Going Deep h-1

by Jim DeFelice

  He’d chosen the kid to go on the first day’s mission because he had seen something in him. A lot of people had.

  And Knowlington believed in him. That meant something.

  Did he believe in him? Or had he only said he deserved a second shot?

  The major keyed the mike. “Dixon, you awake back there?”

  “Devil One?” The startled voice sounded as if it had just been woken from a deep sleep.

  “Look kid, I’ve got a situation here with my navigational system. What do you say we trade places?”

  The static that followed his transmission seemed to last forever. Finally, the voice came back.

  “No problem.”

  There was no time to analyze if the words sounded confident or worried. Mongoose told the rest of the flight that they’d close up the trail a bit, but otherwise would proceed as planned.

  With Dixon leading them to the target.

  CHAPTER 43

  HEADING FOR IRAQ

  0515

  As he made the turn to head over the border, Doberman took a careful break from flying, flexing each arm and then each leg methodically, hoping to ward off cramps. The Hog didn’t have an automatic pilot, so he couldn’t exactly do a yoga routine. Still, he liked to stretch to keep the kinks away.

  According to his watch, they’d fallen three minutes behind schedule. Doberman frowned as he rechecked his instruments. The one interesting obstacle in their course lay ten minutes ahead, and he wanted to be ready.

  With no time or fuel to get fancy, the line to and from the target had been drawn as straight as possible. Unfortunately, the straight line went almost directly over an SA-6 site. The mobile missile launchers were fairly impressive pieces of machinery, with radar the Hog’s primitive electronic counter-measures pod couldn’t hope to jam. Once a plane had been acquired by a ground battery’s Straight Flush radar, the missile was difficult to lose; it could mid-course correct and used its own semi-active system to score a kill. It loved high-G maneuvers, moved faster than greased lightning and had a much more potent warhead than the puny shoulder-launched weapon that had given Doberman so much grief yesterday. With a range of about ten miles and an effective altitude above twenty thousand feet, it could barbecue a Hog any day of the week.

  They had planned three tight course corrections to skim around the outer edges of its radar coverage while maintaining as direct a course to the target as possible. Doberman visualized the Iraqi radar groping through the early morning sky with long, slender fingers. It reached desperately, a blind man in a cluttered room, trying to find the doorway.

  Not the doorway, exactly. Just his plane.

  Doberman laughed at his fears. It was a nervous laugh all the same. He longed to key his mike and ask A-Bomb what music he was listening to.

  This was the worst part of a mission, knocking down the miles until things got hairy.

  Finally, the INS and his math told him it was time to turn. But Mongoose, flying dead ahead, didn’t make the angle.

  Had he lost Dixon? Or was the kid’s INS also screwed up, Doberman wondered.

  Every second would take them closer to getting nailed.

  The RWR would at least warn him of the launch. But it couldn’t save him.

  He’d never see the missile coming for him in the dark. It would be worse than yesterday. He’d writhe violently, ducking and weaving, thinking at last he had escaped. Then he would hear a last-second hush, a vacuum of noise just before the wallop.

  Bail out in the dark, deep in Indian country. Now that was where luck was involved.

  But hell, nobody could be as unlucky as he had been yesterday. Getting banged around twice? What were the odds?

  The small circles of blue exhaust dead ahead smeared into oblong cylinders and disappeared. Doberman took the cut, checked his watch, realized his heart was starting to race.

  The next angle was the hairy one. Because of the configuration of the enemy radar, they would be turning and flying directly toward the missile site. In theory, there was a hole in the coverage there, allowing the Hogs to slingshot towards their target with their final cut.

  In theory. Reality was never as neat as the carefully calculated clouds showing optimum radar detection envelopes.

  Doberman held his breath. His INS said it was past time to cut back, but once more Mongoose was lagging.

  Jesus, he thought, a tiny mistake here is going to take me right over the stinking god damn site. Let’s go.

  Hell, maybe the missiles are destined to hit me. Maybe my card’s overdue.

