by Jim DeFelice
The other two Hogs were carrying illumination flares in rocket launching canisters. Preston hadn’t actually used the launchers for anything but rockets— and as a matter of fact, he wasn’t even entirely sure he had done that. But the principle was fairly simple. The LUU-2 would spit out, opening its chute and igniting. The hot air would hold it up and it would descend, lighting the night like a set of klieg lights for five minutes or so. The “lou-twos” or logs would only be used if things got sticky and the Hogs needed to use their cannons.
Two other important weapons were attached to the planes. Every A-10 carried a pair of Sidewinder air-to-air missiles at the left edge of their wings for air defense. An ECM pod sat on the opposite hard point. The counter measures in the ALQ-119 were older than Hack; the device was next to useless against the SAMs the F-111s were going to hit. In fact, even the F-15 Hack had just been flying would have been pushed to the limit dealing with it.
Do your best, he reminded himself, trying to push the negative thoughts away. He rechecked his position and twisted his head, scanning the sky for the millionth time even though they were far behind the lines.
All things considered, Preston had the easiest job of the mission. After a quick refuel at KKMC, the planes would fly together across the border, as if coming in for an attack. The dance would begin at a coordinate they called “Wendy’s”— A-Bomb had supplied the nicknames— about fifty miles due south of their actual target area. The planes would make a show of turning west toward a GCI or ground radar site that had been hit two days before; the maneuver was supposed to make anyone watching think they were going to attack it again. After about two minutes of flying time, they would reach “Krisp.” Knowlington and A-Bomb would hit the deck, diving to fifty feet and starting a zig-run north to scout the LZ for the Hercules. Doberman and Hack would continue toward the GCI for about a minute and a half before breaking off turning back south to refuel. Assumed all went as planned, they’d relieve the first two planes in a staging area about fifteen miles south of the LZ, orbiting there until— if— needed. They’d be about a two minute scramble from the hot zone. The A-10s would trade back and forth, waiting and refueling, until they were needed to cover the pickup. Then they’d go home.
Two pairs of F-111s were doing the heavy lifting— one taking out the SAM site and the other, several hours later, going after Saddam’s car. The Hogs would back them up.
“Four, you’re supposed to be further back in trail.”
Glenon’s ferocious yap jerked Hack physically; he slammed the stick of his Hog to the left, pitching the plane on its wing to fall back before realizing that he needn’t have taken such drastic action. He swooped back level, cursing Glenon as well as himself— he hadn’t been that close, for christsakes, just a little tighter on Devil Three than they had briefed. No reason to bark at him.
“Four,” he said, acknowledging. He let the distance work out to a mile and a half, in the meantime pulling closer to the axis of the flight. You could waste a lot of fuel getting too close, because then you’d be making constant adjustments on the throttle.
In theory, anyway. Damn Hog throttle was just an on-off switch.
“Devil Leader to Devil Flight. Ease up, boys,” snapped Knowlington. “The night is young. We have our first way point in zero-two. Nice, gentle turn.”
The colonel’s voice had the smooth, suave assurance of an all-night deejay spinning golden oldies in the wee hours. Hack eased his fingers, rolling his neck and trying to snap some of the tension out with the cracks of his ligaments against the vertebrae. The sky ahead darkened as he flew, blue hazing into a gray that slid into blackness. He took the turn and then the next course correction, now on a direct line for Iraq. The planes had climbed all the way to 18,000 feet. It was high for a Hog— and the lowest altitude he’d ever been at crossing the border.
They were going a hell out of a lot lower before the night was through. Fifty feet in the dark.
Damn long time since he’d done that. Had he ever actually done that, even in an exercise? He wasn’t sure.
Hack blew a wad of air through his nose and worked his eyes around the cockpit, determined to keep his shit together. Nail this and everyone in the squadron was going to respect him, no questions asked.
He hadn’t even thought of that when he’d volunteered. But it was true— a bonus he hadn’t counted on.
