HOGS #5: TARGET SADDAM (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (13 page)

Shit.
Thinking like a Hog driver already.

Hack
flipped through the sheets on his kneepad, studying the frequencies, the way-points,
the notes on fuel burn and the rest. Finally he lifted the last page and
exposed the two items he’d pasted to his board on his very first solo years ago—
a Gary Larson cartoon and something his father always said.

He
laughed at the cartoon, just as he had on every flight he’d ever made. Then he
repeated the saying:

Do
your best.

Do
your best. That’s all you ever needed.

Preston
checked his throttle, shifted a bit on the ejector seat, nudged the Hog to
slide a little further out, just off Doberman’s wing.

Like
the others, Preston carried four Maverick AGM-65Gs, one each loaded in
the LAU-117 launchers that flanked the main wheels. The G-model Mavericks were
serious weapons, featuring three-hundred-pound warheads, more than twice the
size of the “standard” B model and extremely adept at pounding armor. But the
real value of the missiles was the infra-red imager in their golden noses; A-10A
pilots in the Gulf had discovered that the IR gave the plane a primitive
night-time capability.

Primitive
indeed. It would be looking at the ground through a straw. But the others had
already used the missiles to fly night missions; if they could do it, Hack
could too.

Besides
the missiles, A-Bomb and Doberman each had a pair of what looked like napalm
containers slapped to the hard points on either side of their bellies. The pods
held the STAR Fulton retrieval systems the ground team would use to escape.

The
other two Hogs were carrying illumination flares in rocket launching canisters.
Preston hadn’t actually used the launchers for anything but rockets— and as a
matter of fact, he wasn’t even entirely sure he had done that. But the
principle was fairly simple. The LUU-2 would spit out, opening its chute and
igniting. The hot air would hold it up and it would descend, lighting the night
like a set of klieg lights for five minutes or so. The “lou-twos” or logs would
only be used if things got sticky and the Hogs needed to use their cannons.

Two
other important weapons were attached to the planes. Every A-10 carried a pair
of Sidewinder air-to-air missiles at the left edge of their wings for air
defense. An ECM pod sat on the opposite hard point. The counter measures in the
ALQ-119 were older than Hack; the device was next to useless against the SAMs
the F-111s were going to hit. In fact, even the F-15 Hack had just been flying
would have been pushed to the limit dealing with it.

Do
your best,
he
reminded himself, trying to push the negative thoughts away. He rechecked his
position and twisted his head, scanning the sky for the millionth time even
though they were far behind the lines.

All
things considered, Preston had the easiest job of the mission. After a quick
refuel at KKMC, the planes would fly together across the border, as if coming
in for an attack. The dance would begin at a coordinate they called “Wendy’s”— A-Bomb
had supplied the nicknames— about fifty miles due south of their actual target
area. The planes would make a show of turning west toward a GCI or ground radar
site that had been hit two days before; the maneuver was supposed to make
anyone watching think they were going to attack it again. After about two
minutes of flying time, they would reach “Krisp.” Knowlington and A-Bomb would
hit the deck, diving to fifty feet and starting a zig-run north to scout the LZ
for the Hercules. Doberman and Hack would continue toward the GCI for about a
minute and a half before breaking off turning back south to refuel. Assumed all
went as planned, they’d relieve the first two planes in a staging area about
fifteen miles south of the LZ, orbiting there until— if— needed. They’d be
about a two minute scramble from the hot zone. The A-10s would trade back and
forth, waiting and refueling, until they were needed to cover the pickup. Then
they’d go home.

Two
pairs of F-111s were doing the heavy lifting— one taking out the SAM site and
the other, several hours later, going after Saddam’s car. The Hogs would back them
up.

“Four,
you’re supposed to be further back in trail.”

Glenon’s
ferocious yap jerked Hack physically; he slammed the stick of his Hog to the
left, pitching the plane on its wing to fall back before realizing that he
needn’t have taken such drastic action. He swooped back level, cursing Glenon
as well as himself— he hadn’t been that close, for christsakes, just a little
tighter on Devil Three than they had briefed. No reason to bark at him.

“Four,”
he said, acknowledging. He let the distance work out to a mile and a half, in
the meantime pulling closer to the axis of the flight. You could waste a lot of
fuel getting too close, because then you’d be making constant adjustments on
the throttle.

In
theory, anyway. Damn Hog throttle was just an on-off switch.

“Devil
Leader to Devil Flight. Ease up, boys,” snapped Knowlington. “The night is
young. We have our first way point in zero-two. Nice, gentle turn.”

The
colonel’s voice had the smooth, suave assurance of an all-night deejay spinning
golden oldies in the wee hours. Hack eased his fingers, rolling his neck and
trying to snap some of the tension out with the cracks of his ligaments against
the vertebrae. The sky ahead darkened as he flew, blue hazing into a gray that
slid into blackness. He took the turn and then the next course correction, now
on a direct line for Iraq. The planes had climbed all the way to 18,000 feet.
It was high for a Hog— and the lowest altitude he’d ever been at crossing the
border.

They
were going a hell out of a lot lower before the night was through. Fifty feet
in the dark.

Damn
long time since he’d done that. Had he ever actually done that, even in an
exercise? He wasn’t sure.

Hack
blew a wad of air through his nose and worked his eyes around the cockpit,
determined to keep his shit together. Nail this and everyone in the squadron
was going to respect him, no questions asked.

He
hadn’t even thought of that when he’d volunteered. But it was true— a bonus he
hadn’t counted on.

Assuming
he made it.

“Wendy’s,”
said Knowlington.

The
transmission startled Hack; it felt like it was too soon, though a glance at
his instruments told him they were dead on.

