by Jim DeFelice
From Turkey?
Doberman acknowledged, setting his nose back toward the convoy area, still unsure how long they were going to stay there. Hack radioed that he had just passed bingo. His voice was flat and matter-of-fact, the way a Hog driver’s ought to be.
He could just send Hack home alone.
Might get lost.
Had to take him back. And give the devil his due, he had taken out the Zeus and he had ignored the MiG warning.
Which, come to think of it, had evaporated.
“Devil Three this is One. Doberman, what’s your situation?”
Skull’s voice, unexpected and a bit tinny, nonetheless had a tone that permitted nothing but a full set of the facts, including a layout of the positions as well as their fuel and ammo stores.
“Go south,” Skull told him. “You and Preston head back. We’ll stay here until the Vipers arrive.”
Doberman had heard Knowlington tell Wolf about the downed Frenchman. There was no way he and A-Bomb had more fuel than they did. Even without doing the math, he doubted Devils One and Two could linger more than two minutes before heading desperately for the tanker.
But there was also no way of disobeying Skull’s directive.
“Glenon,” said Skull.
“We’re setting course now,” he told him.
CHAPTER 54
IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
2215
Dixon shepherded Budge down the hill, trying to move as quickly as he could without running into the Iraqis. It took forever and longer, every step slowed by caution and speeded by anticipation. The battle unfolded on the plain before them as they descended, flaring and dying and then flaring again. Several times they hunkered down and watched for falling debris as missiles erupted overhead. Installations to the north and east reverberated, hit by bombs or long-range surface-to-air missiles.
There were definitely Hogs involved. Their target seemed to be trucks or buildings about a half mile down the highway, perhaps further; there was gunfire there, and Dixon guessed that must mean the commandos were in that area. There was also a tank and an Iraqi outpost that had been struck on the left foot of the hill. He and Budge found a path and began running, nearly to the bottom now. Dixon picked up the boy and carried him about a hundred yards until he saw a truck sitting at the bottom of the slope, thirty feet ahead.
BJ nudged Budge to the right, aiming to get around the vehicle. Something flashed as they moved on the sloping soil of the hillside— a lightning bug flickering in the dark.
No, a man on the back of the truck, squeezing off a single, almost silent rifle shot. The truck was a Land Rover, sitting pug-nosed in the dark a few feet from the roadway.
Dixon pointed his rifle at the man. As he took aim, he realized another Iraqi vehicle sat less than five yards to the left of the Land Rover, obscured from Dixon’s view by a bluff at the edge of the hill. It was thick and long, with a gun at the top— a tank or more likely a BMP, a tracked armored personnel carrier exported by the Russians.
The man in the Land Rover fired another round. He seemed to be trolling for a response, unsure what if anything was out there. He moved too deliberately to be panicked, yet seemed to be shooting randomly.
It wouldn’t take much of a shot to hit him. But the BMP was probably loaded with men. The bluff would prevent it from training its turret up the slope, but Dixon and Budge would be quickly outnumbered.
Infinitely safer to keep sneaking to the right, flank the position and then cross the road. At that point, he could swing toward the firefight, maybe help out by coming up behind the enemy.
Assuming, of course, the Iraqis were shooting at something more than ghosts.
“Okay, Budge,” he told the kid. “This way.”
“Budge,” agreed the boy. He got up and walked with BJ across the slope, then slid down toward the road with him. A trench ran along the highway; Dixon stopped Budge for a moment and pointed to it.
“Go, Budge,” he said, pushing him forward.
“Budge!” yelled the kid.
They’d gone only a few yards when the boy yelped. As Dixon moved to clamp his mouth shut he realized there was an Iraqi with a gun a few yards away.
Tugged from behind by Budge, he tumbled back into the ditch as the Iraqi began to fire.
