“What’s the lineup?” Doberman asked the colonel.
Four of our planes, Maverick Gs, in case it gets dark and you need the infrared to see the targets. Load flares and cluster bombs as well. Supposedly there’s not much defense; guns, that’s all. Of course, that may change, especially if the British are right about their guys being there. The idea is that it may just be a way station or holding spot until Baghdad figures out what to do with them.” Knowlington glanced at Wong, who nodded. “Captain Wong should have the whole deal, or as much as there is, by 1400 hours, which is going to be very close, to kickoff time. This isn’t going to be a milk run.”
“Good thing,” said A-Bomb. “I’ve been pretty bored lately.”
The others laughed.
“I’m in,” said Doberman.
“Me, too,” said Antman.
“I’ll lead the flight.”
Dixon bent his head to see the pilot who had said that. Standing near the couch, he had a large body for a fighter pilot and a head that seemed one size too large. He was a major— it must be Preston, who’d just replaced Major James “Mongoose” Johnson as the squadron DO. Dixon knew he’d been on the mission that towed him home, but BJ hadn’t been introduced yet, and in fact didn’t even know Preston’s first name.
“Good Hack,” Knowlington said. “I thought you’d want to take it.”
“Hey, Colonel, you know we’re all in,” said A-Bomb.
“You’re not tired?” Knowlington asked him.
“Tired? What the hell is that? I’m not sure I’ve heard the word.”
Everyone laughed.
“You’ve logged over two hundred hours since the air war began,” said the colonel. His voice seemed cross.
“Shit, I didn’t know we were supposed to keep track,” said O’Rourke. “What’s the record?”
Knowlington frowned, but then nodded.
“We scrapping tomorrow’s mission?” asked George “Gunny” McIntosh. He was a captain who had served as a liaison with a Marine unit in a special exchange program before joining Devil Squadron; his nickname had apparently been adapted from the term for a Marine master sergeant. He and Doberman were tasked for an early-morning tank plinking mission.
“Tomorrow’s frag stands,” said Skull. “Assuming you and Doberman can handle the turn-around.”
“I can handle it,” said Doberman.
“Good,” said the commander. “There’s an SA-2 site close to the base that you have to avoid. That’s probably the most serious complication. There should be a Wild Weasel in the area to handle it or anything else that comes up. Like I said, we’re still working on the details.
“Film at eleven,” quipped A-Bomb.
Everyone laughed.
“Antman, you’re back up if somebody gets a cold,” said Skull.
“Yeah, okay.”
Knowlington’s frown deepened as he turned to look directly at Dixon. The lieutenant held the older man’s stare.
He’s seen it all, the colonel, thought Dixon. He’d been to Vietnam, nailed at least three MiGs there, lost some wingmen, flown black missions against the Soviets in the ‘70s. The years had burned themselves into the flesh of his face, pulling the skin tight against the bones of his skull— probably not why he had gotten his nickname, but appropriate now. He was wise and brave, the one guy you could always count on to tell you what to do, to come to you through the static and bullshit.
But had he seen anything like a little boy convulsing with the shock of a grenade?
“There just isn’t a slot for you on this ride, BJ,” said the colonel. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right.”
“I know you want back in the game. There’ll be plenty of time.”
Dixon shrugged, or thought he did. He didn’t really care one way or another.
He rubbed his chin with his hand and stared at his palm. It was whiter than the walls.
CHAPTER 8
KING FAHD AIRBASE, SAUDI ARABIA
28 JANUARY 1991
1255
The temptation to jump in and lead the mission himself lingered even as he finished giving them the lowdown. Colonel Knowlington wanted nothing else in the world but to fly again, to grip his hand around the stick and push the plane’s nose into a hail of antiaircraft fire.
And stay there until the plane caught fire? Did he have a death wish?
Better to go out that way than in disgrace.
Death wish— wasn’t that what drinking really was?
Not for him.
He couldn’t take the mission. He couldn’t, in fact, stay on as commander any longer. He was finished.
Telling them would be impossibly hard. Cleaner to slip out, avoid the inevitable scene.
