As he passed through seven thousand feet, Dixon spotted a small group of clouds dead ahead. The furls on the left side reminded him of a kid’s face; it became impossible not to think of the boy who’d saved his life.
Why had the kid done it? Dixon had saved him a short while before, but still— to jump on a grenade?
The cloud disappeared as Dixon approached. Perhaps it hadn’t even been there at all, for the sky before him was about as clear as he’d ever seen in his life. The Iraqi desert, bleak and cold, spread out below him. A thick pall hung over the horizon to his left— oil fires in Kuwait, most likely. Antiair artillery rose up about a mile away, futilely searching the sky for something to hit.
Why was he here? He could have gone home to America. Knowlington and the others had made that clear.
The only answer Dixon had was the unlimited sky and the furling clouds on the ground, the feel of his fingers curling around his stick, the cold scratch of fatigue at his eyes. There were no answers to any of his questions about the kid, about his mother, about himself. There was just gravity and the force of the engines, pushing him along.
That, and the memory of Becky’s body folded against his.
BJ checked his instruments, then corrected slightly to keep in Antman’s close shadow.
CHAPTER 52
OVER IRAQ
29 JANUARY 1991
0648
Math had never been among A-Bomb’s favorite subjects. While unable to avoid numbers, he nonetheless made it a practice whenever possible to treat them with the sort of disdain he might show a month-old French fry.
His loathing of basic arithmetic could not, however, alter the fact that his fuel gauge was taking a steady and dramatic plunge toward negative integers. And it didn’t take a quadratic equation to calculate that there was no way in hell that he was going to make it back to Saudi Arabia, much less the Home Drome, on his rapidly dwindling supply.
It didn’t make sense— he was flying on one engine and ought to be using a lot less fuel than normal, which meant the camel’s hump ought to be at least half full.
Unless, of course, some of those Iraqi gunners had managed to nick his fuel tanks just right. He had no warning lights. The plane seemed to be flying just fine. But there was no arguing with the fuel gauge; A-Bomb had to tank, and soon.
A pair of MH-130s had been tasked with refueling the helicopters. A Pave Low with a buddy pack was also part of the package as an emergency backup. Unfortunately, the drogue-and-basket system they used was incompatible with the boomer receptacle the Hog had in its nose. But as he glanced at his notes for the nearest tanker track, A-Bomb wondered if there might be some way to make the system work.
If the A-10 had only had an auto-pilot, he might have set it, then popped the canopy and crawled on the nose, stuffed the hose inside the open fuel door and told them to pump away.
Fortunately, Coyote, the AWACS controller monitoring the area, had a better idea.
“We have a KC-135 on an intercept to you,” said the controller. “Call sign is Budweiser.”
“What I am talking about,” said A-Bomb, though Budweiser’s position left him somewhat less enthusiastic— he’d have to climb ten thousand feet and jog sixty miles west to catch the straw. He turned onto the course, hoping for the best— and ignoring the math, which showed that even if he did manage the climb on one engine, he’d run out of fuel about the time the KC-135 came into sight.
Budweiser, fortunately, was a typical member of the tanker community, those unsung but well-hung fraternity of guys who never wanted anyone to go home thirsty. The crew had already touched the throttle to accelerate toward the stricken Hog, passing over enemy territory.
“Devil One, we understand you have a fuel emergency,” the pilot radioed as soon as A-Bomb dialed in the frequency. “State your situation.”
“Pretty much bone dry,” replied O’Rourke. “Got a problem with one of my sumps, it looks like. I think I’m leakin’ like a water bucket without a bottom. Worst thing is, I’m down to my last bag of Twizzlers.”
“This A-Bomb? Shit. I’m always bailing you out.”
“I was countin’ on it, Bobby,” A-Bomb told the pilot. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have let Saddam shoot-up the tanks.”
“Thought those Hogs were impenetrable.”
“What I’m talkin’ about,” answered A-Bomb. “But that don’t mean they don’t leak a little.”
“Stay on your course and altitude, we’ll come down to you,” said the pilot.
