HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (18 page)

And then he would do his job, without fail.

As the g’s backed off, Dixon pushed the Hog into a
wide banking turn, his hand reaching for the armament panel. Close on the
target, below the prime altitude for dropping the cluster bombs, he selected
his cannon. He straightened his wings, saw the thick line of flak turning
toward him, and pushed the trigger. The seven-barreled Gatling spun in the
Hog’s chin, spitting spent uranium into the open gondola of the Iraqi gun.
Metal hissed into steam and another vehicle parked near the 57 erupted in a
fireball as Dixon’s bullets caught it.

He let go of the trigger, quickly scanning the
area for another target. There were dug-in positions on the hills opposite the
airstrip; small weapons, probably, nothing that could hurt him but a problem
for the assault teams.

No other defenses. And damn— there was the MiG,
sitting on a ramp just waiting for Preston to come and snatch her.

“Kid! Kid!” screamed A-Bomb.

“I’m here. Nailed the gun,” said Dixon.

“Yeah, I see that,” said O’Rourke.

“Climbing,” he told him, double checking the
ladder on his HUD as he cleared five thousand feet. “Going to take out some
trenches on those hills with the CBUs, then clear Splash in.”

“What I’m talkin’ about.”

Dixon turned his attention back to the hill, where
the enemy positions looked like a series of thumbprints on a misshapen cookie. BJ
rolled on them, descending quickly into the sweet spot of his bomb swoop and
pickling right on target. The Mk 20 Rockeye II Mod.2’s were veritable dump
trucks. Their munitions fanned out in an elaborate and deadly pattern as the
CBU unit ignited over its target. The bombs were capable of piercing light
armor, and could do very nasty things to flesh.

Dixon recovered, sweeping his eyes around the
battlefield one last time.

“Splash zone is clear,” he announced, glancing at
his watch. They were two minutes ahead of schedule.

IRAQ

29 JANUARY 1991

0559

The helicopter’s tail
whipped so hard to
the left that Hawkins fell sideways, losing his balance as the door gunner
began blasting away at a defensive post at the southern end of the runway. One
of the Apaches roared across their path, bullets whipping from its chain gun. Hawkins
pushed upright and caught sight of the MiG, sitting in front of the hangar not
ten yards away. The Pave Hawk veered back right, whipping around— one, maybe
two Iraqis were running from the plane back toward the hangar, cement flying
around them as the door gunner and the Minimi operator turned their attention
on them.

The plane was out in the open, canopy up, a ladder
nearby. The hangar door was open. Another Apache crossed between the plane and
the building, unmolested.

The ragheads had been caught completely by
surprise. Idiots!

You couldn’t pray for luck like this!

“Down! Down!” Hawkins yelled, anxious to get on
the ground. “Get us on the runway! In front of the plane! In front of the
plane!”

The Pave Hawk had already pitched toward the
ground, fluttering and then coasting along as if on a gentle wave. It touched
down not five yards from the nose of the enemy plane. Sergeant Crowley, the point
man, leapt through the open door. Pig followed, with Wong right behind him.

“Go! Go! Go!” Hawkins yelled to the others,
leaping forward himself. Only Fernandez, with Preston and Eugene, remained
behind.

The helicopter jerked forward as Hawkins jumped
out. He tripped against the edge of the doorway but somehow managed to keep his
feet squared so that he hit the cement clean, even though he was falling off balance.
He rolled, got up, whipped the nose of his heavy gun around to cover the MiG.
Satisfied that it was empty, he ran toward the hangar. He caught sight of the
British Chinook with its SAS team descending beyond the northeastern corner of
the hangar area. The commandos were uncharacteristically late, though only by a
few seconds— their big helo dropped nearly straight down, obviously not
encountering any resistance.

We’re in, we’re in, Hawkins thought. Wong and that
bozo Preston are going to pull it off.

Hot shit!

Hangar. Stop celebrating and secure the hangar.

Hawkins pushed forward, spotting Crowly at the
large open door. The sergeant reached his hand back. Hawkins threw himself
down, realizing the D boy was going to toss a flash-bang into the building, neutralizing
any resistance with a grenade.

It wasn’t necessarily the optimum move— there were
maybe a dozen flammable substances inside a typical hangar that the grenade
could easily ignite. A fired could ruin the plane, not to mention snare Crowly.
But in the fury of the moment, he wasn’t thinking about that.

