Hogs #1: Going Deep

by DeFelice, Jim

  CHAPTER 51

  OVER IRAQ

  0605

  Like most of his peers, Captain Feroz Vali hated his country's president and family, blaming them for the ruinous war with Iran and the difficult situation they now found themselves in with America. And like most of his peers, Captain Vali left his politics and preferences outside of the cockpit.

  A good thing, since the cockpit was cramped as it was. Vali's helicopter swarmed around him, a massive flying tank. Propelled by over-sized TV3-117A engines, the Mi-24D Hind could dart through the sky like an avenging angel. With four ground-attack rocket packs mounted on its plane-like wings and a four-barrel 12.7 mm machine-gun under its chin, the Hind was as deadly an attack helicopter as any in the world.

  The problem was the helicopter was considered so valuable by the regime that Vali had been instructed to avoid combat. And to underline that instruction, he and the Hind following behind him had been posted here, far behind the lines in western Iraq.

  Vali cursed his coward's role. Yesterday, the Americans had begun their long-awaited air offensive. The official news reports said that it had been a glorious victory for Iraq, with hundreds of American planes downed. Even as he doubted the details, Vali wished for a part of glory. Heading out on his routine training mission, he toyed with the notion of taking the chopper south toward the Saudi border, well within its range. The only thing that stopped him was the realization that the desert there was most likely empty.

  Captain Vali studied the gray overcast sky as he steadied the helicopter toward its patrol point on the Amman-Baghdad Highway. A trainee could accomplish this make-work mission.

  The voice of his weapons operator snapped in his ear.

  "Captain, I have two helicopter contacts directly ahead."

  Vali glanced forward toward the operator's cockpit, directly below him in the Hind's nose.

  Two helicopters? As far as he knew, his two-chopper flight should be the only one in the sky for at least fifty miles.

  Before he could key his mike to acknowledge, the operator added, "Captain, I believe the Intercept Station G-5 is under attack."

  Vali threw his hand to the throttle, nudging the big warship toward its 180-mile-an-hour maximum speed.

  God had smiled upon him.

  CHAPTER 52

  OVER IRAQ

  0607

  Smoke furled from the GCI site, now fifteen miles away. Captain Hawkins steadied himself near the door of the big Pave Low, his teeth rattling with the whomp from the Super Jolly Green Giant's rotor. Somewhere beyond the smoke British RAF Major Clinton Rhodes was hunkered on the ground, waiting for the big green rescue choppers to appear.

  "Says he could do with a spot of tea," laughed Sergeant Winston, mocking the pilot's accent. He had the British major on the UHF rescue band.

  "Tell him to keep transmissions to a minimum," said the captain, just barely loud enough to be heard. “We still got a ways to go."

  If you stared at it long enough, the desert sand revealed endless varieties of shades, everything from yellow to gray to black and even green. Roads blurred; buildings, vegetation merged into the terrain. You lost a sense of where you were, forgot how much danger you were really in.

  Someone yelled up front. A crew member barked in reply.

  "He's waving. Yeah, we got him. It's him, it's him," shouted Winston, talking to the pilot and his captain simultaneously. "He sees us. Damn! We got real contacts on the radar."

  Hawkins folded his fingers around the metal bar he had steadied himself on. The Sikorsky angled herself for the approach, skimming even lower.

  "Enemy helicopters are coming right for us," Winston told him. "They're moving pretty fast."

  "Let's hope we move faster." Hawkins cinched his helmet and checked his rifle, narrowing his eyes for the job at hand.

  CHAPTER 53

  OVER IRAQ

  0610

  Dixon snapped the mike button angrily. "No way I'm backing off, Major. You can't go home blind."

  "I can make it back. Besides, these are just transport helicopters."

  "Let me do my goddamn job."

  There was no answer. Mongoose really had the lead out, pushing his Hog as fast as it could go along the heading Cougar had broadcast. Dixon did a quick check of his six, his hand glued to the stick and throttle.

  "Stay with me," barked the lead pilot.

