HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (4 page)

“Well, what is precise?” Knowlington said to the
Brit, trying hard not to spit the words.

“To be precise, Colonel, SAS finds itself
short-handed for an important mission. Delta had been enlisted and air support
is desired. You have worked with Captain Hawkins before, so naturally your unit
was mentioned. The target is somewhat south of As-Samawah.”

“ ‘Somewhat south’ meaning how far, exactly?”

“Not that far,” answered Hawkins. The Delta Force
captain clearly had little use for Paddington, and even less tolerance for BS
or Padding’s circuitous route to the point. “It’s damn close to the Euphrates.
No bullshit, Colonel. Serious Indian country. That’s why we need Hogs with us.
Delta’s going to lead the mission,” added Hawkins. He put up his hand to keep
Paddington from interrupting. “At least this assault. According to the latest
intelligence, the target has a few Zeus guns for air defenses and nothing else.
But we’re thinking that may change.  Old airstrip, couple of buildings; it was
used briefly during the Iran-Iraq war, hit by Iranian missiles, and then
abandoned. Some troops there now, but no planes. The Brits want to check it
out. Sir Peter’s here to give us the layout and report back to the general, if
it’s a go.”

Paddington cleared his throat ostentatiously.

“You’re looking for Scuds?” asked Knowlington.

“No,” said Hawkins. “SAS lost two commandos.
There’s a chance they’re being held there.”

“A small chance,” said Paddington. “Nonetheless,
it cannot be dismissed.” He touched his hand to the side of his sport coat. It
occurred to Skull that he must keep a flask there.

If the bastard took out the flask, Skull would
throttle him.

Why did Paddington’s drinking bother him? The man
was just a drunk, like him.

“Two other operations are planned at
higher-probability sites,” said Wong. “SAS is conducting them itself, with RAF
support. Captain Hawkins will lead a small team of Delta and SAS men on this
operation. The A-10s would strike a total of six ZSU-23-4s at the target, then
remain for any necessary support during the duration of the operation.”

Paddington’s nose seemed to float above the room. “The
operation must be surgical, precise, and brief.”

“No shit,” muttered Hawkins.

Skull smiled at the Delta captain. “
How many planes?”

“Two at a minimum. They clear out the antiaircraft
guns, then mop up if necessary. We’re in and out in an hour, no more.”

“Four planes would be better,” said Wong, “since
there is a possibility of additional defenses being moved into position. There
has been considerable radio traffic, and several Iraqi units are in the general
vicinity.”

Knowlington reached to his desk and opened the
single drawer, removing a large Michelin paper map of Iraq that he’d gotten in
the States before deploying. As-Samawah was about midway between Baghdad and
Kuwait, right on the Euphrates. If the scale at the bottom of the map was to be
believed, it lay about 175 miles north of the Saudi border.

A long ride over nasty real estate.

“Can you sketch out the defenses for me, Wong?” asked
Skull.

The intel officer leaned over the map.

“From memory,” said Wong, “there would be a triple-A
all along this approach that must be avoided. The Republican Guard facilities
closer to the border have been mostly neutralized, but even so must be
respected. An SA-6 battery is believed to lie somewhere north of the base, but
has not been definitively located; its radar has never been activated so far as
is known. Additionally, Humint sources have rumored several Roland batteries in
this general vicinity, but again, no radars or other hard indications have been
recorded. Even if they do exist, the most serious obstacle would be an SA-2
site here, twelve miles south of the base. Its radar covers nearly the entire
approach. It has operated intermittently, for only a few moments at a time,
undoubtedly to avoid targeting from HARM-equipped SAM killer. Perhaps it is
working with human spotters. There is also a possibility that it is not
actually functional, as the intercepts have never been strong or of long
duration. Nonetheless, it can be avoided if the A-10s travel a very precise
path, breaking sharply parallel to the radar, and then jogging back.

Wong straightened.

“How would the assault team get in if the SA-2 is
there?” Skull asked.

He looked at Hawkins for the answer, but it was
Wong who spoke, explaining that the helicopters would have two options— either
the same corridor the Hogs took, or a slightly more direct route that took
advantage of the terrain and anomalies in the SA-2’s radar net. This path,
which Wong preferred, would have the helicopters fly at roughly four feet above
the ground for a about five miles.

