HOGS #5: TARGET SADDAM (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (3 page)

“What
would you look for?”

“His
Mercedes,” said Paddington. “And then, if you find it, I would look in exactly
the opposite direction. He doesn’t use the official car outside the capital— except
when he does. No schmuck, as I say.” Paddington got up and went over to the
bar, where he opened a bottle of dry vermouth, set it down on the bar top, then
carefully ran his overturned martini glass around the mouth of the bottle to
catch the fumes. Satisfied, he plopped in two olives from a tray and filled the
glass to the rim with gin. He waved a lemon peel over it and then held the
glass to his lips.

“Cheers,”
he told Wong.

“Your
health.”

“Nothing
like a martini,” Paddington said after a long sip. “I would look for a station
wagon with a red crescent, international aid vehicle, inside a small military
convoy. That will be where he is, ordinarily. No tanks, perhaps an armored car
or two. Mostly he fears a single assassin or a demonstration, an attack that
would be best handled by foot soldiers traveling in trucks. He has experience.”
Paddington took a delicate sip from his glass, not quite finishing it. “He might
travel with upwards of a company’s worth of men. He does not want to draw too
much attention to himself, of course. On the other hand, there would be forces
where he was going.”

“Would
he avoid a place that had just been bombed?”

Paddington
smiled. “The key question.”

“And
the key answer?”

“You
don’t mean that as a joke, do you Bristol?”

“No,”
said Wong.

“Pity.”
Sir Peter finished his martini. “My estimation is that Saddam would think that
was just the place to be. He is very superstitious. And, I must say, the
pattern of your bombing so far bears him out, except in Baghdad itself. The
more you attack a place, the safer he feels it is. Logical, in a way.”

“What
about the ambush of his advance people?”

“That
is trickier.” Paddington stepped back to the bar. “The Iraqis seem to be aware
that there are commandos operating in their territory, but their responses are
a puzzle. Unfortunately, one of the consequences of bombing the C-3 network so
efficiently is that there are fewer broadcasts to intercept. Human intelligence
is worthless. I’m honestly not sure. He might think it a good sign, he might
not. It would depend on whether the Iraqis felt it was related. If they thought
it was part of an earlier attack, it might not change things.”

“To
the best of my knowledge we wiped out the unit. They don’t know who attacked.”

“Even
the Iraqis would realize it wasn’t Mickey Mouse,” said Paddington.

“You’ve
told me in the past that these units have their own enemies,” Wong said. “An
attack on them might be classified as an uprising.”

Sir
Peter was unimpressed. As he began mixing a fresh drink, he detailed more of
Saddam’s highly variable routine. Despite all of the efforts being made to
track him— and the British as well as the Americans had devoted a great deal of
resources to the project— Saddam disappeared for long stretches. He was
maddeningly unpredictable.

“My
personal suspicion is that he is as apt to turn up at a spot like your village
as anywhere. I can tell you, greater odds have been tried.” Paddington took another
sip. “But that is not an official estimate.”

“Understood,”
said Wong.

“I’ll
have to pass some of this along,” said Sir Peter. “I’m afraid the chaps above
me will feel it interesting.”

Wong
nodded. “Would you like to be involved?”

“What?
Go over the border?” Paddington blanched. “Do you think I’m mad?”

“Just
wanted to make sure.”

“I’m
not like you, Bristol. I purged my system of that sort of silliness years ago.
Years ago.”

“If
we had a briefing, would you be available?”

Paddington
sighed. “You know how I detest meetings.”

“There
is another wrinkle,” said Wong.

“Being?”

“An
American is on the ground near the village.”

“You
left one of your men?”

“No.
He’s officially listed as KIA. But I believe he’s alive.”

“That
isn’t like you, Bristol,” said Paddington. “Leaving a man behind?”

“He
wasn’t in my unit,” said Wong, realizing this was a rather lame excuse. “He had
been in action several miles away the day before. His team was overrun and he
was seen dead from a helicopter.”

“Lazarus.”

“I
believe the initial report was exaggerated.”

“And
he just materialized at Al Killjoy? Quite a story, Bristol.”

