Hogs #4:Snake Eaters (3 page)

F
ORT APACHE

26 JANUARY
1991

1310

Wi
th his plane
temporarily grounded and no Dunkin’ Donut franchise in sight, A-Bomb figured he’d kill a few hours by taking Hawkins up on the sentry thing. Which he assumed was a serious offer, even though the captain had been smirking when he made it. So he went and asked him about it after Doberman took off.

“Uh, with all due respect, Captain,” said Hawkins. “And no offense intended,
but you’re Air Force.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” said
A-Bomb. “Do I get one of those 203 grenade launchers? Or do I have to settle for an MP-5?”

“Neither.”

“Have to use what I came with, huh?” A-Bomb slapped the holster of his customized .45, which was wedged inside his customized flight suit. “Fair enough.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Why?” asked A-Bomb. “Is that a job requirement?”

A Delta-Force
sergeant listening nearby took Hawkins aside. A-Bomb waited as they stepped a few paces away, talking in voices too soft for him to hear. Finally Hawkins turned back to the pilot and pointed at him.

“Don’t get yourself hurt,”
Hawkins yelled. Shaking his head, he stalked off toward the helos at the other end of the base.

“Captain, my name is Sergeant Coors,” the NCO informed
A-Bomb. His mouth spread into the standard issue Special Ops smile: half-sneer, half-inside-joke. “I’ll be your tour guide this afternoon, if you’re up to it.”

“Shit yeah, I’m up to it,” said
A-Bomb. He pounded the sergeant’s shoulder to emphasize his point. Coors was about A-Bomb’s height but not nearly his weight. The Delta operator grimaced and nodded.

“We have a post out this way we need manned,” said the sergeant, leading the way.

“Great, Beerman,” said A-Bomb, following. “You sergeants are all right.”

“Well thank you, sir. Some of my best friends are captains.”

“What’d you say to Hawkins to convince him?”

“I told him I was going to run your ass ragged,” said Coors. “Sir.”

“Shit, my ass is so big it’s going to take a lot more than you,” said A-Bomb. “But take your best shot.”

Coors led
A-Bomb across the cement landing strip behind the two net-camouflaged helicopters to what seemed to be a pair of low sand dunes. In fact, the dunes had been constructed by the sappers from canvas and dirt to conceal Fort Apache’s small motor pool, which consisted of one slightly banged-up FAV.

Officially the abbreviation stood for “fast attack vehicle.”
Unofficially, it stood for a lot of other things, all of which began with an “f” word other than “fast.”

The craft was a two-tiered dune buggy straight out of
The
Road Warrior
movie
.
With a low-profile and extra-large mufflers, the FAV was a Go Kart with guns. The driver manned the bottom cage; the passenger sat on a platform behind him working a machine-gun, TOW missile setup, and maybe a grenade launcher.

Unfortunately, this particular unit had been stripped of weapons. It did, however, move pretty fast. Grit sandpapered
A-Bomb’s face as the FAV revved northeastwards to a high point along the western wadi that marked one side of the base. Though technically still part of the desert, the wasteland was far more solid here than further south in Saudi Arabia. There were short scrubby bushes and occasional outcroppings of something similar to weedy grass.

There were also a lot of rocks. Coors didn’t miss one, jostling
A-Bomb’s head against the tubular steel backrest. They stopped next to what seemed to be a large pile of shifting sand, but which proved to be a yellow-brown tarp on a row of sandbags when A-Bomb jumped on it from the top of the FAV. He’d never have thought sandbags could be so hard.

“This is a fallback position,” Coors explained, gesturing with the MP-5 he had slung over his shoulder with a long strap.
The bags made a slight arc that would provide cover for one or two men. He thumbed northward. “Where we’re going is closer to the road.”

A gray black line edged in front of a series of low hills about three miles away. “We leave the FAV here so it can’t be seen. Remember where this is
— there’s a radio and weapons if you need them.”

“You got a little ol’ M-16 in there I can borrow?”

“Sorry, sir, but the idea here is not to do anything that’s going to attract attention, if you know what I mean. The idea is just to watch what’s going on, not to start firing willy-nilly. No offense.”

Coors obviously meant to offend him, but
A-Bomb let it pass. He’d dealt with this sort of prejudice before. People assumed that because you were a Hog pilot you liked to blow things up, and because you liked to blow things up you wouldn’t exercise proper judgment when a fat target presented itself. You’d just go blasting away and worry about the consequences later.

Which was true enough, now that
A-Bomb thought about it.

The sergeant took a large rucksack from the FAV and began trudging along the top of the wadi in the direction of the road. About three hundred yards from the FAV, Coors stopped in front of a group of small boulders.