Assuming he made it.
“Wendy’s,” said Knowlington.
The transmission startled Hack; it felt like it was too soon, though a glance at his instruments told him they were dead on.
One by one, the planes acknowledged and took the turn. A-Bomb’s acknowledgment seemed garbled, and for a half-second Hack felt a mixture of anticipation and actual fear, desire to step up into the tougher slot mixing with the fear that he might screw up the harder job.
But there was nothing wrong with Devil Two or its radio. A-Bomb’s voice hadn’t been garbled so much as consumed by another sound.
Bruce Springsteen, it seemed, singing, “Born to Run.”
Snap out of it, Hack told himself. You’re wound so tight you’re starting to hear things. Nobody listens to music on the way to a bomb run over enemy territory, not even a Hog driver.
CHAPTER 21
OVER IRAQ
27 JANUARY , 1991
1920
Skull’s yellow pad had it nice and neat, a quick cut to the northeast followed by a dogleg south, a dive and then a 160-degree turn and a jog north to the money.
Real life was messier, with the RWR warning that an Iraqi radar that shouldn’t be there was trying to acquire him before they reached Krisp. There had been a GCI or ground radar site due west, but if the RWR was to be believed, that wasn’t what was targeting them now; the radar was in a different band.
If the warning was to be believed, in fact, they were being hunted by a Roland mobile SAM battery, probably the most deadly anti-air weapon the Iraqis had outside of the SA-11s Wong had spotted further north.
“Radar,” said Knowlington tersely. “Hang with me and stay on course.”
As he let go of the mike button to end the transmission, the warning indicator went clear. Skull’s eyes hunted the dark shadows below for a sign of the threat. They were more than a hundred miles inside of Iraq, heading toward the heart of the country. They were beyond the worst of the desert; the ground was more hard-packed here, hard-scrabble scrub as opposed to sifting mounds of sand. But no matter what the earth was made of, it would have been hard to pick anything out of the dusky shadows from this altitude.
Their planned zig would take them through the direction the radar waves seemed to have come from; the way they’d chalked it up, they’d pass right through the missile’s prime acquisition envelope as they dove to fifty feet.
The German-made missile system, which Iraq had a good number of, had a range of roughly four miles. Designed for low and medium-altitude protection, it was extremely nasty once locked on a target.
“I have no radar,” said A-Bomb. “Been clean.”
“One,” acknowledged Skull.
It had been roughly thirty seconds since the warning. They were one and a half minutes away from Krisp.
The safest thing to do was change course to skirt the missiles. But that might change their time on target, which would mess everything up— this was a delicate dance between the F-111s, the Hogs, and the Herk. Throw the schedule off a minute and he risked having the Hercules spotted.
Better, though not safer, to dive sooner, steeper, get under the Roland as well as the SA-11. That meant a much longer drive at fifty feet.
Lose some speed, eat more fuel.
Knowlington quickly looked at his paper map, double-checking the elevations in their path to make sure there weren’t any surprises.
Doable.
“Krisp in sixty seconds,” Knowlington told the rest of his flight. “Devil Three, I’m figuring that Roland at about two o’clock, four miles from Krisp, maybe a little further. You want coo
rdinates?”
“I can do the math,” snapped Doberman.
“We’re going to break on my signal. A-Bomb, you and I are going to dive down to fifty feet and get under it. Doberman, you avoid the site when you come north.” He left it to Doberman to decide how.
“Two. I’m ready when you are, Skip,” said A-Bomb.
“Three. I’ll call in the position on the SAM.”
Skull took one last look at his gauges, making sure he had plenty of fuel. His preflight calculations had been pessimistic; the Hog was sipping daintily.
Maybe he was being overly cautious. No way Black Hole would have left a working Roland out here. Probably just an ECM glitch.
No way to tell.
“Krisp,” Skull said, tipping his wing as he rolled the Hog into a steep dive.
