“Much too hazardous,” said the British general in charge. “Given the proximity of other Iraqi units, no more than sixty minutes can be allotted to a ground operation.”
“Potty,” said another of the Brits.
“Granted, stealing the plane would require a considerable coefficient of luck,” said Wong. “Nonetheless, its possession would be desirable. And the fallback situation would still result in considerable benefit: the expertise of a pilot’s firsthand review of the systems would be beneficial.”
“So let’s get it then,” said Hack. He glanced at the donut in his hand— he’d squeezed it so hard that its filling had burst from the sides.
“You think the Iraqis are just going to let us take it?” said Hawkins, as sarcastic as ever.
“If Wong can get close enough to look at it, I can get close enough to steal it,” said Preston, putting the donut down. “Let’s do it.”
“This isn’t a game,” snapped the Delta commander. “It’s not rah-rah go-for-it.”
“Major, how familiar are you with the MiG-29?” asked the British general.
“Very,” said Preston, staring at the cream on his fingers. “I was on the team that reviewed the Zuyev MiG in Turkey. I flew one at Kubinka in the Soviet Union last year. It was a very limited program, General. Admittedly, I would have liked more time at the stick, but I can do this. I’ve flown F-15s, F-16s, and a dozen other fast-movers,” he added. “I’m not just an A-10 driver. Pilot.”
“Was the MiG a one- or two-seater?” asked Wong.
“A two-seater,” admitted Hack.
He glanced at A-Bomb, who was not only uncharacteristically reticent, but had stopped sipping his coffee. His wingman had a frown so serious on his face, it made Hack look away, focusing his attention momentarily on his cream-laden fingers. He considered licking them clean, but reached for a napkin instead.
“I saw the Zuyev plane myself,” Wong was said. “It does supply a baseline.”
Russian pilot Alexander Zuyev had defected to Turkey in a Soviet MiG-29 in May 1989. His Fulcrum was thoroughly studied; so had other examples over the past year and a half, notably those possessed by Germany and India. A great deal of intelligence had been gathered on the various export variants. But there was something about possessing an actual example. Stealing a plane from out of the pocket of the Iraqi air force— that was irresistible.
It was an exploit that would make anyone involved instantly famous, instantly important, even if it failed.
A quick ticket to squadron commander, and not of A-10s.
“I believe purloining the aircraft would not be worth the risk,” said Paddington. “A plane too far, as it were.”
“Major Preston’s familiarity with the aircraft would be an asset in examining it, even on the ground,” said Wong. “His expertise would indeed be valuable. Mine extends to the weapons systems only, and of course I am not a pilot.”
“If— when we get it,” said Hack, “we’ll compromise everything the Iraqis do.”
“That would be an overstatement,” said Wong.
“Kevin, what do you think?” Knowlington cut in, addressing the Delta Force captain.
“With all due respect, I think stealing the plane is a long shot, Colonel. It’s a short field, and where are we going to find a mechanical crew and a helicopter to put them in?”
“We don’t need a mechanical crew,” said Hack. “Not if the Iraqis are already planning to fly the plane. They’ll have done it all. There’s auxiliary power. I go through the sequence, bring on the right engine – I can take off on just one engine, start the other in the air.”
“It does have that capacity,” concurred Wong.
“Long shot,” said Hawkins.
“What’s the worst case scenario?” said Hack. “I take a look, maybe some pictures, then you blow up the plane.”
“The worst case scenario is you get killed,” said Hawkins.
“I’ll take the risk.”
“Who’s taking the risk for everyone else?”
“Our commandos remain the priority for this mission,” said the British general. “Nonetheless, I agree with the major. There is a certain élan to taking the aircraft. We can supply some additional men from the squadron for the operation. We may also be able to find a mechanic with some expertise, though it is short notice.” The general paused, perhaps consulting with one of his aides for a moment before returning to the line. “It is, as you say, a long shot, Captain, but one perhaps worth taking as a subset to the main objective.”