  The pilot saw the SAMs in his mind’s eye, wheeling around on their truck. Their noses swung upward, hit the stop, came back.

  Something creaked in the cockpit. It was nothing — a strap on his seat, maybe, shifting with his weight. But Doberman jumped, nearly bringing the stick with him. If he hadn’t been belted in, he might have gone through the glass.

  Mongoose was gone. Doberman yanked his stick hard, taking the turn, correcting to bring it back to the proper heading. His heart became a race car, surging in his chest.

  Settle down, he told it, settle down.

  He checked the INS. They weren’t where they were supposed to be, but now he wasn’t sure about the coordinates. Was the difference the same as when Dixon made the first turn?

  There was only blank sky in front of him. Blank darkness, and a trio of missiles waiting dead ahead.

  * * *

  A-Bomb reached to his chest and poked the CD player. Springsteen’s “Candy’s Room” kicked back to the beginning.

  “Driving deep into the night” he sang, echoing the Boss.

  He glanced at the compass and INS. If the instruments were to be believed, they were tracking a bit north, flying closer to the missile site and its radar than planned.

  What the hell; stinking Iraqis couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn.

  Besides, he was flying behind the luckiest SOB in the Air Force. Some amount of that luck had to wash off on him.

  Time for a Tootsie Roll, thought the pilot, slipping his fingers into his vest. They were hell to chew with the mask on but worth every sticky moment.

  * * *

  Sweat funneled behind Doberman’s ears and down his neck, tingling as it ran across his shoulders. He saw the missiles clearly now, saw the cluster of them turning on their rail as the radar waited for the optimum moment to fire.

  The RWR was clear. But their ECMs were worthless against such advanced missiles.

  The AWACS would warn them if the radar came on. But by then, it would probably be too late.

  Relax, Doberman told himself. There’s a good cushion around the site. And hell, the damn SAMs were probably moved during the night.

  You’re running scared. Not like yesterday. Luck wasn’t involved — you are a kick ass pilot. Nothing is going to touch you. Nothing.

  But his heart kept pounding despite the pep talk. He couldn’t see Mongoose. His eyes flailed through the sky.

  Nowhere.

  This close to the missile site, he didn’t dare use the radio. He was completely on his own, not just now but for the rest of the flight. He couldn’t even be sure A-Bomb was where he was supposed to be.

  Doberman squinted at the compass heading. The bearing was right. By his watch, he had another thirty seconds on this course.

  But the navigational system disagreed. It was telling him to stay on course ten seconds beyond that. He ran the equations back and forth through his head. That translated into about a tenth of a mile which would be compounded by the angle of the turn into roughly a fifteen-to-forty-eight second error, south or north or God knew what of the target.

  What will it feel like to die?

  God damn hell, he shouted at himself. Screw the math, screw the numbers. Forty-five seconds isn’t going to make one bit of stink ass difference.

  See the raise and get on with the game.

  Doberman took the Hog in toward the SA-6 site the extra ten seconds to prove to himself that, despite the
water pouring down his back and chest, he wasn’t scared. Even so, he gulped air as he yanked onto the new course.

  And then he saw the soft blue glow of Mongoose’s rear end dead ahead, right where it was supposed to be.

  CHAPTER 44

  APPROACHING IRAQ

  0531

  The helicopter’s heavy whomp rattled Captain Hawkins’ teeth as it took off, making it difficult for the Special Forces officer to sip from the canteen of tea. Fortunately, the Earl Gray had cooled somewhat; it didn’t burn as it sloshed around his mouth and dribbled onto his chin. You could say a lot of things about the MH-53J Pave Low IIIE helicopter, but smooth wasn’t one of them.

  Not that he necessarily wanted it to be. The craft’s hulking presence was somehow reassuring. Though officially an Air Force helicopter, the special forces troops considered that a mere technicality, and looked on the nimble linebacker as a flying version of the Bradley fighting vehicle.

  Only not quite as pretty.

  The captain capped the canteen and glanced over the gunner’s shoulder into the dark morning, low clouds mixing with a dusty haze. The basic reality here was desert, unending and unrelenting.

