HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (14 page)

“Going that far north for two SAS guys who
probably aren’t there isn’t risky?” demanded Hack. “You’re telling me that’s
not fucking risky?”

“I’m telling you that if there’s a plane on the
ground that’s being refueled, we have to rethink the whole goddamn mission,”
said Hawkins.

“Don’t chicken out on me now,” said Preston.

“Hey, screw yourself, Major.”

“Okay, kids!” Knowlington’s voice was sharp. “Let’s
take a big breath and think about this. What if the plane is damaged, Hack? Or
you can’t get the fuel into it?”

“Then I jump back on the helicopter and go home.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

“What about gear”

“I use the Iraqis’.” Hack remembered the
cumbersome helmet he’d used in Russia. The flight suit, however, had been a
little lighter than Western gear, and in some ways easier to use. “I take my
gear as a backup, get someone to work up the connections, and hell, I just fly
low and slow enough that I don’t need oxygen and don’t worry about pulling
big-time g’s. Piece of cake, Colonel.”

“It’s not a piece of cake,” said Knowlington
coldly. “Wong?”

“From an Intelligence point of view,” said Wong,
“possession of an operational MiG would be valuable. Very valuable. I myself
would prefer acquiring it. As I began to mention to you earlier, Colonel, I
considered requesting an MH-130 and a team of men to dismantle the plane at the
base, returning with it.”

“Much too hazardous,” said the British general in
charge. “Given the proximity of other Iraqi units, no more than sixty minutes
can be allotted to a ground operation.”

“Potty,” said another of the Brits.

“Granted, stealing the plane would require a
considerable coefficient of luck,” said Wong. “Nonetheless, its possession would
be desirable. And the fallback situation would still result in considerable
benefit: the expertise of a pilot’s firsthand review of the systems would be
beneficial.”

“So let’s get it then,” said Hack. He glanced at
the donut in his hand— he’d squeezed it so hard that its filling had burst from
the sides.

“You think the Iraqis are just going to let us
take it?” said Hawkins, as sarcastic as ever.

“If Wong can get close enough to look at it, I can
get close enough to steal it,” said Preston, putting the donut down. “Let’s do
it.”

“This isn’t a game,” snapped the Delta commander.
“It’s not rah-rah go-for-it.”

“Major, how familiar are you with the MiG-29?”
asked the British general.

“Very,” said Preston, staring at the cream on his
fingers. “I was on the team that reviewed the Zuyev MiG in Turkey. I flew one
at Kubinka in the Soviet Union last year. It was a very limited program,
General. Admittedly, I would have liked more time at the stick, but I can do
this. I’ve flown F-15s, F-16s, and a dozen other fast-movers,” he added. “I’m
not just an A-10 driver. Pilot.”

“Was the MiG a one- or two-seater?” asked Wong.

“A two-seater,” admitted Hack.

He glanced at A-Bomb, who was not only
uncharacteristically reticent, but had stopped sipping his coffee. His wingman
had a frown so serious on his face, it made Hack look away, focusing his
attention momentarily on his cream-laden fingers. He considered licking them
clean, but reached for a napkin instead.

“I saw the Zuyev plane myself,” Wong was said. “It
does supply a baseline.”

Russian pilot Alexander Zuyev had defected to
Turkey in a Soviet MiG-29 in May 1989. His Fulcrum was thoroughly studied; so
had other examples over the past year and a half, notably those possessed by
Germany and India. A great deal of intelligence had been gathered on the
various export variants. But there was something about possessing an actual
example. Stealing a plane from out of the pocket of the Iraqi air force— that
was irresistible.

It was an exploit that would make anyone involved
instantly famous, instantly important, even if it failed.

A quick ticket to squadron commander, and not of
A-10s.

“I believe purloining the aircraft would not be
worth the risk,” said Paddington. “A plane too far, as it were.”

“Major Preston’s familiarity with the aircraft
would be an asset in examining it, even on the ground,” said Wong. “His
expertise would indeed be valuable. Mine extends to the weapons systems only,
and of course I am not a pilot.”

