by Jim DeFelice
As Skull banked, he saw a new group of shadows fleeing south from the vehicles Doberman had smashed earlier. But as he began to push the Hog in their direction, the flare inexplicably burnt itself out. He fired anyway, hoping he might at least scare the bastards. It was a waste and he berated himself as he began to climb away, the Warthog gradually picking up speed.
“Devil Two, what’s your situation?” he asked A-Bomb.
“Geez, Skip, I was just about to ask you,” answered his wingman. “Got a Devil Dog underway, and Bruce is poundin’ in the earphones.”
“You’re a piece of work, A-Bomb. What about the BPM?”
“Gone. Ditto a truck, and a flatbed or something they were using for a machine-gun nest. Took the machine-gun out too. Shame. Probably a Dushka. You ever shoot one of those, Boss?”
“Splash it or shoot it?”
“Shoot it.”
“Negative. You see the ground team?”
“Negative. But I’m pretty sure I saw some fire being returned against that machine-gun,” added A-Bomb.
Knowlington checked back with Wolf. The ground team had checked in, saying they were proceeding to Silo, the prime pickup point. Doberman had dropped his two pods there earlier.
The controller didn’t mention Dixon. It’d been a long shot, too long— no right to hope for it, Skull told himself.
Wolf said the Herk seemed to be running behind a few minutes, but everything was shaping up nicely.
Except that the F-16s that were supposed to relieve them had been delayed.
“Can you remain on station?” the controller asked.
“We’re going to have to,” replied Knowlington. “Have our tanker move further north so we don’t have too far to fly.”
“What’s your fuel situation?” asked Wolf, suddenly concerned. He paused to let Skull respond, but he didn’t. “Maybe you should go south now,” said the controller, probably doing the math himself.
“Negative, negative,” said Skull. “Bring the tanker north and tell him to stand by.”
“I don’t know if we can do that.”
“Then scramble the SAR assets to pick us up. We’re not leaving these guys hanging.”
CHAPTER 63
IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
2310
Salt’s GPS told him he’d reached the spot, but he couldn’t see the pod containing the STAR kit. He was starting to get a little concerned— the Herk was due ten minutes ago, and he wasn’t sure it would hang around. Walking home was not an option.
A light flared in the distance. One of the Hogs had lit a massive flare four or five miles to the west.
As Salt turned his gaze from it back toward the Iraqi holding Davis, he saw a dead body lying in the shadow ahead, a blanket over his head.
Poor dead bastard, he thought. Wind ripped his blanket off.
He took a step forward, instinctually moving to restore the corpse’s decency, even if it could only have been an Iraqi. Then he saw it wasn’t a body at all, but the pod he’d been searching for. The second lay a few yards away.
“There. Stop!” he told the Iraqi, gesturing with his rifle. “Put Davis down.”
The man stopped but didn’t understand enough to put the wounded sergeant down. Without time to explain or bother, Salt dropped the com pack and ran to the long metal canister. He pried it open, fingers desperate. The fall had jolted the cover, making it more difficult for him to separate the latched casing. Finally, he got it open just as he heard a plane in the distance.
One of the Hogs? Or the MC-130?
Salt fumbled with the gear, dragging the poles upright, setting them in the ground right there instead of running up to the high point of the area. He screwed in the connector for the helium inflator, cursing his bum luck, cursing everything. Where the fucking hell was Wong?
“I am right here, Sergeant,” announced Captain Wong, running down the short hill that led to the rendezvous point. “There is no need to get overly flustered— the approaching plane is an A-10, not the MC-130.”
Salt spun around as the captain ran directly to the pod, placing his gun on the ground. He removed two suits, which looked like padded olive green ski gear. The hoods had fur fringe around them.
“Dress quickly, and prepare Sergeant Davis,” said Wong. “I will prepare the prisoner.”
“Fuck the prisoner,” said Salt.