He’d do it tonight, after they were off. He’d make the calls as soon as this was taken care of, talk to the general, get the paperwork in order, slip over to Riyadh and then home. He had friends who could smooth the way.
Knowlington asked if there were any questions, scanning the pilot’s faces one more time, indulging a twinge of nostalgia. He’d come to know them well:
Doberman, who walked through life with a chip on his shoulder because he was a good six or eight inches shorter than the rest of the world, but was a better pilot than most of the world.
Dixon, the nugget who’d come to the Gulf with tons of raw skill but was a green as a fresh Christmas tree. Not green anymore, poor kid.
Hack, the former pointy-nose pilot who wanted Skull’s job, and was now about to have it handed to him on a silver platter.
Gunny, whose two months with the Marines had convinced him he was a Marine. Antman, a Don Juan-type who seemed incapable of breaking a heart or saying a bad word about anyone.
And A-Bomb— hell, what could you say about A-Bomb? A first-class one-of-a-kind screwball who could fly with his eyes closed, nail his target, and then go back for more.
There were others in the room, too, hundreds— ghosts he’d flown with, guys who’d saved his butt and whose butt he’d saved, a whole wing of them.
“Colonel, I’d like to see about that reconnaissance flight,” prompted Wong from the sideline.
“Right. Let’s get going.” Skull snapped back to the present, his mind churning down the to-do list. “We’ll brief the mission at 1400. Planes will be waiting.”
He wasn’t going. He was quitting.
“Hack, see me in my office a minute, would you?” he added, heading toward the doorway and his duty. His tongue and throat felt as if they had been scraped by steel wool.
A quick drink would cure that.
Knowlington had flown with a thousand guys in all sorts of circumstances. Most of them had retired long ago.
How had they done it? What had they said?
Listen, the time’s here, I’m getting on, got to watch out for my family, don’t have the thrill, getting tired of the bullshit, need to make a little money for a bit . . .
“Colonel?”
Skull spun around in the hallway. Preston stopped short and winced as if he expected Knowlington would slug him.
“What, Hack?”
“What’s the deal?”
“I just told you. The British lost a pair of SAS commandos. There’s a chance they’re at that base. Not a very good chance, but a chance.”
“But. . .”
“That’s the whole story.”
For a moment, Skull felt like slugging him.
Knowlington and Preston had briefly worked together a year before when they were both posted to the Pentagon— Skull heading a working group on interservice Special Operations, Preston pulling temporary duty as snot-nosed aide for a general who, among other things, hated Skull for having helped kill one of his pet projects years before. Preston had made noises about making an issue of Skull’s drinking— undoubtedly at the general’s suggestion, though Hack was enough of a prig to think about it on his own. There had been rumors of disciplinary action, and a not-too-subtle attempt to persuade Knowlington to re
tire. Skull had had to go deep into the favor bank to derail the whole mess.
And yet, he would freely and honestly admit that Hack was a good pilot with a wide range of experience and a good helping of natural ability. It was possible, even likely, that Major Preston would make a decent commander.
God, Skull wanted a drink.
Without saying anything else, Knowlington turned around and walked to his office.
“Colonel?”
Skull stopped at the door, his hand cold against the cheap metal knob.
“You want to see me, right? You just asked me to see you.”
“Let’s just skip it, okay?” said Knowlington. And without waiting for an answer, he pushed inside, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER 9
KING FAHD AIRBASE, SAUDI ARABIA
28 JANUARY 1991
1324
Technical Sergeant Rebecca Rosen gave the radio aerial a gentle but firm tap, nudging the metal fin into its slot behind the cockpit. Draped on her stomach over the fuselage, she screwed it in quickly; the UHF/TACAN antenna had given her so much trouble going in, she feared it might just decide to jump off.
The metal fin atop the Hog wasn’t much bigger than a CD case. Still, this was at least the third one she’d had to replace in the last four or five days. All had been pockmarked with bullets or shrapnel. Either the Iraqis were using special bullets that homed in on radio signals, or Devil squadron pilots were putting their planes in places where they shouldn’t be much too often.
Upside down, even.