“Kajuk,”
said Wong. “He could have walked from the area where he was last seen. It’s
less than ten miles and along a highway. I did not actually see him; I surmised
his presence from some unaccounted-for gunfire.”

Sir
Peter’s eyes flashed. “You want an excuse to look for him.”

“No,”
said Wong. “Saddam is the primary mission.”

“Already
declared dead?” Paddington pursed his lips, thinking. “A Lieutenant Dixon, I
believe. Working with one of your Delta Force teams. Oh, now I understand— he
was with your A-10A squadron. Ah. Very sentimental of you, Bristol.
Uncharacteristic. Hmmm. Happens in a war zone, I suppose.”

“If
the opportunity presents itself, I will look for him,” said Wong. “But that
would not be the focus of the mission.”

Paddington
shook his head and concentrated on his martini. This time he merely passed the
glass in front of the vermouth bottle.

“Will
you participate in a planning session with CentCom?” asked Wong.

“Surely
I don’t owe you that, do I?”

“There
was Rumania.”

Paddington
sighed. “If my commander orders it.”

“He
already has,” said Wong.

“As
I feared.” He eyed his freshly poured drink, then took a sip.  “Pity,” he said,
addressing the glass. “I seem to have put in a touch too much vermouth.”

“Happens
in a war zone,” said Wong.

“Quite.”

AL JOUF, SAUDI ARABIA

27 JANUARY 1991

0500

Captain
John “Doberman”
Glenon
stepped back from the nose of his A-10A Thunderbolt II fighter-bomber,
preparing to administer a preflight up-and-at-‘em good luck slap to the
business end of its 30 mm Avenger Gatling gun. Before he could do so, however,
he was thrown off balance by a blow to his shoulder blades so severe it could
only have come from a concussion grenade.

Or
his wingmate and best friend, Captain Thomas “A-Bomb” O’Rourke.

“Yo,
Dog Man, you ready to kick this dump or what?” demanded A-Bomb, grinning behind
a steaming cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

And
it definitely was Dunkin’ Donuts, since it was in an oversized Big Gulp cup.

“Don’t
sneak up on me like that, especially this early in the morning,” said Doberman,
shaking off A-Bomb’s chuck.

“Touchy,”
said A-Bomb, gurgling his coffee. “Gotchya good luck charm, I see,” he added
nodding at the small silver cross Doberman had pinned to the chest of his
flightsuit.

Doberman
felt his face flush. Until a few days ago, he wouldn’t have been caught dead
believing in good luck charms, let alone pinning one to his chest. But the last
few days had taught him not to spit Fate— or superstition— in the eye.

Still,
he didn’t like to admit that he might actually believe in luck or good fortune,
not even to A-Bomb.

“Ain’t
nothing,” he said.

“Shit,
Tinman says its voodoo. Or whatever the hell he says in that accent of his. His
own personal language.”

“Yeah,
well, maybe it’s good luck and maybe it’s not,” said Doberman. “I’m not taking
any chances.”

“What
I’m talkin’ about,” said A-Bomb.

“Looks
good to go, yes sirs?” said Tech Sergeant Rebecca Rosen, ducking out from under
the wing on the other side of the plane.

Sergeant
Rosen, a technical wizard and crew chief of considerable standing, posed the
question as a stated and accepted matter of fact. Indeed, though Rosen was
operating with a minimal support team— and even less sleep— she had thoroughly
examined the aircraft prior to the pilot’s arrival at the maintenance pit,
which amounted to a small piece of tarmac nudged against the sand at the
forward operating area in northwestern Saudi Arabia. “We’re going to schedule
that right engine for a complete overhaul when you get back to the Home Drome,”
she added. “But it’s fine for now, assuming you don’t do something stupid like
suck some sand through it. You won’t, will you?”

Coming
from the mouth of any other sergeant in the Air Force, the words would have
seemed like an insult to Doberman, whose temper was even shorter than his
five-four frame. But the captain was hopelessly in love with this sergeant,
though he hadn’t been able to tell her yet. And in fact, he was increasingly tongue-tied
around her— which explained why all he could do was stare into her eyes.

