HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (25 page)

No need for that. Just truck home. Go south, look
for the big ditch, turn left fifty degrees. KKMC would be that big smudge in
the center of the windscreen.

Nice if the Tomcats would show up right about now.

Hack glanced down at his knee board. The top page
had notes on his contact frequencies. He didn’t need them now— the radio was
useless. Nor was the map on the next page of much use, nor the Western
coordinates for his course, nor the notes he’d scribbled about some of the
instrument settings. But he glanced at the board anyway. Just habit. Reassuring
somehow.

Hack had six thousand meters on his altimeter— just
over twenty thousand feet, with a forward air speed of 675 kilometers an hour;
a bit over 350 knots. He had the heading they had briefed, but he was much
lower and going fifty knots faster than they had set out. He eased back on the
throttle again, the plane jerking slightly as he fumbled.

If the Tomcats weren’t here and the Eagles weren’t
here, something must have happened.

Maybe Saddam had scrambled someone to catch him.

Skull and the others would be sitting ducks in
their slow-moving A-10s.

Not his problem.

They were his guys, though. He had to help them.
He had the cannon, if nothing else.

Did he even have that?

The armament panel was on the right side at his
elbow. Neither of his Western sources had touched on it, but Harry and he had
discussed cannon shots at length before taking off a year ago.

Huge slugs. Had to slow down to use the gun. Bitch
of a targeting computer. You had to get really close to fire, and hit the speed
brakes if you were moving over four hundred knots.

Four hundred klicks maybe? But that was really
slow, much too slow.

He did remember the procedure for arming the gun—
the HUD flashed into gun mode.

Hack killed it. He had to fly onto to Saudi
Arabia. That was his job.”

Let his guys go down?

That he couldn’t do.

Hack hesitated for a moment, then pushed against
the stick. It took more effort than in the F-15 to start a turn, but less than
in a Hog.

OVER IRA   

29 JANUARY 1991

0715

Skull tore his
eyes away from the canopy
glass as the RWR began to bleat. A Slot-Back radar was looking for him twenty
miles ahead, at roughly twenty thousand feet.

Either Hack had just turned around, or Saddam had
somehow managed to get a MiG in the air without telling anyone.

“Coyote, this is Devil One. Splash MiG has turned
back in my direction.”

“Coyote confirms,” snapped the voice from the AWACS.
It was older and sharper than before— the sergeant he’d been talking to had
been replaced by the officer in charge. “What’s our boy up to?”

“I believe he’s looking for me,” Skull said. “How
are our escorts?”

“Still approaching.”

Knowlington clicked back on to the French
frequency and tried his hail again. This time he got a response.

“Jacques One reads you, Devil Leaders,” said the
French pilot, giving his position. They were a little over eighty miles away,
descending from thirty thousand feet.

“I have a visual on Splash Bird. I make him twelve
miles away, he’s descending a little, but still around twenty thousand feet.”

“Twelve miles away, and you have a visual?”

“I eat a lot of carrots,” said Knowlington.
Despite the immense distance, he knew he saw the MiG.

Maybe his eyes weren’t aging at all. He pushed his
nose up but kept his course steady, feeling a bit like an old-fashioned
commuter train chugging along as the express raced by.

So why the hell had Hack turned around? He was
maybe five minutes from the border. The MiG didn’t carry all that much fuel.

Probably he had realized the wires were crossed on
the escorts and decided to look for Skull. Without a radio, he might worry that
he wouldn’t get clearance to land at KKMC. He’d know what he was doing
fuel-wise.

Idiot was probably worried about him. Shit.

He’d have done the same thing.

“Devil Leader, Splash reports two packages aboard
along with prisoners. The entire family is headed home,” said the AWACS
controller. “Thought you’d like to know.”

“Devil Leader acknowledges,” said Skull, taken by
surprise.

Had they gone back and found them? Who? Wong and
Hawkins and the D boys were the last to leave; he’d heard them clear the base
himself.

Wong.

“Well done,” added the controller.

