Hogs #2: Hog Down (10 page)

Northern Saudi Arabia

21 January
1991

1915

A
-Bomb was next
in line behind a Marine
F/A-18. Thing was, the damn Marine wasn’t used to sipping from an Air Force
straw, and had trouble attaching to the hose at the tail end of the KC-135. It
didn’t take more than a minute, but A-Bomb had never counted patience as one of
his virtues.

Still,
he kept his curses to himself. Even if the guy was just a Marine, you didn’t
dis him in the air.

Certainly
not when he was ahead of you in the tanking queue.

When
it was his turn, A-Bomb practically rammed his nose into the long nozzle at the
back of the KC-135. The boomer, sitting in the rear of the plane and
controlling the refueling apparatus, was supposed to do all the work, but A-Bomb
didn’t have time to mess around; case like this, he figured, they ought to have
do-it-yourself service. Stick your credit card in the slot and pump it
yourself.

The
pilot thumped his leg with his hand as the fuel rushed into the Hog’s empty
tanks, trying to increase the flow with his own hurried beat. He was off the
straw and cranking back toward Iraq faster than a kid skipping out on a bar
bill.

Not
that he didn’t trust the F-16s to do a good job looking for Mongoose and
protecting him. It was just that, some things were better done by a Hog.

The
F-16C Fighting Falcon was a good aircraft, a fine, all-around, all-purpose jet.
Designed and first flown in the seventies, it had been built ground-up as a
close-in dogfighter, a lightweight plane that could actually out-duel an F-15
up tight and carry a full load of bombs through high-g maneuvers. Except for
the odd position of the stick – it was alongside you instead of in front of you–
it was a sweet thing to fly. There were a million of them in theater, doing
everything from reconnaissance to bombing to combat air patrol.

But
they weren’t Hogs. A Hog carried sixteen thousand pounds of bombs without
thinking about it. A Hog lived in the mud. A Hog just flew and flew and flew.

And
a Hog took care of its own. Part of the rescue package or not, equipped for
night operations or not, A-Bomb belonged there. Hell, he’d haul Mongoose into
the helicopter himself if it came to that. Land in the desert, hop out, pitch
him in, and take off again.

An A-10
probably could do that. Just no one thought to try it yet.

A-Bomb
tracked back in a straight line, or as straight as any fighter pilot would fly
riding into Injun territory without stealth or 120,000 feet between him and the
ground.

“You’re
back?” Boa One asked as A-Bomb returned to the area where Mongoose had gone
down. “I thought you just left.”

“Where’s
my guy?”

The
Vipers hadn’t heard a thing. They had scanned the wreckage pretty well, and
gone low and slow— for F-16s— over the entire area. But they’d seen and heard
nothing. Nor had any of the other assets.

Not
good news.

A-Bomb
nosed the Hog down toward the mud, deciding to trace this thing out. First stop
was the underpass where they had encountered the SAMs. The site had been
pounded again and it absolutely glowed, as if it were a radioactive dump.

As
he approached, aiming to duplicate Mongoose’s pass, he saw a black shadow
coming down the road. He nosed forward, made it as an Iraqi army vehicle, a
deuce-and-a-half troop-type truck. He lit his cannon, splashing bullets into
the thick vehicle. As it veered off into the sand, A-Bomb caught the ground
sparkle of the soldiers emptying their rifle clips at him as he started to pull
off. The bullets helped him hone in on the target despite the darkness; he
pressed on and fired his own cannon, whacking the truck with a quick burst that
ignited a pretty fireball from the gas tank.

The
Viper pilots were jabbering in his ear as he pulled off, asking if he needed
assistance.

“Next
time,” he told them, taking a quick orbit around the truck roast. When he was
sure nothing was moving down there or nearby, he spun his plane in the
direction he had last seen Mongoose taking. He couldn’t be precisely sure of
where the major had been, though, and the difference of a small angle would
mean a lot.

Plus
it was really dark now. Too dark to see with anything but his gut.

Here
was the wrecked Hog, lying in pieces strewn across the earth.

