Things weren’t likely to be so light-hearted in the SAS choppers. Miraculously, the crew in the Chinook that had crashed had gotten out with only minor scratches. Still, the Brits had lost two men – Sergeant Burns and one of the paratroopers assaulting the buildings. There had been maybe a half-dozen wounded besides. More importantly, the captured SAS men hadn’t been found.
Two men, a helicopter. Even without the hijacking of the MiG, the general commanding the operation would no doubt consider the losses acceptable, given their objective. You took care of your own, no matter the odds or circumstance.
Hawkins agreed with that. But Burns hadn’t died in the assault on the buildings. He’d been killed getting the plane, maybe by Hawkins himself. The plane wasn’t worth a man’s death. Wong himself said the West already knew a great deal about the fighters.
But they were all going to look like heroes, Hawkins especially.
Fernandez said something and everyone around him, even Eugene, laughed. As Hawkins leaned toward them to catch what it was, Wong grabbed his arm, pulling him with him as he leaned into the cockpit area and peered through the front glass.
“What’s up?” Hawkins yelled to him.
The Air Force intelligence officer ignored the question, pointing back to the east and yelling at the pilot. The Pave Hawk helicopter pilot pitched the helicopter back toward the southern edge of the base.
“What’s the story, Bristol?” Hawkins yelled as Wong slipped over to the window next to the Minimi gunner.
“The bunker area south of the base,” said Wong.
“Yeah? We pinned them down but left them. They were too far to bother us, and across a minefield.”
“Why were there soldiers there?” said Wong. “Why so far from the area of importance when they could not expect an attack by land? The bunkers, well hidden— what do they hold?”
He handed Hawkins the sketch he’d been examining before. Hawkins stared at the area Wong had referred to, but saw nothing.
“Bombs?”
“Too far away.” Wong pointed. “Buzz that gully there, running south from the road. There is another bunker there.”
“What?”
Wong frowned, then pushed past to talk to the pilot. Hawkins put his head to the window.
Dead Iraqis lay in the distance, slumped behind the meager defensive posts they had manned. The base lay well beyond them, the smoke now thinning.
A scratch road, no more than a trail in the desert, ran along the perimeter of the base, linking the defensive posts. It jogged south at a point parallel to the southwest corner of the airstrip, running to a small circle in front of a bunker. Calling the dug-in position a bunker was giving it a status it didn’t deserve— it was more like a tarped lean-to, and a small one at that.
There were footprints in the sand near it, though, a lot of footprints. As he stared at them, Hawkins realized that there was another bunker there, this one an actual concrete structure hidden by the sand.
“The guns, man the guns!” he shouted. “Yo, get your weapons. Wake up! Wake up!”
A figure popped out of the bunker, then another, and another. The .50 caliber gunner took aim.
“No,” said Wong, grabbing the man. “They’re surrendering.”
Wong was right. Six Iraqis came out of the bunker in the desert, waving white and tan shirts.
Two other figures came out behind him.
The paratroopers, who had now reversed roles with their captors. They motioned at the Iraqis, and all six of the soldiers dropped to their stomachs, hands on the backs of their heads.
“Holy shit fuck,” said Fernandez. Hawkins had to grab him to keep him from leaping from the helicopter. They were still a good fifty feet off the ground.
“Obviously not Republican Guards,” said Wong, who seemed disappointed. “We may have to call for help to take the prisoners,” he added. “There won’t be room.”
“I think we can manage to squeeze the bastards in,” said Hawkins, far from disappointed. “I think we can manage very well.”
CHAPTER 56
OVER IRAQ
29 JANUARY 1991
0705
Skull had run ahead of the MiG as Hack took off, but the Mikohyan made up the distance quickly, climbing upwards faster than the A-10 could go in level flight. The last of the helicopters cleared off the ground a few seconds later. Skull’s job there was done.
He tracked onto the MiG’s trail, intending to run behind until the backup escorts caught Hack. In the meantime, he gave the AWACS a good read on its location and direction, relaying the fact that “Splash Bird” had no radio communications.
“Devil Leader, be advised Vapor Flight has been diverted,” added the controller. He told Knowlington that not only the F-14’s but the backup flight of F-15C’s had now been vectored north in an attempt to splash Iraqi MiGs. A pair of F-16s were being pressed into service as guard dogs for the helicopters, which were now clear of Splash and flying to the west.
Coyote asked Skull to hang on with Preston as long as he could. “Mirage 2000s’s en route, call sign Jacques. Should meet you near the border. Request you hold your present course until they arrive.”
“The escort is French?”
“They speak English,” snapped the controller before giving him their frequency and contact information.
Skull took down the data, then clicked into the Frenchies’ circuit, but couldn’t pick them up. The planes flew out of Bahrain and were still a good distance away; even optimistically, they wouldn’t be within radar range for at least ten minutes.
The AWACS had alerted the Allied fighters to the fact that the MiG running south was on their side. The controller assured Skull he’d broadcast updates on its position, as well as warn anything that came close. At the moment though, Skull was the only plane even near him.
Near, being an extremely relative term, as was evident by the controller’s fix. Hack was twenty miles ahead and pulling away.