“If—
when
we get it,” said Hack, “we’ll
compromise everything the Iraqis do.”

“That would be an overstatement,” said Wong.

“Kevin, what do you think?” Knowlington cut in,
addressing the Delta Force captain.

“With all due respect, I think stealing the plane
is a long shot, Colonel. It’s a short field, and where are we going to find a
mechanical crew and a helicopter to put them in?”

“We don’t need a mechanical crew,” said Hack. “Not
if the Iraqis are already planning to fly the plane. They’ll have done it all.
There’s auxiliary power. I go through the sequence, bring on the right engine –
I can take off on just one engine, start the other in the air.”

“It does have that capacity,” concurred Wong.

“Long shot,” said Hawkins.

“What’s the worst case scenario?” said Hack. “I
take a look, maybe some pictures, then you blow up the plane.”

“The worst case scenario is you get killed,” said
Hawkins.

“I’ll take the risk.”

“Who’s taking the risk for everyone else?”

“Our commandos remain the priority for this
mission,” said the British general. “Nonetheless, I agree with the major. There
is a certain élan to taking the aircraft. We can supply some additional men
from the squadron for the operation. We may also be able to find a mechanic
with some expertise, though it is short notice.” The general paused, perhaps
consulting with one of his aides for a moment before returning to the line. “It
is, as you say, a long shot, Captain, but one perhaps worth taking as a subset
to the main objective.”

“You sure you can get it in the air, Hack?” asked Knowlington.
His voice sounded soft; this time it didn’t remind him of his father’s at all.

“Piece of cake,” said Hack, as forcefully as he
could. In truth, he wasn’t familiar with the precise procedure for using the
auxiliary power. But that was the sort of thing you could figure out on the fly.

Wasn’t it?

“We’ll have to replace Hack in the support
package,” added Knowlington. “That’s a problem in and of itself.”

Preston suddenly felt a twinge of doubt. What if
he was with the Delta team and the MiG took off before they got there? Then
he’d look like a first-class boob, twiddling his thumbs on an operation that
came back with
nada.
Or worse— the helicopters would be easy pickings,
even for an Iraqi pilot.

Instead of being a hero, he’d look like a fool.

But you had to take risks; you had to push it.
He’d been wrong to hesitate last night. He should have pushed in, not held
back. War was about risks.

To steal an Iraqi plane – hell, he had to take the
chance, no matter what the odds were. The payoff was just too immense, too
beautiful.

Hack Preston, the man who stole Saddam’s MiG.
Shit, what a set of balls that guy must have.

Made general before he was thirty.

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. President.

President?

“That’s not Disneyland you’d be going into,”
Knowlington was saying. “It’s not Kubinka either. They’re going to shooting
real bullets at you.”

“If the Delta people can do it, I can,” said
Preston.

“Yeah, right,” said Hawkins.

Hack had meant to say Captain Wong, not Delta, but
for some reason the words had just come out like that. He let them stand.

“Colonel, your final assessment,” the British
general asked Knowlington.

Hack’s doubts suddenly reasserted themselves, and
he found himself wishing, wanting, hoping that Knowlington would call it all
off, say it was crazy and couldn’t be done.

“If my guys think they can do it, and the D boys
are up for it, then we’ll take a shot,” said Knowlington. “I’m going to have to
hustle another pilot up to KKMC to fly Hack’s plane. Lieutenant Dixon. A-Bomb,
you take the lead on that flight, nail the defenses the way you laid out the
mission originally. I’ll take the second pair and target the MiG, back you up
and support the landing.”

Preston looked at A-Bomb across the room as the
British officers began debating what additional forces could join the mission
package. O’Rourke, his face as serious as a statue in the Vatican, held his
hand over the mouthpiece. “You sure about this?”

“Damn sure,” said Hack.

A-Bomb held his stare for a long time.

“Damn sure,” Hack repeated stubbornly. “Damn, damn
sure.”