  Mongoose dipped his wing toward the thick overcast between them and the ground. Dixon followed, his Hog plunging through the curtain of tufts and wind drafts. The plane bucked, then shrugged it off, slipping toward the earth like an Olympic-class diver, smooth and poised.

  Breaking into the clear, Dixon realized for the first time that their path was dangerously close to the GCI site. Though at the moment he was out of range of any antiair left down there, he had to keep it in mind if things got complicated.

  Hell, he'd have to keep a lot of things in mind. Like the fact that they would almost surely end up with less than enough jet fuel in the tanks to get home.

  ***

  It took a second for Mongoose's brain to register the helicopters, and another long second after that for it to realize they were the Pave Lows.

  "Those are our friendlies," he told Dixon, just in the case the kid had the same trouble.

  "Roger that."

  "We want positive visual IDs before we take the boogies out," Mongoose told him. The rules of engagement issued for the start of the air war were not quite that stringent, but the major didn't want to take any chances, even though the AWACS had already identified the contacts as Iraqi. "Make sure the bastard's Iraqi before you blow him away."

  "Roger that."

  Three or four other voices overran the rest of the transmission. Mongoose pushed the confusing babble to the side of his brain and steadied the Hog, giving the MH-53s as good a berth as possible. If they were talking to their downed flier he didn't hear it; at this point, the only voice that was going to make it through the filter of his brain was Dixon's. . .

  And God's. In that order.

  Air to air tactics weren't exactly his forte. The truth was, you practiced getting away from things in a Hog, not shooting them down. But Mongoose had a rough plan mapped out in his head. Once he had the enemy choppers in his face, he'd swing around to make a rear attack with the Sidewinders; the helicopters' exhaust would give the heat-seekers a good target to aim at.

  He double-checked the armament panel, making sure the Sidewinders on the double-rail at station one on the left wing were armed and ready. The missiles needed to cool their noses a bit, so their heat-seeking gear would work right. Once ready and in the thick of things, the missiles would cue the pilot for launch with an audible growl that meant "shoot me, shoot me."

  Assuming he could find the enemy birds. The blank sky wasn't giving them up easily.

  Finally, he spotted a black fur ball about seven o'clock off his left shoulder. He had just pitched his stick slightly, willing the Hog toward it, when he saw a much larger black shadow considerably higher and directly in line with the bearing the AWACS had given.

  "We got one high, we got one low," he barked over the radio. "Follow me through. We want to get them from behind their three-nine."

  ***

  "Roger that."

  Dixon stared at the immense black beetle growing in the bottom left corner of his windscreen. That was no utility chopper out on a picnic run. It was immense, with stubby wings projecting toward the ground like muscled shoulders. And the damn thing was moving.

  Big-time Hind, he thought; he wasn't sure what model. It would— or at least could— have air-to-air.

  Dixon's AIM-9 Sidewinders had been on long enough for the heat-seeking gear in their noses to cool down. But the major was right— they had to attack from behind. The missiles needed the heat signature from the engine exhaust to home in for the kill.

  The helicopters weren't going to make it easy. Something sparked from the wing of the angry bug as it suddenly whipped out of Dixo
n's screen.

  CHAPTER 54

  OVER IRAQ

  0610

  Doberman didn't need a calculator to know they didn't have anywhere near enough jet fuel to double back and help Mongoose and Dixon. In fact, he suspected they would run themselves dry even if they found the Iraqis and crashed them in record time.

  Which made it all the harder to leave them. But it was the only thing to do.

  A-Bomb concurred. "I say we kick butt on the refuel, then go find them."

  "You read my mind."

  "Damn, I'd like a piece of that," moaned A-Bomb. "Air-to-air Hog action. It's what I'm talking about."

  Doberman decided to make absolutely certain the AWACS people knew how low Mongoose and Dixon were going to be when they finished their job.

  "Cougar, this is Devil Two. Request that you expedite a tanker contact for Devil One and Devil Four. They're beyond bingo."

  It took a while for the E-3 Sentry to respond.

