If it were up to him, he'd head north and find them. But it wasn't his call.
***
Mongoose swung under the other plane, consciously trying to take his time and focus on the job in front of him. Doberman could take care of himself.
A-Bomb's Hog was unblemished. They'd anticipated heavy anti-air, but the truth was, they'd encountered only sporadic fire, most of it unaimed. Still, all it took was one lucky shot to ruin your day.
Just as he was about to tell A-Bomb he was clean, Mongoose heard a hail over the radio from their E-3 Sentry AWACS controller. “Cougar” was flying back behind the border, helping coordinate the air war in this sector. The airborne situation room functioned like the coaching staff in a stadium skybox, calling in plays and alerting the pilots to blitzes and stunts.
“Go ahead, Cougar,” said Mongoose, expecting to be asked why they were playing ring-around-the-rosy in the middle of the desert.
“We're tracking two Fulcrums headed toward SierraMax. Are you in contact with Devil Two?”
“That's a negative.” Mongoose felt his voice start to crack, despite his straining effort to keep it level.
“He had an F-l in pursuit when we lost him on radar. We haven't been able to reach him on any frequency.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Roger. Vector me in.”
“That is a negative. Repeat. Negative. You are to proceed according to your frag. Confirm.”
There were very few times in his life that Mongoose wished he flew a pointy nose, fast-moving fighter, but this was definitely one of them. He gunned the large turbofan engines that sat behind the cockpit, turning the plane northwards in what he hoped was Doberman's direction.
He knew A-Bomb would follow, so he didn't bother keying the mike to tell him.
There was no sense answering the E-3. All he'd end up doing was cluttering the airwaves with four-letter words.
CHAPTER 4
OVER WESTERN IRAQ
0712
Doberman felt the heat seeking missile boring in on him as he flicked out more flares. Jinking toward the ground, he rolled the Hog's engines away from the Iraqi missile, trying to present as cold a target as possible to the enemy. He couldn't see what was happening behind him; it was all touch-and-feel, bred by hundreds of drills and simulations. The Hog's GE power plants were cool for jet engines, and the primitive seeker in the Iraqi air-to-air missile sniffed the air for the plane in vain. It missed the flare as well, continuing harmlessly into the desert— though Doberman had no way of knowing that as he skimmed down as close to the ground as he could get.
Above him, the Mirage pilot gathered his senses and energy for another try. When Doberman realized he was free and began climbing off the deck, he found the F-l diving for him from about five thousand feet in a head-on attack.
The French had built the Dassault-Breguet Mirage F-l during the 1960s. It was a reasonable effort, capable of Mach performance and a variety of roles, with a single engine and a pair of 30 mm machine guns under the fuselage. Its wing area was better suited for low altitude flight than some of Dassault's other efforts, and perhaps on paper, the plane ought to outmatch an A-10A any day.
But they weren't flying on paper. Doberman kept on trucking, determined to stuff his nose into the Iraqi's face. In a close-quarters attack, it was cannon versus cannon, and there the Hog had the advantage.
The Mirage driver poured on the gas, coming at him like a bat out of hell. Suddenly, the underside of his plane began to sparkle. Doberman resisted the impulse to return fire, realizing it was a waste of bullets from this distance. Instead, he continued boring in, expecting the F-l to turn in an attempt to swoop behind the Hog to finish him off. Sure enough, the Iraqi began angling away to the left, no doubt confident that he could outrun the strange and slow American machine.
Doberman executed his own turn into the Iraqi and lit the cannon. It was a textbook maneuver, the angle of separation nearly nonexistent, the Hog right on the Mirage's rear end.
But he missed. The F-l jinked to the left then slid quickly into a scissors, and for all his maneuverability Doberman couldn't quite get him locked in his sights. By the time he decided to fire the Sidewinders, it was too late; though he had a lock signal both heat-seekers rode wide as the Iraqi put out flares and accelerated clear.
