“Hit at last light,” said Burns.
“Yeah,” said Hawkins, barely paying attention.
“I’ve heard your A-10s are slower than bloody helicopters,” said the sergeant. “Will they be of use?”
“I wouldn’t worry about the Hogs,” Hawkins told him.
“You’ve worked with them before?”
“Oh yeah,” said Hawkins. “Mean bastards.”
“Fucking ugly.”
“Yeah,” said the captain.
“Ugly’s good.”
“The best,” said Hawkins.
CHAPTER 11
APPROACHING IRAQ
28 JANUARY 1991
1730
Hack’s heart picked up its beat as he neared the border with Iraq. The contrails of a flight of bombers arced across the top quarter of his windscreen; black clouds of smoke lined the horizon to his right. To his left, faint flickers of light— maybe reflections, maybe tracers— glinted in the dust of the desert floor.
It was one thing to haul ass across the border at thirty-thousand feet in the world’s most advanced fighter jet, when the flick of your wrist could increase your thrust exponentially and take you to Mach 2 in the blink of an eye. It was quite another to be coaxing a Maverick-laden Hog through 15,000 feet, hoping a tailwind to boost you to three hundred knots.
Why had he taken this damn A-10 assignment?
Because he had no choice. Because it would get him where he wanted to go— squadron commander, colonel, general. Beyond.
Why the hell had he volunteered for this mission?
Knowlington had put him up to it. The colonel knew damn well that if he didn’t volunteer, he’d look like a chickenshit to the rest of the squadron.
Stinking Knowlington, so full of himself, so cocksure that he still the hottest stick on the patch. If he was so hot, why the hell hadn’t he taken the mission himself?
He would have, if Hack hadn’t raised his hand. Showed him up.
One thing he had to say for Knowlington – the SOB didn’t seem to be drinking, or at least he was a hell of a lot more careful about it here than in Washington.
He would sooner or later, though. Then Hack would take over the squadron, move on with the game plan. Get his own squadron, make his mark, transfer back to a real plane. A lot of older guys were choking the path to promotion, but he could cut around them with a good job here.
Which was why he’d volunteered, right? Kick some butt in a major mission. Somebody would be bound to notice.
It was more than that. Hack was ambitious, no denying that. Nor could he deny— to himself— that he felt he’d screwed up on this morning’s mission and wanted to redeem himself.
Not screwed up. Just gotten scared when he didn’t have to be scared.
But he’d volunteered for the Splash package simply because he felt like he ought to be in the mix. He belonged on the toughest assignments. Prestige, ego, redemption, and all that other bullshit were beside the fact.
Preston tried to push the fatigue away, focusing his eyes on the navigation gear, checking his way-points, mentally projecting himself against the sketched lines of his flight plan.
“Two minutes to border,” he told his flight.
The others acknowledged. Once more, he had O’Rourke as his wingman. Doberman in Devil Three had Gunny on his six. The Hogs would work in pairs above the target, with Preston and A-Bomb on the east side on the first run, Glenon and his wingman on the west.
Preston nudged his stick as he came over the border, then gave his instruments a quick check. His fuel burn seemed a tiny bit high; it was barely noticeable, but might be a problem later on, stealing valuable minutes over the target area. He told himself to try to make up for it, if he could.
Checks completed, he rocked his body back and forth in the ejection seat, coaxing away the knots and aches. In some ways, this was the worst part of any mission— the long middle. You could easily be lulled to inattention. Worse, a tired pilot might fall asleep.
Like nearly every other pilot in the service, Hack had a stash of pep pills in his flightsuit for emergency use. But he hated to use them, and in fact had taken an amphetamine only once in his life, and that was in college cramming for a test. He didn’t even like aspirin or antibiotics. He’d accepted his anthrax shot before coming to the Gulf only because he figured he’d be court martialed if he refused.