A-Bomb stooped down, trying to find an opening in the dirt. He had to hand it to the commandos— this hide was even better than the last one. It was completely invisible, even up close.

“I give up,” he said, straightening. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The hide.”

“Right here,” said Coors with a grin. He dropped the rucksack and pulled a small folding shovel from the side. “Have fun,” he said, handing it to A-Bomb. “I’ll be back in a half-hour.”

“Hold on, Beerman,” said
A-Bomb. He grabbed the trooper by the arm and spun him back as he started away. “What’s with the truck?”

“Truck?”

“A hundred yards past that bend,” A-Bomb said, pointing. “Down the dip in the road. See the edge of the roof?”

Coors couldn’t see the roof, but his whole manner changed instantly from sardonic to professional. He dropped to his knees, removing his Steiner field glasses from the rucksack.
A-Bomb squatted next to him, waiting while the sergeant adjusted the glasses and scanned back and forth. Finally the pilot leaned over and helped aim the glasses into the right spot.

“Fuck, how did you see that?” asked Coors finally. “That’s three miles away.”

“Two point seven,” said A-Bomb. “If we go up a little further, we can get a better view.”

Without answering, the sergeant began to trot to his right, his head ducked slightly to keep his profile relatively low. He stopped about fifty yards away, with a much better angle.

“Tanker truck,” said the trooper. “Shit. Not moving.”

“Yeah. You mind if I take a look?” asked
A-Bomb.

The sergeant hesitated for a second, then handed him the glasses.
A-Bomb stood slowly. The sun was behind him, which silhouetted him but prevented any chance glare. The flash of light was likely to be more noticeable, especially given the harshness of the unobstructed sun.

“Doesn’t seem to be anybody in the cab,” said
A-Bomb. “You got the hill right behind him. Maybe he’s taking a leak.”

“Long leak,” grumbled Coors.

“You can flank him from that hill.”

Coors tugged
his pant leg. “Sit down and let me think about this a minute.”

While the sergeant was thinking,
A-Bomb unholstered his pistol. The Colt 1911 Government Model had come from a factory stock maybe thirty or forty years before. Its gizzards had been completely replaced, and it had a beavertail grip safety courtesy of a South Carolina gunsmith A-Bomb had met while waiting at a Mickey D’s a few years back. Ordinarily, A-Bomb did his own work, but you could always trust someone who supersized his fries.

“Okay,” said the sergeant, picking up his submachine-gun. “I’m going to double-back a hundred yards or so, then cross the road. I’ll come up that rise behind him where I can get a better view.”

“And what am I doing?”

“You’re going for help if I get in trouble.”

A-Bomb figured there was no sense arguing with the sergeant, especially since Coors had already begun trotting away. He folded his arms in front of his chest, watching as the sergeant cut back across the terrain and then angled for the road. Even though he was half-crouching, wearing a rucksack and carrying a submachine-gun, Coors made good time, disappearing from A-Bomb’s line of sight in a little more than ten minutes.

The pilot waited a full thirty seconds, then began his own scoot toward the fuel truck, aiming to get close enough to cover the sergeant in case there was any trouble. Between the wadi and the slope, he had cover for a bit over a mile and a half, which meant he was still a good quarter mile away when somebody started shouting and firing an automatic rifle from the rocks at the edge of the hill.

H
OG HEAVEN

KING FAHD AIR BASE

26 JANUARY 1991

1310

He
found himself
at the Depot, sitting at the long, black Formica bar top, staring at a pyramid of whiskey bottles. All of his old friends were there, as if gathered for a reunion— Seagram’s and Windsor Canadian, Rebel Yell, Heaven Hill, Jim Beam, Old Crow, Marker’s Mark, Granddad, and Wild Turkey.

And Jack, luscious Jack Daniels in all his glory, green and black, a serious, serious friend.

There was a large double shot glass in front of him. Filled to the white line near the rim.

Was it his first? His third? His fifth? Was he drunk already?

Skull eased forward on the bar stool. What difference did it make if this was his first or his twenty-first— he was already drunk on the fumes.

Change from a twenty
sat on the bar next to him; a ten, a five, and three ones.

Two bucks for a double-shot?

Jesus, no wonder guys said this place had sprung whole from somebody’s wet dream.

Colonel Knowlington bent toward the drink, thinking about Dixon and the day he’d sent him to Riyadh.

Shit. He could still see the kid’s face, white as a bed sheet, admitting he’d screwed up.

The kid had c
ome clean. That was who he was; naive, foolish, but honest. A damn good kid, brimming with potential, the kind of kid the Air Force needed. The kind of kid Skull had been once, if only for a very short time.

It sucked shit to lose him.