  Approximately ninety miles ahead, a downed RAF pilot was staring up at the sky, freezing his butt off, waiting for this helicopter to materialize and pick him up.

  Assuming no one had found him during the night.

  “Iraqi border coming up in two,” said Sergeant Winston, a wiry young non-com from the South Bronx. Looking at Winston, you wouldn’t think he was Special Forces material, but he was pound for pound one of the toughest soldiers Hawkins had ever come across. Yesterday, Hawkins had seen him pick up a 250-pound Special Forces corporal — not exactly a wimp himself — and lug him back to the helicopter after he’d been hit and knocked unconscious.

  “What do you think? They hit those guns yet or not?”

  Hawkins shrugged. “Not supposed to for a half hour yet.”

  “Going to cut it close.”

  The captain nodded. If the site wasn’t taken out, the mission would be difficult. Their helicopter and the one following right behind as a backup would be sitting ducks not only for the guns, but for anybody the Iraqis scrambled into the area. The British major had had the bad luck to go down not only near Iraqi air defenses but an air field and army barracks as well.

  Hawkins had the option of turning back if the base hadn’t been hit at five minutes past six.

  He didn’t plan on doing that. But he didn’t plan on getting shot down either.

  The captain opened the canteen for another swig of the Earl Gray. “From what I hear, those A-10 pilots like to play it close to the vest,” he told Winston. “Otherwise they don’t look like heroes.”

  The sergeant scoffed. “As long as they show up.”

  “Oh, they’ll show up. Planes that ugly can’t afford to miss a date.”

  CHAPTER 45

  OVER IRAQ

  0553

  The clouds were incredible. Dixon stared down at them from fifteen thousand feet. They seemed as thick as an overloaded chocolate shake. The lieutenant leaned against his shoulder harness, urging the Hog forward. They had a little less than two minutes worth of flying time before their stubby wings and dolphin noses would kick off the ground radars.

  A little less than two minutes before the most important part of their job, and the most dangerous, was done.

  The radar warning system would alert him that the radar had snapped on and the guns had found him. Then he’d be able to breathe again.

  He couldn’t breathe now. Dixon felt his throat tightening, pulling back into his chest. Don’t wimp, he told himself, pushing the plane through the cloud over.

  Eighty seconds. Maybe less. But the radar detector still hadn’t tripped off.

  Come on, come on. Wake up down there. Just shot at us already.

  What a thing to wish for.

  He heard something that very second. It was faint, delicate almost; he thought it had come over the radio, but the sound itself was nothing he had ever heard on a Hog communications set; nothing he’d ever heard in an airplane before, period.

  It was a bell, a vague tinkle of a ring, as if the clapper of a small hand chime had gently kissed its metal mouth.

  Silence followed in the next second and the next.

  Then another.

  He glanced at the RWR. Nothing.

  He glanced at the other indicators. All were at spec. Nothing wrong, no alarms.

  Time was moving in ultra-slow motion. He heard the sound again — gentle, almost quiet.

  It was nothing like an alarm, or anything else in the A-10A cockpit.

  A muffled church bell?

  Except that it wasn’t muffled, exactly, nor distant. It was as if a small bell were whispering.

  And again and again and again.

  * * *

  As soon as Mongoose followed Dixon into the cloud bank, he realized they were already being fired at. Shells were popping all around him.

  Doberman yelped on the radio that they had their targets, bright and shiny.

  “Go, BJ. Break,” he barked. “Good show. Turn off.”

  He put the Hog in a hard pull over his right shoulder, wrestling the spitting airplane away as he realized they had flown in a little closer to the guns than originally planned. Otherwise, the kid had done perfectly.