THIEVES

KING FAHD

29 JANUARY 1991

0305

Colonel Knowlington pulled the
survival
vest over his flightsuit. Always in the past it had felt familiar, like an old
jacket that had been around for years. But this morning it felt awkward and
odd, heavier than it should, as if the pockets were filled with lead rather
than a few survival necessities.

He double-checked his gear, moving quickly through
the preflight ritual. He’d gotten bogged down with some extraneous maintenance
details and was running late, very late; Antman was buttoned up in his Hog
already, waiting.

The Colonel was still wrestling with his decision
to lead the flight. He knew he was sober. He knew his fatigue and the last
vestiges of his headache would clear after a breath or two of oxygen in the
cockpit. He had several times the experience of anyone else he might tap to fly
the mission; he could nail it with his eyes closed.

But should he go? Did he deserve to?

Wasn’t a question of deserving; it was a question
of duty. There was no backup— he’d sent Dixon on to KKMC already to fill in for
Hack. No one else in Devil Squadron could take this gig.

So it was his duty. That was something he could
handle. He took his helmet, grabbed the board with the map and crib notes on
the mission, and began walking toward the waiting Hog.

A certain élan, the British general had said.

Damn straight. Stealing a MiG out under Saddam’s
nose. Impossible! Ridiculous!

So why had he gone along with it then?

Because he wanted to die? Because life wouldn’t be
worth living if he wasn’t in the Air Force?

He couldn’t let that be the reason. The others—
his men, his people, his boys— were putting their necks on the line. They
weren’t doing that for some foolish, empty romantic notion, a vain piss in the
wind that would satisfy his mistaken vanity. They were doing it to give the
Allies a usable edge in the war and maybe beyond.

How could you tell the difference? A lot of people
thought that’s what Vietnam was— vain, not worth the lives that were lost. He’d
never believe that, though he had grieved the friends he’d lost, the many, many
people who’d died.

The war had had an effect; in his opinion if in no
one else’s. It had held the Soviets and the Chinese down for a while, helped
divert attention from other trouble spots, in a way prevented something much,
much worse.

And the truth was, sometimes did you lose,
sometimes you gave it a shot and that wasn’t good enough; you had to accept
that and move on. This war was justified for many reasons – to calm the Middle
East, to keep the balance of power, to keep oil flowing, to stop Saddam from
getting the bomb. It was being run much more intelligently than Nam.

So where did this mission fit in? Two Brits who
might or might not be there, a Russian plane that was interesting, granted, but
already a known quantity, as Wong himself had admitted.

Wong. He thought it was worth it. And Wong would
know. But then, he had a wild side to him beneath all his dispassionate talk
about “mission coefficients” and “risk parameters.” He wasn’t a Pentagon desk
jockey, as Knowlington had initially thought. Wong had been involved in dozens
of infiltrations and covert actions over the past few years.

The colonel walked toward his aircraft, his mind
still trying to sort itself out. Maybe he wasn’t up to it at all— he was
experienced, yes, but he was also damned old. His reflexes and his eyes weren’t
what they once were, back when he was Skull in Vietnam. His stomach wasn’t as
tight, his hesitations were more pronounced.

Clyston stood now at the foot of the access
ladder, a stogie in his fat fist.

To say good-bye for good?

“Ready for ya, Colonel,” said the Chief Master Sergeant.

“Let’s take the walk,” snapped Knowlington,
already snapping back into his old personae Skull as he started his preflight
inspection of the plane.

Fueled, armed with four AGM-65s and a pair of
cluster-bombs, the Hog seethed on the apron, anxious to get going. The crew
members stood a respectful distance away, craning their necks to see as the
pilot—
their pilot
— checked the plane –
their plane
.

Even though he was on a tight schedule, even
though he knew an aircraft that Clyston was responsible for was an airplane so
perfect it could possibly fly itself, Lieutenant Colonel Michael “Skull”
Knowlington looked the aircraft over carefully and slowly. To do anything else
would have seemed disrespectful to his crew. He inspected the control surfaces
as if seeing them for the first time. He looked into each engine, eying every
inch of metal. He ducked under the wings and even examined the tread on the
tires. He left nothing to chance, performing the ritual as carefully as a
priest at midnight mass in Rome. From left to right, from front to back to
front, he moved solemnly, not merely checking his plane but absorbing it,
driving it deep into his being.

