HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (12 page)

“None of that would be critical,” said
Knowlington.

“I can’t argue decisively,” agreed Wong. “But as
the fuel truck is in the revetment, not the hangar area, the soonest I would
positively anticipate takeoff would be dawn.”

“Maybe they’re still working on the jet,”
suggested Knowlington. Maybe it had engine trouble and set down.”

“Possibly.” It is not obvious from the
intelligence. There are no indications of work crews, at least at present.
There are several bunkers, nearby, however, which could house any type of
weapon.”

“You think they’re going to use it to bomb
Riyadh?”

The permutations are endless,” said Wong. “In my
personal opinion, it is more likely that the plane will join others in a dash
to Iran, or simply remain at the base. But the aircraft’s present location and
the relative lack of defensive assets present a unique opportunity for
intelligence gathering.

Knowlington reexamined the images. “These pictures
are pretty lousy, Wong.”

“My intention is to gather intelligence
first-hand.”

“First hand? You want to go in with Splash?”
Knowlington was incredulous. “That’s what you’re saying?”

“It would be convenient.”

Skull scowled. “Convenient? We have to bomb this
sucker right away. It’s an easy target.”

“CentCom has already been alerted to the presence
of the aircraft, which can be easily interdicted if it takes off. The Splash
team can destroy it as part of the operation to search for the missing SAS
men.”

“Exactly,” Knowlington said.

“But prior to destroying the aircraft, however,”
Wong added, “a few moments of inspection would confirm or contradict a number
of theories regarding not only the plane, but the state of the Iraqi air force.
It would also added considerably to our store of knowledge regarding
Soviet-export MiGs. It is an opportunity, frankly, that one such as myself
cannot afford to miss.”

Wong folded his arms in front of his chest, as
Knowlington’s scowl deepened. “I have already arranged for a UH-1 to transport
me to the area where the Splash team is spending the night. With your
permission, I will leave within the hour.”

“And what if I don’t give you permission?”

Wong’s head snapped upright. Knowlington had the
impression that it was the first thing he had said that Wong hadn’t already
considered.

Knowlington realized that Wong could easily go
around him if he chose; the intelligence officer was here only on temporary
duty, and ultimately reported directly to an admiral in the Pentagon responsible
for Joint Service Intelligence. Wong was considered one of the West’s leading
experts on Russian weapons systems, and had dozens of covert actions and spy
missions to his credit; this one would hardly seem outrageous.

“What about the SAS men who are supposed to be
prisoners here?” Knowlington asked.

“As I noted earlier, I doubt the Iraqis would hold
them here,” said Wong. “But it cannot be ruled out. Baghdad might have placed
them here until a proper decision on how to best exploit or at least hold them
was made; we cannot tell. At the same time, a unit commander deciding to
exploit them for political gain or favor with the regime might indeed keep them
at an out-of-the-way base while he contemplated the best way to capitalize on
their presence. The base appears to be outside the Iraqis’ normal chain of
command, or at least is not home to a large contingent of men.”

“Makes sense, I guess.”

“Only in Iraq,” said Wong. “In any event, my
inspection of the plane need not interfere with the search for the men, which
would remain the primary objective. With your permission, Colonel.”

Knowlington turned his head toward the phone. He
expected it to ring any second – expected to end his responsibilities within
the hour, if not minutes.

Until then?

Giving permission to Wong was a no-brainer. The
danger was clearly outweighed by the information that would be gained.

Was it, though? They knew plenty about MiG-29s,
and the Iraqi air force had been a no-show to this point in the war. Sending a
guy across the border wasn’t exactly the same as asking him to run down to the
7-Eleven for a gallon of milk.

“You think this is worth the risk?” he asked Wong.

The intelligence expert sighed in the manner of a
physics teacher asked once more to explain the relevance of E=MC
²
.