“Just what I like— a beer guy who delivers,” said A-Bomb. “And hey, you still owe me ten bucks from that poker game.”
“Watch it, or I’ll tell my boomer to miss on his first try,” joked the pilot, referring to the crewman who handled the refueling gear.
“Won’t work,” said A-Bomb. “I owe him fifty.”
CHAPTER 53
OVER IRAQ
29 JANUARY 1991
0648
Skull lowered his head, giving himself a moment to gather himself under the guise of checking his map.
He was remembering a mission, flying a Phantom F-4E out of Alaska, where he’d intercepted a Tupolev Tu-95 Bear— standard Cold War show, part of an ongoing project at the time where each side tried to out-chicken the other. Except this one was different. The Bear was very low, under five thousand feet, and flying erratically. It failed to answer a hail, and as it approached American territory, Skull’s flight leader fired a warning shot over the nose— except he hit the plane.
The Bear abruptly banked and headed back to Russia.
Skull had thought the Russian pilot wanted to defect, not bomb LA or even Anchorage. He had mentioned the possibility to his flight leader as they closed on the lumbering bomber. There was certainly no pressing need to fire on the plane, much less to hit it, even if the damage was probably minimal.
But his boss got a promotion out of the incident, bumped directly to general and fast-tracked at the Pentagon after that. He retired as a three-star muckety-muck with serious industry connections, and now worked, if you could call it that, as a consultant and lobbyist.
Hack reminded him of the Phantom commander. In some ways, the comparison wasn’t fair— Preston’s record showed he was a much better pilot, and undoubtedly wouldn’t hit something he wanted to miss. But he had a knack for finding himself in the right place at the right time, and for making recklessness look good.
Recklessness? Was it reckless to try and pull off a major intelligence coup? Was the whole mission reckless?
It came down to your perspective. The strike at Son Tay, the POW camp in North Vietnam, had been bold, even though it came too late to actually rescue anyone. Eagles’ Claw, the aborted attempt to rescue the Iranian hostages under Carter, was scored by most people idiotic, solely because of the accident at Desert 1 that doomed the mission.
And Splash?
Knowlington tapped his map, then sat back upright. He was four miles south of the airstrip. He checked the position of the helicopters carefully as he pushed northward, making damn sure to stay out their way. The last Apache, its fuel reserves pushed to the max, flittered over the ruins of the smoldering hangar and headed south. Two Chinooks followed, leaving three others and the Pave Hawks hovering in various spots over the base perimeter.
Then there was the wrecked Chinook on the ground, sitting in front of the buildings the SAS commandos had raided. Her nose slanted into the cement, her cabin crushed; smoke wicked from the side.
The Fulcrum stood astride the ramp maybe a hundred yards from the head of the runway. The wrecked Chinook was situated in such a way that the plane might not be able to squeeze past. Even if it did, the runway didn’t look incredibly long; the downed chopper might make it impossible for Hack to get off.
No prisoners, no airplane. Downed helicopter, God knew how many casualties. Total wash.
Preston would come out of it okay. He had that air about him. Pentagon would want to know what the MiG looked like: he’d end up serv
ing as some NATO liaison or something. Get his squadron command a few months after that.
He was getting that as soon as Skull got back to Home Drome.
They had given Hack a radio frequency to use to communicate with Allied planes, including Devil Flight, but it was clear when Skull snapped onto it. That wasn’t surprising— Preston was going to have his hands full just figuring out the flight controls, let alone the radio.
“Devil Leader to Splash Delta. What’s your situation?” he said, switching to the D team’s com frequency.
“Devil Leader, this is Hawkins. We’re about to leave with the package.”
“Acknowledged. Captain, can he get around the helicopter?”
“Not sure. He’s fueled. No radio, they’re saying. You need details?”
“No. Okay.”
As Knowlington banked south in a loose orbit parallel to the western perimeter of the base, he saw two more Chinooks take off south. Splash Controller came on to ask about his fuel situation.
