Hawkins screamed as he leapt into the ditch. A small bee whizzed over his head and another below his leg. The rocket flared inches from his eye. His right hand burned and something wet covered his face.
Then a fist punched him in the side. Hawkins threw his elbow in the direction of the blow, pushed up and saw a blur in the shape of a rifle about a foot from his belly. He lunged for it, falling over it and into the man holding it. Three bullets shot from the rifle as they struggled; Hawkins managed to push his body into the Iraqi, pinning him against the side of the dirt. He kicked his foot back as hard as he could, continuing until he could wrestle the gun free. He jerked it around and smashed it against the man he’d pinned, then sprung away, twisting to get his bearings. As he did, he saw a pipe roll from the top of the trench to the bottom near his foot.
By the time his conscious mind processed the fact that the pipe was not a pipe but a grenade, Hawkins had already grabbed hold of it. In the same motion he tossed it skyward. As it left his fingers he thought how incredibly lucky he must be that it hadn’t gone off.
Then he realized that he had thrown it in the direction of the tanker truck.
In the next moment, it exploded.
Hawkins had hunkered down, but could still feel the impact. Pieces of shrapnel and rock rained against the back of his body armor. He smashed his hand against the trench in anger, then rose, pushing away the body of a dead Iraqi that had fallen on top of him, struggling to see the runway.
The tanker sat in front of the MiG, thirty yards away, intact. With his customary presence of mind, Wong had continued pushing it forward, while Hawkins and the others had dealt with the Iraqis and their antitank weapon. The grenade had landed on the runway, but its shrapnel had missed the vehicles.
Not Burns, though. Hawkins pulled himself and walked to the SAS sergeant, whose body lay at the edge of the concrete. He’d been hit in the neck and legs and face; at least one of the holes had been caused by the Iraqi gunner and not the grenade, but it would have been difficult to tell which one was which. Hawkins knelt down. Burns lay face up. The flap of the sergeant’s breast pocket was open. Hawkins saw the back of the photograph Burns had shown him yesterday. Five kids and a wife, who thought an afternoon in an amusement park was the time of their lives.
They always would, now.
Blood trickled toward the photo. Hawkins reached down and took it out gingerly, holding it up as one of Burns’ men ran to him.
“Iraqis got him?” asked the man.
Hawkins just frowned at him, handing him the picture.
“Let’s get that fucking airplane the hell out of here!” Hawkins shouted, starting after the truck.
CHAPTER 49
IRAQ
29 JANUARY 1991
0632
Major Preston had just climbed back into the cockpit and turned to check where the fuel truck was when the grenade exploded. He ducked, losing his balance and nearly falling over the side. He slammed his side and back against a sharp piece of the fairing: hid kidney hurt so badly he through he’d been hit by the grenade. He crumpled against the seat, disoriented and confused, head swirling as if he’d taken nine or ten negative g’s. Somehow he got upright and tried to shake the black cowl away from his head. He didn’t dare look at his body, still thinking he’d been wounded by the exploding grenade.
I’ll fly no matter what, he thought to himself. He felt his side with his hands. His fingers slipped lightly over the fabric, then pushed against the folds, pressing finally against his back.
He hadn’t been hit.
The truck continued toward the plane. Hack climbed out of the cockpit to help refuel, extending his legs to the ladder. An Apache whipped overhead from the other side of the runway; for a second it looked like its skids would ram into the airplane. Hack ducked, cringing. The helicopter pulled away at the last instant and Hack tightened his grips as the wash rattled around him. He stepped back, toeing the step, then lost his balance as he tried to move too quickly to the ground.
He twisted as he fell, smashing his left wrist and hand against one of the ladder’s metal steps. A fresh burst of machine-gun fire somewhere nearby froze him, and once more he thought he’d been shot.