He hit his way-marker, nudging ten more degrees east as they prepared to leg around the SA-2 coverage area south of Splash
The missile complex had been hit earlier in the war. Hack suspected that its gear had been so damaged by early Allied raids, that all it could manage was a baneful bleep, the ratted of an empty scabbard. But there’d be no way to tell until it launched a few flying telephone poles.
If it did that, a Weasel would nail it. A Phantom was flying patrol circuits in the area, ready for the SA-2 and anything else that might pose a threat.
Hack checked his watch— they were right on schedule.
In exactly 120 seconds, an RAF Tornado would fall out of the sky near the river ahead and blaze over the abandoned Iraqi base. The Tornado’s high-tech cameras would take one last look at the base before the ground teams went in. If they spotted any antiaircraft guns or SAMs, the Hogs would hit them just before the RAF Chinooks came in range.
“Devil flight, this Splash One,” said a voice with a British upper-crust accent as they hit the next-to-last way-marker before arriving at the target. “Position, please.”
As Hack clicked to acknowledge, the RWR went off— an Iraqi ground intercept radar had just come up ahead.
Several voices clogged the circuit. Somewhere in the middle of the static, Hack hoped, was the voice of the F-4 Wild Weasel pilot.
Hack waited for the cacophony to clear, then calmly acknowledged Splash One, giving his position and asking how far the helos were from setting down.
Before the Splash pilot could respond, an AWACS controller further south barked out a warning: Break ninety. A short ranged but potent Roland missile battery north of the target area had turned itself on.
The controller called for the Hogs to make a hard turn, taking them out of harm’s way. But because of the proximity of the SA-2 site and defenses to the east, it would mean the Hogs would have to backtrack around to pick up the proper vector into the target. That would screw up their timing and eat into their fuel reserves.
Weasel would nail the Roland, which couldn’t hit them from where it was anyway. Screw ‘em.
“Negative,” said Hack quickly. “Devil Flight stay on course. Acknowledge.”
“Two. Kick butt,” said A-Bomb.
“Three. We’re right behind you.”
Before Gunny could respond from Devil Four, the AWACS crewman blurted out a fresh and ominous warning— the Iraqis had launched two missiles heading this way.
CHAPTER 12
OVER IRAQ
28 JANUARY 1991
1750
RAF Captain John Conrad started to laugh as the Panavian Tornado hurtled toward the ground. The Turbo-Union RB1999 Mk104 engines were in fine mettle. The nose of the plane shuddered slightly, then smoothed out; the jet’s speed sliding over Mach 1.2. The altimeter ladder nudged downward, breaking through three thousand feet as the world rushed brown and black, an abstract splatter of paint and speed dashing at odd angles around him.
Conrad laughed and laughed, riding the adrenaline of the high-speed run. Wings tucked tight at a sixty-seven-degree sweep, the plane shot smooth toward the terrain, knifing through the low-level turbulence. Conrad pulled back on the stick, leveling off just under a thousand feet, spotting the long gray splotch of his target area ahead.
The pilot giggled to himself as he held the plane steady so his backseat systems operator or “nav” could manage the sophisticated array of reconnaissance equipment in the weapons bay. Three BAe infra-red cameras and a Vinten Linescan 4000 IR surveillance system filled the hold originally designed for a 27mm IWKA-Mauser cannon; together, the
wide-angle line-scan and thermal-image modules probed every inch of the Iranian base. Conrad counted off three seconds, saw two matchboxes at the edge of the rectangle and then he was beyond them; he yanked back on his stick, climbing quickly, gravity smacking him in the chest. He pushed the Tornado to the left as blue sky filled the canopy, the altimeter ladder galloping upwards, mission accomplished.
“Good go, Sister Sadie. Oh, good go, my girl,” he told his plane, which had been named partly for a Beatles song, and partly for the buxom tart bending over her nose. Conrad’s squadron included one of the best nose art painters in the RAF— no mean accomplishment.
