Skull folded the piece of paper and put it down on his desk. “You got something you want to say, Allen?”
“Huh? Not me. You?”
A ton of things. Angry things: How dare a sergeant hint that a colonel hang it up? A stinking decorated colonel with three confirmed air kills and well over a hundred combat sorties, medals up the yahoo, friends in all the right places— what gave some sergeant who’d never had his fat butt graze an enemy’s gunsight, by the way, the right, the audacity, to hint that he was over the hill?
Calmer things: Gratitude for pulling the men together maybe a million times, for making planes whole, for moving heaven and earth to keep the Hogs flying.
Other things: Sadness over people like Rogers who hadn’t made it back, frustration over the delays and screwups and the human factors, fatigue and nerves. Rage that they were both growing so damn old, that after all these years, after all they knew, they had to keep sending kids to places where they could die.
But words were not things that came easily to Skull. There were too many, and no way of prioritizing them— no checklist to follow, no map to plod your way through. Much easier to stay silent— and so he did.
“Saddam’s taking a poundin’,” said Clyston finally.
“Hope so,” agreed the colonel.
“How much longer, you figure?”
“That’s a hard game to play,” said Knowlington. He thought of all the times before he’d played it— ‘Nam, mostly, ancient history, but he’d also had a squadron during Grenada and one that just missed a mission in Panama. Then there were the alerts, probably a thousand of them.
They were silent a moment longer.
“You sure nothing’s bothering you, Chief?”
“Gettin’ old, is all,” said Clyston. He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual smile; Allen definitely wanted to say something, his eyes hunting the office. But before they could settle on anything, there was another knock on the door.
Skull glanced at Clyston, then said, “Come.”
Captain Bristol Wong, an intel and covert ops specialist Knowlington had “borrowed” from the Pentagon, pushed open the door.
“Colonel, Captain Hawkins and Sir Peter Paddington would like a word,” announced Wong. His voice seemed more high-strung than usual, possibly because of the thick bandage wrapped around his chest beneath his uniform. A dark patch of skin on his face covered a fractured cheekbone, and there were several burns along his hairline, all souvenirs from his recent trip north to save Dixon. He’d also dislocated his shoulder, though it had been placed back in its socket by a burly Para rescuer on the ride home.
Wong shrugged off the injuries, claiming he’d been hurt worse trying to grab the last seat on the shuttle between Boston and D.C.
“Tell them to come in.”
“With all due respect, sir,” said Wong nodding at Clyston, “this would be a code-word classified discussion, strictly need-to-know.”
“I doubt you could fart on this base without The Chief catching a whiff,” said Skull.
The welt on Wong’s cheekbone turned dark purple.
Clyston got up. “I was just leaving,” he said. “Appreciate it if you can get us those doodads, Colonel. Let me know.”
Knowlington pushed his chair back against the desk, making room for the other men. Hawkins was a Delta Force captain who had worked with Devil Squadron before and helped rescue Dixon. Paddington’s exact status wasn’t clear. He apparently served with a British MI-6 agency and worked for one of the British commands. He was an expert on Saddam Hussein and the Iraqi command structure, and seemed to fill a role as a liaison with the British Special Air Service. The SAS commandos were working north of the border spotting Scuds, scouting troop locations and sabotaging enemy installations. Sir Peter had been involved in a failed plot to assassinate Saddam that the Hogs were in on, helping set the time and place. He flitted freely around Saudi Arabia, but his rank and role in the Allied war effort were far from obvious.
What was obvious was the stench of gin emanating from his breath, so strong that it threatened to turn Knowlington’s stomach.
“Captain Hawkins, good to see you again,” said Knowlington. He’d first met Hawkins two months before, planning a clandestine operation known as Fort Apache.
“Thanks.” Hawkins flexed his shoulders, a linebacker waiting to blitz. “We appreciated your help on that bug-out.”
“My men did that on their own,” Skull said. “Right place, right time.”
“Yes, sir.” Hawkins sat down in the chair.