CHAPTER 22
OVER SOUTHERN IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
1920
“If I get the chance, I’m nailing him.”
“Who says you’re getting the chance?”
Salt glanced toward the front of the cargo hold, where Captain Wong was consulting with one of the Herk’s crewmen. “If I get the chance, I’m nailing Saddam,” he repeated to Davis.
Davis shrugged. “Planes’ll get him. We’ll be a mile away.”
“I’m not saying they won’t get him.” Salt edged his toe against his weapons rucksack on the floor of the plane. He wouldn’t completely suit up until ten minutes to drop time, set for 2002. And he’d wait until precisely then; it was a superstition thing, and no matter how much it bugged everyone else, he stuck to it. By contrast, all Davis had to do was slap on his helmet and he was good to go. “I’m saying if I get the chance, I’m nailing him.”
“Sounds fair.”
“What else you figure he’s up to?”
“Who?”
“Captain Wong. That need-to-know bullshit.”
“Couldn’t even guess.”
“You got enough explosives to blow the road?” Salt asked.
“I got enough to blow up Saddam’s ever-lovin’ bunker.”
Salt laughed. Unlike most troopers— unlike most soldiers, period— Davis rarely used profanity. “Ever-lovin’” was about as bad as he cursed.
“I wish this crate would hurry up,” said Salt. “I’d like to have the road mined already.”
“Probably won’t even get a chance to blow it.”
“We will.”
“I will,” said Davis.
“Yeah, fuck, you will.” Salt had known the black sergeant almost since basic training; they’d saved each other’s butts a few times— in bars, not combat. The two operations they had been on together, once in Panama and once before the start of the air war scouting targets, had gone as easily as visits to a church fair.
“I hate these low jumps,” said Davis.
Surprised, Salt jerked his head toward his friend. “You scared?”
“You bet I am.”
“Ah. Fuck you.”
“I am scared,” said Davis.
“Yeah.” Salt patted Davis’s leg. “Me fuckin’ too.”
CHAPTER 23
OVER IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
1930
The ground intercept station betrayed no sign of life as Doberman leveled Devil Two off at five thousand feet. But the station wasn’t the point— Doberman continued toward it, holding the plane at an altitude that not only made it visible on radar but also fairly easy to hear from the ground. If the Iraqis were looking for Hogs up here, they had two very visible ones to track.
But there was no indication that he was being tracked. The AWACS had discounted Skull’s Roland read; there was nothing between here and Kajuk that could see them, let alone harm them. And the GCI site— just now visible in the Maverick’s IR viewer— looked like a kid’s squashed Erector set.
Doberman knew from bitter experience that the moment you thought you were safe was the moment you were most likely to get whacked. The Iraqi missile men had learned to keep their radars off-line until they were absolutely ready to fire; the handful of operators who had survived the early days of the war were good enough to flick the set on, fire within seconds, then shut down to lessen the odds of a wild Weasel or Tornado sending them to la-la land. Just because his RWR was quiet, just because the AWACS said he was clean, didn’t mean he was safe. On the contrary, it meant he had to sit at the edge of his seat, as wary as ever. The threat could come from any direction.
He missed having A-Bomb on his butt. Frankly, Preston didn’t exactly impress him. For one thing, the guy hadn’t flown an A-10 in years; Doberman didn’t understand why Skull let him join a mission where he’d not only be flying far behind the lines but at night. Better to take Bozzone, even if he was a kid. Billy had the moves and the stuff; all he needed was a little experience and he’d be a kick butt driver.
Plus, Preston didn’t like the A-10. Anyone could see he thought he ought to be back flying Eagles. Why the hell had he been sent here? Punishment?
Had to be something serious. A guy didn’t just fall into the A-10 community after flying Eagles. Hell, no. Especially a guy who’d nailed a MiG.
Doberman checked his INS. The units had a bad habit of drifting while you were flying, throwing everything off. Naturally, it only happened on a mission when precise timing and location were important.
Like tonight’s.
