HOGS #5: TARGET SADDAM (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series)

by Jim DeFelice

  “We’re hosing these guys,” answered A-Bomb. “Be with you in two shakes.”

  Knowlington gave the shadows one more look with his Mark-One eyeballs. All he could see were shadows dancing on shadows and an eerie reddish glow cast by the fires A-Bomb had started when he hit the trucks.

  Only thing to do was fire off one of his LUU-2 illumination flares.

  It was a very dangerous move. The flare might help the Iraqis see the Frenchman. It could also make the Hog an easy target as he ducked low to make sure the pilot was for real and alone. But Skull couldn’t clear the helicopter into an ambush.

  “Leander Seven, I’m going to drop a log,” Skull said over the rescue frequency. “Hold back. A-Bomb, get between the Iraqis and the helo, just in case there’s more we missed. I’ll take some turns, knock down anybody left by the trucks and look for our guy.”

  “Two,” snapped A-Bomb. “Give me three seconds.”

  Knowlington needed more than that to get into position. He saw a few pinpricks of red on the ground, but couldn’t tell if the Iraqis were firing at him or the downed airman. He goosed off the flare, accelerated, then slammed back to take a look. The stark effervescent light cast by the lou-two as it slowly descended on its parachute swing turned the world into a scene from a Grade B sci-fi movie, earth devastated after a nuclear accident.

  Still couldn’t see.

  Screw it.

  Skull tucked his wing, swooping toward the flare and charging in the direction of the Frenchman. He plunged so low he got beneath the slowly descending LUU-2; the light silhouetted the dark hull of the plane and made it an obvious target, but Knowlington didn’t worry about that— he was too busy flying. He skimmed along the ground and found three Iraqi soldiers blinking assault rifles toward him.

  Skull blinked back, teasing his GAU-30. The soldiers disappeared in the swirl of erupting dirt, uranium and explosives. He nosed upwards, continuing his path toward the trucks A-Bomb had hit. Shadows scattered— he fired at them, realizing they were Iraqi soldiers. He fired high and there wasn’t time to bring his aim down as he winged over the position, wheeling back around at the edge of the bright circle of light.

  As he churned back around, he spotted a stick figure about fifty yards from the spot where he’d obliterated the first group of Iraqis. He began crawling as Skull approached, moving toward the south.

  Had to be the Frenchman.

  “I’m on that other truck,” announced A-Bomb.

  It took Skull a few seconds to spot the vehicle a quarter-mile ahead on his left, a six-wheeler that looked more like a boat than a truck. A moment after he saw it, A-Bomb’s missile turned its hull into molten steel and foam.

  Skull turned back toward the first group of trucks, looking for the soldiers he’d seen. They were gone, obviously hiding from the Hog and its monster cannon.

  “Leander Seven, the heavy stuff is cleared away,” Skull told the SAR helicopter. “Few ground troops by the burning vehicles. We’ll walk you in if you feel up to it.”

  The PAVE Low pilot replied with a string of curses indicating he was more than up to it. The big Sikorsky popped up, racing forward into the bright arc of the still-burning flare. As Skull banked behind her one of the crewmen lit up the mini-gun at the door, spraying the area near the destroyed trucks. Meanwhile, the Eagles that had been tasked to help out announced that they had arrived with a swoop down to a thousand feet. Their massive engines shook the ground like lightning bolts from the Norse god Thor.

  Which just happened to be their call sign.

  The French pilot shouted something over his radio. Skull caught a glimpse of him running to the helicopter.

  “Said we’re magnificently ugly,” explained A-Bomb as the PAVE Low abruptly lifted up and began heading south. “Those French know beauty, let me tell you.”

  “Thor Flight, appreciate it if you can run Leander home,” Skull told the F-15s. “We have a prior engagement.”

  “Thor Leader copies. Thank you, Devil Flight; thumbs up to you.”

  Skull had already snapped his Hog onto the course for Kajuk. A-Bomb acknowledged that he, too, was on the proper heading.