“Paddington.” Skull frowned in the British agent’s direction, then looked at Wong. “So?”
“The British command desires our assistance,” said Wong.
“Not precisely, Bristol,” said Paddington. He twisted the cuff of his blue wool blazer, as if adjusting a watch.
“Well, what is precise?” Knowlington said to the Brit, trying hard not to spit the words.
“To be precise, Colonel, SAS finds itself short-handed for an important mission. Delta had been enlisted and air support is desired. You have worked with Captain Hawkins before, so naturally your unit was mentioned. The target is somewhat south of As-Samawah.”
“ ‘Somewhat south’ meaning how far, exactly?”
“Not that far,” answered Hawkins. The Delta Force captain clearly had little use for Paddington, and even less tolerance for BS or Padding’s circuitous route to the point. “It’s damn close to the Euphrates. No bullshit, Colonel. Serious Indian country. That’s why we need Hogs with us. Delta’s going to lead the mission,” added Hawkins. He put up his hand to keep Paddington from interrupting. “At least this assault. According to the latest intelligence, the target has a few Zeus guns for air defenses and nothing else. But we’re thinking that may change. Old airstrip, couple of buildings; it was used briefly during the Iran-Iraq war, hit by Iranian missiles, and then abandoned. Some troops there now, but no planes. The Brits want to check it out. Sir Peter’s here to give us the layout and report back to the general, if it’s a go.”
Paddington cleared his throat ostentatiously.
“You’re looking for Scuds?” asked Knowlington.
“No,” said Hawkins. “SAS lost two commandos. There’s a chance they’re being held there.”
“A small chance,” said Paddington. “Nonetheless, it cannot be dismissed.” He touched his hand to the side of his sport coat. It occurred to Skull that he must keep a flask there.
If the bastard took out the flask, Skull would throttle him.
Why did Paddington’s drinking bother him? The man was just a drunk, like him.
“Two other operations are planned at higher-probability sites,” said Wong. “SAS is conducting them itself, with RAF support. Captain Hawkins will lead a small team of Delta and SAS men on this operation. The A-10s would strike a total of six ZSU-23-4s at the target, then remain for any necessary support during the duration of the operation.”
Paddington’s nose seemed to float above the room. “The operation must be surgical, precise, and brief.”
“No shit,” muttered Hawkins.
Skull smiled at the Delta captain. “
“Two at a minimum. They clear out the antiaircraft guns, then mop up if necessary. We’re in and out in an hour, no more.”
“Four planes would be better,” said Wong, “since there is a possibility of additional defenses being moved into position. There has been considerable radio traffic, and several Iraqi units are in the general vicinity.”
Knowlington reached to his desk and opened the single drawer, removing a large Michelin paper map of Iraq that he’d gotten in the States before deploying. As-Samawah was about midway between Baghdad and Kuwait, right on the Euphrates. If the scale at the bottom of the map was to be believed, it lay about 175 miles north of the Saudi border.
A long ride over nasty real estate.
“Can you sketch out the defenses for me, Wong?” asked Skull.
The intel officer leaned over the m
ap.
“From memory,” said Wong, “there would be a triple-A all along this approach that must be avoided. The Republican Guard facilities closer to the border have been mostly neutralized, but even so must be respected. An SA-6 battery is believed to lie somewhere north of the base, but has not been definitively located; its radar has never been activated so far as is known. Additionally, Humint sources have rumored several Roland batteries in this general vicinity, but again, no radars or other hard indications have been recorded. Even if they do exist, the most serious obstacle would be an SA-2 site here, twelve miles south of the base. Its radar covers nearly the entire approach. It has operated intermittently, for only a few moments at a time, undoubtedly to avoid targeting from HARM-equipped SAM killer. Perhaps it is working with human spotters. There is also a possibility that it is not actually functional, as the intercepts have never been strong or of long duration. Nonetheless, it can be avoided if the A-10s travel a very precise path, breaking sharply parallel to the radar, and then jogging back.
Wong straightened.