“You sure you can get it in the air, Hack?” asked Knowlington. His voice sounded soft; this time it didn’t remind him of his father’s at all.
“Piece of cake,” said Hack, as forcefully as he could. In truth, he wasn’t familiar with the precise procedure for using the auxiliary power. But that was the sort of thing you could figure out on the fly.
Wasn’t it?
“We’ll have to replace Hack in the support package,” added Knowlington. “That’s a problem in and of itself.”
Preston suddenly felt a twinge of doubt. What if he was with the Delta team and the MiG took off before they got there? Then he’d look like a first-class boob, twiddling his thumbs on an operation that came back with nada. Or worse— the helicopters would be easy pickings, even for an Iraqi pilot.
Instead of being a hero, he’d look like a fool.
But you had to take risks; you had to push it. He’d been wrong to hesitate last night. He should have pushed in, not held back. War was about risks.
To steal an Iraqi plane – hell, he had to take the chance, no matter what the odds were. The payoff was just too immense, too beautiful.
Hack Preston, the man who stole Saddam’s MiG. Shit, what a set of balls that guy must have.
Made general before he was thirty.
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. President.
President?
“That’s not Disneyland you’d be going into,” Knowlington was saying. “It’s not Kubinka either. They’re going to shooting real bullets at you.”
“If the Delta people can do it, I can,” said Preston.
“Yeah, right,” said Hawkins.
Hack had meant to say Captain Wong, not Delta, but for some reason the words had just come out like that. He let them stand.
“Colonel, your final assessment,” the British general asked Knowlington.
Hack’s doubts suddenly reasserted themselves, and he found himself wishing, wanting, hoping that Knowlington would call it all off, say it was crazy and couldn’t be done.
“If my guys think they can do it, and the D boys are up for it, then we’ll take a shot,” said Knowlington. “I’m going to have to hustle another pilot up to KKMC to fly Hack’s plane. Lieutenant Dixon. A-Bomb, you take the lead on that flight, nail the defenses the way you laid out the mission originally. I’ll take the second pair and target the MiG, back you up and support the landing.”
Preston looked at A-Bomb across the room as the British officers began debating what additional forces could join the mission package. O’Rourke, his face as serious as a statue in the Vatican, held his hand over the mouthpiece. “You sure about this?”
“Damn sure,” said Hack.
A-Bomb held his stare for a long time.
“Damn sure,” Hack repeated stubbornly. “Damn, damn sure.”
PART THREE
THIEVES
CHAPTER 32
KING FAHD
29 JANUARY 1991
0305
Colonel Knowlington pulled the survival vest over his flightsuit. Always in the past it had felt familiar, like an old jacket that had been around for years. But this morning it felt awkward and odd, heavier than it should, as if the pockets were filled with lead rather than a few survival necessities.
He double-checked his gear, moving quickly through the preflight ritual. He’d gotten bogged down with some extraneous maintenance details and was running late, very late; Antman was buttoned up in his H
og already, waiting.
The Colonel was still wrestling with his decision to lead the flight. He knew he was sober. He knew his fatigue and the last vestiges of his headache would clear after a breath or two of oxygen in the cockpit. He had several times the experience of anyone else he might tap to fly the mission; he could nail it with his eyes closed.
But should he go? Did he deserve to?
Wasn’t a question of deserving; it was a question of duty. There was no backup— he’d sent Dixon on to KKMC already to fill in for Hack. No one else in Devil Squadron could take this gig.
So it was his duty. That was something he could handle. He took his helmet, grabbed the board with the map and crib notes on the mission, and began walking toward the waiting Hog.
A certain élan, the British general had said.
Damn straight. Stealing a MiG out under Saddam’s nose. Impossible! Ridiculous!
So why had he gone along with it then?
Because he wanted to die? Because life wouldn’t be worth living if he wasn’t in the Air Force?
He couldn’t let that be the reason. The others— his men, his people, his boys— were putting their necks on the line. They weren’t doing that for some foolish, empty romantic notion, a vain piss in the wind that would satisfy his mistaken vanity. They were doing it to give the Allies a usable edge in the war and maybe beyond.