  “Say boss, not that I’m complaining, but we’re out past bingo, aren’t we?” A-Bomb added, referring to their fuel situation. Bingo was the not all together theoretical turnaround point, the spot where you had to fly home or risk running out of gas.

  “Might be,” said Skull, making sure he had the throttle at maximum.

  CHAPTER 42

  IRAQ

  27 JANUARY 1991

  2118

  Wong felt the first shell of the T-72 explode in the distance. The tremble knocked him into the dirt; by the time he managed to get back up and grab the suitcase with the explosives, another round had landed. This one landed parallel to him but well to the east, a good hundred or more yards away from where he’d left Salt and Davis. But the tank had to be neutralized, or sooner or later his men would be killed.

  Perhaps sooner— a third salvo landed behind him, close enough to lift him off the ground and deposit him chest-first six or seven feet away. The explosives case landed square on his back, knocking the air out of his lungs. As he struggled to breathe, Wong rolled over and tore open the case. He hastily wired three of the C-4 charges for firing; reaching for another he heard the whiz of a fresh shell heaving through the air. He froze, waiting for the explosion he sensed would be less than twenty yards away, more than likely fatal. But the shell apparently landed with a dull plop, burying itself in the ground without exploding; still cringing, Wong grabbed the remote detonator, leaving the set charges on top of the open case. He ran as fast as he could toward the tank, the wireless detonator cupped against his body. As the T-72 launched another shell, he detonated the explosives.

  His idea was to use the explosives to create a diversion and at the same time cloud the tank’s laser range-finder; he hoped to get close enough to the tank to draw its attention as the smoke cleared, giving Davis and Salt more time to pin down the convoy for the scrambling A-10s. Had Wong calculated the gambit according to his usual coefficient of probabilities, he would have been presented with an alarmingly small coefficient— but sometimes even he preferred not to do the math.

  Of course, had he done the math, he would have taken a few more steps before igniting the explosives. The C-4 was not particularly suited to the task at hand, but it was nonetheless true to its inherent explosive nature— it made a nice, big boom as it was ignited, filling the air with grit, dirt, and pulverized rock. The force of the explosion knocked Wong flat, slamming his face against the hard surface. His cheekbone cracked— technically, the zygomatic cranial bone on his right side suffered a clean fracture— but Wong hardly felt it; the shock of the blast had already knocked him unconscious.

  CHAPTER 43

  OVER IRAQ

  27 JANUARY 1991

  2120

  Doberman could see the dark shadow as it rode up toward him in the distance, a knife poking into the sky. His own ECMs were useless against the missile, and he had no way of knowing if the fuzz being thrown by the electronic warfare craft to the south was working. He tossed some chafe and pressed on, trying to keep his eyes on the targeting screen, where he had only blurs.

  He needed to see the goddamn highway. He needed to see it before the SAM nailed him.

  It was going to come right through the windscreen any second.

  Nothing but blur in the screen.

  The SA-11 would have been launched at long distance, would be blind and unguided because surely the radar-seeking missiles had nailed the ground radar and the ECM support craft had fried its on-board guidance system.

  No, it was there ahead, a shining silver blur coming for him. He was an easy target, straight and level at ten thousand feet, struggling to see the god damn car.

  He was just about onto of the damn intersection. Should be right there.

  Doberman took his eyes off the targeting screen for a second. Pinpricks of red and green ligh
t dotted the ground ahead of his wings. A wall of anti-aircraft fire rose from around the village. The radar warning receiver was still going ape shit. Someone— Preston— yelled a missile warning.

  He was about to get nailed. He could feel it.

  Served his damn butt right for wearing that stinking BS good-luck medal.

  Doberman rolled his wings into a knifing dive, pushing the Hog as close to straight down as possible and swooping for the spot where the parade ought to be. The RWR freaked and Preston screamed and the Iraqi missile homed in.

  Doberman put his helmet nearly on the Mav screen. The shadow of a truck materialized.

  Finally.

  He nudged the Hog’s nose sideways, pushing her along the highway as she plunged. He saw a truck, saw another truck, saw a car, saw a big Mercedes, saw a troop truck, saw a nice, long, long station wagon.

