Hogs #2: Hog Down

by DeFelice, Jim

  “Never tried to stop me. You got some more of this chili?”

  “All you want, sir,” said Chevy. “Hang on a second.”

  He trotted over to a small wheeled vehicle that usually held iron bombs but had been pressed into duty as a kind of tool cart. The back had a pair of coolers— one with hot food, one with cold. A battery rig had been hooked up; a Mr. Coffee was just squirting water into its pot.

  A-Bomb thought it was damn good to see ingenuity like that so close to the front lines.

  “Buddy of yours went down, huh?” Slocum asked.

  “Yeah. I got a bead on him, though. We’ll pick him up before the sun comes up.”

  “Tough country up there.”

  A-Bomb shrugged. Chevy returned with a fresh cup of chili. It wasn’t a cup, exactly— they used old MRE cans as containers. You had to make sacrifices due to the war and all.

  “What’s it like to get shot at?” Slocum asked.

  “Shot at?” A-Bomb took a mouthful of the chili. Maybe it could have used another hit of cayenne. “Nothing, really. Hadn’t thought about it.”

  “You don’t think about it?” asked Chevy.

  “Nah. Mostly what you think about is, how can I wax that son of a bitch for having the balls to try to shoot me? That’s what you think about. That and, maybe I should’ve had the Boss on instead of Nirvana.”

  “The Boss?” asked Chevy.

  “Bruce Springsteen. You guys never heard of Springsteen?”

  “Well, uh, sure we did, sir,” said Slocum. “But, uh, you listen to music while you’re flying?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?” A-Bomb got up and showed them his customized Walkman hookup, which he had wired into his suit. They whistled in admiration. “Nothing like listening to ‘E Street Shuffle’ while you’re pounding Saddam’s pissants. Uhmm, you figure that coffee’s ready now?”

  * * *

  His stomach full and thermos loaded with the security crew’s coffee— a little weak, but no sense complaining— A-Bomb did a careful preflight of his Hog. The plane’s stores had been reloaded; its gas tanks, made of a special bag-like material and protected by a fire-suppressant foam, were now filled to the brim. Four Rockeye II cluster bombs had been slapped onto the hardpoints. The big drum that fed the cannon was packed with bullets, and A-Bomb had even managed to scrounge a few plastic-wrapped generic brand cupcakes to refurbish his survival pantry.

  Moving from front to back, A-Bomb checked over the plane carefully. He ran his hands across the wings and ailerons, feeling the metal. The plane had flown all day over Iraqi territory, and hadn’t caught a whisker of flak. He gave the big fan jet a pat, moving to the forked tail at the rear of the plane. He touched it gently, almost kneading the metal the way an experienced cowboy might massage a trusted but slightly tired horse. Then the pilot gave the right rudder a good hard slap and continued around the plane, making sure she was ready to go. He gingerly touched the pitot head, used to measure airspeed, and practically saluted the AN/ALQ-119 ECM pod that hung off the right wing — A-Bomb believed in wallowing in the mud, but there was nothing wrong with sending out a good swath of electronic interference while you were doing it, especially when the enemy was spitting flak and missiles at you.

  Back at the nose of the plane, he gave the cannon a good tug, just to let it know he was counting on it. Satisfied that the Warthog was ready to go, A-Bomb pulled on his helmet and gave his flight gear a quick check— the last thing he wanted was to misplace his Three Musketeers chocolate bar during combat. Satisfied that he was ready to go, the pilot hoisted himself up onto the wing and clambered atop the plane. He settled against the fuselage, legs extended out from the wing root, head back, trying to grab a Z or two while he waited for the colonel to arrive with the Mavericks.

  Hope Mongoose is half as comfortable as this, he thought as his eyelids closed.

  CHAPTER 33

  King Fahd

  21 January 1991

  2230

  Sargeant Clyston took a turn around the back end of the avionics shop, making sure there were no problems before heading out to find Colonel Knowlington. He hadn’t decided on what he was going to do or even say; probably the words wouldn’t be anywhere near as important as the glance that would pass between them.

  All of the squadron’s Hogs had returned to base intact after a long day of missions. Clyston’s men – and a sprinkling of women – had inspected each one, repairing and refurbishing them with the speed of an Indy race car crew and the precision of a team of Mercedes mechanics. The Hog was a fantastically tough airplane, designed not only to withstand hot zones but also made to be easily maintained during war. Still, she couldn’t quite take care of herself, and people like Rosen were critical to keeping the squadron in the air.

  Which was why he put up with her.

  “Chief, we need more tacan fins,” she complained as soon as she spotted him.

  “Why? We lose one?”

  “Not yet. But—”

  “Don’t be jinxing me with that kind of talk then,” said Clyston, sliding away. He could see the colonel walking from the hangar where he’d suited up for the flight.

  “Yah, Sergeant, I haft a problem with a ving hinch,” said one of Clyston’s chiefs, a geezer named Tinman who knew nearly as much about the planes as Clyston but was considerably better with an acetylene torch. Tinman’s only drawback was his thick accent, which few could easily identify, much less decipher.

  “Wing hinge? What the hell are you doing, making these planes ready for carrier duty?” Clyston asked.

  “Daht Tomcat landed earlier. They askt me to inspect. I find damache from flak.”

  “Okay, Tinman, I’ll be with you in a second.”

  Clyston managed to squeeze away and had Knowlington in sight when another of his sergeants, Pearlman Greene, tapped him on the shoulder. Greene’s black face glistened with sweat and his eyes were narrowed down to slits.

  “Chief, could I have a word?”

