.
“Assuming that you are referring to Saddam,” said Wong. “That is unclear. There could be as many as a full company or even a battalion. I personally anticipate something along the lines of a platoon. But our concern is not with them. We have merely to spot his vehicle and illuminate it.”
“What happens if they object?”
“We will have a flight of A-10A’s at our disposal. They can provide additional firepower if necessary.”
“Hogs. Okay,” said Salt.
“They don’t fly at night,” said Davis.
“Shit, what’s the difference?” Salt spit on the hangar’s concrete floor. They were alone; Wong had taken the precaution of posting a guard at the entrance. The mission had need-to-know code-word clearance.
“The sergeant is correct,” Wong admitted. “But the A-10s will be equipped with missiles that have infra-red targeting capability. In any event, our job will be a covert one. The enemy should never be aware of our presence.”
“Shit happens,” said Davis doubtfully.
“Shit, from what I’ve seen, Hogs’ll blow up anything you tell them to,” said Salt. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m not worrying. I’m just wondering why there aren’t more of us going,” said Davis. “If we had a full team, we could take the bastard out ourselves.”
“Decisions on manpower allocation were not delegated to me,” said Wong.
“Ah, we can still nail him,” said Salt.
“That is the last contingency,” said Wong. “If the F-111s fail to arrive, the A-10s will fill in. Our mission is to remain as clandestine as possible.”
“Clandestine. I like that,” said Salt.
Wong quickly outlined the rest of the package’s responsibilities, noting that the operation would be coordinated by a specially equipped MC-130 ABCCC plane with the call-sign “Wolf.” Electronics jamming and fighter escort would also be available, but were being arranged in a manner that wouldn’t tip off the Iraqis to the operation.
“Just tell us when we go,” said Salt finally.
“We will board the Hercules Combat Talon at 1700,” said Wong. “In the meantime, I have some operational details to review with the air crews.”
“We’ll be ready,” said Davis.
“There is one other facet of the operation that I cannot brief you on,” Wong told them.
“Why not?” Davis asked.
“To do so may jeopardize other aspects of our mission. What I can say is this— at some point, I will have to separate myself from you while you carry out your job.”
“That’s it?” asked Davis.
Wong nodded.
“Where are you going to be?” asked Salt.
“In the vicinity,” said Wong. “Beyond that, I cannot say.”
“You gonna pull that need-to-know bullshit on us?” said Salt.
Wong had debated whether to tell them about Dixon or not; the option had in fact been left up to him. He decided not to. It wasn’t because that would jeopardize Dixon if the team was captured. It was because he realized the men would be reluctant to leave Iraq without Dixon if they knew he was still alive. And it might be necessary to do so.
In fact, it might be necessary for them to leave him. For he had already decided he wasn’t leaving without the young lieutenant.
But there was no need to tell them that.
“I assure you, any decision regarding operational details that I make is only the result of careful consideration,” said Wong. “For everyone’s own good.”
“My father used to say that right before he reared back and whacked us,” said Salt.
“I won’t whack you,” said Wong. “That I guarantee.”
CHAPTER 16
IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
1320
The dirt road dipped and twisted after it slid off the highway, skirting the edge of the hill. Dixon walked along it, not caring that he might be seen— he kept hoping for a sound, for a truck to materialize behind him.
He had seen dilapidated farm buildings down this road yesterday. On one side of the road there had been a fence and a rundown building; opposite it, across the road, was the tiny house where he had stopped to find food. Thinking they were only a hundred yards in from the highway, he kept expecting them to appear, glancing first for the wall, then across the road for the house. He began walking
faster, less and less sure of himself— a hundred yards in, two hundred, three hundred, a full mile. His whole sense of direction was thrown off, his sense of reality jumbled. Where was the damn wall? Had he imagined the house? Was he even where he thought he was?
He’d killed several men here. No way could he have imagined it.
When he finally saw the low pile of rubble marking the start of a wall on the left side of the road he felt a jolt of excitement, almost as if he had spotted the spire of his hometown church over the trees on the highway leading to his town. He’d hidden behind that wall yesterday.
Seeing the house sobered him up. Half of it was gone, the roof wrecked and the walls blackened where they weren’t simply rubble.
It had been whole yesterday. He’d gone there for food, only to be chased by a small squad of Iraqis. They’d missed him at first when he hid across the street; then the woman got caught in the crossfire. He’d killed the first group but barely escaped a second, which didn’t bother hunting him down— they simply blew up the house.
There had been a baby in the back room. Dixon left him to escape, figuring the Iraqis wouldn’t harm him. A moment after he jumped out the back of the building, it exploded.
Dixon took a step toward the house but stopped; he couldn’t face it. Yet his curiosity was overwhelming— he climbed slowly up the opposite hill to the wall, trying to find a vantage point that might somehow let him see into the ruins. He stood on the wall but lost his balance, dropping off behind it on the slope.
Tiny little kid, buried under the back end.
His fault. He could have saved the kid.
Or if he’d never existed, maybe the kid wouldn’t have been killed.
A small truck revved in the distance, turning off the highway. Dixon got to his feet.
The wall would protect him, or at least prolong the battle. He’d shoot, they’d stop; he’d pin them down. Sooner or later, they’d overwhelm him. He’d save the grenades until the very end.
Or he’d kill them all, and wait for the next truck. Or the next.
BJ took out his canteen, gulped the last of the water. His stomach felt like a worn stone; he’d been hungry so long it no longer hurt.