Knowlington didn’t respond. Congratulations always
waited until you touched down and stowed your gear. That wasn’t superstition;
it was experience, hard-earned.

But.
But.
Hell of a way to go out. Last
mission— recovered two lost SAS men, stole an Iraqi MiG.

Stole an Iraqi MiG.
You couldn’t top that.

Skull glanced up and saw the Mikoyan continuing
toward him. Its nose rode up at a slight angle, and the wings tucked up and
down, as if she were a bronco and Hack a cowboy trying to break her.

Knowlington put the Hog on her side, showing his
belly to the approaching plane.

Here I am, you son of a bitch,” he said. “Come on,
Hack. Let’s go home.”

OVER IRAQ

29 JANUARY 1991

0725

Hack
bounced the radar controls back and
forth, trying to cajole the radar into action. He’d hit the buttons, then jerk
his head back up and grab the control column, nervous about taking his
attention off the sky for too long.

He ought to be able to see the Hogs, at least. And
any Iraqis coming for them.

The smoke from Splash— he hoped it was Splash—
filled a small finger of the hazy horizon in the lower left quadrant of his
windscreen. His eyes hunted for a black stick in the mist, or a glint, or
anything moving.

Turning back was dumb. He was eating up fuel.

Although not according to the gauge. Three hundred
kilos for takeoff, only two hundred since then. Much better than expected.

And it was all flowing fine. Forget the gauge— he
could hear the engines humming.

Go by time in the air. Forget the tanks, he told
himself.

He glanced at his watch.

Twenty-five mini-minutes after the hour.

Mini-
minutes. What a joke.

Wisdom and folly, folly and wisdom. It depended on
who was making the interpretation.

They were going to think he was very, very wise
after this.

A black bird flapped in the sky below him, rolling
its wings before belly flopping down.

One of his Hogs.

About time. Hack banked, turning the MiG back
toward Saudi Arabia. She had a tight turn— he could feel the g’s popping him in
the chest, even with the suit.

Too bad for the Iraqi pilot. Might have been
interesting if they had captured him alive, gotten him to talk to them.

Hack hadn’t been thinking of that in the hangar.
Wong had mentioned it as a possibility before.

Wong. What a character.

Hack glanced at his watch. It was still 7:25 A.M.
Had it stopped?

No. Time was just moving very slowly. He must not
be having any fun.

His left arm jerked upward, the wrist and forearm
muscles spasming . Hack stared at them as if they belonged to a creature that
had somehow invaded the cockpit from a cheap sci-fi movie. Finally he put his
hand back down on the throttle, slowly palming the thick level.

Time to go home. His legs and arms and head were
heavy as hell.

So were his eyes.

Jesus, he was tired. Normally, Hack carried a
small packet of amphetamines in one of his small flap pockets. While he loathed
using them— had in fact never used them— he reached down now, afraid he
wouldn’t be quite up to the demanding task of landing the unfamiliar plane
without them.

He tapped his fingers against his leg, then felt a
wave of disorienting panic— the pocket with the pills wasn’t there.

He’d forgotten he was wearing the Iraqi gear.

The Hog was on his right, climbing through maybe
fifteen thousand feet, struggling to reach his altitude. Hogs were great at
everything except climbing.

The MiG jerked sharply to the left, plunging
downwards as its wing tipped toward the ground. Hack’s head floated somewhere
above his body as warning lights flashed. As his lungs gasped, he stared at the
dials, unsure what had happened.

Fuel. He was out of fuel.

Fuel?

No, the RPM gauge indicated that the left engine
had stopped working.

Hack struggled to clear his head, struggled simply
to breathe. His hands seemed to work on their own, stabilizing the MiG as if
fell through sixteen thousand feet, grabbing it by its bootstraps.

Restart, he told himself. Go.

His fingers fumbled; his brain stuck in a block of
plastic, unable to communicate with the rest of his body.

The fuel flow. What was the stinking gauge saying?

Why was he so concerned with fuel? He had plenty—
just go for the start.