“He is more valuable than you or I,” said Wong, going to the second canister. “He will go on the harness set with Lieutenant Dixon,” he added, gesturing up the hill. “I trust he will be here shortly. He does not run quite as fast as I.”
“Dixon?”
“My other assignment. Have you radioed to initiate the pickup?”
“I just got here.”
“I’ll make the transmission once the gear is set,” said Wong. “The Hercules is supposed to proceed to Silo even if we do not broadcast.”
“How are you getting back, Captain?” asked Salt.
“The future is not our present concern,” said Wong. “Quickly now. The Hercules should arrive at any moment, and I believe I hear a vehicle in the distance.”
CHAPTER 64
OVER IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
2320
If the Hercules had been equipped with an ejector seat, Lars would have pulled the handles by now. The blare of the RWR warnings, the flak, and the explosions had drilled into his skull from all directions, carbon-tipped bits eating right through to the bone.
Yet not one of the threats, real as they were, had been anywhere near the Hercules as it flew. MiGs, SAMs, a flight of F-15E Strike Eagles inbound to Baghdad crossing his path— everything had been miles and miles from his plane. He knew from Wolf that all hell was breaking lose near his target zone, but couldn’t see it, flying too low and too slow; nonetheless, every flicker of pink, of red, of green, panicked him. Somehow he managed to hold the control column steady as he flew on; somehow the big plane kept herself precisely on the path for the rendezvous point. They were making bad time— they were roughly twenty-five minutes behind schedule and getting worse— but there was nothing he could do about that, and it was decidedly better than being off course.
They were now inside ten miles of their pickup spot, not yet in contact with the ground team. Wolf had confirmed that the commandos were alive, at least, and proceeding toward Silo, the code name for the prime pickup point. But the team had not checked back.
“I think we ought to go right in,” said the navigator. “Hit our mark in case they’re there but can’t use the radio. This low, we’re going to have trouble hearing them.”
Going straight in was the briefed procedure, and Lars knew what the navigator said might be true. Still, Wolf ought to be able to get them on the air, or contact them through the A-10s flying cover. Lars opened his mouth to tell Kelly to contact the ABCCC again, but nothing came out. He worked his tongue around his lips and teeth, swallowed, trying to force some saliva toward his dry throat.
“Try another hail,” he managed.
“Wolf would have told us if they’d come up. You’re on course,” added Kelly, leaning over his shoulder. The flight engineer was looking at the radar unit, or maybe just pretending to. “Everything’s cool,” added the sergeant, patting his shoulder.
“Yeah,” said Lars, seeing his left hand shake but powerless to stop it. “Cool.”
The assistant jumpmaster and the winch-operator and the tail-position operator reported that they were ready. Someone else in the back said something, then there was another voice Lars couldn’t make out. After they snagged the line they’d have to get it to catch it then clamp it then release it then winch it then hook it then release it then grab the men.
No, he had the order wrong. Hook clamp release pull.
No...
Just fly the plane. That was tough enough.
The Herk’s GPS NAVISTAR computer projected a crosshair over the target zone as they approached, just as if they were making a cover
t drop in hostile territory. Lars felt his body hitching, weighed down by the helmet and heavy flak jacket. As he hit his turn and brought the Herk up off the deck, he caught a glimpse of the moon; it was nowhere near full but it would be bathing them in light, making them an easy target.
A flare lit in the distance off their right wing.
We’re going to fry, he thought. Fry.
“Wolf hasn’t heard from them. A-10s say we’re clear and Wolf concurs. Go for it,” said Kelly.
“Going for it.”
“Going to take a first pass to get the lay of the land?” asked the navigator.
Lars realized he was too high and too fast as he came out of the turn that was supposed to get him right in front of the balloon.
“It’s been a while since I’ve done this,” he said, though he wasn’t sure whether he expected sympathy or outrage.