Pulling himself away from the ladder slowly, he felt punch drunk. A flash of queasiness hit his stomach. His left wrist hung off at an angle, a bone probably broken. The thin layer of flesh between his thumb and forefinger turned purple as he watched. The rest of his forearm quickly began to swell. The pain began to multiply wildly, a puff adder suddenly excited. The wound’s poison paralyzed him. Preston pushed his head down, flexing his shoulder and back muscles as if they might somehow take over for the injured bones and ligaments.
Then he forced himself to his feet and way from the plane, yelling to Wong and the others on the truck that they had to hurry. He turned toward the hangar, consumed with the next problem, flight gear.
He could wear his own speed suit with the fudged hose connectors his survival experts had supplied. But it would be infinitely better to take the gear the dead pilot was wearing.
Preston ran to the figure he had dragged from the hanger. He bent his head away from the mess that had been the man’s face, took a deep breath, and began to undress him.
Using only his right hand, he pulled off the bib-type outer flight suit. Despite the bloody crust, neither the bib nor the g suit below appeared damaged. The leg material was covered with dark black figures, a sort of freehand graffiti that seemed more like a superstitious scrawl than a mark of ownership.
Preston stopped and undid his own boots, then stripped to his cotton long johns. He tried to use his left hand to pull off the man’s boots, and his wrist throbbed so badly he ended up using his knees and even briefly his head for leverage as he finished stripping the Iraqi.
The back of the g suit was stained black. The pilot’s intestines had released a stream of shit as he died.
Hack pulled the suit away from the sodden underwear, gingerly rolling the pants legs up with his right hand before standing to slide them up. The Iraqi pilot had been about two inches shorter than Preston and five pounds lighter. The suit snugged very tightly in the groin, but the top fit well enough for him to move his shoulders freely. He pulled his boots back on, grabbed the mask he had found and left nearby, then took one last look at the helmet.
Broken beyond use.
He went to his bag and ripped it open, scooping out his own liner and helmet, fitting them on as he ran back toward the plane.
The explosions in the distance had stopped; so had most of the gunfire. He heard a few soft clicks as he snugged the helmet down— then nothing.
Eugene had placed the AA-11 antiair missile below the wing, but not attached it. Hack ran to the knot of men helping fuel the plane, pulling at one and then another before finding the RAG mechanic.
“The missile,” he yelled, pointing. “Get the missile on. It’ll help.”
Eugene shook his head and started to say something, but Preston pushed the mechanic in the direction of the weapon. “Do it! Do it!” he shouted, then ran around the front of the plane, to see if anything obvious was out of place. It wasn’t exactly an FAA inspection, but the plane was there, all there. He touched the afterburner nozzles, their gray housing designed to lower IR signatures, then ran around the tailplane, around the wing— navigation light cracked by shrapnel— and back to the ladder. Eugene was stooped under the wing examining the hard points, he had not mounted the missile.
“You need help? What?” Hack asked.
“The missile is irrelevant,” said Wong, pulling at Hack’s shoulder.
“Not to me,” said Hack.
A pair of Chinooks shot overhead, their heavy rotors shaking the earth. Wong started speaking nonetheless.
“It is an AA-7 Aphid, not an AA-11. The type is thoroughly understood. Even if we can install it, the missile will only add needlessly to your weight, and time is short. You won’t need it,” added Wong.
The captain was r
ight.
“Is it fueled?”
“Four thousand kilos, as you directed. That will cut your range. . .”
“It’s fine. I’m not going to California.” Hack pushed the ladder back against the plane. His left wrist collapsed but he ignored the pain, shoving the ladder with his shoulder.
Wong helped, but grabbed Hack as he started up. “Your left hand?”
“Banged my wrist.”
“Can you fly?”
Hack shrugged. “Let’s see if I can get the damn thing started. Get the fuel truck out of the way.”
Still holding onto Hack’s flight vest, Wong put his other hand around Hack’s wrist and squeezed. Even if it hadn’t been injured, the pressure would have hurt— but Hack did his best not to acknowledge the pain. He pulled away and climbed the ladder.