The grenade went off. He pumped another. There was
a puff of smoke, but no secondaries. The Iraqis who had run for the hangar were
either dead or severely wounded.

Something flashed from the hedge of dirt on
Hawkins’ right. He whirled around, saw Pig near the crest of the berm working
his MP5.

“Secure the plane! Secure the plane!” Hawkins
yelled before realizing that Wong was doing just that. He had already started
to wheel the large, unpowered ladder platform toward the cockpit.

Hawkins turned back toward the helicopter to look
for Fernandez when he a tan stick popped up into his periphery vision near the
hangar. Hawkins jerked around, pressing his trigger at the same time. His SAW
cut the Iraqi in half.

The captain dropped to one knee, covering the area
more carefully now. When he was satisfied that there were no other soldiers
there, at least that he could see, he jumped up and ran toward the trench where
the Iraqi had hid, quickly making sure no one was hiding beyond the hangar.

The trench ran down from the helicopter through a
small sewer pipe at the edge of the berm. Thick black gook covered the bottom.
To Hawkins, it conjured up an image of oil draining from an old car engine.

A jet roared overhead and two Chinooks stuttered
in on his left, the reserves being ordered in to help one of the units. Dirt
flew into his face. “Incoming! Incoming!” yelled someone.

The damn A-10 is firing at us, Hawkins thought.

Then a fresh spray of dirt and chips of cement
showered over his head. He realized that the Iraqis were firing some sort of
mortar from beyond the hump of dirt below the hangar and runway area.

“Incoming!” yelled someone, and Hawkins realized
it was him. Something ripped over his head, a hot stream of air pushing him
flat on the cement apron in front of the MiG— the Pave Hawk had jerked upwards,
giving the machine-gunners an angle on the mortar man.

Crowley had raced to the far end of the berm
beyond the hangar, pumping his 203. His grenade and the Pave Hawk’s machine-gun
bullets hit the Iraqi defenders at the same time. Blood and dirt flared into a
large secondary explosion behind them. A vehicle had been wedged into the berm.
Crowley’s grenade ignited the gas tank.

“Let’s go! Let’s go!” Hawkins shouted. He turned
around, saw that Wong was on the plane. One of his men was following up the
berm.

Secure against counterattack.

Crowley and Pig were already blazing away at two
knots of Iraqis in ditches nearly a hundred yards away. Those trenches had
obviously been intended as fallback positions for attacks from the south, and
were open to the berm. His men had the Iraqis in them pinned down, though they
didn’t have enough of an angle to get them all.

Two Apaches were concentrating on a vehicle or a
bunker or something about three hundred yards to his right, across and well
beyond the runway. The rest were whipping back and forth above the two
barracks-type buildings the SAS were attacking. Heavy machine-gun fire
announced that the Iraqis were putting up stiff resistance. Smoke poured from
one of the windows.

Hawkins turned and called for Krushev, his com
specialist. The team tasked with grabbing the fuel truck had landed; its
Chinook was still on the ground. He couldn’t tell whether they had met
resistance or not.

Wong was lying across the wing of the MiG.

Hit?

Hit?

No. The Intel expert jumped up and then did a
hand-roll off the wing, obviously inspecting something.

So where the fuck was Preston? Had the prissy major
wimped out under fire?

IRAQ

29 JANUARY 1991

0603

Hack slammed his
knee against the
helicopter door. his body slid sideways into the open air, the world pirouetting
around in a grayish-white tangle. His head slammed hard against the concrete
and he cursed, his lungs flaming with anger as he pushed back to his feet then
collapsed, his knee crumbling with pain.

Smoke and the spent exhaust of the helicopter hung
thick in the air, making it difficult to breath and even harder to think; an
Apache gunship whipped toward him, its nose gun revolving downward as if
Preston were being targeted. Something tried pushing him down from behind; Hack
wheeled around and slammed the butt-end of the M-16 at it, only to realize that
it was Fernandez, the Delta sergeant assigned to get him safely off the
helicopter and into the plane. The blow landed against Fernandez’s side, but if
he felt it, the sergeant gave no hint. The burly Delta trooper set Preston on
his feet, then ran back to the helicopter to get Eugene, the British mechanic.