A-Bomb
pushed his plane down, trying to get another look at the fuselage. He had to
face the fact that Mongoose might not have gotten out.

He
was going almost slow enough to land. Even so, there was no way to see anything
more than a few mangled shadows. Three circuits and he still couldn’t tell for
sure if he’d really found the plane, let alone whether Mongoose was still in
it.

For
what felt like the millionth time, A-Bomb keyed the emergency frequency,
looking for his flight leader. The only answer was static.

He
put the Hog at two thousand feet and made for the buildings again.

If
Mongoose was down there, too much close attention like this would draw the
enemy. But damn it, he had to find him so the helos could come and pick him up.
All he needed was one little flare, and he’d have the choppers here in no time.
They liked making their pickups in the dark.

The
Boas handed off to a second pair of F-16s.

Still
nothing.

“We’re
not giving up on you,” the controller assured A-Bomb when he suggested Devil
Two return to base. “But, uh, you’ve been flying a long time now.”

“I’ve
got plenty of fuel.”

“We
copy, sir. We copy.”

He
didn’t add “but,” though it was clearly implied.

But.

But
common sense said the longer A-Bomb stayed up, the less efficient he was going
to get. And hell, it was dark. The Hog was many things, but it wasn’t a night fighter.

Shit,
thought A-Bomb, all I need is a damn flashlight.

At
some point, even U.S. Air Force Captain Thomas O’Rourke had to be realistic.
Common sense said that there was a reason they weren’t getting a transmission
from Mongoose.

Common
sense said he wasn’t going to find him in the dark. Sooner or later he would
have to call it a day.

A-Bomb
keyed the emergency frequency again, then cut his throttle back ten percent,
hoping to push “sooner or later” a bit further out.

Chapter
23

Southern Iraq

21 January
1991

1945

M
ongoose had walked
nearly a half mile from the
road, and begun to parallel it south toward a clump of low trees, before
realizing that he had left the seat’s survival pack back where he landed. He
stopped, nearly slapping his forehead with his right hand, though he was still
holding his pistol.

He
spun around to go back, then stopped himself.

“Checklist
mode,” he said aloud. “Think, don’t react.”

To
get the pack, he would have to cross the road again. It was getting truly dark
and he might not make it back here, let alone to the trees. He wanted to be
near them to direct the helo in when it came.

The
seat pack had a spare radio and more flares. Mongoose debated whether they were
worth getting. He already had a radio. He had his water, the gun, his knife,
some flares. Going back would take at least a half-hour, maybe more; he might
or might not find his way back.

If
the Iraqis had found the chute and seat, they might be there now, setting an
ambush or booby-trapping them.

He
had to keep away from the enemy, make contact with an allied plane, and hang
tight until the rescue team got there. The seat pack wasn’t essential. It was a
backup really. He could do without it.

Probably
get picked up in a few minutes.

Mongoose
felt a twinge in his knee as he squatted and holstered his gun. The pain at the
back of his head had settled into a steady but low rhythm, vaguely reminiscent
of the throb of an out-of-tune Chevy Camaro he’d owned as a teenager. He could
live with the thump and his slightly strained knee; all things considered he
was in great shape.

The
survival radio felt like a thin Walkman in his hand as he made another
transmission. The squelch sounded a bit different, but there wasn’t an
acknowledgment. He flipped over to the beacon, broadcast a while, waited.

A-Bomb
would have the helos on their way. Best to find a landmark to steer them
toward.

The
trees. He started walking again.

* * *

When
he was less than fifty yards from the trees’ shadows, they began to move. He
stopped, drew his pistol, slid down into his crouch. Mongoose told himself it
must be the wind, even though the movement seemed human. He rocked his upper
body back and forth, scanning with the gun, waiting for the shadows to either
stop moving completely or separate.

Neither
happened. He straightened slowly, pulling the gun back close to his body. The
trees were hardly tall enough to be worth calling them that; they had thin,
bent trunks and scraggly tops. Not even a kid could have hidden behind them had
there been daylight.