By now the cockpit seemed almost familiar, the ten-degree-canted seat a favorite La-Z-Boy recliner. The parachute harness attached with a single clasp at the chest. Hack had trouble with it, struggling to position his body and cinch it at the same time. His left hand was so worthless, he kept it in his lap as he donned the oxygen mask and mad the connections on the left side of the cockpit. He checked the brake, took a breath, and began working through the engine start procedure.
Do your best.
His flight board. He didn’t have it.
Screw it now. He had to go, go, go.
Designed from the very beginning to work under primitive conditions, the MiG-29 had an admirably austere feel that would not go unappreciated by an A-10A aficionado. Though a completely different aircraft with an entirely different mission, the Fulcrum had also been engineered to rely on mechanical systems— not cutting-edge computers and fly-by-wire gizmos. One of those systems was the doors that closed off the engine inlets to avoid ingesting debris when taking off. Another was the auxiliary power unit, which sent a big breath of compressed air across the left Tumanski R33D turbofan, spinning until it coughed and clicked and surged.
And died.
If Hack’s left wrist hadn’t been sprained already, he would have sprained it when he slammed it against the throttle bar, pissed that he had come this far only to fail. He screamed the whole way through a second start sequence, but couldn’t get the engine to kick again— he had no power, in fact, on the panel.
From the beginning, he told himself. Start over. Slow.
He was already trying to think up a way to have the tractor puff the Tumanski when the plane’s auxiliary unit managed to wind the power plant with a small huff of air. This time it coughed loud and whirled into a steady roar, everything vibrating wildly.
Hack checked the rpm— sturdy, in the middle of the gauge, but what exactly was the spec?
He’d blanked, but the number didn’t matter. He got the next engine up anyway. The rumble was firm; there was no doubt he was in the green.
Was there?
The dials were all over the place — he was sitting in an F-15 with instruments from an A-10 that had been arranged by a schizophrenic engineer.
Weren’t all engineers schizophrenic?
Go over the restraints again, check the flight gear, don’t fuck up. Oxygen— something was wrong, because he wasn’t getting anything out of the mask.
As he leaned over to examine the panel near his left elbow, he realized for the first time that the hose had been split between one of the coils. He’d need to repair it. He pulled it apart, then saw it wasn’t just split; shrapnel or bullets had blown a series of holes clear through.
He could just tape it.
No time.
Fly low.
F-14s expected him at thirty thousand feet.
Tough shit on that. Stay at five thousand feet, lower.
Get nailed by antiair. Forget the Iraqis, the Allies would nail him.
He would fly low, though not quite so low as that; it made sense. But it didn’t make sense to fly without an oxygen mask since he had his own, even if its hose fitting was only a kludge. As the MiG shook against its brakes, Preston loosened his restraints and leaned over the side of the plane. Wong and Hawkins were standing a short distance away with another member of the Delta team, both trying to listen to a single com set.
“My bag!” he screamed. “My bag! My bag!”
They couldn’t hear him over the whine of the engines. Finally, Eugene saw him and ran over.
“My mask! My mask!” Preston shouted, holding up the mask he had taken from the Iraqis. “Get the whole bag! The whole bag! I want my board, too!”
Might as well.
“My bag! Shit!” he screamed.
The engines were too loud. Eugene ran to the get the ladder.
Hawkins and Wong finally glanced up.
“My bag!” Hack shouted to them. “I need the mask. And the board.”
Wong pointed to the far end of the runway. At first, Hack didn’t understand what the hell he was trying to tell him. Finally, he turned around.
One of the Chinooks had crashed there and was on fire.
CHAPTER 50
OVER IRAQ
29 JANUARY 1991
0643
Devil Leader, this is Splash Control. Buildings are secure and exfiltration is beginning. We have another difficulty. Please acknowledge.”
Skull had just turned his nose back toward Splash. A billow of black smoke rose between two Apaches. One of the Chinooks had crashed after being hit by gunfire.