  Just your typical madman dictator out for a midnight stroll through suburbia.

  “Bing-bang-boing,” Doberman said aloud, his thumb dancing over the trigger in his old shooting ritual.

  “Bing-bang-boing.”

  The Maverick kicked out from the launcher, barely separating from the plane. The two-stage Thiokol TX-633 solid-fuel rocket motor ignited, jerking the eight-foot long missile out ahead of its mothership. A half-second later, another thunked into the air behind her, the cruciform delta wings at the rear whipping around ferociously as the guidance system put the missile on course.

  CHAPTER 44

  IRAQ

  27 JANUARY 1991

  2122

  The gun jumped in Dixon’s hand, propelled upwards by the momentum of the gases that sent a dozen bullets into the two Iraqis in front of him. By the time he jerked it down the soldiers had crumbled to the ground. Dixon kept squeezing, shaking the gun up and down before realizing he’d burned the clip. He threw the rifle to the side and pulled up the other Kalashnikov, flinching as something seemed to move just beyond the sandbagged position he’d fired into. But there was nothing, or at least nothing that shot at him. He crouched down, leaning away from the hillside, still unsure if he was safe.

  Budge was holding onto the back of his shirt, an anchor pulling him down toward the ground. Dixon reached his left hand around calmly, reassuring the kid as he scanned the hillside, still expecting someone or something to attack. He stayed crouched like that for an eternity, his senses perfectly focused, his whole world narrowed to a sphere no larger than five feet around.

  Then he realized the air behind him had begun to hum. Dixon slid around quickly, knocking the boy to the ground accidentally. There was an enormous flash in the distance beyond the hill, a sudden geyser of red steam, a pipe bursting under tremendous pressure.

  And over the explosion, the faint hum of a Hog swooping upwards after firing, hungry for another target.

  Gunfire below. Vehicles on fire, explosions. A firefight.

  On the ground.

  There had to be a Delta team down there, or British SAS troopers, commandos, allies— friends of some kind. People who could get them the hell out of here.

  Dixon reached over to the huddled, trembling shape of the kid, lifting him under his arm like a loaf of bread. He left the empty AK-74 and began sliding down the hill on his butt.

  “We’re getting out of here, kid,” he said as they slid. “We’re going home.”

  CHAPTER 45

  IRAQ

  27 JANUARY 1991

  2125

  Salt put a slug through the door of the sedan as it started to open. In the next moment a massive flash behind him threw him to the ground amid a whirling storm of dirt. He rolled over and spit out a mouthful of cordite, blood, and pulverized rock, then began to retch, puke pouring like water from his mouth. Somehow he got to his feet, grabbing his combination M-16/grenade launcher and running toward the highway. Davis had taken a position behind some rocks a few yards ahead, pumping rounds from the SAW into the armored car.

  “He was in the Mercedes. Come on, come on,” Salt yelled, tapping Davis as he ran but not stopping. He managed to load the M203 as he ran; having the grenade in the gun somehow calmed him, helped him run even faster.

  A shell from the tank hit near the spot he had run from. Bullets whipped around him, crisscrossing the night with green, yellow, and red streaks. He seemed to be in a movie, outside his own body— not untouchable, not immune to being hit or killed, but removed from it, as if he could die and watch it all happen, analyze it and even shake his head over what a fool he’d been. Because he was being a fool— he ran directly toward a fierce stream of tracers, kept running as an APC launched a shell over his head, kept running as he saw two figures thirty or forty yards away cross from the highway and duck behind a small rise in the terrain. The Mercedes was twenty yards away on his right, one of the troop trucks ten yards off to his left. He realized as he ran that the Iraqis had lost track of him in the confusion, though surely that could change in a moment.

  The SAW ripped behind him; AK-47s answered to his right. Salt leveled his grenade launcher and kicked a 40 mm grenade into the yellow sparkle. He took another step and threw himself to the ground. A half-second before the grenade exploded, he heard a sharp, howling whistle from above, a wolf calling to its mate— or a Maverick, an instant before hitting its target.