CHAPTER 55
IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
2215
Salt saw the Dushka and its crew about ten yards to his left, set up behind the wrecked chassis of a truck. Mounted on a thick tripod, the DShKM was a thing of austere beauty, from its double-circle muzzle brake to the wooden pegs of its rear handles. Capable of spitting just over nine rounds of 7.62 mm ammo a second, the gun was as rugged and dependable as any machine-gun ever used, and at least as deadly.
Salt had a shot on only one of the three men behind the gun. If the others managed to swing the weapon around at him, he’d be dead meat— he had no cover himself.
Carefully, he began moving to his right, trying to flank the position from the rear, hoping to get into position where he could hit the entire crew with one burst. The wreckage of the truck helped camouflage him, but it also made it impossible to see the gunners. The Dushka’s metallic thud sent him diving to his right; it took a moment for him to realize the Iraqis had fired not at him but at whatever was in front of them— Davis, most likely.
As a general rule, Salt didn’t like officers, especially those giving him orders. He’d been willing to put up with Wong because his bonafides were there— the guy had, after all, done a HALO jump a few nights ago with some buddies of Salt’s. But the bullshit about Saddam pissed him off.
Not that Wong didn’t have a point. It was the way he expressed it that pissed him off.
That and the fucking SiG he’d pointed at his neck. He had half a mind to just drop back and let Wong deal with the machine-gunners— more than likely they’d fry him, and he could whomp Saddam in revenge.
Not to overvalue revenge. He began crawling on his belly, paralleling the wrecked truck. He paused parallel to the rear of the truck; he could spring up and be behind them with two steps.
Three guys, three slugs. Didn’t need cover.
Unless they were behind something themselves.
Sneak close to the truck, take a peak before he attacked.
The machine gun stopped firing with a jerk and a metallic snap. They’d run through the clip.
Salt’s brain was still processing the sound as his instincts took over, propelling him to his feet with a leap. He took a step, brought the rifle to his side, took another step and fired point-blank, the first burst catching the actual gunner, the second catching the man to his right, the third the man on the left.
Except that it didn’t. He’d run through the clip, leaving the third man unharmed.
Salt cursed his stupidity, cursed his shit luck, cursed the world. He ejected the cartridge and reached for another. But as his fingers fumbled the Iraqi drew a pistol, and before Salt could reload there was a tremendous boom in his ears, the sound of a massive bullet hitting home.
Hitting the Iraqi, not him. Captain Wong had run up behind Salt and now stood over him, a Desert Eagle smoking in his hand.
“Shit,” said Salt. “Shit.”
Wong said nothing, turning quickly and running to grab the Saddam impersonator from the ground a few feet away; it wasn’t clear if Wong had left him there or if the man had been trying to escape by crawling away. He dragged him over to the machine-gun position. He scanned the ground, then knelt next to it. By the time Salt got there he had disabled the weapon.
“They were out of ammunition,” the captain told him. “Sergeant Davis is this way.”
“Hey, uh, Captain— thanks. You saved my butt.”
Wong gave him a quizzical look, as if he didn’t understand or his hearing had once more gone on the fritz. But maybe that was just his way of saying “you’re welcome”— the Air Force captain was an odd duck.
“Sergeant Davis
is this way,” said Wong, pushing the prisoner ahead.
They found Davis huddled over his leg, half-conscious. He’d been hit by three bullets, one of which had shattered his bone. Wong quickly bandaged the leg and gave Davis a hit from the morphine syringe. The D boy had been fortunate— the wounds had come from the submachine-gun, not the Dushka. The big machine-gun would have taken his limb right off.
“At least he got the bastard,” said Salt, who could see the body on the ground behind the nearby truck.
“Actually, I eliminated the soldier wielding the sub-machine gun,” said Wong.
“You know, Captain, you talk kind of funny.”
Again, Wong gave him a goggle-eyed stare. “I wasn’t aware of that.”
Salt started to laugh.
“I will never understand why everyone in the Gulf has such a bizarre sense of humor,” Wong told Salt. Then he turned to the Iraqi and asked him to carry Davis.