“Within parameters,” Knowlington responded blandly. He was actually at bingo, but had plenty of reserves to play with. Besides, it was obvious from the other traffic that he was the last available allied air asset – several fighters were now being scrambled to chase an Iraqi making a dash to Iran further north, and a group of Tornados had just been diverted to raid a suspected Scud site. If Preston couldn’t take off, he had to smash the MiG.
He tried Hack again but got nothing. His RWR flickered with a warning. Either a GCI station far to the southeast had turned on briefly, or the equipment was just getting jittery from being north so long. In any event, the threat seemed nonexistent.
“Helis are coming out,” said Splash Control, acknowledging a transmission from the Chinooks. One of the Pave Lows hovered near the MiG, which was still sitting on the access ramp. Men were scurrying near it.
The AWACS controller warned that two more Iraqis were on the runway at an airfield further north, preparing to take off. The Tomcats would have to deal with them.
No escort for Hack.
Skull tucked back north, eying the obstructed runway. Takeoff distance was down to close to a thousand feet, maybe less.
No way, Skull thought. He slipped his finger edged across the cannon trigger, then began a wide bank to line up his shot.
CHAPTER 54
IRAQ
29 JANUARY 1991
0652
Hack watched the smoke pour from the rear motor of the helicopter, black furls leaking downward before dispersing sideways into a web of gray curlicues. Men were running furiously back and forth— the pilot and copilot actually seemed to have survived.
This damn close, he thought.
“Major! Major! What do you need?”
Hack jerked back around. Eugene had grabbed the flight bag and hauled it to the plane.
“My mask!” He mimed as he shouted, repeating the words. The British mechanic grabbed the mask and its hose and tossed it to him.
“The nozzle and the clamps!”
But Eugene had already realized he’d forgotten the adapter pieces and fished them out. Preston dropped one of the clamps, and had to wait for the mechanic to retrieve it from the ground.
He looked back at the helicopter. A fresh volley of flames shot from the rear. An orange fist rose from the spine and smashed downward, a full body slam that shattered the metal rivets and joints.
“My board!” Hack shouted, making a rectangle in the air. The mechanic fished it out.
Slapping it around his leg, he felt as if he was walking to the plate and someone told him he was going to knock it out of the park.
His dad. He had this nailed.
Hack reexamined the oxygen hookup on the left panel. The modified end of the mask hose, with its flexible tubing and hand-cut nozzle face, looked and felt a little like a vacuum cleaner tool, with a metal spring clamp embedded inside. It also seemed to be about the right size without adding the second, more elaborate, plastic adapter-ring assemblies and their clamps. Hack jammed the nozzle into the receptacle on the panel and felt it click home. He pulled at it. It stayed. Oxygen flowed through. When a second jostle didn’t disrupt the flow, he stowed the adapter in one of the bloodstained flaps in his pants. Then he turned to his attention to getting off the runway.
With his left wrist still not working, he tried nudging the throttles with his forearm and elbow, but couldn’t manage it. He had to reach across and push up the power with his right, the plane instantly jerking against her brakes, which someone had only partially set.
Hack’s right hand shook so badly as he grabbed for the stick, he had to wrap his left hand around it to keep it steady before the shock of pain reminded him of just how badly he’d hurt it. Somehow he managed to get the brakes completely off and began to steer the MiG down the apron, in the direction of the still-smoldering helicopter.
An Apache whipped across his path, hovering near the Chinook. The helicopter was several hundred yards away., but he was starting to move fairly quickly.
“Get out of my way!” yelled Hack. The gunship launched rockets into the hulk of the aircraft, apparently to finish off its destruction. A fireball shot from the front of the craft.
“I’m going to hit you, you asshole!” Hack shouted, knowing, of course, that no one could hear him. He reached for the brake. The Apache whipped away, and Hack grabbed the control stick again, his legs jelly as he slopped back and forth across the taxiway, the oscillations increasing despite his efforts to even them out.
Two modes, he remembered— the steering could be switched into a less sensitive setting.