One
by one, the planes acknowledged and took the turn. A-Bomb’s acknowledgment
seemed garbled, and for a half-second Hack felt a mixture of anticipation
and actual fear, desire to step up into the tougher slot mixing with the fear
that he might screw up the harder job.

But
there was nothing wrong with Devil Two or its radio. A-Bomb’s voice hadn’t been
garbled so much as consumed by another sound.

Bruce
Springsteen, it seemed, singing, “Born to Run.”

Snap
out of it, Hack told himself. You’re wound so tight you’re starting to hear
things. Nobody listens to music on the way to a bomb run over enemy territory,
not even a Hog driver.

OVER IRAQ

27 JANUARY , 1991

1920

Skull’s
yellow pad
had
it nice and neat, a quick cut to the northeast followed by a dogleg south, a
dive and then a 160-degree turn and a jog north to the money.

Real
life was messier, with the RWR warning that an Iraqi radar that shouldn’t be
there was trying to acquire him before they reached Krisp. There had been a GCI
or ground radar site due west, but if the RWR was to be believed, that wasn’t
what was targeting them now; the radar was in a different band.

If
the warning was to be believed, in fact, they were being hunted by a Roland
mobile SAM battery, probably the most deadly anti-air weapon the Iraqis had
outside of the SA-11s Wong had spotted further north.

“Radar,”
said Knowlington tersely. “Hang with me and stay on course.”

As
he let go of the mike button to end the transmission, the warning indicator
went clear. Skull’s eyes hunted the dark shadows below for a sign of the
threat. They were more than a hundred miles inside of Iraq, heading toward the
heart of the country. They were beyond the worst of the desert; the ground was
more hard-packed here, hard-scrabble scrub as opposed to sifting mounds
of sand. But no matter what the earth was made of, it would have been hard to
pick anything out of the dusky shadows from this altitude.

Their
planned zig would take them through the direction the radar waves seemed to
have come from; the way they’d chalked it up, they’d pass right through the
missile’s prime acquisition envelope as they dove to fifty feet.

The
German-made missile system, which Iraq had a good number of, had a range of
roughly four miles. Designed for low and medium-altitude protection, it was
extremely nasty once locked on a target.

“I
have no radar,” said A-Bomb. “Been clean.”

“One,”
acknowledged Skull.

It
had been roughly thirty seconds since the warning. They were one and a half
minutes away from Krisp.

The
safest thing to do was change course to skirt the missiles. But that might
change their time on target, which would mess everything up— this was a delicate
dance between the F-111s, the Hogs, and the Herk. Throw the schedule off a
minute and he risked having the Hercules spotted.

Better,
though not safer, to dive sooner, steeper, get under the Roland as well as the
SA-11. That meant a much longer drive at fifty feet.

Lose
some speed, eat more fuel.

Knowlington
quickly looked at his paper map, double-checking the elevations in their path
to make sure there weren’t any surprises.

Doable.

“Krisp
in sixty seconds,” Knowlington told the rest of his flight. “Devil Three, I’m
figuring that Roland at about two o’clock, four miles from Krisp, maybe a
little further. You want coordinates?”

“I
can do the math,” snapped Doberman.

“We’re
going to break on my signal. A-Bomb, you and I are going to dive down to fifty
feet and get under it. Doberman, you avoid the site when you come north.” He
left it to Doberman to decide how.

“Two.
I’m ready when you are, Skip,” said A-Bomb.

“Three.
I’ll call in the position on the SAM.”

Skull
took one last look at his gauges, making sure he had plenty of fuel. His
preflight calculations had been pessimistic; the Hog was sipping daintily.

Maybe
he was being overly cautious. No way Black Hole would have left a working
Roland out here. Probably just an ECM glitch.

No
way to tell.

“Krisp,”
Skull said, tipping his wing as he rolled the Hog into a steep dive.

OVER SOUTHERN IRAQ

27 JANUARY 1991

1920

“If
I get
the
chance, I’m nailing him.”

“Who
says you’re getting the chance?”

Salt
glanced toward the front of the cargo hold, where Captain Wong was consulting
with one of the Herk’s crewmen. “If I get the chance, I’m nailing Saddam,” he
repeated to Davis.

Davis
shrugged. “Planes’ll get him. We’ll be a mile away.”

“I’m
not saying they won’t get him.” Salt edged his toe against his weapons rucksack
on the floor of the plane. He wouldn’t completely suit up until ten minutes to
drop time, set for 2002. And he’d wait until precisely then; it was a
superstition thing, and no matter how much it bugged everyone else, he stuck to
it. By contrast, all Davis had to do was slap on his helmet and he was good to
go. “I’m saying if I get the chance, I’m nailing him.”

“Sounds
fair.”

“What
else you figure he’s up to?”

“Who?”

“Captain
Wong. That need-to-know bullshit.”

“Couldn’t
even guess.”

“You
got enough explosives to blow the road?” Salt asked.

“I
got enough to blow up Saddam’s ever-lovin’ bunker.”

Salt
laughed. Unlike most troopers— unlike most soldiers, period— Davis rarely used
profanity. “Ever-lovin’” was about as bad as he cursed.

“I
wish this crate would hurry up,” said Salt. “I’d like to have the road mined
already.”

“Probably
won’t even get a chance to blow it.”

“We
will.”

“I
will,” said Davis.

“Yeah,
fuck, you will.” Salt had known the black sergeant almost since basic training;
they’d saved each other’s butts a few times— in bars, not combat. The two
operations they had been on together, once in Panama and once before the start
of the air war scouting targets, had gone as easily as visits to a church fair.

“I
hate these low jumps,” said Davis.