The pilot asked his backseater if he had enough data.
“Not quite sure,” said the navigator, Lieutenant Charles Nevins. Besides the normal Tornado backseater duties, as recon officer, Nevins handles an array of sensors that included an infrared camera. “Revetment empty. Zeus 23’s on the hill and below the field.”
“Missiles?”
“Didn’t seem so.”
“Need another run?” asked the pilot, barely containing his enthusiasm.
“SA-6 eight miles north of Splash. They’re tracking,” warned the nav.
“Let’s have a go. Yank Weasel will take care of the missiles,” said Conrad, and before his lieutenant could answer he had knifed the Tornado back toward the Iraqi runway.
Originally designed as a long-range interceptor, the Panavian Tornado lacked the furball maneuverability of American fighters. It could, however, go very fast, and its terrain-following radar and quick-response engines allowed it to do so in all sorts of situations, day and night. In fact, to Captain Conrad, this mission was rather bland— clear sailing in daylight without nearby defenses to worry about.
But it was still a hell of a lot of fun. Flying was always fun.
“SAM tracking,” shouted his nav, warning that there was another anti-air battery hunting them. “ECMs!”
“Stay on it,” Conrad said, winding the Tornado’s altimeter toward zero.
As the rectangular shape of the abandoned runway came into view, Conrad cut hard left to run over it, speed washing from the plane. He was at five hundred feet . . . now three hundred. . . and still lower, getting personal with his target. He pushed his wings level, saw a speckle of something out ahead of him, cursed and felt a light thump as he pulled the plane upwards. The smell of fried chicken filled the cockpit— the Tornado had mashed through a flock of birds, sizzling at least one of them.
“Clean!” yelled the navigator. Either the ECMs or their hard maneuvers or both had shaken the Iraqi defenses. The radar warning screen, which had shown the missile battery’s radar to be quite some distance to the west, was now blank.
Conrad banked south, quickly reorienting himself. The A-10A’s escorting the Chinooks blipped on the radar screen, just over fifty miles away. The helicopters should be somewhere nearby, but Conrad was no longer interested in them— his job now was to get home. He sailed through his turn, running to the west out of their path. Climbing steadily now, the Tornado’s altimeter nudged through six thousand feet, then headed toward ten. He was north of the Euphrates, circling south in the same area as the base, lining up for his getaway leg home.
“More guns beyond the runway,” announced the navigator. “Nothing big.”
“Tank?”
“No.”
“Other defenses?”
“Road south of the base, bunker, maybe just a defensive post.” The navigator’s voice trailed off as he checked the videotaped sensor image. “Maybe some cached weapons there. Can’t tell.”
“Jolly good. Feed the Yanks the positions of the guns, and remind them where the SA-6 was, in case the Weasel hasn’t gotten her yet.”
“Right.”
But before the backseater could hail Devil flight, their detection gear threw up another radar warning.
“Roland on us. Where’d that come from? Fuckers, fuckers!” The navigator’s voice hit an octave so high Conrad thought his helmet’s faceplate would break.
“ECMs,” Conrad said calmly, though of course the instruction was unnecessary; his backseater was already trying to jam the enemy trackers. The Roland— a German missile— was a nasty medium-range missile that could detect aircraft at roughly ten miles and nail it around four. The RWR had it pegged straight ahead, five miles away, two miles north of Splash.
“Missiles in the air! Missiles!” yelped the nav.
Once launched, the Roland moved at roughly 1.5 times the speed of sound, somewhat slower than the Tornado was capable of. But Conrad was in a poor position to outrun it; his best bet were the countermeasures his beackseater was furiously working, along with the fact that the Roland had been launched just beyond its lethal envelope.
He flooded the afterburners and pushed the Tornado into a sharp jink. Newton’s Laws struck him with a vengeance, gravity smashing every inch of his body. He flicked his wrist left, flicked right; the fly-by-wire controls faithfully fought the turbulent shockwaves to fulfill his commands, whipping the plane back and forth to accentuate the confusion.