Preston glanced down at the stick, looking briefly for the selector, but there was no way in the world he was screwing with that now. The end of the ramp was barely fifty feet ahead. He had to slide around precisely, cut the angle and get by the rear end of the burning helicopter.
If he went off the ramp he’d sink in the sand. He steadied his feet on the rudder pedals and leaned forward to get the pit of his stomach into his elbow, glancing at the knee board as he did.
“Just do your best!” he yelled. With every part of him jittering, he started the turn. The plane slid sideways as he pushed the stick, then jammed at the rudder. He felt a thump, knew he was off the concrete, and saw the back end of the Chinook looming on his right.
What a stinking green newbie idiotic jerkful dumbshit asshole fucked-up jackoff numbskull thing to do putting the stinking plane off the runway and losing fucking control before, before, before even taking off.
Numbskull. His dad used to say that.
The Fulcrum, its engines still set at seventy percent for ground idle and its canopy still wide open, plowed across the soft earth, but kept moving. The right wing nudged one of the bent rotors of the Chinook but cleared it without damage. The MiG hopped across a cluster of potholes, and began moving cockeyed down the short strip, her nose bent slightly downward.
Clear, Hack cinched the top. It moved painfully and slowly. He cursed himself for not having closed it earlier— he couldn’t afford to give up even a yard of takeoff distance. With the top still inches from slamming home, he pitched forward on the stick as slowly and deliberately as he could, though the movement was still fairly abrupt. The nudge sent the leading edge on the tailerons downward. As they angled, he took the stick with his injured wrist and tried closing his knees on it, holding it as best he could while reaching with his right hand for the throttle. He slid to full military power and then jammed to afterburner. The plane jerked forward, everything rushing now, the MiG veering right.
Hack grabbed the stick, holding the runway, calmer now, in control. He didn’t look at the sky, or the rapidly approaching gravel at the end of the runway. He ignored everything but the speedo, got 200 km on it, then eased his control column. The front wheel slapped into the stones and dirt, a cloud of debris coming off with him as the wheels whined and the wings groaned and the plane fluttered a moment. Hack was weightless, caught in the moment when the earth and sk
y balanced against each other too perfectly.
The nose of the plane slammed upward and the MiG rammed herself forward, jumping into the air like a sprinter bolting from the blocks. Hack felt the rush of speed as the engine doors opened, the need to protect against debris gone. The plane began to buck, her nose trying to slip out of his hand— but he steadied it. He began trimming, cleaning the airfoil, breathing regularly now through the oxygen mask, its fudged connector working without a leak. The pure air cured most of his aches and pains, even dulling the throb of his damaged wrist.
He backed the engines off, climbing steadily now, in control. Checking the ladder on the HUD, he took a moment to orient himself, get used to thinking in kilometers and kilograms.
Damn. Goddamn. Thirty minutes from now he was going to touch down a hero.
Hot shit. Not too much of a numbskull, after all.
His dad was going to be damn proud.
CHAPTER 55
IRAQ
29 JANUARY 1991
0655
Hawkins watched with the rest from the open door of the helicopter as the MiG rolled onto the runway and then raced toward the end, veering sharply upwards and then racing away.
“Shit yeah!” yelled Fernandez. “I knew he’d make it.”
The others were laughing and cheering. Hawkins pushed back into the helicopter, where he found Wong leaning against the wall, examining a diagram of the base drawn out on one of the satellite photos.
“You pulled it off,” Hawkins told his old friend. “Another medal.”
Wong looked up from the map and blinked twice, an owl surprised by a searchlight in the forest. Hawkins laughed so hard he nearly lost his balance.
“What?” asked Wong.
“Nothing, Bristol.” He looked back at his men, who were now settling in along the far side of the Pave Hawk. From their perspective, it had been a kick-ass mission— one enemy base neutralized, one front-line fighter stolen. Saddam had had his ass kicked, and his toilet paper stolen from his stall for good measure. The D boys were all wearing smiles, trying to tell stories over the steady beat of the MH-60’s rotors.
HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Page 18