Doberman watched his adversary disappear into the distance. Part of him was relieved— and another part of him was pissed, since he had blown an opportunity to make history by shooting down another plane in an A-10A. He pulled the Hog into a lazy turn south, once again looking for his wingmate.
He was beginning to wonder why no one answered his radio hails when a dark shadow in the top corner of his eye warned him he had taken the Iraqi much too lightly. Only an extreme, gut-wrenching pull to the right that shook every bolt in the Hog's body saved him from being perforated by the diving fighter's guns. Even so, he caught some lead in the rear fuselage; the Warthog grunted and hissed at the flesh wound.
Cursing himself, Doberman flattened his jet out less than a hundred feet off the hot Iraqi sand.
The Iraqi pilot was obviously out of missiles. But he had learned from the first head-on-head attack. He sat high above, staying south, obviously waiting for Doberman to run for it. He looked like a cat eyeing a can of tuna.
What a cat wouldn't do for a can opener the size of those DEFA guns the Mirage carried.
Not that Doberman was worried. He knew he'd come up with something. Hog drivers always did. He just didn't know what that something was yet.
Better to let the Mirage commit itself, he decided. Cannon versus cannon, I like the odds. I just have to make it quick while I still have enough gas to get home.
He tried contacting Dixon again; then called to his other squadron mates.
No response. What was with those guys?
The F-1 suddenly snapped out of a turn and accelerated in his direction. Once again the Iraqi had made his move too soon, though he had more altitude and speed and so would still hold the advantage when they finally closed.
Doberman drew a deep breath, then tapped the throttle bar for good luck. If he chose to, he might be able to break off now and run away to the west, slide back and escape. It would strain his fuel reserves to the max, maybe beyond, but it would keep him in one piece.
But where was the fun in that?
He was just moving his stick to angle for another head-to-head encounter when a white light seemed to shine on the F-1 from above the clouds. In the next second, the enemy plane disappeared, replaced by a burst of frothing white vapor.
CHAPTER 5
OVER WESTERN IRAN
0717
Pedals to the metal on as they flew north back toward the GCI site their two wing mates had been tasked to hit, A-Bomb and Mongoose heard the AWACS vectoring a pair of F-15 interceptors to nail the Iraqi fighter. The MiGs had changed course, but both the Mirage and the A-10A had gotten up off the deck and reappeared on the Sentry's scope. The distance and effects of ground clutter interfered somewhat with the Sentry's ability to track the planes, but considering that the controller was two hundred miles away and keeping track of several million other things, he did a hell of a job. The radio exchange crackled over the airwaves like an old-time radio drama.
“Turbo Three, contact fifteen east SierraSierra, five thousand,” called the lead F-15 pilot. He was telling his wingmate and the AWACS controller that he had the Mirage on his radar.
“Don't hit the friendly,” answered his wingmate.
“Sorted. Aw shit. Clean now. Fuck me.”
A-Bomb echoed the Eagle pilot's curse. The fighter had lost the Mirage. A-Bomb leaned forward in his seat, trying to urge a few more miles per hour out of the Hog. He and Mongoose had all the stops out but were still at least two minutes away.
“Clean high,” said one of the F-15 pilots. It wasn't clear which one.
“Contact. Five thousand. At twelve, eleven east, uh—”
“Screw the numbers, just
do it!” screamed A-Bomb.
His mike wasn't open, but as if in answer to his urging, the Eagle pilot called a missile shot— “Fox One,” the time-honored signal that a Sparrow air-to-air radar missile had been launched.
“Fifteen, fifteen, turn right,” said the second Eagle pilot, the rest of the transmission scorching into unintelligibility.
Did they get the Mirage?
Static filled A-Bomb's ears.
It was like listening to the final seconds of a basketball championship on a malfunctioning AM radio. Except that a lot more than bragging rights were at stake.
Cursing, he slapped the com panel, as if that might somehow clear the reception.
***
Wow, thought Doberman, as his adversary turned into a silver-black glow. I'm having a religious experience.