A ladder had been pushed near the plane. Hack
hobbled, then skipped, finally gaining momentum and managing a full run. But
before he could get to the ladder, the ground rocked with a heavy explosion. He
lost his balance and dropped his rifle as he spun. Once more, he slammed his
head hard against the concrete surface of the runway access apron as he landed.

Something red covered his eyes— he thought the MiG
had exploded and felt a pit in his stomach; anger at the thought of his
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity being taken from him. Cursing, he got to his
feet, so mad that he nearly smashed the rifle barrel end into the ground. He
might have tried putting the fire out with his bare hands, but with his first
step he realized that the plane hadn’t exploded— it was standing there not five
feet away, untouched by the chaos around it.

“Major, I am ready for your assessment,” said
Wong, his voice calm as he appeared at Preston’s side. He nudged Preston toward
the other side of the plane, where a large boarding ladder constructed of
tubular steel sat next to the cockpit. Painted bright orange, the contraption
looked like a piece of scaffolding for a construction site.

It held Preston’s weight easily. With his rifle in
one hand, he climbed up quickly and touched the cobra cowling along the forward
fuselage,. The fin extended forward from the wing, which helped give the
Russian plane extraordinary flight stability in difficult maneuvers.

The cold metal stung his bare hand. Hack ran his
fingers along the louvered vents for the cannon, the tear-shaped port seemingly
too small to house the muzzle of a weapon. Adrenaline boiled through his arms
and legs, breaking his movements into sharp jumps and harsh jerks. He grabbed
the edge of the cockpit, hauling himself onto the chin fairing. The Zvezda
K-36D ejection seat sat behind an old-style dashboard of dials and rocker
switch-gear. The instrument set was much closer to that of an A-10A than an
F-15C.

The restraining straps were cinched against the
seat. No helmet. No flightsuit.

Not that he expected to find them here.

His own gear— where the hell was it?

Shit. Back on the helicopter. He’d forgotten it in
the rush. Even if he didn’t need the suit and helmet, he wanted the flight
board. He’d taken it with him on every flight he’d ever made, even the Russian
Fulcrum spin. It was good luck.

“Major, the jamming station control panel is in
the upper left hand-quadrant, below the angle-of-attack.,” said Wong. He popped
the back of a small camera, quickly changing the film as he spoke. “Please examine
it first. Information on the radar warning scope would likewise be beneficial.
I have photographed the cockpit and the flight computer. I will now document
the exterior hard points and other areas of interest.”

Hack spun around, nearly kicking Wong in the face.

“I need my gear,” he said. “It’s in the
helicopter. Get it.”

Wong looked at him coldly. “Your bag is on the
apron there, where Sergeant Fernandez placed it.”

“Good.” Hack looked to his right. The hangar was
open and unguarded. “The Iraqis must keep their flight gear in the hangar. Come
on.”

“Please. We must complete our evaluation of the
aircraft first,” said the captain, refusing to clear off the ladder.

Hack stepped away and leapt off the airplane,
holding the M-16 in front of him for balance as he landed. It wasn’t as far as
he thought; his right leg buckled slightly but he kept his balance, staggering
a step ahead. Then he turned to run to Eugene, who was examining the underside
of the wings.

“Not plumbed for air-to-air refueling,” the
British mechanic announced. That wasn’t big news— almost no MiGs were. “Or for
wing tanks. I’m not familiar with the mounting on points three and five;
perhaps it is an Iraqi arrangement for unguided bombs.”

“Forget all that,” Hack told him. An Apache
whizzed low overhead drowning his words. He shouted as loud as he could. “Fuel.
Is it fueled?”

“What?” said the mechanic.

“We need to fuel it!”

“Yes. Captain Wong wants me to examine the radar.”

“Fuel! Does it have fuel?”

The mechanic blinked, then ran his hand over his bald
head, perplexed.

Hack pushed the mechanic toward the plane, then
began running toward the hangar. Short and squat, the building was made
entirely of metal. It looked more like a civilian warehouse than a military
hangar building. Thick bands of smoke slithered from the dark interior. The
heavy sulfuric odor made Preston cough as he ran. As he reached the door he
pushed his rifle up. He couldn’t see anything inside the building, but squeezed
the trigger anyway, as if a random spray of bullets would guarantee his safety.