“How would the assault team get in if the SA-2 is there?” Skull asked.
He looked at Hawkins for the answer, but it was Wong who spoke, explaining that the helicopters would have two options— either the same corridor the Hogs took, or a slightly more direct route that took advantage of the terrain and anomalies in the SA-2’s radar net. This path, which Wong preferred, would have the helicopters fly at roughly four feet above the ground for a about five miles.
While in theory the Hogs could do that as well, Wong’s first route would allow them to use less fuel. It was also less stressful.
Not that a half hour’s drive near serious antiaircraft radars and just out of reach of several flak guns wouldn’t get the heart pumping.
“So what’s at the base?” Skull asked.
“As of yesterday afternoon, just the six ZSU-23-4s. No missiles, no armor, and no discernible troops for that matter,” said Wong. “This is the configuration, organized for attacks from the south and west, though the only other directions could be covered as well. Beyond that, I have not had an opportunity to consult the latest information.”
The ZSUs were mobile four-barreled antiaircraft artillery units. Ubiquitous and deadly, but the Hogs were used to dealing with them.
“When?” asked Skull.
“Dusk,” said Hawkins. “We want to hit it just after seventeen hundred hours. We’ll have a company’s worth of men, no more, Apaches and you guys, and whatever other air support RAF can through our way.”
“A company?”
“We don’t think there are a lot of people there.” Hawkins shifted uneasily; as if he was trying to convince himself. “There are two buildings. My guys are rehearsing it right now with a squad of SAS men. They’ve taken buildings before.”
Knowlington did a mental inventory of his squadron. He had four planes available; the question was which pilots to assign. His best guys had spent an enormous amount of time in the air lately.
He could fill one of the seats himself.
No. Not anymore.
Why not? It wasn’t like he was going to drink in the cockpit. That might be the one place he could trust himself.
“Bristol assured me that your people could be ready at short notice,” said Paddington.
“With all due respect to Captain Wong, he’s not in charge of getting the airplanes ready. Or drawing up the duty roster, or even assessing the risks.” Knowlington touched the top of his temple, rubbing his fingers deep into the well behind the skull bone.
“Colonel, if you don’t think you can do this, that’s okay,” said Hawkins.
“Don’t worry, Captain. We’re in.” Knowlington stood. “I just need to figure out who’s had the most sleep.”
CHAPTER 7
KING FAHD AIRBASE, SAUDI ARABIA
28 JANUARY 1991
1230
Lieutenant William “B.J.” Dixon stood on the concrete apron a few yards from the start of the runway, watching a bomb-laden Hog take off. It seemed like months since he’d seen such a sight, and years since he’d sat in a cockpit himself.
It had only been a few days. But those days were each a separate lifetime.
Dixon had parachuted into Iraq with a covert Delta Force team looking for Scuds. On his second night in-country, he’d called in a strike on a probable nuclear biological-chemical weapons bunker less than a hundred yards from his position.
Then time had blurred.
He’d hauled a sergeant nearly twice his age and double his weight out from under the noses of a dozen Iraqi soldiers.
He’d seen a woman gunned down in the Iraqi countryside for trying to warn him about a search party.
He’d been singed in the explosion of an Iraqi house whose sole occupant was a two-year-old child.
He’d carried another Iraqi child, a boy perhaps six or seven, nearly to freedom, only to have the kid jump on a grenade meant for him.
The image of the boy’s broken body floated before him in the hazy wake of the Hog engines as the green-hulled warplane waddled off the runway: bits and pieces of flesh scattering in the wind, soot covering his face. The boy’s eyes open and clear, irises a brilliant green.
Why did God let that happen? Why the kid and not him? It was Dixon’s job to die, not the boy’s.
BJ rubbed his cheeks, then stared at his hands. He expected them to be black with soot, but they were clean.