While in theory the Hogs could do that as well, Wong’s
first route would allow them to use less fuel. It was also less stressful.

Not that a half hour’s drive near serious
antiaircraft radars and just out of reach of several flak guns wouldn’t get the
heart pumping.

“So what’s at the base?” Skull asked.

“As of yesterday afternoon, just the six
ZSU-23-4s. No missiles, no armor, and no discernible troops for that matter,”
said Wong. “This is the configuration, organized for attacks from the south and
west, though the only other directions could be covered as well. Beyond that, I
have not had an opportunity to consult the latest information.”

The ZSUs were mobile four-barreled antiaircraft
artillery units. Ubiquitous and deadly, but the Hogs were used to dealing with
them.

“When?” asked Skull.

“Dusk,” said Hawkins. “We want to hit it just
after seventeen hundred hours. We’ll have a company’s worth of men, no more,
Apaches and you guys, and whatever other air support RAF can through our way.”

“A company?”

“We don’t think there are a lot of people there.”
Hawkins shifted uneasily; as if he was trying to convince himself. “There are
two buildings. My guys are rehearsing it right now with a squad of SAS men.
They’ve taken buildings before.”

Knowlington did a mental inventory of his
squadron. He had four planes available; the question was which pilots to assign.
His best guys had spent an enormous amount of time in the air lately.

He could fill one of the seats himself.

No. Not anymore.

Why not? It wasn’t like he was going to drink in
the cockpit. That might be the one place he could trust himself.

“Bristol assured me that your people could be
ready at short notice,” said Paddington.

“With all due respect to Captain Wong, he’s not in
charge of getting the airplanes ready. Or drawing up the duty roster, or even
assessing the risks.” Knowlington touched the top of his temple, rubbing his
fingers deep into the well behind the skull bone.

“Colonel, if you don’t think you can do this,
that’s okay,” said Hawkins.

“Don’t worry, Captain. We’re in.” Knowlington
stood. “I just need to figure out who’s had the most sleep.”

KING FAHD AIRBASE, SAUDI
ARABIA

28 JANUARY 1991

1230

Lieutenant William “B.J.” Dixon
stood on
the concrete apron a few yards from the start of the runway, watching a
bomb-laden Hog take off. It seemed like months since he’d seen such a sight,
and years since he’d sat in a cockpit himself.

It had only been a few days. But those days were each
a separate lifetime.

Dixon had parachuted into Iraq with a covert Delta
Force team looking for Scuds. On his second night in-country, he’d called in a
strike on a probable nuclear biological-chemical weapons bunker less than a hundred
yards from his position.

Then time had blurred.

He’d hauled a sergeant nearly twice his age and
double his weight out from under the noses of a dozen Iraqi soldiers.

He’d seen a woman gunned down in the Iraqi
countryside for trying to warn him about a search party.

He’d been singed in the explosion of an Iraqi
house whose sole occupant was a two-year-old child.

He’d carried another Iraqi child, a boy perhaps
six or seven, nearly to freedom, only to have the kid jump on a grenade meant
for him.

The image of the boy’s broken body floated before
him in the hazy wake of the Hog engines as the green-hulled warplane waddled
off the runway: bits and pieces of flesh scattering in the wind, soot covering
his face. The boy’s eyes open and clear, irises a brilliant green.

Why did God let that happen? Why the kid and not
him? It was Dixon’s job to die, not the boy’s.

BJ rubbed his cheeks, then stared at his hands. He
expected them to be black with soot, but they were clean.

There hadn’t been time to buy the kid, or even do
more than make sure he was dead. Dixon had been jerked away by the others on
the team, strapped into a harness, and snatched from the ground by a MC-130E
Combat Talon Fulton Surface-to-Air Recovery. Propelled through the air by a
flying slingshot, he’d dangled in the wind before being cranked into the bay of
the big combat cargo plane. The grenade, the kid, the plane blurred into the
tunneling hush of air around his ears. Infinite shades of black and brown wove
ribbons around his head as he rambled weightless, helpless, through space.

Had it happened at all?

He saw himself going to the child, bending down.

But he hadn’t done that, had he? He’d stayed back,
afraid of what he would see.