  The Iraqis hadn’t bothered to turn the big radar dish on, or at least if they did, it hadn’t activated the RWR. A thousand thoughts shot through his mind, propelled by the onrush of images and the plane’s momentum. He held the Hog steady, kinetic energy devoted entirely to gaining speed, altitude still dropping. He set a spot where he would start recovering, orbiting back to wait for word from the other element. He felt the Hog shake in the air, buffeted by the violence Saddam’s guns were wrecking on the atmosphere. He pulled back, rolling and yanking and turning, zipping off the chaff, bundles of the metallic, radar-confusing tinsel spreading out from his wings as he pressed the Hog into retreat, diversion accomplished.

  * * *

  The sounds grew closer together, as if they belonged to a song he could not hear, a triangle twanging on a solitary track as the orchestra wailed away on the main line. Dixon held his plane steady; he knew he had only to fly this straight line and no matter what else happened today, no matter what Major Johnson might say, he would have done his job. That was all he was interested in, all he had to prove — that he belonged.

  Each second of his life equaled about five hundred feet. So why was he still in the clouds? He had been diving through them for whole minutes, not seconds. How thick could a cloud bank be, anyway? A few thousand feet, max?

  But there were still clouds all around him, and the light tinkle of the bell, a church bell.

  Johnson’s voice chased them away.

  Break off, he was saying. Break off. They’re shooting at us.

  I’m not running away, Dixon thought to himself. Not this time. I’d rather get shot down.

  He held the stick steady, descending through the angry gray chocolate. The damn clouds couldn’t last forever.

  CHAPTER 46

  OVER IRAQ

  0553

  As Doberman pushed toward the top of the cloud cover, he felt something in his eyes tighten. He took a quick breath and glanced at the Maverick television screen over his right knee. Until the guns started firing, he couldn’t be quite sure of his target. His fingers felt as if they were on fire.

  There was plenty of time for this. Still, he wanted it to start already.

  * * *

  Done with waiting, A-Bomb lined himself up off Doberman’s wing and went for it. He had one eye on the screen, one eye on the HUD, and one eye on his stinking CD cartridge, which had managed to leap out of his flight-suit stereo as he took the Gs pitching toward the target.

  The cartridge smashed into at least three pieces. And he just knew the CDs were going to be trashed by the time he got home.

  Son of a bitch. That was hi
s only copy of “Darkness at the Edge of Town.”

  Fucking Saddam. Now he was really mad.

  * * *

  The Maverick targeting screen suddenly lit up like a video game.

  “Hot shit!” Doberman said — or thought he said. He was so busy guiding his hands that he couldn’t pay attention to his mouth. Nearly instantaneously, two Mavericks shot out from his wings, gunning for the two gun emplacements further south. In nearly the same motion, he pushed his right wing down and started looking for the radar dish he’d missed yesterday morning.

  * * *

  A-Bomb had to wait until Doberman fired and cleared his path before he could launch his own Mavericks. It seemed to take his flight leader all day. Finally, the second missile kicked off Doberman’s plane, bucking like a wild bronco before putting its nose down and getting to work. Doberman cranked right, clearing his path. A-Bomb had already locked on a target; he squeezed off the Maverick and dialed up a second, pushing the crosshairs fat into the last of the truly dangerous big caliber guns they had targeted.

  “Nothing like a high-explosive enema to start your day, eh, boys?” he shouted as the missile winged toward the ground.

  * * *

  Doberman scanned the ground through the windscreen.

  Nothing. Was that because he was confused about where he was, or because the dish didn’t exist?

  The Hog was screaming toward the earth. Sitting in his office, Doberman worked his head around the problem, checking the front corner of his screen for a large concrete building they’d picked as a good landmark. Sure enough, that was missing, too. He realized his mistake — he’d flown further north than he thought — then slammed the Hog nearly upside down in a twist back in the other direction, gravity sharpening its claws as he accelerated in a violent plunge.

  Suddenly, the RWR screeched. The Iraqi operator had snapped on the dish to see what was coming for them.

  And damn if that big, ugly catcher’s mitt didn’t smile for Poppa, front and center in the Maverick’s TV screen. The phosphorus glow warmed his belly as Doberman got a lock and slammed the missile out. He let off another for good luck, then took the stick hard left for his second priority target.