“Since the operation will go ahead in any event,
the additional risk is infinitesimal. Obtaining firsthand information on the
plane would be beneficial. There are the obvious questions of what changes, if
any, have been made to the weapons systems and whether it has been adapted for
ground attack. And then there are the more interesting questions. Has the full
N-019 radar set, the so-called Slot Back 1, actually been installed? Has the
cannon— ”

Knowlington put up his hand, stopping what
promised to be a long list of questions. “All right. Go for it. You sure you
don’t want to take a flatbed up there with you and haul it home?”

“That would be preferable,” said Wong. “In fact— ”

“I’m kidding. Jesus, you’re a ball-buster. Have
you told Hawkins?”

“I planned to do so after consulting with you,”
said Wong. “There is an additional consideration for the Splash mission
inherent in the presence of the aircraft. Regardless of whether the SAS men are
being kept at the base or not, if the plane is there, and even more so if it is
planning an actual attack, point defenses will be moved in certainly in
response to the Tornado overflight. We should expect a half-dozen ZSU-23
chassis, and perhaps a lower-grade missile system. Indeed, I believe at least
one SA-9 launcher has been reported en route, though I have not been able to
coordinate the intelligence.”

The SA-9 was a short-range surface-to-air missile:
while it posed more of a risk to helicopters than Maverick-bearing Hogs, it
would have to be dealt with.

“We’ll have to tell Hack. It might be a stretch
for two planes to hit all the guns and missiles besides,” added Knowlington.
“Doberman and Gunny have a mission at 0600, so they’re coming out of the
package.”

“That point was stated during the planning stage.”

“I would say four planes are the minimum neede4d
to support the mission— more would be optimum.”

The hangar should be targeted by one of the Hogs.
If anything went wrong, a Maverick could obliterate the MiG, whatever Saddam’s
plans.

But to arrange for four planes, he’d have to go
himself. There simply wasn’t another experienced pilot available who could lead
such a hazardous mission.

No?

No.

He hesitated, remembering the idea that had
occurred to him earlier, the cloud of 23mm slugs enveloping him.

His own death wish?

Knowlington glanced at the old-style phone on his
desk. At any second its ring might change everything.

“All right, let’s get on this,” Knowlington told
Wong. “Set up satellite time with the SAS and whoever else needs to be clued
in. I’ll deal with the British command, and rejigger the duty rosters to
finding two other planes and pilots.”

“Understood,” said Wong.

Aware that he was moving a bit too fast, but
unable to slow down, Knowlington jumped from his chair and ran from the room,
out of the telephone’s reach.

AR KEHY SAUDI ARABIA

28 JANUARY 1991

2145

“I say, have
you a cigarette?”

Captain Hawkins jumped up from the wheel of the
howitzer carriage where he’d been sitting, staring over the sandbags at the
approaching shadow.

“Startled you?” asked Sergeant Burns, his face
finally visible in the dark night.

“A little,” admitted Hawkins.

“Cigarette?”

“Don’t smoke.”

The SAS sergeant leaned against the gun, next to
Hawkins. “I do. Have one.”

“No thanks.”

“Not even tempted?”

“No.”

“English cigarettes don’t cause cancer,” said the
sergeant. He snorted, then clicked open a metal lighter. An odor of lighter
fluid mingled with the smoke as he lit up.

“You did the right thing,” Burns told him.
“Calling it off.”

Hawkins shrugged.

“Pilot has two kids.”

Everybody has someone, Hawkins thought. But he
said nothing.

“Have another go at dawn?”

“I’d like to, yeah,” Hawkins told the Englishman.
“Assuming your guys don’t find them before that. We won’t know until close to
midnight. I’ve arranged for a phone conference.”

“Ring ‘em up,” said the sergeant, exhaling. “Ring
‘em up.”

Hawkins wasn’t quite sure what he meant or even
what he might want. Probably just wanted to shoot the shit for a while.

The Delta captain sat back on the tire, shuffling
his feet in the sand. The artillery base was a few miles from Iraq, used more
for staging and supply than actual bombardment, though of course that could
change in an instant. The team had been given a trio of bunkers to sack out in
not far from the makeshift airfield where the helicopters were being serviced.