  "Affirmative. We will try to assist any way we can." The controller paused, then added, "How's your fuel situation?"

  "We should be at Texaco in ten," Doberman said. Even with all the stops out, the estimate of the time it would take to reach the tanker was wildly optimistic.

  "Affirmative. Don't worry about your buddies; we have some CAP coming up from the south to assist. Should arrive in three or four minutes."

  "Appreciate that," he answered.

  "Hey," barked A-Bomb after the transmission with the AWACS was complete. "How come it's Texaco? Why not Sunoco? My cousin works for Sunoco."

  "I didn't know you were related to a suit."

  "What suit? He makes change in a little booth on the Jersey shore. You're ever around Cape May, tell him I sent you. He'll give you some free window-wash."

  "Can't wait."

  CHAPTER 55

  OVER IRAQ

  0614

  "They're firing at the choppers, not us.”

  Dixon had already pulled the Hog down and hit the chaff and flares before Mongoose's words sank in. Gravity and momentum whacked him broadside as he tried to yank the plane back onto the intercept course. The leading-edge wing slats groaned as the Hog literally slid sideways, engines whining. The pilot felt as if he was being stabbed in the chest as he worked the stick and rudders a hundred feet off the ground. Something whizzed by the canopy— the missile that had been launched; one of the helicopters; maybe even an angel.

  "You go high, I'll go low," said Mongoose, unaware that Dixon's position had changed so radically.

  ***

  Mongoose didn't wait for the kid to acknowledge as he angled after the darting grasshopper. He knew now that his opponent was hardly a utility chopper. Iraq had something like forty of the Mil M-24 Hind helicopter gunships, extremely potent warbirds that combined the best features of the American Apache with the Blackhawk. Like the Apache, it was primarily a ground attack weapon, but its nose-mounted Gatling cannon was not to be taken lightly by anybody, Warthog included.

  Mongoose angled upwards, taking the Hog into a banking turn toward the helicopter's vulnerable rear as he approached. But the chopper had been waiting for his move, and pushed to get inside him. Mongoose realized it too late to spin back sharply enough to get a firing solution. That left him further away as the chopper broke for all it was worth, running about two inches off the ground.

  He lost it in the confusion. Mongoose went into a wide bank and started sweating. Maybe it was only a helicopter, but that didn't mean it couldn't shoot him down if it was in the right position.

  The pilot whirled his head around, eyes flailing the empty sky. Cursing, he yanked back in the other direction, then saw the black cricket kicking dust north. It fluttered through the diamond aiming cue on his HUD screen as he worked to bring his adrenaline— and the plane— back under control.

  The AIM-9 growled at him, telling him it thought it could make the shot from here. He hesitated a second, then pushed the button.

  ***

  Dixon found himself swimming in the cockpit, as if trying to get up from the bottom of a very deep lake. His head pressed back against the seat so hard it felt like it was would break through.

  Oxygen gulped down his throat, his heart galloped. He was losing it again.

  Look at the throttle, Knowlington had told him.

  It was stupid advice. Take your eyes off the windscreen where they belonged, and look at the throttle? Maybe back in Vietnam they did that kind of thing, but not here. He might just as well get out of the plane and kick the tires.

  Gravity was an immense piano, smashing down from twenty stories. His maneuvers robbed his brain cells of oxygen, robbed him of sensation. He couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't fly.

  Look at the god damn throttle, he told himself.

  What the hell.

  Dixon wrenched his head to the left, forced his eyes downward, forced a slower breath into his lungs, saw the handle pushed all the way to max.

  Okay, okay, okay, okay, he said, pulling his head back to the front of the plane, focusing on the HUD. Start from scratch. Slow down.

  Altitude 1250 feet, climbing.

  Okay, okay, okay, he told himself, forcing an excruciatingly long exhale from his lungs. You don't have to be calm, just in control.

  Okay, okay, okay, he told himself. Level off. Check your heading. Find the bastard.

  Okay, okay, okay. The Hind darted across the upper right quadrant of his screen, gun flailing at the Pave Lows and the major they'd come to save.