How could you tell the difference? A lot of people thought that’s what Vietnam was— vain, not worth the lives that were lost. He’d never believe that, though he had grieved the friends he’d lost, the many, many people who’d died.
The war had had an effect; in his opinion if in no one else’s. It had held the Soviets and the Chinese down for a while, helped divert attention from other trouble spots, in a way prevented something much, much worse.
And the truth was, sometimes did you lose, sometimes you gave it a shot and that wasn’t good enough; you had to accept that and move on. This war was justified for many reasons – to calm the Middle East, to keep the balance of power, to keep oil flowing, to stop Saddam from getting the bomb. It was being run much more intelligently than Nam.
So where did this mission fit in? Two Brits who might or might not be there, a Russian plane that was interesting, granted, but already a known quantity, as Wong himself had admitted.
Wong. He thought it was worth it. And Wong would know. But then, he had a wild side to him beneath all his dispassionate talk about “mission coefficients” and “risk parameters.” He wasn’t a Pentagon desk jockey, as Knowlington had initially thought. Wong had been involved in dozens of infiltrations and covert actions over the past few years.
The colonel walked toward his aircraft, his mind still trying to sort itself out. Maybe he wasn’t up to it at all— he was experienced, yes, but he was also damned old. His reflexes and his eyes weren’t what they once were, back when he was Skull in Vietnam. His stomach wasn’t as tight, his hesitations were more pronounced.
Clyston stood now at the foot of the access ladder, a stogie in his fat fist.
To say good-bye for good?
“Ready for ya, Colonel,” said the Chief Master Sergeant.
“Let’s take the walk,” snapped Knowlington, already snapping back into his old personae Skull as he started his preflight inspection of the plane.
Fueled, armed with four AGM-65s and a pair of cluster-bombs, the Hog seethed on the apron, anxious to get going. The crew members stood a respectful distance away, craning their necks to see as the pilot— their pilot— checked the plane – their plane.
Even though he was on a tight schedule, even though he knew an aircraft that Clyston was responsible for was an airplane so perfect it could possibly fly itself, Lieutenant Colonel Michael “Skull” Knowlington looked the aircraft over carefully and slowly. To do anything else would have seemed disrespectful to his crew. He inspected the control surfaces as if seeing them for the first time. He looked into each engine, eying every inch of metal. He ducked under the wings and even examined the tread on the tires. He left nothing to chance, performing the ritual as carefully as a priest at midnight mass in Rome. From left to right, from front to back to front, he moved solemnly, not merely checking his plane but absorbing it, driving it deep into his being.
Doubts and nostalgia vanished.
“Let’s kick butt,” he told Clyston, finishing.
“Don’t break my plane,” growled the old sergeant.
Skull chucked Clyston’s shoulder— a little gentler than usual maybe, but in the same spot and with the same emotion he had had more than twenty years before, standing beside a Thunderchief. He took a step up the ladder, then turned to give his people a well-done salute, a thank-you beyond words.
A lieutenant from the intelligence unit that shared some of Devil Squadron’s HQ area came running toward the plane.
“Colonel! Colonel! General’s returning you call,” shouted the man, nearly out of breath. “Said he’d hold.”
“Tell him you missed me,” Skull shouted, climbing into the cockpit.
CHAPTER 33
KKMC
29 JANUARY 1991
0305
The rotor blades on the Huey bringing Dixon into KKMC couldn’t quite keep up with his heart. He leaned toward the rear door of the helicopter, wind and grit whipping against his face. The roof of the large mosque across from the main area of the base gleamed with reflected light, glowing in the darkness like a candle left for an exhausted pilgrim.
Dixon steadied himself as the chopper pitched toward its landing area. He pulled the bag with his flight gear and helmet toward him, then pushed through the door as the helicopter’s skids tipped down. He ran to keep his balance, adrenaline continuing to build. The smells overwhelmed him— jet fuel, diesel exhaust, burnt metal, his own sweat. Colors and dark shadows blurred around him, as he hunted for the vehicle that should be waiting to meet him.