“Still climbing,” said the controller.
“Thirty angels was briefed,” Hack reminded Coyote. They had set thirty thousand feet for the egress to lessen the possibility of getting nailed by gunfire or pursuers, but the relatively high altitude was a problem for Skull. The Hog’s engines whined just clearing fifteen thousand feet. Thirty thousand feet might very well be a world altitude record for a Hog.
Maybe Hack would bring it down a bit when he realized the pointy-noses had missed the rendezvous. Hopefully, he’d at least slow down.
Preston would be okay as a commander. He would come off as too arrogant, a bit to stuck up— but hell, after this, he’d have the bona fides. Show down one MiG, stole another. People would line up to serve with him.
Preston would be too famous for a Warthog squadron. Hog drivers were blue-collar workers, lunch-pail guys who took the bus to work, not a limousine.
Was that what Skull would do now? Take a bus to work? Where the hell would he work? What would he do?
Did he really have to resign? Should he resign? If he never took another drink— if he never needed another drink?
Bullshit. He’d always need another drink. Always. That was a fact of life.
But what had his sister said?
“So you’re going to quit?”
“I don’t want to hurt these kids.”
“And you wouldn’t be hurting them by quitting?”
“I’m not quitting.”
He was. It wasn’t exactly running away, and it wasn’t like there weren’t plenty of other guys, plenty, who could take over for him. A lot of them could do better, even if he wasn’t hitting the booze.
Maybe. Maybe not.
That was beside the point. You could always find someone better. And worse, for that matter.
The point was: What should he do?
Walk away. Give up.
Such a loaded phrase. Better to say retire.
Prospective again.
Maybe it was better that he hadn’t bought it. He was walking a
way while he could still walk. He didn’t have a death wish after all: that wasn’t what the drinking was all about.
Somehow that seemed reassuring as he pushed the throttle for more speed, trying to catch the MiG’s thinning contrail.
CHAPTER 57
OVER IRAQ
29 JANUARY 1991
0705
Hack backed off the throttle gingerly. He still used his right hand, though the pain had gone down quite a bit in his left; he could now manage a fair amount of pressure on the stick with it, his hands crossed awkwardly.
He flexed his left thumb as he grabbed the stick back with his right hand. The thumb itself seemed okay. Maybe that meant the injury was only a bad sprain, not a break.
As if the exact injury would make any difference at all. He switched the stick back to his left hand, working like a contortionist as he reached for the HUD controls, hoping to knock down the ambient light. He had his radar on, though the selectors were both unfamiliar and balky.
The F-14s still hadn’t shown themselves. Granted, he was much lower than planned, only twenty thousand feet. He didn’t want to go any higher with the fudged oxygen connector, though it seemed to be working fine. The radar ought to make it easier for them to find him, even if he wouldn’t work it well enough to find them.
Of course, it would also mean that other Allied aircraft could see him and possibly think he was an enemy plane.
Not if the AWACS was doing its job.
But was the radar working? The display was clean.
That couldn’t be true, damn it. Did he have it on?
Hack fiddled with it some more, but finally gave up. He looked at the MiG’s RWR in the bottom right-hand corner of the dash, just above his right knee. Similar to many Western units, the display was dominated by a crude outline of the aircraft. An “enemy” radar would set off the bottom row of threat lights and then touch off LEDS indicating distance, bearing, and type indicators around the shadow of the plane in the dial.
Never before in his life had Hack wished for a threat indicator to flash.
There should be a pair of F-14s. If they were tangled or diverted, two F-15s would take their place. So where the hell were they?
He wasn’t sure about the Navy guys, but he knew the Air Force pilots would be smart enough to come look for him if they couldn’t find him at thirty thousand feet. Surely someone had told them that he’d gotten off by now; surely the AWACS had seen him get off the ground.
Hopefully Eugene had told them about the mask. Wong would know that was significant.
How many stinking MiGs could there be in the air anyway? On this course? Hell, they’d be all over him if he was a real Iraqi.
Hack laughed. He started an instrument check, looking first at the radar warning receiver. The location of the RWR was not the best, though admittedly a pilot who actually belonged in the plane wouldn’t have to spend much time staring at it till necessary— as with Western models, an alarm tone would alert him that he was being scanned. Not having the proper helmet gear had deprived him of that capability, along with the radio.
He worked across the unfamiliarly panel, eyes flitting back and forth because the instruments were in unfamiliar places.
Otherwise he was doing fine. Burning through too much fuel, maybe, but fine.
The ladder gauge on the fuel flow device was confusing as hell. He’d taken off with four thousand kilos, now had 3,800.
No. 2,800.
Had to be closer to 3,500.
Yes. No more than five hundred pounds to get into the air. They’d gone over that.
Five hundred kilos. Rough one thousand kilos translated into a little more than fifty nautical miles of flight, with a bit of reserve. So with about 150 miles to go, he had plenty to spare.
About 150 miles? No he was further along, much further along. He ought to be in Saudi Arabia any minute.
No. Time was compressing. He’d only just taken off.
When?”