But
in the dark their shadows were a thick blur. Though he’d been watching the
copse for probably close to an hour now, Mongoose was no longer sure of it, or
himself; he couldn’t trust his eyes. He began sidestepping, moving to his
right, gun still drawn against an ambush.

If
an Iraqi soldier was hiding in the copse, he’d have wasted him by now. This
distance with a rifle, he’d be diced.

Or
maybe not. The guy might be scared, not know whether Mongoose was armed or not—
might not even know he was the enemy.

Why
would he be waiting, then?

Mongoose
ducked as he saw something move. He pushed the gun out, steadied it with both
hands.

Nothing.

He
sidestepped some more. The copse was small, with a half-dozen trees, its
circumference twenty yards tops. The ground tilted toward it, as if it were the
bottom of a bowl.

The
night was as quiet as the inside of a funeral home at midnight.

Something
moved again. This time Mongoose was sure it was a man taking aim at him, and
fired.

* * *

The
crack of the gun had a hollow sound that lasted for what seemed like hours, not
an echo but the long strand of the only noise in a deep vacuum of silence.
Mongoose strained to keep his finger from pushing the trigger again, waiting
for a muzzle flash to show him where to aim. Sweat started to drip across the
back of his cheek, even though he was colder than he’d ever been in his life.

There
was no muzzle flash. He resumed his sidestep, quicker now, knowing that if no
one had returned his fire there was no one there. The movement and shadows had
only been his imagination, but still he felt his stomach boil.

* * *

When
he had circled the copse, Mongoose pushed forward to the trees, closing his
eyes as he passed between two trunks into the small clearing at its center.
When no one rushed him, he opened them again and saw there was a small
depression here, almost a trench. He plopped down and took one more look
around, told himself aloud he was all right, then laid his pistol aside and
yanked at his vest, grabbing for one of the water packets. He tore it clumsily
and drank in a gulp, losing a good portion down his face and neck.

It
took a lot to keep from ripping open another.

“You
have to make this stuff last a while,” he said to himself, against speaking out
loud, though this time in a whisper. “It’s your job.”

Mongoose
took his radio out and came up on the emergency frequency once again,
broadcasting first in beacon mode and then voice.

Still
no answer. He couldn’t understand that. Except for the brief flutter when he
first landed, the radio had been silent. There ought to be a good amount of
traffic up here; certainly someone should be in range to pick him up.

Mongoose
gave another burst, held the small radio to his ear, listening.

Was
the damn thing even working? He could hear static. He shook it, listened again.
Half the air force ought to be close enough to hear him.

Not
to mention A-Bomb.

Unless
he’d been bagged, too. Mongoose didn’t know what had hit him; it had happened
so fast he hadn’t really been able to tell. He thought it was probably a
shoulder-fired heat-seeker, even though there had felt like too much damage for
that.

He
stopped himself from replaying the hit. He had to stay in the present, the future.
Mongoose tried the radio again, then checked his watch. He’d wait fifteen
minutes before transmitting again. The battery wouldn’t last forever.

It
was possible that there was something wrong with the radio. He might be
transmitting, but not receiving. Or some vagary with the altitude, the clouds,
sun spots, or fate might be screwing him up.

Checklist
mode.

Time
to move on. He had to face the possibility that he was going to be spending the
night.

A
very strong possibility.

It
was cold. The wind was starting up again, and that only made things worse.

This
was the only sheltered area nearby, and any group of Iraqi soldiers would
undoubtedly head for it if they were searching the area. He would have to leave
it, go far enough away to be safe, but still close enough to use it to guide
the air-rescue chopper in if it came.

Not
if.
When
it came.

Now
the shadows of the trees felt comforting, as if they could protect him. And
there was wood on the ground, maybe enough to start a small fire, something to
keep warm.

Not
enough wood to make it last very long. And it would definitely risk alerting
the Iraqis.

The
guy in the pickup might have taken care of that already.

The
time to start the fire was an hour or two before dawn. He’d minimize his
exposure to the Iraqis. Most of them would have given up searching by then, or
at least taken a break.