  ***

  "Fire Fox Two," said Mongoose, announcing the heat-seeking missile shot as the Sidewinder clunked down from his wingtip. But even as the unfamiliar words left his mouth, the pilot realized that no matter what the missile thought, he'd fired from too great a range and angle to guarantee a hit. The helicopter was already whipping hard to the east, letting off a succession of flares to confuse the heat-seeker.

  It didn't matter now. His job was to protect the Pave Lows, not collect a kill. Whether the missile got it or not, that Hind was no longer a treat. Mongoose swung back to help Dixon crash the other bird.

  He saw the rescue helicopters first; both were on the desert floor dead ahead. The Hind materialized on his left, cannon smoking as it roared into the middle of his screen.

  The Sidewinder growled. Mongoose punched the button, felt it kick off, and in the same instant realized Dixon was cutting across from the right toward the Iraqi, crossing directly for the path the AIM-9 would take.

  CHAPTER 56

  OVER IRAQ

  0617

  The Iraqi pilot cursed as the cannon beneath the helicopter's nose began to rumble. His gunner had begun firing much too soon.

  No matter. The distance between himself and the two American helicopters was closing rapidly. It was only a matter of ten or fifteen seconds.

  The appearance of the American planes had caused him only a second's hesitation. He couldn't blame his companion in the second Hind for turning off; those were, after all, their orders.

  But it was something Captain Vali would never do. The two American planes had flown past, obviously trying for a better position for attack. They were odd planes, nearly black with forked tails and strangely placed engines. He guessed that they had decided to concentrate on the other helicopter first, and would soon be coming for him.

  He had several evasive maneuvers planned. But he would wait until he had accomplished his first mission— the enemy helicopters. Galloping forward, he heard his co-pilot shouting something in his com set, and realized the cannon was whirling around on its axis toward another target.

  CHAPTER 57

  OVER IRAQ

  0619

  The helicopter's slow speed crossed him up. Dixon misjudged his approach and lost any possibility of a shot, not even with his cannon. As he pulled off he saw Mongoose coming out of the northwest; some inexplicable pilot's sense made him roll the Hog hard to the right even as the launch warning sparked the radio.

  The indium-anti
monide in the guidance section of the AIM-9M Mongoose had fired had its heart set on the Hind. Even so, the proximity of Dixon's exhaust was so tempting that for a half-second the little brain couldn't decide what to do.

  In that half second, two things happened: The targeted Hind shot off flares and changed course momentarily, away from the Pave Lows. And Dixon rolled the Hog and his IR signature away from the missile.

  The AIM-9's proximity fuse circuitry got so confused that it decided it had missed its target and therefore ought to detonate anyway.

  Had they been close enough, the fragments would have done serious damage to a typical, unarmored air frame. In this case, however, they were just so much more shrapnel littering the air as Dixon recovered from his swooping roll and swung for the chopper. The Hind splashed out some bullets in his direction, then cranked back toward the Pave Lows, guns blazing.

  Throttle to the firewall, the Hog moved nearly twice as fast as the Hind; the pilot was nearly in front of the helicopter before realizing where the hell he was. He pulled hard left, knocking the Iraqi off his course but taking a wing's worth of 12.7 mm shells for his persistence.

  Orbiting quickly, Dixon took as slow a breath as he dared, steadying his hand on the stick, glancing at the weapons panel though he knew the cannon was ready. This time he didn't need Knowlington's advice - he felt the stick in his grip, felt the plane around him, saw the Hind flashing to the right and knew that it would fall into the Hog's crosshairs in a half second.

  ***

  There is no precise formula for becoming a combat pilot, no clear line to be crossed. A green newbie passes a series of initiations that guarantee nothing and yet are more critical than oxygen. It happens in various ways at various times, sometimes noticeably, most often not.

  For Lieutenant William James "BJ" Dixon, it happened the second he pressed his finger on the red trigger, lighting the A-lOA's GAU-8/A Avenger cannon, and watched as the stream of 30 millimeter slugs tore the helicopter in front of him to pieces.