He glanced at his watch. He’d forgotten to set it when he took off.
Now that was a numbskull move.
Hack tapped the throttles back, slowing his airspeed. The poorly designed instrument layout kept tripping him up. He had to look on the left side to get his attitude indicator, one of the most basic checks since it told him whether he was flying right side up or not. Then he had to cross back to the right to check the engines, then go up to the middle of the panel to check compass and navigation. The vertical velocity indicators were also on the right side, turning his usual across the board sweep into a swirling zigzag back and forth across the old-style instrument panel. Too many passes too quickly, he thought, and his head would be spinning.
No need for that. Just truck home. Go south, look for the big ditch, turn left fifty degrees. KKMC would be that big smudge in the center of the windscreen.
Nice if the Tomcats would show up right about now.
Hack glanced down at his knee board. The top page had notes on his contact frequencies. He didn’t need them now— the radio was useless. Nor was the map on the next page of much use, nor the Western coordinates for his course, nor the notes he’d scribbled about some of the instrument settings. But he glanced at the board anyway. Just habit. Reassuring somehow.
Hack had six thousand meters on his altimeter— just over twenty thousand feet, with a forward air speed of 675 kilometers an hour; a bit over 350 knots. He had the heading they had briefed, but he was much lower and going fifty knots faster than they had set out. He eased back on the throttle again, the plane jerking slightly as he fumbled.
If the Tomcats weren’t here and the Eagles weren’t here, something must have happened.
Maybe Saddam had scrambled someone to catch him.
Skull and the others would be sitting ducks in their slow-moving A-10s.
Not his problem.
They were his guys, though. He had to help them. He had the cannon, if nothing else.
Did he even have that?
The armament panel was on the right side at his elbow. Neither of his Western sources had touched on it, but Harry and he had discussed cannon shots at length before taking off a year ago.
Huge slugs. Had to slow down to use the gun. Bitch of a targeting computer. You had to get really close to fire, and hit the speed brakes if you were moving over four hundred knots.
Four hundred klicks maybe? But that was really slow, much too slow.
He did remember the procedure for arming the gun— the HUD flashed into gun mode.
Hack killed it. He had to fly onto to Saudi Arabia. That was his job.”
Let his guys go down?
That he couldn’t do.
Hack hesitated for a moment, then pushed against the stick. It took more effort than in the F-15 to start a turn, but less than in a Hog.
CHAPTER 58
OVER IRA
29 JANUARY 1991
0715
Skull tore his eyes away from the canopy glass as the RWR began to bleat. A Slot-Back radar was looking for him twenty miles ahead, at roughly twenty thousand feet.
Either Hack had just turned around, or Saddam had somehow managed to get a MiG in the air without telling anyone.
“Coyote, this is Devil One. Splash MiG has turned back in my direction.”
“Coyote confirms,” snapped the voice from the AWACS. It was older and sharper than before— the sergeant he’d been talking to had been replaced by the officer in charge. “What’s our boy up to?”
“I believe he’s looking for me,” Skull said. “How are our escorts?”
“Still approaching.”
Knowlington clicked back on to the French frequency and tried his hail again. This time he got a response.
“Jacques One reads you, Devil Leaders,” said the French pilot, giving his position. They were a little over eighty miles away, descending from thirty thousand feet.
“I have a visual on Splash Bird. I make him twelve miles away, he’s descending a little, but still around twenty t
housand feet.”
“Twelve miles away, and you have a visual?”
“I eat a lot of carrots,” said Knowlington. Despite the immense distance, he knew he saw the MiG.
Maybe his eyes weren’t aging at all. He pushed his nose up but kept his course steady, feeling a bit like an old-fashioned commuter train chugging along as the express raced by.
So why the hell had Hack turned around? He was maybe five minutes from the border. The MiG didn’t carry all that much fuel.
Probably he had realized the wires were crossed on the escorts and decided to look for Skull. Without a radio, he might worry that he wouldn’t get clearance to land at KKMC. He’d know what he was doing fuel-wise.
Idiot was probably worried about him. Shit.
He’d have done the same thing.
“Devil Leader, Splash reports two packages aboard along with prisoners. The entire family is headed home,” said the AWACS controller. “Thought you’d like to know.”
“Devil Leader acknowledges,” said Skull, taken by surprise.
Had they gone back and found them? Who? Wong and Hawkins and the D boys were the last to leave; he’d heard them clear the base himself.
Wong.
“Well done,” added the controller.
Knowlington didn’t respond. Congratulations always waited until you touched down and stowed your gear. That wasn’t superstition; it was experience, hard-earned.
But. But. Hell of a way to go out. Last mission— recovered two lost SAS men, stole an Iraqi MiG.
Stole an Iraqi MiG. You couldn’t top that.
Skull glanced up and saw the Mikoyan continuing toward him. Its nose rode up at a slight angle, and the wings tucked up and down, as if she were a bronco and Hack a cowboy trying to break her.
Knowlington put the Hog on her side, showing his belly to the approaching plane.
Here I am, you son of a bitch,” he said. “Come on, Hack. Let’s go home.”
HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Page 19