The engine rumbled, seemingly on its own. Hack
tried to calm his breathing, pulling the MiG back level. Knowlington had
swooped on his right, trying to close up the distance. Hack gave him a
thumbs-up but was too busy to try any other hand signals.

Both of his briefers had said the Mikoyan never
flamed out, and if it did, it would be easy to keep from spinning.

Easy for them to say.

Forget that. Both power plants were working now.

He’d been doing nothing that should have given the
engines trouble. More than likely, the problem was a result of crappy Iraqi
maintenance, not his flying— hardly reassuring. Hack gingerly pulled back on
the control column, leveling off at 4,500 meters, roughly fifteen thousand
feet.

Fifteen thousand white-robed angels, fluttering in
the sky.

He glanced at the yellow handles beneath his leg.
The seat would save him, but damn, no way he was going out now. Not this close.
They couldn’t be more than two minutes from the border.

The RWR lights blinked on.

Two contacts, on his left wing. The lights’ colors
would have given him more information, but he couldn’t remember the code.

Had to be friendlies. Where the hell was his Hog?

On his right, maybe a hundred yards away.
Knowlington.

It would be Knowlington, that son of a bitch. He
was an alky in D.C., but here, damn it, here he was a hero. Couldn’t ask for a
better commander or wing mate.

Jesus, his head hurt. He blew a wad of air into
his mask. Sky was dark.

Fifteen thousand feet. Damn low. The lowest he’d
ever flown.

High for a Hog driver.

His head felt too light. The amphetamine had
kicked in.

He hadn’t taken the amphetamine.

Oxygen, numbskull.

Problem with the oxygen.

You’re hyperventilating.

OVER IRAQ

29 JANUARY 1991

0730

Skull pushed his
nose level as Hack knifed
downward on his left wing, slinging the MiG nearly parallel to him. It was a
nice piece of flying, actually, thought for a moment if seemed as if the MiG’s
engines had flamed, the plane stuttering in the sky.

“Jacques One to Devil Flight, we are advised that
you and your friend are now on course.”

“Devil One. Affirmative. You still don’t have us
on radar?”

“Negative,” said the Frenchman, whose accent
sounded slightly British. In any event, his voice was clear and crisp. “We
should be within radar range shortly.”

The French warplanes were equipped with a
pulse-Doppler unit that was supposed to be able to pick up targets from outside
fifty miles. But the specs were proving too optimistic: the AWACS commander
told Knowlington they were now within forty miles, and he should correct due
south five degrees if possible to complete their intercept.

“Hang with me, Hack,” said Skull, turning to eye
his silent wingman. He waved again, trying to signal the course adjustment and
that the Mirages were ahead, but Preston’s eyes remained fixed dead ahead.

“Won’t be long now,” he said, checking his
position against the map. He made it five minutes to the border.

The MiG spurted ahead as Skull made his
adjustments. Coyote asked for a situation report, and Skull told him they were
still looking for the Mirages.

“You have clear skies to Emerald City,” said the
supervisor, sounding jaunty— or at least jaunty for an AWACS controller. This
was one mission no one was going to forget. “How’s his fuel?”

“No way of knowing,” replied Skull. “Maybe tight,
maybe not.”

“You’re over Saudi territory. Anything happens and
he wants to bail, he’s safe,” said Coyote. “Half the Air Force’ll be there to
grab him.”

“Thanks.”

“Affirmative.”

No way Hack would bail now, thought Skull. He
pushed his throttle, trying to keep up.

OVER IRAQ

29 JANUARY 1991

0732

The MiG’s altimeter
pegged 4,800 kilometers.
He’d never gone over 6,5000 klicks, which was about twenty thousand. Too low
for him to suffer decompression problems— in theory.

But when Hack looked at the panel, he saw that not
only wasn’t his oxygen hose snugged, it wasn’t in at all. He must have pulled
it out at some point, probably twisting his arms across his body. He’d been
hyperventilating for God knows how long. No wonder he thought everything was a
joke.