Knowlington listened to the terse explanation, then assured Splash Control that he would stay nearby in case he was needed.
He had his own problems, though. The Iraqi relief column had been neutralized. Three of the helicopters were burning on the ground and the fourth had scrambled away to the west. But Dixon was still lost and not answering hails.
As Skull tried to reach the AWACS to request a fix on his squadron mate, a dark wing crossed behind the smoke wisping from the carcass of a self-propelled fun at the far end of the highway. He clicked onto the squadron frequency, hailing Dixon and asking why the hell he hadn’t responded.
He didn’t get an answer.
“Antman, you see him?” Knowlington asked his wingman.
“Uh, I got him at, uh, call it five miles, four and a half. He’s heading south of the highway, just passing that open truck I hit with the gun.”
“I don’t think he has a radio,” Knowlington said. “Let’s catch up.”
“Four.”
The two Hogs spread out in the sky. Devil Leader looping ahead and Four angling tighter, aiming to make sure Dixon noticed at least one of them as he flew. Dixon saw Antman first, wagging his wings slightly, then starting to climb toward his altitude. By the time Skull swept back around and drew alongside, Antman had pulled close enough to use hand signals.
“Says he’s all right except for the radio, if I’m reading his sign language right,” said Antman. “Got to work on his penmanship.”
By even the most optimistic calculation, Dixon would be well into his reserve fuel by now. He had to get straight home, and he needed someone to run with him.
Skull knew it had to be Antman; there was no way he would leave the kid here to take out the MiG y himself. But shepherding a stricken Hog home wasn’t going to be a picnic either.
Antman was a good, decent pilot with a strong sense of what he was about. But he was still a kid. Dixon was still a kid. They’d have to fly more than two hundred miles before putting down; they’d have to do so over hostile territory at slow speed and relatively low altitude.
Knowlington wanted to go with them— not because he didn’t think they could do it, but because he felt as if his presence would somehow protect them, somehow balance against the unpredictable contingencies and chaos of war.
They weren’t kids, not really. But he felt as if he ought to be there to protect them.
Hubris. As if he were the omnipotent, not an old goat with eyes and hands that were steadily slowing.
But that was the way he felt. The closest thing he would ever feel to a paterna
l instinct.
“Dixon’s going to be low on fuel,” Knowlington told his wingman. “You take him south. I’ll hang back and cover Splash.”
“Check, six, Colonel,” said Antman, wishing him luck with the time-honored slogan of goodwill— and caution.
“Yeah,” Knowlington said. “Check six.”
CHAPTER 51
OVER IRAQ
29 JANUARY 1991
0648
Dixon answered Antman’s thumbs-up with one of his own, then settled onto the course heading he had flashed with his fingers a few moments earlier. The other Hog edged further off his wing, though it remained so close that BJ thought Antman might be able to hear him if he popped the canopy up and yelled.
That was the kind of thing A-Bomb would suggest. Hell, it was the kind of thing A-Bomb might do.
O’Rourke was a damned good flight leader, Dixon thought as he matched Antman’s slow, steady climb toward the border. He’d laid out the mission well, kept BJ aware of the situation, responded to his own problems in a way that guaranteed the mission would succeed. He acted like a goof-off sometimes, but that was just an act.
The man William James Dixon truly admired was the old-dog colonel who’d put Antman on his wing as his personal guide dog. Knowlington was a gray-hair, but there he was, circling back to cover the Splash team, moving as methodically as a freshly refurbished grandfather clock.
Not long ago, Dixon figured that guys like Knowlington hung around either out of vanity or in hopes of catching an adrenaline rush. Now he realized it was neither. After a while, after you went through enough shit, you didn’t feel any more adrenaline— maybe you didn’t feel anything. You did your job, and you kept doing it because that was your job. If your job was the be the gray-haired geezer who knew everything, you did it.
And his job?
His job was to get home, to see Becky, feel her next to him.
HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Page 17