“Yo, Rosen, what the hell are you doing? Sleeping on the job?”
“No, Chief!” she shouted, bolting upright but not looking down at Chief Master Sergeant Allen Clyston.
“Another F-ing aerial?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Damn. These pilots are not taking care of my planes properly.”
“No, Sergeant, they’re not. Damn sloppy of them,” said Rosen, finishing with the aerial. She rolled off the plane and jumped down to the tarmac. “They have to be scraping the suckers when they’re landing, because there is no way those ragheads could shoot them off. No way.”
Clyston grunted in agreement. “We ready to go?”
“Almost. Have to double-check the ECM pod.” Rosen gestured toward the ALQ-119 on the wing.
“Older than me,” said Clyston derisively of the ECM, the first dual-mode jammer ever put into operation.
“No way, Chief. But I bet you worked on it.”
“Prob’ly,” said the capo. He finally smiled.
A radical breakthrough when first developed, the ECM confused enemy radars by filling the air with noise as well as false signals. It had been around for a very long time, however, and was fairly useless against sophisticated weapons systems like the SA-6. Replacements had been promised, but the A-10s didn’t rate high enough to get them.
“We’ll be ready,” Rosen told her boss.
“I’m counting on it,” said Clyston. He bunched his hands on his hips.
“You selling something, Sergeant?” Rosen asked.
Clyston made a show of glancing around, as if worried that another crew member was within earshot. In actual fact, no one who worked for the Capo would be so foolish as to linger nearby without very good cause, and they would never, ever overhear something he didn’t want them to. Ever.
Rosen sensed what Clyston was going to say and felt her face go red even as he opened his mouth.
“Word has it you were asking after Lieutenant Dixon,” said the chief master sergeant.
“I was inquiring about his health, yes,” she said, trying to make her voice as flat as possible. Anyone else she would have told to screw off, but there was no way in the world to say that to the capo. No way.
Clyston’s large chest heaved upwards in an exaggerated sigh. He shook his head, but said nothing. Rosen found her bottom lip starting to tremble; she tried biting at it but her teeth couldn’t quite clamp down.
Anybody else would have gotten a double-barrel of invective, maybe even a good swing. Anybody else, she probably wouldn’t have cared.
But the Chief was— well, the Chief.
“Chief, is my work unacceptable?”
“That’s not what this is about, Rosen.”
“Sir.” She clamped her mouth shut, unable to say anything else. She steadied her eyes, hoping they wouldn’t water.
Damn, damn, damn. This shit had never happened to her before.
Rosen put her head down, waiting for the inevitable lecture. Clyston was right, of course; enlisted and officers didn’t mix. And she and Dixon had nothing in common – she was older than him, for christsakes.
But damn, damn, damn.
“Sergeant, these planes have to be ready to fly at 1400 sharp,” snapped Clyston. “Then I’d appreciate it if you helped Vincenzi on that F-in’ engine. He’s having a hell of a time.”
“Yes, Chief,” she said, though Hog engines were hardly her specialty. “Be glad to.”
“I appreciate it. Vincy makes a hell of a sauce, but he doesn’t always boil the spaghetti right, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, Chief.”
Rosen listened until the scrape of his boots told her he was far away before wiping her wet cheek with her sleeve.
CHAPTER 10
KING FAHD AIRBASE, SAUDI ARABIA
28 JANUARY 1991
1430
Captain Kevin Hawkins wrapped his hand around the tubular frame of his seat as the British Chinook abruptly jerked itself off the runway, its Lycoming engines whipping the twin rotors in a fury. His SAW – an M249 light machine gun or Squad Automatic Weapon, also known as an FN Minimi— slipped against his leg as the big helicopter bucked forward; he jerked his hand to grab the rifle and nearly spilled his cup of tea.
“I thought you said your aircraft were smooth,” he said to the sergeant next to him on the canvas bench.