But
shit, he’d be frozen solid if he didn’t do something to warm up.

The
faint whisper of Hog fan jets in the distance turned his head around with a
jolt.

His
imagination?

Or A-Bomb,
looking for him?

He
listened again, trying to blank his mind. Nothing. It had been a trick of his
imagination, a tease of fear like the shadows had been.

Even
so he took out his flare set, loaded the small gun with a pencil flare, poised
to fire.

Complete
silence and not a moving shadow in the sky.

Checklist
mode.

He
hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but he didn’t feel hungry yet. Which was a fairly
good thing – there were no Big Macs lying around, and the nearest falafel stand
was quite a hike.

He
had to leave the copse. He squatted down and began to re–inventory his gear,
justifying the delay with the thought that it was the last time he might have a
chance to do so before morning. He took each item out and placed it directly in
front of him, the way a little kid might take stock of his Hot Wheels or
baseball card collection. The ritual of touching each piece of equipment was
comforting, reminding him that he had the tools to get out of this alive.
Besides the survival radio and gun, Mongoose had a flashlight, three
smoke-flares, the tiny flare gun and its bandoleer of flares, a compass, a
strobe light, a whistle and matches, his maps, and Kath’s letter.

He
held the still-sealed envelope in his hand as he continued examining his
equipment. A magnesium striker — ought to be good for a few laughs, trying to
spark kindling.

Hell,
he’d done that in Boy Scouts, for christsakes. Pretty damn well, too. He had a
merit badge for camping, didn’t he?

A
couple of them. No shit.

He
loved the survival hikes; just take a backpack and walk for a couple of days.
What you carry is what you got. You can live off the land, if you’re tough
enough.

For
some reason he remembered his Boy Scout days better than the survival course
he’d taken. Maybe because they had been so much fun, and the SERE had just been
wet. His buddies in the Scouts would have loved a challenge like this.

Well,
they would have
said
they would. Deep in enemy territory, on your
own? They probably had talked about this kind of thing, not dreaming or wishing
it, exactly, just kind of playing, the way kids did.

Wouldn’t
his friends Blitz and Beef like to get their hands on this knife? Huge,
well-sharpened blade and a round pearl handle, acquired two years before at a
pawn shop in Germany.

Not
a pawn shop. Some sort of specialty store.

Whatever.
Checklist mode. Stow memory lane and play it back forever, to warm you up.

Stock
taken, his next job was to move away from here. Again he contemplated firing a
flare, but told himself he had to conserve them, wait until he heard something
nearby. Besides, the Iraqis would be searching for at least a few more hours.
Even though the flares were made so they would be difficult to see from the
ground, they were not necessarily invisible, and he didn’t want to do anything
that might encourage them to keep looking.

When
he heard a plane or got an acknowledgment on the radio, of course, that would
be different. But in the meantime, Job One, Item A, was to survive. And that
meant being as low-key as possible.

Mongoose
returned all of his equipment to its various nooks and crannies in his survival
suit.

The
last item was the letter.

He
considered reading it, and even slid his finger to the pasted flap before
stopping.

It
could be bad news. Kathy could be telling him she’d found someone else and
wanted a divorce.

Oh,
yeah, right. Like that would really happen.

They
were always good news. In the last letter, she’d written about how Robby could
almost say “daddy.”

Not
bad for a three-month-old.

He
was almost four-months now. He didn’t feel a picture in the envelope, but you
never knew unless you opened it.

A
picture would keep him going.

Mongoose
slipped his finger under the side of the paper. It was one of those tissue-thin
jobs, where the writing paper folds up to become the envelope.

He’d
feel a photo, and there wasn’t one here. If he opened the letter, it would be
impossible to keep from reading it.

He
ought to ration it like the water, spread it out so it would last. Read a few
lines then stop.

No
way he could do that. It wasn’t like stopping at just one water packet. He
would read one sentence and his eyes would automatically grope for the next.
And then the next. He’d have to use his flashlight and it would take five, ten,
fifteen minutes.

He
had to get going. This was the first place the Iraqis would look if they came
for him.