They’d be ready for another “go” by 0400, assuming
the Brits gave the green light. His men would be tired, but so would the
Iraqis. There wouldn’t be a last-second fly-by this time, but he’d have the
benefit of the latest satellite data as well as the Tornado intelligence, which
he’d already seen.

Damn blurry copy of a blurry image. The pilot and
his crewman had been airlifted to an RAF base; the video had been processed and
several faxed to him. As far as he could tell, there were still no serious
defenses beyond the antiair artillery that had been there before.

“I’m a family man myself,” said the sergeant.
“Don’t look it, I know,” he added. “Five kids, though. Five shiny faces. Had to
join the squadron just for peace.”

“You have five kids?”

“Almost a football team.” The sergeant took a long
draw on his cigarette. “Took the family to Blackpool just before we came.
Adventure.”

The SAS commando began recounting the trip to the
amusement park, which Hawkins took it was the English equivalent to Coney
Island, only better. There was a mammoth rollercoaster there, supposedly the
highest in the world. Cars reached eighty-five miles an hour on the downhill.

“Scared shitless, I don’t mind saying. Nearly
threw up right in the seat. Did on the ground,” said the sergeant. “Scariest
thing I ever did.”

“Scarier than this?”

“Oh much. Scarier than Belfast, and I served there
eighteen months. And Londonderry.”

“I have relatives there.”

“Oh.” He sucked the cigarette down to its filter.
“Catholic, I imagine.”

“That’s right.”

“Hmmph,” said the sergeant. He threw the cigarette
down, took out another. “Hard life.”

“Probably is.”

Burns lit his cigarette. He shifted his weight,
but didn’t move off the big gun. “I expect we’ll get the go.”

“I hope so,” said Hawkins.

“Went on that rollercoaster three times in a row,”
said the sergeant. “Didn’t want the kiddies to see I was scared. Turned the
stomach inside out, that.”

“I imagine it would.” Hawkins laughed. “I don’t
like rollercoasters myself.”

TENT CITY

28 JANUARY 1991

2230

Rebecca Rosen floated
in a pool of warmth,
her body still trembling from making love with BJ. It hadn’t been what she
thought – it was better, better, better. Her head vibrated; she’d fallen away
from time, away from the war. The world outside no longer existed. Reality was
here, on this tiny cot, BJ’s body pressed gently against hers, his face leaning
against her breast, his breath brushing back and forth across her neck. His
eyes were closed; she drifted toward sleep as well, lost, pleasantly,
lusciously lost, finally oblivious to the aches and distresses of life.

But the world was a hard master.

“Knock, knock,” said a voice from beyond the
bubble surrounding her.

“Knock, knock”— part-mocking, part-smirking,
part-warning, part-censoring...

Colonel Knowlington entered the tent, standing
over them. BJ jumped up, pulling the blankets with him to cover up. She rolled
over, belatedly hiding her face. She considered diving to the floor, but didn’t
dare.

“Lieutenant, I need you as a backup for Splash,”
said Knowlington sharply. “I need you on the runway no later than 0400. I’ll
brief you at 0230. Good night.”

The tent shook as the colonel turned sharply on
his heel and left without acknowledging her presence or nakedness.

“Fuck,” said Dixon.

Becky turned over, then slowly pulled her hands
away from her eyes. She gazed at him, pale and beautiful in the dim light of
the tent. Then she began to laugh.

TENT CITY

28 JANUARY 1991

2320

To be a
first sergeant of any military
organization is to be a philosopher. True, all first sergeants— all sergeants,
period— are practical engineers, skilled in the sciences of organization and
bureaucracy, to say nothing of bullshit. To reach the exalted level of master
sergeant, a man— or woman— must master the twin arts of motivation and
discipline; he or she must be more skilled at politics than any candidate for
President. He or she must practice the art of war in a way that would humble
Sun Tzu, though of course the best sergeants never needed to fire a weapon, for
the enemy retreats at the mere hint of their approach.

In a chief master sergeant, genius exerts itself
without appearing to sweat. Procurement, persuasion, prophecy— no Greek god or
goddess ever had half the attributes of a chief master sergeant, whose very
grunt or growl could send an army to glorious victory.