That or my oxygen hose is kinked all to hell.
In the next second, he realized that something had taken out the Mirage.
Something American, he hoped. F-15s flying combat air patrol out of the south, most likely. But why hadn't he heard them on the radio? Why hadn't he heard anything on his radio?
Doberman, turning the Hog southwest, flipped through several million frequencies before realizing, duh, that his communications gear had given up the ghost.
No wonder he'd lost Dixon. And his wing mates.
Damn, they were probably halfway back to Al Jouf by now.
Hell, he better watch for the Eagles, in case they decided to take him out for not answering their hails.
The pilot searched the skies in vain for his benefactors. They had to be F-15s, firing Sparrows from beyond visual range; anything else would be doing victory rolls in front of him. Maybe they'd gone on to put out some other fire.
Doberman's relief mixed with disappointment as he checked his course toward SierraMax, the squadron rendezvous point. He'd been robbed of his best shot at the scumbag. Instead, he was going to have to buy some stinking pointy-nose jock a round of drinks.
Would he have beaten the Mirage?
Shit yeah. Damn straight. Cannon versus cannon, nothing could take the Hog. He was just lining up when those guys broke up the party.
Hell, even Dixon would have wiped the Iraqi's ass for him. Where was that boy, anyway? He should have been over Doberman's back; would have gotten the damn Iraqi before he launched the missiles.
Maybe he'd make the nugget stand for the F-15er's beer.
***
Mongoose heard the Eagle pilot call “Hotel Sierra” as the Iraqi jet turned into instant scrap metal.
Hot shit. Got that son of a bitch right between the eyes.
Mongoose and A-Bomb were still a good ninety seconds south of Doberman. Meanwhile, the two Eagles had already kicked toward the east, backing up another pair of F-15s that had been sent after the Fulcrums Cougar had first warned them about.
“Devil One this is Cougar. We have you headed north. Please advise.”
Well, at least the controller was being polite, Mongoose thought to himself. He waited for the second call before answering. When he did, he asked a question of his own.
“We're short one Hog,” he told the Sentry. “You see him anywhere?”
The overworked controller was temporarily stumped. Mongoose spotted Doberman's plane— at least he assumed it was Devil Two. The Hog was heading south about two miles away.
“I'm on him,” responded A-Bomb before he could even finish pointing him out.
“His radio must be out,” Mongoose told his wingman after the plane failed to respond on any frequency. “Take him back to Al Jouf.”
“Where are you going?”
“I got to find junior.”
“Say Goose, you looked at your fuel gauge lately? It's that big dial on the right side of cockpit, right near the handle you have to pull if the tanks run dry.”
Damn A-Bomb. Always a wise ass.
“Yeah, just take Doberman home,” he snapped. He glanced at the map folded out on his lap, calculating that he had just enough in his tanks for a pass back over the GCI site before running home.
Assuming he found a tail wind.
“Goose?”
“Go. That's an order.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Bligh.”
CHAPTER 6
Over western Iraq
0717
It took forever for Dixon to realize the lilies were just the clouds playing tricks on his eyes. He passed through them, climbing high above the earth where he could clear his head.
There was something wrong with his oxygen supply. At least that's what he blamed the hallucinations on. He was incapable of panic; it had to be something physical, something tangible, something that could be fixed by turning a dial or adjusting a switch. He moved his hands deliberately around the cockpit, putting everything in order.
Slowly, the lieutenant regained control of himself and his plane. He began by breathing deeply. At first his lungs rebelled, aching with the effort. Then he felt his shoulders starting to sag, the muscle spasms finally giving way. He rocked his head to the left and then the right, his spinal cord cracking as the tension was released. Dixon was a long way from relaxed, but at least he could fly the plane.
He still had six iron bombs attached to the hard points beneath his wings. They were slowing him down, robbing not just air speed but precious fuel.