“I’ll
set up the maintenance on it myself,” added Rosen. “I’m supposed to be catching
a flight back to Home Drome in a few hours. Assuming I can’t talk the Capo out
of it.”

“Capo”
was Chief Master Sergeant Allen Clyston, capo di tutti capi, and wizard of
wizards. He ran Devil Squadron. The unit was commanded by Colonel Knowlington
and staffed by a fine collection of officers, but like any efficient military
organization the chief master sergeants ran things. And Clyston was the CHIEF,
with all capital letters— the squadron’s master of fate and minder of souls.

Rosen
smiled, and Doberman felt his knees starting to tremble.

No
shit.

“Relax,
Captain. I’m just being cautious,” she said. “Plane can go at least another
hundred hours without fiddling with the motor or anything else. I promise.
Honest. It’s showroom pretty.”

“Planes
look weird,” said A-Bomb.

“Captain?”
asked Rosen.

“No
bombs. No Mavs,” said A-Bomb, shaking his head sadly. “No rockets. Nothing.
Naked. What I’m talking about here is nude. Out of uniform. Obscene. Got to be
a reg against it.”

“We’re
flying straight to Fahd,” snapped Doberman. “What do you want to do, bomb
Riyadh?”

“If
it needs bombing, I’m up for it,” said A-Bomb. He slapped the front of
Doberman’s Hog. “Even the Gat’s empty.”

“Begging
your pardon, but your cannon has been reloaded,” said Rosen in a tone that
suggested she wasn’t begging anything. “As is Captain Glenon’s. And he has
fresh Sidewinders.”

Her
voice softened ever so slightly when she mentioned the air-to-air missiles, and
she glanced back at Glenon. Last night, Doberman had made Hog history by using
the Sidewinder in a dogfight— even better, he had managed to nail a MiG in what
had to rate as the most lopsided battle since open cockpit P-26s tangled with
Japanese Zeroes at Pearl Harbor in 1941. Doberman had, in fact, saved Rosen’s
life— as well as the lives of three other people aboard a small AH-6 fleeing
Iraqi air space.

But
as far as the world was concerned, Doberman’s exploit hadn’t occurred. Command
had declared that the need to keep ground operations north of the border secret
extended to the aircraft supporting those operations. In other words,
Doberman’s flight hadn’t happened, and therefore the shoot-down hadn’t happened—
officially.

Unofficially,
every member of the A-10 community either knew about the shoot-down or would
shortly. Glenon wouldn’t get a medal or headlines, but he’d be stood plenty of
beers. And knowing he’d save Rosen felt loads better to Doberman than taking
salutes from a dozen dumbass generals.

As
for kissing her . . .

That
would have to wait. Doberman sighed as the sergeant turned her attention back
to A-Bomb, who was whining about not getting a full complement of Mavericks, or
at least cluster bombs, beneath his wings for the routine ferry flight home.
The tech sergeant demonstrated her experience in grade by restricting herself
to a single smirk as she walked away, leaving the two jocks to saddle up and
get on with the morning flight.

From
a pilot’s point of view, flying the Warthog was a relatively straight-forward
operation. The A-10A personified the concept of no frills flying. Its cockpit
would have been familiar to the P-26 pilot.

Well,
some of it, at least. No P-26 pilot ever dreamed of a heads-up display,
and even though it was slightly underpowered and agonizing slow by contemporary
standards, its twin turbos pumped Doberman into the sky at a pace that would have
left the P-26 pilot gasping.

Glenon
eased his stick back gently, the Hog’s fuel-filled wings lifting the plane
easily into the sky. Unlike nearly every other jet designed after the 1940s,
the A-10A’s wings were not swept back, part of a design strategy to
enhance low-speed/low-altitude maneuverability. The fuselage’s rather odd
shape— it looked like a beached whaleboat with wings— was the result of two
other design strategies: survivability and maximum firepower. A good hunk of
the front end weight came from a ring of titanium that protected the pilot’s sides
and fanny from artillery fire. The rest came from the Avenger 30 mm cannon,
arguably the most important feature of the plane. The Gatling-style cannon spat
a mixture of incendiary and uranium-tipped slugs custom-designed to unzip heavy
armor— and not incidentally obliterate everything else.