SAS Sergeant Millard Burns turned slowly toward Hawkins and nodded in his methodical way, a bob down, a bob up. At fifty feet above ground level the helicopter stopped climbing, leaving her rear end angled slightly as she sped northwards, finally steady enough for Hawkins to sip his tea. The nose of the team’s other helicopter, carrying most of the British commandos, appeared in the window above the opposite bench. The Chinook— or “heli” as the British soldiers tended to refer to the craft— had a splotchy camouflage that blended dark green with pink splashes of paint. Referred to as “desert pink” by the Royal Air Force crew, it was the oddest scheme Hawkins had ever seen.
“Good chaps?” asked Burns, nodding at the six Delta troopers parked along the benches toward the front of the aircraft. Besides Burns, there were three more British paratroopers aboard the Splash One, and a dozen SAS men and their captain aboard the second, Splash Two.
“The best,” Hawkins said. All of the D boys had been with him on missions north of the border before. He’d known three – Jerry Fernandez, Kevin Smith, and Peter Crowley –for nearly five years. Armand Krushev and Stephen ‘Pig’ Hoffman had won medals for their still-classified exploits in Panama right before the invasion. And Juan Mandaro was a five-tools player: a communications and sniper expert with a (civilian) EMT badge and a knack for blowing things up, Mandaro had particularly sharp vision and rated among the best point men Hawkins had ever seen in combat.
“Your guys?” Hawkins asked the British sergeant, taking a stab at conversation only because Burns seemed to need to talk.
“They’ve been in hot water before. Squaddys began in Ireland. Tight after that.”
Hawkins had not-so-distant relatives in Belfast, children and grandchildren of the grandmother who had first turned him on to tea. At least one belonged to the IRA Provos – the SAS’s enemy in Ireland. He grunted noncommittally, turning his attention back to his cup.
“Jundies won’t know what hit them when we go in,” added Burns.
“Jundies?”
“Ragheads. The Iraqis.”
“Oh yeah.�
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Burns reached into the pocket of his uniform and took out the map of their target. They’d gone over the plan at least twenty times before taking off, mapping contingencies and psyching out possible Iraqi moves; there was no practical benefit to reviewing it now. But maps, even roughly sketched ones, held almost supernatural power for some guys, and apparently the British NCO was one of them. The trace of his finger across the shallow berm near the road, the double-tap of his thumb against the blocks representing buildings— these were part of a holy ritual that he undoubtedly believed would guarantee success.
Some men preferred to continually check their weapons, making sure ammo belts weren’t kinked, triple-checking the taped trigger spoons on the grenades, testing the sharpness of their battle knives.
Hawkins liked to drink his tea.
“We’ll have the carriage way right off,” said Burns.
He meant the road. Two Apaches would cut off access to the base. Once the Hogs took the Zeus guns out, the plan would be boom-boom, teams at each building, top and bottom. Three stories. Neither had defenses, and it looked from the surveillance “snaps,” as the British put it, that one was completely unoccupied.
You never could tell.
Hawkins leaned his head back against the wall of the helicopter, trying to ignore the vibration as well as the sergeant without success on either front.
“Moons and Puff will move with your men to the second house,” said Burns, repeating a sentence he’d repeated now at least three times since they’d met. “I’ll be with you on the first.”
Hawkins’ attention drifted. An RAF reconnaissance Tornado would zoom over the small base roughly ten minutes before the Chinooks were to land. It would check the defenses one last time. The A-10s would pound anything that had materialized and then clear the assault teams and the supporting Apaches in.
Standard house-clearing tactics— flash-bang grenades, A-Bombs, MP-5s, in and out.
Though they came from different armies, the troopers and the commandos were equipped roughly the same. The SAS men carried American M-16 Armalites with grenade launchers, just as some of the D boys did; they referred to the guns as 203s after the M203 designation for the launcher. They also had two Minimis on their team. Three of Hawkins’ men carried silenced MP5s, very light and nasty submachine-guns that the commandos were also familiar with; two others had Mossberg A-Bombs. Between them, the commandos and troopers carried a large number of grenades, the nastiest of which was arguably the white phosphorous or “phos” to the SAS men; the ingredients could burn through unprotected skin and eat a man’s body. Among their other tasty treats were 66mm man-launched anti-armor rockets, modern-day disposable bazookas that could take out most modern tanks.
HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Page 4