No, he’d been there, holding the kid when the
grenade exploded. He remembered that specifically.

But no way he would have survived if he had held
the kid.

But he remembered it, could feel the shock wave
reverberating through his bones, shaking his arm nearly out of its socket.

Too much of this
. He was losing his mind.

Dixon rubbed his fingers across his face and began
walking toward Oz, Devil Squadron’s maintenance area. Four of the squadron’s
eleven planes— they’d lost one earlier in the war— were being repaired and
prepped for action. Techies swarmed back and forth, oblivious to him.

Dixon looked at his hands. His fingers ought to be
filthy dirty, but they remained clean, stark white, not even pink. The deep
bruises on his ribs and arms had already begun to heal; soon, there’s be no
trace of his ordeal.

Too much of this.

“Yo, BJ, what are you doing out of bed?”

Dixon turned. Captain John “Doberman” Glenon, one
of the squadron’s senior pilots, stood in front of an empty bomb trolley,
shaking his head.

“What are you doing?” Doberman repeated. “You’re
supposed to be resting?”

BJ shrugged.

“Restless?” Glenon didn’t bother waiting for the
obvious answer. “Come on. Colonel’s rounding up some guys for a meeting. He’d
probably want you there.”

Without saying anything, Dixon fell in behind
Doberman as he cut past the hangars and aircraft in a beeline for Hog Heaven,
the squadron’s headquarters building. Though several inches shorter than Dixon,
Glenon threw his legs forward like he was flicking switchblades; Dixon fell
steadily behind.

“Yo, Antman,” Doberman shouted to a thin black
lieutenant talking to a pair of women officers near the building.

Lieutenant Stephen Depray turned around abruptly.

“Come on. Old Man’s looking for heroes.”

“Excuse me ladies,” said Antman, bowing.

Ladies? Did anyone call women ladies anymore?
Ladies— like it was all a fairy tale.

Maybe it was. Dixon’s eyes seemed to have lost
their focus. Stray sounds cluttered his ears. His boot stubbed against the
metal steps as he followed the others into the building. He caught his balance
on the door jamb, and pushed inside. When the door slammed shut behind him the
muscles in his throat gripped at his windpipe. He felt claustrophobic.

Colonel Knowlington had commandeered Cineplex for
the meeting. Cineplex, a largish open room with refrigerators, a microwave, and
a couch, featured a massive big-screen TV, hence its name. The television had
been turned off— Knowlington obviously meant business.

“Captain, Lieutenant,” said the colonel as they
entered. “BJ? What are you doing here?”

“I thought you wanted me, sir,” said BJ.

Knowlington’s eyes burned into his forehead.

Maybe that’s where the soot was— Dixon reached his
fingers to rub it away.

“All right, come on,” said Skull. He looked past
BJ. “A-Bomb, Hack. Good. Close the door and let’s get going.”

Dixon sat in one of the metal folding chairs
directly behind the couch, watching as Captain Wong whispered something to the
colonel. Pink fluorescent light bathed the room, making it larger than Dixon
remembered.

“Here’s the deal,” Knowlington told them, abruptly
turning away from Wong. “We’re still nailing down the details, but basically,
the British have a few dozen commando teams working north of the border, just
like Delta, looking for Scuds and doing some other work. They lost track of one
last night. They have reason to believe that the Iraqis grabbed them and are
holding them at an abandoned air strip in a city, or rather south of a city,
near the Euphrates. They’re looking at a few other places too.”

He paused, scanning their faces. “It’s a longshot,”
Knowlington emphasized, “but Delta’s going in to check it out. They’re taking
RAF Chinooks, along with Apaches and us for cover. We hit right before
nightfall.”

“What’s the lineup?” Doberman asked the colonel.

 Four of our planes, Maverick Gs, in case it gets
dark and you need the infrared to see the targets. Load flares and cluster
bombs as well. Supposedly there’s not much defense; guns, that’s all. Of
course, that may change, especially if the British are right about their guys
being there. The idea is that it may just be a way station or holding spot
until Baghdad figures out what to do with them.” Knowlington glanced at Wong,
who nodded. “Captain Wong should have the whole deal, or as much as there is,
by 1400 hours, which is going to be very close, to kickoff time. This isn’t
going to be a milk run.”