He backed off power, got a little more crosswind than he expected but compensated. He was doing too much; he couldn’t handle all of this. He needed to be at five hundred feet; he was at seven hundred, sliding down slowly.
“Forty seconds. Confidence high,” said the navigator. They were on course and somehow at the right altitude.
“Thirty second slow down.” Lars cut his airspeed again, holding his altitude at a perfect 500 feet above the ground. The flight engineer said something but he missed it.
There was no flak in the air, nothing. Just like a picnic.
“Five second slow down,” he said, but stopped himself as he went to cut more power. The big plane was already down to 140 knots indicated, and its speed was still creeping downward.
Too slow and he’d stall. Then he’d really lose it.
Keep it steady. That was the key.
No way he could do this. No way.
“Do we have them on radio? What’s the story?” he blurted.
“Pencil flare ahead,” Kelly shouted, practically jumping from his perch behind the pilot to point out the window.
The flare arched upwards, slightly off to the right.
That wasn’t the protocol, wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen.
Was it?
“Shit, they’re off— I’m replotting,” said the navigator, trying to update the computer. “Damn it— was it them or what?”
Lars didn’t need the computer, didn’t need the terrain radar or even the FLIR. He nudged the big plane as gently as he could manage, edging slightly off-keel, speed dropping low. The plane’s airframe had been modified to increase its stability at low speeds and altitudes, but it was still a struggle, still a battle just to keep it in the air, get it to where he needed to get it.
Had the small flare come from their guys or Iraqis luring them to their deaths?
“Shit, there! There, dead ahead!” shouted the flight engineer.
Lars pushed his head toward the windshield but instead of looking ahead for the mylar blimp that would show him where the line was, he closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 65
IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
2335
A little less than a year before the Gulf War began, BJ Dixon’s mother had died. She had suffered a massive coronary and gone into a coma, briefly revived, only to plunge into a fugue state, teetering on death. Besides the severe heart condition she was found to have several aneurysms of the brain. After a second, milder heart attack, her doctor said her time left measured in hours, not days, but she somehow hung on for weeks.
The night before she passed away, he sat in a chair next to her bedside, praying. He had never been particularly religious, and the words were mostly haphazard snippets of things he remembered from childhood, interspersed with simple pleas for his mother’s life. He had begun praying simply because his mother asked him to, but as he went on, he started to believe more and more in the words, and then in their power. Finally he somehow came to think that his mother— who had been healthy and even strong all her life, who wasn’t yet fifty— would live. When he finished his last prayer, he was convinced God would save her.
His mother died a short time later.
He didn’t blame God exactly, nor did he lose faith— he hadn’t had a vast reservoir of faith to lose. But the religious inclinations that he might have had drifted away. By the end of the funeral service, the biblical passages that his mother had picked out— intended actually for his father, who had been bed-ridden for nearly twenty years— were no more than vaguely ironic words with references to faith and an afterlife. He was like millions of other men and women, neither believing nor disbelieving.
The war had done nothing to change his attitude. His panic during his first air mission, his triumphant shoot-down of an enemy helicopter, his free fall into Iraqi territory, his decision to sacrifice himself so another man would live, his wandering through the desert— none of these things had made him more or less of a believer.
But as he ran with the boy over his shoulder behind Wong, BJ Dixon felt strongly that God had saved him. It was the only explanation that made sense. His miraculous recovery might be explained by wild luck and chance— not to mention the heroic efforts of Wong and the other men who had landed here. But the Iraqi heavy machine-gun had been aimed directly at him from less than twenty yards away. Wong had distracted it, the Hog had finished it, but only God himself could have sheltered Dixon and little Nabi from the fusillade. Dixon felt gratitude and exhilaration— he literally felt grace.
By the time Dixon reached Wong and the rest of the ground team, he was spinning out a cable mechanism near what looked like a pair of football goal posts. Two men in parkas were sitting between the poles, one slumping against the other.
“What’s all this?” Dixon asked as Wong finished.