There hadn’t been time to buy the kid, or even do more than make sure he was dead. Dixon had been jerked away by the others on the team, strapped into a harness, and snatched from the ground by a MC-130E Combat Talon Fulton Surface-to-Air Recovery. Propelled through the air by a flying slingshot, he’d dangled in the wind before being cranked into the bay of the big combat cargo plane. The grenade, the kid, the plane blurred into the tunneling hush of air around his ears. Infinite shades of black and brown wove ribbons around his head as he rambled weightless, helpless, through space.
Had it happened at all?
He saw himself going to the child, bending down.
But he hadn’t done that, had he? He’d stayed back, afraid of what he would see.
No, he’d been there, holding the kid when the grenade exploded. He remembered that specifically.
But no way he would have survived if he had held the kid.
But he remembered it, could feel the shock wave reverberating through his bones, shaking his arm nearly out of its socket.
Too much of this. He was losing his mind.
Dixon rubbed his fingers across his face and began walking toward Oz, Devil Squadron’s maintenance area. Four of the squadron’s eleven planes— they’d lost one earlier in the war— were being repaired and prepped for action. Techies swarmed back and forth, oblivious to him.
Dixon looked at his hands. His fingers ought to be filthy dirty, but they remained clean, stark white, not even pink. The deep bruises on his ribs and arms had already begun to heal; soon, there’s be no trace of his ordeal.
Too much of this.
“Yo, BJ, what are you doing out of bed?”
Dixon turned. Captain John “Doberman” Glenon, one of the squadron’s senior pilots, stood in front of an empty bomb trolley, shaking his head.
“What are you doing?” Doberman repeated. “You’re supposed to be resting?”
BJ shrugged.
“Restless?” Glenon didn’t bother waiting for the obvious answer. “Come on. Colonel’s rounding up some guys for a meeting. He’d probably want you there.”
Without saying anything, Dixon fell in behind Doberman as he cut past the hangars and aircraft in a beeline for Hog Heaven, the squadron’s headquarters building. Though several inches shorter than Dixon, Glenon threw his legs forward like he was flicking switchblades; Dixon fell steadily behind.
“Yo, Antman,” Doberman shouted to a thin black lieutenant talking to a pair of women officers near the building.
Lieutenant Stephen Depray turned around abru
ptly.
“Come on. Old Man’s looking for heroes.”
“Excuse me ladies,” said Antman, bowing.
Ladies? Did anyone call women ladies anymore? Ladies— like it was all a fairy tale.
Maybe it was. Dixon’s eyes seemed to have lost their focus. Stray sounds cluttered his ears. His boot stubbed against the metal steps as he followed the others into the building. He caught his balance on the door jamb, and pushed inside. When the door slammed shut behind him the muscles in his throat gripped at his windpipe. He felt claustrophobic.
Colonel Knowlington had commandeered Cineplex for the meeting. Cineplex, a largish open room with refrigerators, a microwave, and a couch, featured a massive big-screen TV, hence its name. The television had been turned off— Knowlington obviously meant business.
“Captain, Lieutenant,” said the colonel as they entered. “BJ? What are you doing here?”
“I thought you wanted me, sir,” said BJ.
Knowlington’s eyes burned into his forehead.
Maybe that’s where the soot was— Dixon reached his fingers to rub it away.
“All right, come on,” said Skull. He looked past BJ. “A-Bomb, Hack. Good. Close the door and let’s get going.”
Dixon sat in one of the metal folding chairs directly behind the couch, watching as Captain Wong whispered something to the colonel. Pink fluorescent light bathed the room, making it larger than Dixon remembered.
“Here’s the deal,” Knowlington told them, abruptly turning away from Wong. “We’re still nailing down the details, but basically, the British have a few dozen commando teams working north of the border, just like Delta, looking for Scuds and doing some other work. They lost track of one last night. They have reason to believe that the Iraqis grabbed them and are holding them at an abandoned air strip in a city, or rather south of a city, near the Euphrates. They’re looking at a few other places too.”
He paused, scanning their faces. “It’s a longshot,” Knowlington emphasized, “but Delta’s going in to check it out. They’re taking RAF Chinooks, along with Apaches and us for cover. We hit right before nightfall.”
HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Page 3