Knowlington fingered the glass. It sucked shit to lose every goddamn man he’d lost, every wingman, every friend, every acquaintance, everybody he’d had to order into battle. It sucked shit for anybody to die in war. Even the goddamn bastards on the other side, the poor slobs working for a madman, were just doing their job.

His throat contracted, waiting for the bourbon.

Twenty-two days since he’d last felt the pleasant burn. Twenty-two sober days.

Why? So he could send more good kids to their deaths?

No. So he could keep his head clear, so he made the right decisions and kept the casualties down. So people who needed him could look at him and nod. So they could trust him, not have to worry about his decisions.

Fuck that naive bullshit.

Skull brought the glass to his mouth. There was a sweet sting on his lips.

No. Not for this. Not for this.

Slowly, carefully, he set the drink back on the bar and walked out quietly, leaving his money and the full glass, his first glass in twenty-two days, behind.

O
VER SOUTHWESTERN IRAQ

26
JANUARY 1991

1330

Dob
erman closed his
hand around the control stick and narrowed his focus, staring through the heads-up display at the empty blue sky before him. His threat indicator showed clearly that the enemy missile was gunning for him. His electronic countermeasures— supplied by an AN/ALQ-119 ECM pod carried on the Hog’s right wing— were busting their transistors in an attempt to confuse the missile’s Fong Song F radar and guidance system. Ordinarily, Doberman would jink and jive to increase the odds of escaping, but if he did that, he’d run out of gas about thirty seconds after the missiles passed.

He
bent his head forward and back, breathing slowly and willing the jammer to do its thing.

Above him, a Wild Weasel swept in to kill the installation that had launched the missile. A backseat whizzo in an ancient Phantom leaned against the cockpit’s iron wall as his powerful radar got a lock on the enemy trailers; he punched the trigger and kicked off an AGM-88 High-Speed Anti-Radiation (HARM) missile toward the Iraqi installation.

One of the SA-2s fell away. But the other kept coming for him. He saw it, a dark toothpick growing in the bottom left corner of his canopy mirror. It was close now, smelling him. Doberman felt the muscles in his shoulder tighten, snapping so taut he felt his throat close. He could see the damn thing coming for him, getting bigger and bigger.

“All right,” he said to himself. “Better to run out of gas than get whacked by a telephone poll.”

He leaned hard on the stick and juiced the throttle, whacking out electronic chaff at the same time. The metallic tinsel unfolded in the air, a shadow to help confuse whatever was still guiding the missile; make it think the Hog was still straight and level.

Maybe that worked. Maybe the HARM missile took out the ground radar guidance system and managed to disrupt the SA-2 before it was terminal. Maybe one of the electronic warfare planes flying further south hit just the right chord of confusion at just the right moment. Or maybe Doberman’s incredible luck continued to hold.

Whatever.

The Hog slid down toward the earth, eating g’s as she stomped toward the yellow sand. The SA-2 climbed past it, passing through the tinsel, flying for nearly a thousand more feet before her nose started to wobble. The wobble turned into a shudder, and the warhead exploded.

Two hundred and eighty-seven pounds of high explosive makes a fair amount of boom, but Doberman was well out of range by the time the missile detonated. When he realized he’d escaped, he pulled the plane back, swooping back for his course while he checked his fuel and position on the INS. Then he checked the numbers against his chart.

If his math was right, he had less than thirty seconds to the border and another five to the tanker.

And sixty-two seconds of fuel beyond that.

Doberman started to laugh uncontrollably.

“I’m going to make it,” he said, as if it were a joke. He tapped his finger on his pad. “I’m going to make it. I can’t believe it.”

He laughed and he laughed, and the only thing that stopped him was a radio call from Bluebeard, the tanker, which was on an intercept dead ahead.

“Devil One, I see you but I’m going to need you to come up to twelve angels,” said the tanker pilot.

“Nah, we’ll meet halfway,” said Doberman.

If the tanker pilot thought he was out of his mind— which he had every right to— he didn’t say. Instead, he threw out his landing gear to help him slow down and put the big Boeing into a steep bank, diving and turning at the same time. No aerobatics pilot ever performed so tricky a maneuver, or one half so beautiful to the audience.

“I appreciate that,” said Doberman, kissing his throttle to inch up his speed and catch the tanker. He tried to relax his shoulders, relax everything but his eyes, which were hard bullets homing in on the director lights beneath the tanker that told him whether he was going to make the connection or not. He had an extreme angle but there wasn’t time for a second try. He pushed the Hog a bit too far to the left, came back heavy with his rudder, eyes narrowed to pinpoints.

The Hog’s nose nailed the nozzle with a satisfying thud. Fuel flowed nearly instantaneously.

Doberman glanced at his watch and then at his pad.

According to the cheat sheet, he’d run out of fuel thirty-two seconds ago.