To Salt’s surprise, the Iraqi was actually able to get him over his shoulder.
They ran back across to the road to the spot where Davis had left the com gear. Wong immediately went to work on it, fingers flying over the controls like a mad typist finishing up the last bit of paperwork before a long weekend. Salt scanned northwards. The tank had been taken out by one of the planes. There were two vehicles to the east right at the foot of the hill, guarding the highway. They were maybe a half-mile from them. Salt couldn’t remember now whether they were there when all of this started— it seemed like eons ago.
“Strawman was an impostor,” Wong told Wolf when he succeeding in contacting the ABCCC craft. “We are proceeding to rendezvous site.”
The controller apparently said something the captain didn’t like; he frowned and said only, “understood,” before ending the transmission.
“Take the Satcom and go to the pickup site,” Wong told Salt. “The STAR pod will have been dropped by now.”
“You think Davis will make it?”
“If he’s placed in the harness,” Wong said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“My medical knowledge is limited,” said the captain. “Obviously he cannot survive here and must be evacuated.”
“Where are you going?”
“I am going to complete my assignment,” Wong told him. “If I am not there for the pickup, leave without me.”
“What? When?”
“The plane is on its way. You will recognize the spot from the photos we reviewed after takeoff; set up near the highest elevation and present yourself southwards. Quickly; you have no more than twenty minutes. Apparently the Iraqis are scrambling every force at their disposal into this area.”
“Shit. What about him?” Salt gestured to the Iraqi.
“He won’t give you trouble. Place him in the second set of harnesses. The Hercules will make two passes.”
“You trust me not to kill him?”
“Of course, Sergeant. You have your orders.”
“Yeah.” Salt frowned, then looked over at the Iraqi, who was bending forward under Davis’s weight. The man seemed to have lost the glaze in his eyes; maybe Wong had sobered him up. “You understand what I say, fuckhead?”
“He doesn’t speak English,” Wong said. “Simply point.”
Wong picked up Davis’s SAW and several cases of ammunition.
“Hey, Captain. Thanks,” Salt told him.
This time, Wong nodded and actually seemed to smile.
“All right you, move out,” Salt told the Iraqi, gesturing. “Go.”
Davis groaned as they started. Salt figured that was a good sign, and ignored the fresh explosions and gunfire in the distance.
CHAPTER 56
OVER IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
2230
In 1943, a U.S. Army paratrooper stood under a set of extremely high poles as a Stinson light observation aircraft trundled overhead. The Stinson dipped slightly, then held steady; a hook off its fuselage caught the wire at the top of the poll and the paratrooper shot nearly straight up into the air. Attached to a modified parachute harness, the paratrooper was pulled along behind the plane at roughly a hundred and twenty-five miles an hour before being cranked inside the craft. It wasn’t particularly pretty, but when the paratrooper finally clawed his way in, he became the first American successfully scooped from the earth by an airplane.
Not counting the sheep that had been strangled in the earlier experiments.
After the war, Robert Fulton improved the ground-hook system considerably, stepping up from sheep to pigs for his trials. On August 12, 1958, Marine Staff Sergeant Levi Woods attached himself to a thin harness tethered to a helium balloon and waited as a Navy P2V Neptune approached on wavering wings. The plane snagged a line held by the balloon and the sergeant was airborne. The tug that propelled him upwards supposedly felt lighter than the pull of a parachute opening, though it should be noted that on being winched into the P2V the pigs tended to attack the crew.
Streamlining behind the patrol craft, Woods extended his arms and legs, literally flying as he was pulled toward the plane. When he reached the hold, he had successfully demonstrated the Fulton surface-to-air recovery (STAR) system, and proven once and for all that Marines are crazier than most normal human beings.