“BJ! Yo, Dixon, here dude!”
Dixon turned abruptly, continuing on a dead run to a topless Humvee waiting near a building on his right. Though the chassis of the truck was familiar, it seemed to have been modified until it looked almost like a surfer’s vehicle.
“What I’m talkin’ about!” shouted the driver, a large man fully dressed in flight gear – A-Bomb O’Rourke, the one and only. “We’re late. Hop in. You can chow down on the way over.”
Dixon threw his gear into the Hummer and climbed aboard. It didn’t surprise him that A-Bomb had met him, nor was he shocked when offered a large and seemingly authentic McDonald’s bag of fries and a double-cheeseburger.
“My daily McDonald’s fix,” said A-Bomb, whipping the vehicle in the direction of the life support shop, “figured you’d be hungry.”
The food was warm— as incredible a feat, no doubt, as A-Bomb’s inexplicable ability to have one FedExed fresh to him each day no matter where he was. Dixon, who hadn’t realized he was hungry, started wolfing the fries.
“Sorry. All I got’s a Coke,” said A-Bomb, thumbing toward the back. “Was supposed to be a strawberry shake. Can’t count on the help these days.”
“Good to see you,” said Dixon between bites.
“What I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb. He whipped the wheel to the right; the Hummer rose off two wheels and then plumped back down. “Got some Sat pix, map for you,” added the captain.
“Pictures?” Normally Hog drivers did without elaborate target intelligence; most guys considered getting an exact coordinate for an IP, the initial point to start an attack run, to be a comprehensive mission plan. Rarely did they work with photos of what they were going to strike..
“I take care of my guys.” A-Bomb whipped the wheel to the right and then back to the left, dodging a fuel truck. “We cross the border, hook up with the colonel and Antman. Go north, blah-blah-blah. Only thing we worry about is an SA-2 that has some coverage near the southwestern tip of the base. We have to jog around that, which is a pain in the butt, but once we’re in, it’s a free ride. Not much to worry
about at the target area. Right now it looks like they have two missile trucks there, SA-9s. I have ‘em marked out. I take that SA-9 on the right, splash some guns on the hills overlooking the field. You get the other launcher, that gun at the far western end. Helos come in. We blow up anything that fucking moves, blah-blah-blah. Routine.”
“Yup.”
“Weather’s improving. Shit-ass wind last night, but supposed to be calm, clear skies tonight. Picnic weather. It’s what I’m talking about.”
“Uh-huh.”
A-Bomb turned to look at Dixon. His voice changed, suddenly serious. “You up for this kid?”
“You sound like my high school baseball coach.”
“You up for this, kid?”
“I can nail it.”
O’Rourke didn’t say anything.
“I’m going to fucking nail it,” Dixon said, glancing forward. “Uh, there’s a truck coming.”
A-Bomb whipped the wheel hard, getting out of the way. His eyes remained on BJ. “Tough time up there. I heard about that little kid.”
“Yeah.” The word bleated from his throat, more a groan than an actual syllable with meaning.
“You got a problem, you let me know. No matter fucking what.”
Dixon nodded. “Let’s kick some fuckin’ butt, huh?”
“What I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb, mashing the gas pedal.
CHAPTER 34
AR KEHY
29 JANUARY 1991
0305
By the time the British transport helicopter approached the small base near the Iraqi border where the Delta and SAS team was holed up, “Hack” Preston knew he was going to nail this mission. Colonel Knowlington and Wong had arranged for him to speak via satellite phone with two different Western experts about the MiG, who had confirmed his own impressions and filled him with good advice. The Fulcrum was a pilot’s plane, steady and predictable, faster than hell, and relatively uncomplicated. It was difficult if not impossible to get her to stall or to spin unintentionally. Takeoff and landing were faster than in most Western jets, but straightforward. Piece of cake.
HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Page 11