  CHAPTER 46

  OVER IRAQ

  27 JANUARY 1991

  2140

  Lars blew another long breath from his mouth, shaking his head, swallowing back the salvia flooding his mouth. He checked his altitude and bearing for the fifth time in the past sixty seconds— on course at one hundred feet, chugging steadily through the long arc carefully planned to keep the MH-130 from active radars. He had his protective helmet and night-vision gear back on and he’d moved to the pilot’s seat— if he didn’t feel more comfortable there, at least it was more familiar.

  One of the British RAF Tornadoes tasked with suppressing the SAM sites announced that it had launched its missiles. Lars glanced nervously toward the window on the right side of the cockpit, as if he might see the strike, then turned his attention to the throttle console, tapping each lever in turn though not changing the settings. He wanted to seem calm to the others. He had to— not because he thought they might rebel if they realized he was nervous, but because it was his job to reassure them so they could do their own tasks without worrying. You couldn’t do your job if you were worrying about your commander. He knew that from his own experience.

  It was probably irrelevant, because already they must hate him. Major DiRiggio, the real pilot, their boss, was lying a few feet behind him on the other side of the bulkhead, barely breathing, possibly beyond survival. Lars had made the right decision— surely DiRiggio would have said himself that the mission came first. But the fact that Lars’s hands were shaking and he was gulping for air didn’t help matters.

  “Herky Bird, this Wolf. Advise your status.”

  Lars started to answer, then realized the flight engineer was handling the communications. They spoke over each other for a second, and again as Lars apologized. He glanced up at the switch panel above him, examining the settings as if there were a possibility that something had been changed without him noting it. He worked as slowly as he could, deliberately, hoping to project an aura of assurance. If he couldn’t fool the others, perhaps he could fool himself.

  Meanwhile, the mission controller brought them up to date. Strawman was being attacked; the Tornadoes were suppressing the SAMs. They were to proceed as briefed, though obviously well ahead of schedule.

  They hadn’t had a chance to tell Wolf about DiRiggio’s heart attack, but now the controller in the ABCCC asked to speak to him. The navigator laid out the situation.

  “Can you complete your mission?” asked the controller.

  Lars felt his lungs cough for air.

  “We will complete our mission,” he said between gulps.

  He had talked over the engineer again. This time, however, their words chorused together, exactly the same.
/>   CHAPTER 47

  OVER IRAQ

  27 JANUARY 1991

  2150

  Major Preston watched the black-green hull of Devil Three plunge downwards, blurring into the raging hell fires. The dark night sky seemed to fold over itself as the Russian-made triple-A hunted through the sky for the intruders. One of the SAM operators had managed to launch two missiles; both were in the air somewhere ahead. Preston felt naked. His A-10’s ALQ-119 electronic counter measures pod was older than the airplane and incapable of confusing an SA-8, let alone the SA-11s.

  But Doberman flew right into the teeth of the defenses, despite Hack’s warnings. All he could do was follow as his leader pitched downward almost directly over the target area, single-mindedly hunting for Strawman. He had a hell of an attitude but he had balls, no question about it.

  Doberman snapped out something over the radio. Preston’s brain worked in slow motion, processing the words.

  He’d launched the Mavericks.

  Now it was Hack’s turn. Someone blurted something over the radio; he only half heard it, trying to find a target in his screen.

  The Tornado commander had just assured the Hogs that they had launched their ALARMS at the other SAMs, the ones that hadn’t turned on their radar. Unlike American HARMs, the homing missiles could loiter above until the SAMs came back on-line.

  Somehow, the idea of four or six missiles flying around overhead didn’t comfort him. Hack slid his eyes over to the small screen at the upper right quadrant of his dash. He had the highway in the middle of the screen, no vehicles. The screen blurred, the IR head temporarily overwhelmed by the flash of Doberman’s Maverick striking the station wagon.

  There’s a way to compensate for that, Hack thought. What the hell is it?

  Close your eyes?

  A second flash. Doberman had taken out the APC as well.