Wong reached over to the ground and tossed what seemed to be a green sleeping bag at him. “Into this suit.”
“What is this?”
“The suit is part of the harness system. We’re using a STAR retrieval system to board an MC-130. Please, Captain, prepare yourself. It will keep you somewhat warm and may help if you bounce along the ground.”
Another man, short, somewhat fat, stood in another suit nearby; he watched Wong but did not say anything.
An airplane dipped nearly overhead. It had to be a Hercules— nothing else in the Gulf had such a throaty, turbine roar.
“He’s too high and we are in the wrong position,” said Wong. He held up a pencil flare dispenser and fired, frowning as the small rocket disappeared. He stared northwards as the drone grew louder, then shook his head. “I’ll have to tell him to make another pass.”
He ran to Satcom rucksack.
“Shit,” said one of the men between the goal posts.
In the next second the Hercules passed directly overhead, so low Dixon thought it would land in the dirt a few feet away. He jumped on top of the boy, who’d already thrown himself down. Above the roar Dixon heard the sound of a guitar string breaking; there was a scream and a whoosh. The plane was gone— and so were the two men, literally plucked from the ground by the system.
Wong hunkered over the Satcom, shouting; his words were drowned out by the airplane. Finally he jumped up and ran the few steps back to Dixon.
“Quickly,” said Wong, gesturing at the suit. “We have six minutes while they recover the men and turn.”
“We’re getting snapped up?” Dixon asked, standing.
“Quickly. The suit has the harness sewed into it.”
“Where’s a suit for the boy? And where’s yours?”
“The boy is not going. We cannot kidnap an Iraqi child,” said Wong. He went to a large metal container and took out more poles. With a hiss, he inflated a blimp-like balloon and began reeling it upwards.
“I’m not kidnapping him. I saved him,” said Dixon, holding the boy to his side. “Where’s your suit?”
“There’s no time to argue, Lieutenant. I will order you into the suit if you wish.”
“Captain, no way I’m leaving him.”
Dixon threw the
suit down on the ground, anger welling inside of him. As it landed, the man who had been sitting on the ground in the other suit leaped up, pushing Wong aside and slamming into Dixon.
Dixon flailed back, unsure exactly what was going on. Worn down by everything that had happened over the past forty-eight hours, tired and hungry, BJ pushed and punched, but it was all he could do to simply hold on to the shorter man. He jabbed the man’s chin, then his shoulder, anger exploding in him, anger and instinct— he was fighting to save the kid. Dixon grabbed at the man’s head, then saw his face in the shadows.
He was wrestling Saddam Hussein himself.
Dixon’s shock was all the man needed. He rammed his head into BJ’s chest, slamming against his ribs. Jolted by the pain, Dixon reeled on the ground; in the next second the man leaped back with something in his hand.
He’d grabbed the other grenade BJ had taken from the dead Iraqi that afternoon.
The Iraqi took three steps away. He pulled the pin, took another step, dropped the grenade.
Wong took one step forward.
The boy dropped to his knees, three inches from the grenade, covering it with his body, his short legs curled at his chest, his back to Dixon and Wong.
Time became light. It became sound, a piercing cry of anguish that resounded in the desert, drowning out the drone of the approaching airplane.
Dixon saw himself at his mother’s deathbed again. He looked down at her, stared at her face. The dead were supposed to find peace, but her mouth had contorted in a last gasp of pain.
“Lieutenant. Lieutenant. Quickly. We must go.”
Dixon opened his eyes to find Wong over him. He took a hard breath, felt his ribs flame. Wong disappeared; Dixon felt his head slip back, blackness beckoning.
Up, he told himself. Save the kid.
He opened his eyes again, took another breath. This time, the pain helped him focus.
Wong had pulled the suit over him.
“I have to save Budge,” he said.
“The boy is dead. So is the Iraqi,” said Wong. “Here, quickly. More Iraqis are coming from the west.”