The Air Force adopted the STAR system for Spec Ops during Vietnam. Air Force personnel being somewhat less crazy than Marines, the system was not actually used in combat during the war. But it continued to be a favorite of Spec Op troops, or more accurately their commanders, who frowned on risking small and slow helicopters in hostile situations when much larger craft like lumbering transports could be sent instead.
By the time Saddam decided to push into Kuwait, improvements in the C-130 meant that a covert team could be picked up by an aircraft nearly impossible to track. Compared to earlier versions as well as other transports and helicopters, the MC-130 variants were sneaky fast, avoided snoopy radars, and could make quick and effective forays into enemy territory without needing a sixty-plane escort. In theory, the STAR system gave the U.S. an almost invincible covert retrieval capability.
That was the theory. To Captain Lars Warren, stroking the control column to avoid yet another Iraqi SAM site, the reality was very different. As long as he stayed where he was— fifty feet above the increasingly bumpy and varied terrain— his Herk couldn’t be seen by radar. It could be heard, however, and the night wasn’t nearly so dark that it couldn’t be seen— as a row of tracers erupting to his left vigorously demonstrated.
“We’re okay,” said the navigator, presumably meaning that the gun was being fired simply by sight, and not very well.
Lars didn’t answer. He held his flight path steady, passing the tracers without getting hit.
Or at least, without knowing if he was hit.
“The A-10s have engaged the target vehicle,” Kelly told him. “Destroyed. Everything’s moving ahead, just with the timetable pushed up. Two Hogs coming west to cover us. F-16s en route as well.”
Lars grunted. He didn’t want a play-by-play. He didn’t want to hear anything except for the loud drone of the Herk’s four-bladed engines.
“Thirty-five minutes to show time,” said the navigator.
“Okay.”
“GPS looks good.”
“Okay.”
They were headed toward the Euphrates, not far from the heart of the country. They’d take one more turn, get on a direct course to the target area. They’d pop up about sixty seconds before hitting the target area and take a hard turn southwest. The balloon ought to be right in front of him, sitting pretty at five hundred feet.
Right.
They’d hook the line with the prong at their nose. A guideline ran from the wingtips to the forward fuselage to protect the line from the propellers. After the rope was snared, the crew would winch in the first two members of the team. He’d then come around and repeat the process for the last man. It would take between six and ten minutes to get them in.
; Right.
There were a million Iraqis below, every single one of them armed to the teeth. There were a million anti-aircraft weapons of every description— 23mm, 56mm, shoulder-fired heat seekers, high-altitude SA-2s, Rolands, SA-6s, SA-9s, machine-guns, and pistols. Even a stinking slingshot could nail them this low, this slow, this straight.
At least one flight of MiGs had taken off earlier and was still inexplicably unaccounted for. The AWACS and the interceptors scrambled to meet them lost them near their air base. Did that mean they had landed— or were they simply flying low like Lars was?
Lars heard himself give the crew a briefing on the situation. They were on course and in the green.
“Cool,” he said. “Everything’s cool.”
Where the hell did that BS come from?
He checked his course again, careful to keep an eye on the terrain-following radar. The flight engineer went through the systems readouts. The navigator counted down to the turn. They hit the way-marker and he banked, fighting off some unexpected turbulence. His hands turned to jelly. He told himself he was sticking with it, and heard the pilot gasping for air.
He was the pilot now. He was the one who couldn’t breathe.
“Thirty minutes,” said the navigator.
“Thirty,” said Lars. “Everything’s cool.”
CHAPTER 57
OVER IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
2235
A-Bomb began closing the distance between himself and Skull as they came up on the initial target area south of Kajuk. The ground team had finally checked in with the controller; Devils One and Two were going to take a pass and knock down any units that might try and follow Wong and the boys back to their pickup spot.
The way A-Bomb saw it, the mission had been among the most boring he’d ever flown. Sure, they’d hit a heavily armed SAM site and saved a French guy, but he personally hadn’t done much more than wreck two trucks. Hell, he could have gotten that at home.