“Devil Three, this is Four. Uh, we still turning?”
Doberman cursed before hitting the mike button. “Turning,” he said, angry with himself for letting his thoughts drift, even though he was only about two seconds off the mark.
“Four,” acknowledged Hack.
Not like him to be late. Preston had him all out of whack.
As he banked south, Glenon began pulling back on the stick, beginning a gradual climb that would take them to just about fifteen thousand feet as they crossed the border. The tanker should be in a track about two miles further south.
Flying through enemy territory at “high” altitude went against everything a Hog driver was taught. The plane didn’t seem to like it either; she didn’t buck, exactly, but she did seem to be dragging her wings, taking her time on the long climb. She might also be wondering why she was heading south with unfired missiles.
Right about here, Doberman thought to himself, A-Bomb would chime in with something funny. But Preston stayed quiet.
Which was, after all, how they’d briefed it— silent com, talk only when necessary.
Damn, he missed flying with A-Bomb.
As Doberman’s radar picked up a pair of approaching F-15s, a voice on the long-distance radio frequency demanded that he and Hack identify themselves. As he went to acknowledge, Preston beat him to it.
“Hey assholes, we’re on your side,” said Hack.
If A-Bomb had said that— and it was the sort of thing he might have said— Doberman would have laughed. But somehow Preston’s remark pissed him off.
“Devil Three to Piranha Seven,” he told the interceptor pilot who had queried them. “We’re A-10As from the 535th Devil Squadron, heading for a refuel. You got a problem with that?”
The Eagles carried electronics gear to identify friendly aircraft; the FOF “tickled” equipment in the Hogs and painted them on the displays as good guys. That should have been done by now. The AWACS controller would also have given them information about the planes, since it was responsible for tracking flights in the sector.
So why were they being challenged?
“Yo, Blaze, it’s Hack. What the fuck are you doing?” said Preston.
“Hack? Major Preston? No way. I’m looking at a pair of flying pickup trucks. Hack’s a real pilot.”
“Stop busting our chops, Piranha,” snapped Doberman. “If this is a real fucking challenge, then get your goddamn ident gear fixed. Stand the fuck down.”
“Hey, relax Devil Flight,” answered the fighter pilot. “Just trying to giggle your nugget wingman.”
“You don’t bu
st chops by targeting me with your radar,” said Doberman.
“Negative. Negative. You weren’t targeted. Jesus,” said the Eagle jock. “Relax.”
“We have not targeted you,” said the other Eagle pilot. “Radars are not targeting you.”
Doberman, still playing righteous, didn’t even acknowledge. The planes rocked off to the east, back to whatever it was they were supposed to be doing.
“Devil Three, I have your six,” said Preston over the squadron frequency. “Blaze is okay. He’s just a ball buster.”
“How the fuck did he know you were here?” shot back Doberman.
“How would I know? Probably the AWACS sent him to make sure we were who we were supposed to be.”
“This mission is secret.”
“Well they know we’re here, for christsakes,” answered Preston. “Besides –”
“Yeah. Tanker,” snapped Doberman, ending the exchange.
He began correcting to fall in behind the KC-135, which had turned south. The director lights in the belly were just visible.
Man, he missed A-Bomb.
CHAPTER 24
OVER IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
1955
Major Ronald “Wick” Durk had always believed he could sense a mission’s karma right out of the gate. Not that he believed in any of the Eastern mysticism crap that went with the karma thing. But he could sense a winning streak when it was coming.
And one wasn’t, not tonight.
The F-111 pilot had nearly been diverted about five minutes after taking off from Taif in western Saudi to hit allegedly “live” Scuds found by a Delta team in western Saudi. He’d nearly had to scream at the AWACS trying to order him off his assignment. Not that it was the controller’s fault— for all he knew, Wick’s two-plane element was going after the low-priority bridge as originally posted in the ATO. Clearing up the misunderstanding without revealing the nature of his mission had not been easy.