Doubts and nostalgia vanished.

“Let’s kick butt,” he told Clyston, finishing.

“Don’t break my plane,” growled the old sergeant.

Skull chucked Clyston’s shoulder— a little gentler
than usual maybe, but in the same spot and with the same emotion he had had
more than twenty years before, standing beside a Thunderchief. He took a step
up the ladder, then turned to give his people a well-done salute, a thank-you
beyond words.

A lieutenant from the intelligence unit that
shared some of Devil Squadron’s HQ area came running toward the plane.

“Colonel! Colonel! General’s returning you call,”
shouted the man, nearly out of breath. “Said he’d hold.”

“Tell him you missed me,” Skull shouted, climbing
into the cockpit.

KKMC

29 JANUARY 1991

0305

The rotor blades on
the Huey bringing Dixon
into KKMC couldn’t quite keep up with his heart. He leaned toward the rear door
of the helicopter, wind and grit whipping against his face. The roof of the
large mosque across from the main area of the base gleamed with reflected light,
glowing in the darkness like a candle left for an exhausted pilgrim.

Dixon steadied himself as the chopper pitched
toward its landing area. He pulled the bag with his flight gear and helmet
toward him, then pushed through the door as the helicopter’s skids tipped down.
He ran to keep his balance, adrenaline continuing to build. The smells
overwhelmed him— jet fuel, diesel exhaust, burnt metal, his own sweat. Colors
and dark shadows blurred around him, as he hunted for the vehicle that should
be waiting to meet him.

“BJ! Yo, Dixon, here dude!”

Dixon turned abruptly, continuing on a dead run to
a topless Humvee waiting near a building on his right. Though the chassis of
the truck was familiar, it seemed to have been modified until it looked almost
like a surfer’s vehicle.

“What I’m talkin’ about!” shouted the driver, a
large man fully dressed in flight gear – A-Bomb O’Rourke, the one and only.
“We’re late. Hop in. You can chow down on the way over.”

Dixon threw his gear into the Hummer and climbed
aboard. It didn’t surprise him that A-Bomb had met him, nor was he shocked when
offered a large and seemingly authentic McDonald’s bag of fries and a
double-cheeseburger.

“My daily McDonald’s fix,” said A-Bomb, whipping
the vehicle in the direction of the life support shop, “figured you’d be
hungry.”

The food was warm— as incredible a feat, no doubt,
as A-Bomb’s inexplicable ability to have one FedExed fresh to him each day no
matter where he was. Dixon, who hadn’t realized he was hungry, started wolfing
the fries.

“Sorry. All I got’s a Coke,” said A-Bomb, thumbing
toward the back. “Was supposed to be a strawberry shake. Can’t count on the
help these days.”

“Good to see you,” said Dixon between bites.

“What I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb. He whipped
the wheel to the right; the Hummer rose off two wheels and then plumped back
down. “Got some Sat pix, map for you,” added the captain.

“Pictures?” Normally Hog drivers did without elaborate
target intelligence; most guys considered getting an exact coordinate for an IP,
the initial point to start an attack run, to be a comprehensive mission plan.
Rarely did they work with photos of what they were going to strike..

“I take care of my guys.” A-Bomb whipped the wheel
to the right and then back to the left, dodging a fuel truck. “We cross the
border, hook up with the colonel and Antman. Go north, blah-blah-blah. Only
thing we worry about is an SA-2 that has some coverage near the southwestern
tip of the base. We have to jog around that, which is a pain in the butt, but
once we’re in, it’s a free ride. Not much to worry about at the target area.
Right now it looks like they have two missile trucks there, SA-9s. I have ‘em
marked out. I take that SA-9 on the right, splash some guns on the hills
overlooking the field. You get the other launcher, that gun at the far western
end. Helos come in. We blow up anything that fucking moves, blah-blah-blah.
Routine.”