“Lost one!” yelped the navigator, but the words barely registered. Conrad could feel the second missile, gunning for him. It had somehow managed to follow his twists and was now behind him, burning through its second stage in an all-out effort to bring him down.
But if it was a race, Conrad was going to win. He shut out the voices blaring in his headphones, shut out the blur of the sky, the rumble of the jets, the hard rush of gravity against his chest and face. His fingers were wrapped on the throttle, holding the Turbo-Unions at the firewall.
It came down to him and the missile and the plane. Sister Sadie wasn’t giving in, and neither was he.
Roland would be reaching the end of its range now.
A fresh rush of adrenaline hit Conrad’s veins. He was going to make it; he had it.
This sure as fuck was fun.
“Come on you bleedin’ bugger,” he yelled at the missile, laughing again. “Hit me, fucker. I dare you. I dare you.”
And then it did.
CHAPTER 13
OVER IRAQ
28 JANUARY 1991
1755
Hack steadied his hand on the stick. At least three different transmissions overran each other on the radio. His RWR blared, and he could see a furious geyser of anti-aircraft artillery rising in the sky off his right wing.
He had the missiles beamed, riding away from their Doppler radar in a way that made his airplane invisible to their seeker. In any event, they didn’t seem to be looking for him.
It wasn’t clear from the cacophony in his headset whether the Weasel had launched at the battery or not. Nor was he sure where the Tornado was.
The SAM launcher seemed to be about eight miles to the northwest of his position, which would put it about two, maybe three from the target— damn close when they attacked, within its lethal range.
Depending on how well the Iraqis were trained, it could take them a while to reload the double launcher.
Or not.
Hack looked for the Tornado. It had swept north after its second recon run and should be coming back at him, overhead and to the left.
An English voice broke through the radio static, but Hack couldn’t decipher the words as another excited voice filled the frequency, an F-16 pilot screaming that he was being targeted in another encounter far from here. The voice burst loud, then cleared, as if it were a figment of his imagination.
“Splash One is zero-eight from Splashdown,” said the pilot of the lead helicopter, apparently unaware of what had happened. “Sister Sadie, what’s our sitrep?”
As if in answer, a large gray cloud blossomed in the northwest sky. An orange dot pricked through the gray, then disappeared.
“I’m hit,” said the RAF pilot a few seconds later. “Wing damage.”
“Splash One and Two, hold your positions,” ordered Hack. “Sister Sadie, give your position.”
Preston heard only the hard pull of his own
breath. Hack glanced at his warning radar— clean. Nudging his stick gently to the right, he rode the Hog in the direction of the Tornado.
And the Rolands.
“Sister Sadie, repeat.”
A garbled tangle of words answered him; Hack deciphered “hit” but nothing else.
“I can see him,” said Doberman in Devil Three. He gave a heading and then his own position— Glenon was at least three miles further north than he should have been.
“Watch yourself,” answered Hack.
“I’m on you,” said Doberman, obviously in contact with the RAF plane, though Hack couldn’t pick up the British pilot’s response.
“You’re hit bad,” said Doberman. “Bail.”
Hack tried hailing Sister Sadie on the Emergency Guard frequency, but got no response.
“Missile away,” said a distant voice.
The Weasel, launching on the site.
“What are we doing?” asked A-Bomb. The last part of his transmission was overrun by the F-16 flight again.
“I need radio silence here,” barked Hack. “Devil Three, stay with him. Two, you’re on my back.”
Preston slid southward, trying to psych out where exactly the Tornado pilot would go out. The assault team was behind him and on his left; the Tornado, Doberman and his wingman ought to be crossing straight ahead.
“What’s going on?” asked Splash One.
“Hold your position,” Hack told him. “Repeat, all Splash aircraft, hold your positions.”
HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Page 5