One by one, he let them go. The Hog seemed to buck slightly with each release, as if she were protesting that they had not been used on the enemy.
For all he knew, they might be dropping on one of Saddam's palaces. Dixon had yet to work out his location.
He glanced at his watch, saw it was about time for him and Doberman to be hooking up with the others at the point they had called SierraMax.
Where in God's name was that? Where was he?
He worked at the map and realized that he was now about twenty-five miles west and maybe fifteen miles south of the GCI site.
Not horribly off course, all things considered. But he was alone. Had the others tried to contact him? He hadn’t heard their calls? Had they been shot down?
It didn't make sense to go to the checkpoint. His best bet was to head straight to Al Jouf.
He'd screwed up the mission, big time. But his job now was getting to the air base in one piece.
Strange things happened in combat all the time, confusing things, bizarre things. There were excuses, not necessarily bad ones, either - the fog of war and all that.
He'd gotten turned around, lost track of his leader, lost track of himself. But it had been his first time in combat.
The fog of war.
No, it was something more than that. You didn't know who you were until you stared down the barrel of a gun. Life was one big question mark until then.
If that were true, William James Dixon didn't like what the answer had turned out to be.
CHAPTER 7
OVER WESTERN IRAQ
0728
The smoke curled in a thin line from the desert, as if fueled by the final embers of a spent cigar. It was about five miles south and three due east of the GCI site— exactly where a damaged Hog might crash after the attack.
Grimly, Mongoose altered course and continued lowering his altitude. He made double sure his radio was tuned to Guard— the band a downed flier would use to call for help.
The twisted wreckage in the distance could be a Hog. Then again, it could be a pickup truck, smoked by somebody returning home with some bombs or bullets to spare. He was by it too fast and too high to tell.
The radio stayed silent. A good or bad sign, depending on how he cared to interpret it.
Mongoose whirled his head around, making damn sure he was alone in this corner of the sky, then cranked the Hog back for another pass. This time he slowed the big plane down to a crawl; any slower and he'd be going backwards.
The major berated himself for picking Dixon for the mission. He liked the kid, but hell, he'd been in the cockpit barely long enough to qualify for a learner's permit.
>
True, Dixon had fighter jock written all over him. Easy-going bravado, spit-in-your eye aggressiveness, and just the right touches of insubordination and selfless dedication to remind any older pilot of his early years— accurately or not. Lean and at six-four on the tall side for a pilot, he had an upper body toned by the squadron weight machines and a daily run. Dixon was a recruiting poster come to life.
Or maybe death. Mongoose pushed himself high in the seat as he walked the plane across the desert, his eyes sorting through the wreckage for anything that would mark it as a Hog— a flat, stubby stabilizer or a thick round engine among the most obvious.
But no. He saw a wheel and a body and then another body.
Some sort of truck, definitely.
He couldn't help feeling relieved, even though he was looking at corpses.
Enemy corpses, but he shuddered a little.
Mongoose cast a wary eye at his fuel gauge— not great, but he still had a little to play with. He angled the jet toward the GCI site, marked out in the distance by a thick plume of black smoke. From here it was difficult to tell if the smoke was coming from one source or many.
Mongoose continued to monitor the rescue band as he headed north. Part of him hoped to hear the telltale chirp of an emergency survival beacon activated by ejection; part of him was relieved that he didn't. He expected the gunners at the GCI site to start firing any minute. Sure enough, gray fingers began raking the sky ahead. The rattle wasn't particularly threatening yet, falling far short of the Hog, but it distracted him all to hell. He had to stay low to see the ground clearly, which would mean running through the top of the triple-A in about ten seconds.
“Devil One, this is Cougar,” snapped the AWACS. “Are you reading me?”
“Go ahead, Cougar.”
“We're showing a flight headed south we think is your boy. You copy?”
“Who does he say he is?” Mongoose asked.
“Not responding at the moment. We're a bit busy here,” added the controller— a not too subtle hint.
Hogs #1: Going Deep Page 3