 “Yup.”

“Weather’s improving. Shit-ass wind last night,
but supposed to be calm, clear skies tonight. Picnic weather. It’s what I’m
talking about.”

“Uh-huh.”

A-Bomb turned to look at Dixon. His voice changed,
suddenly serious. “You up for this kid?”

“You sound like my high school baseball coach.”

“You up for this, kid?”

“I can nail it.”

O’Rourke didn’t say anything.

“I’m going to
fuck
ing nail it,” Dixon said,
glancing forward. “Uh, there’s a truck coming.”

A-Bomb whipped the wheel hard, getting out of the
way. His eyes remained on BJ. “Tough time up there. I heard about that little
kid.”

“Yeah.” The word bleated from his throat, more a
groan than an actual syllable with meaning.

“You got a problem, you let me know. No matter
fucking what.”

Dixon nodded. “Let’s kick some fuckin’ butt, huh?”

“What I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb, mashing the
gas pedal.

AR KEHY

29 JANUARY 1991

0305

By the time
the British transport
helicopter approached the small base near the Iraqi border where the Delta and
SAS team was holed up, “Hack” Preston knew he was going to nail this mission. Colonel
Knowlington and Wong had arranged for him to speak via satellite phone with two
different Western experts about the MiG, who had confirmed his own impressions
and filled him with good advice. The Fulcrum was a pilot’s plane, steady and
predictable, faster than hell, and relatively uncomplicated. It was difficult
if not impossible to get her to stall or to spin unintentionally. Takeoff and
landing were faster than in most Western jets, but straightforward. Piece of
cake.

Of course, they didn’t know the mission details,
and only one of them had actually flown the plane. But that didn’t matter— Hack
was doing it.

His main worry was starting the MiG off auxiliary
power; he decided that if he could figure that out, he could get it into the
air. The strip was very short, allegedly twelve hundred feet, which was more
than four hundred less than the rated takeoff distance. But the MiG’s engines
were powerful as hell and the airplane had been designed for STOL or
short-takeoff-and-landing operations. Hack wouldn’t be carrying weapons, nor
did he have to worry about having enough fuel for a round trip. Besides, the
Iraqis wouldn’t have landed there without having a way to get off.

Once he was in the air, it’d be a piece of cake.
He would climb to thirty thousand feet and fly along a prearranged course—
nearly due south, with a turn at the border. A pair of F-14s would escort him,
communicating with him over the UHF band. His only problem would be landing at
KKMC— not technically difficult perhaps, but the first time landing an
unfamiliar plane always got the adrenaline going. Still, it would be daylight,
in perfect weather, with no traffic and a thousand cheerleaders.

Piece of cake.

Assuming they got the plane. The Brits had
assigned forty more men to the assault team, along with a mechanic who had
worked on a German MiG during a brief exchange program. But their time on the
ground would be severely limited.

If the runway really was that short, maybe the
Iraqis didn’t actually intend on flying the plane out. The tanker truck Wong
had seen might turn out to be filled with water. The MiG might turn out to have
no engines or worse, much worse, just be a wooden dummy.

No way. It was his.

Returning home with a full intelligence report
would be fine. Everyone at CentCom would want to talk to him. After the war it
would send him on a talking tour of the Pentagon, NATO, and probably Congress
as well. But he wasn’t about to settle for that. He was nailing this baby, and
he was going to be famous: Major Horace Gordon Preston, the man who stole
Saddam’s MiG.

Colonel Preston, more likely.

General Preston, without doubt.

Hack hoisted the canvas duffel bag with his backup
flight gear and jumped down from the British transport helicopter as it touched
down. Breaking into a trot, he ran past a set of artillery pieces sandbagged
near a bunker area. The night was quiet; it was like being on a movie set, not
a base a grenade’s throw from the enemy.

“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think
we’re getting that plane out of there in one piece,” said Hawkins,
materializing from behind a pile of sandbags. They’d never met, but his voice—
and attitude— were instantly recognizable. “The Iraqis aren’t going to stand
back and let you take it.”