  Greene wasn’t the kind of guy who asked for “a word.” Clyston realized immediately what was up— Greene headed the squadron’s survival equipment shop and had undoubtedly rigged Mongoose’s chute.

  He let Greene lead him a few yards away, around the side of one of the hangars.

  “You’re supposed to be sleeping, Pearly,” he said when the rigger finally stopped.

  “I heard there wasn’t a chute.”

  “Ah shit, that’s bullshit. Who told you that? Captain Wong? He’s from the goddamn Pentagon. He doesn’t know what’s going on.”

  “Not Wong. Not an officer.”

  Clyston scowled, holding it a little longer in case Greene couldn’t quite catch it in the darkness. “It’s still bullshit. Was the guy there? No. Geez, you know how these rumors get going. How long you been in the air force?”

  “I never lost a guy. Never.”

  “And you didn’t now.”

  “I checked the rig as carefully as I could.”

  “I know you did, Pearly. Listen, if something fucked up, it wasn’t the chute. I guarantee that. You’re the best rigger I ever met, and let me tell you, I’ve met a bunch. What the hell are you letting yourself worry for, huh? Crap, I guarantee the chute opened.”

  Greene didn’t answer. A few guys, not many, but some, could totally divorce themselves from the job. Plane goes down, well hey, that’s show business.

  Most though, and certainly the ones the Capo di Capo wanted working for him, felt it to the core. Caring was part of what made them so good. Guys like that, you could logic them to death about how it wasn’t their fault, and they still felt like they’d pulled the trigger on the SAM that took down the plane.

  “Thing is, A-Bomb saw the chute,” offered Clyston.

  “He did?”

  “Damn straight. That’s what I heard, and you know no one’s lying to me and living to tell about it. A-Bomb saw the ejection. Which means he saw the chute. You know Captain O’Rourke. He doesn’t bullshit anybody, right?”


  “Captain O’Rourke is okay.”

  “Damn straight he’s okay. Listen, Johnson is on the ground cooking up some MREs right about now, probably heating them with one of your flares. Fucking officer, right?”

  Greene laughed— weakly, but still it counted for something.

  “Thing is, we’re going to get him back,” Clyston told him. “Colonel Knowlington’s going up himself.”

  Even in the dark, Clyston could see Greene’s face light up. “The colonel. Wow.”

  Clyston nodded solemnly. “You know if the colonel’s going up there, Major Johnson is on the way back.”

  “No shit.”

  “So the chute must have worked. Because Knowlington isn’t wasting his time heading into bad guy land for someone who’s not there.”

  “Yeah, no way. Not the colonel. And he’ll get him back, too.”

  “Damn straight. Go catch some Z’s, Sergeant.”

  “I will. Thank you, Alan.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” grunted Clyston, his legs already churning as he headed away.

  * * *

  By the time he found the colonel, Skull was partaking of a flight ritual his old crew chief recognized well from Thailand.

  The pre-flight, below-wing pee. The good-luck piss. The best leak in the business, Knowlington called it.

  Unofficially, of course. Doing your business on the edge of a runway wasn’t something a pilot ever did under any circumstances ever, not in the jungle, not in the desert, not anywhere.

  And luck? No officer of the U.S. military was that superstitious.

  “Combat has some advantages, huh Sergeant?” said Knowlington, business done. His aw-shucks grin made him look twenty-three again. “Have to try that at Andrews sometime and see what the reaction is. What’s up?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Plane looks like she’s ready to fly. One of the candy men told me you had them rope on a pair of LUU-2 flares.”

  “Thought they might come in handy.”

  “I’m coming back. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Knowlington laughed. “Sure you were. That was the first time in your life you took a compliment without growling. Make sure the rest of the planes get off okay. If the frag gets screwed up because I took the spares, someone’s going to be pissed.”

  It wasn’t like he’d come to say a lot, but Clyston found his tongue tied. “I will,” he managed, smiling and stepping back. Two airmen came over to make some final check and Clyston felt himself drifting back as the colonel jumped up the ladder and slipped inside the A–10A cockpit.

  He really did seem like he was twenty-three again, full of vinegar. The old pros called him “Stick Boy.”Part of it was a compliment in honor of his flying skills. Part of it wasn’t.

  Long time ago, that. In those days, Clyston hadn’t really thought of making the Air Force a career. But after Vietnam, it just seemed to be the thing to do. No explaining why.

  Pre-flight finished and plane ready to crank, Knowlington gave them a thumbs-up signal as the Hog’s rumble turned serious. The plane began edging toward the firing line, ready to launch itself into the darkness.

  Chief Master Sergeant Clyston stood and watched until the glow from the twin jets at the back of the plane vanished into specks smaller than the stars. Finally, he nodded, hitched up his pants, and turned to see about where in hell he could find a hinge for Tinman.

  CHAPTER 34

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  21 January 1991

  2230

  When it was obvious that the Scud alert was over, Lieutenant Dixon was the first to shed his gear. He’d had to scrunch over the entire time, and as fascinating as it was to hear a television correspondent explain what it was like to be scared shitless, Dixon couldn’t help but think about the roast beef down the hall, getting cold.

  According to CNN, Patriot missiles had nailed the incoming Scuds. There apparently hadn’t been any chemicals in the warhead; at the moment, there didn’t appear to be any casualties either. For all their value as propaganda weapons, the Scuds were fairly useless tactically, amounting to more of an annoyance than anything else.

  Plus they pissed people off. Especially ones like Dixon who were waiting to eat roast beef for the first time in months.

  Three British army officers were among the other guests, as were two very pretty women who had showed the poor taste of bringing their husbands along to eat with Fernandez, his wife and their twelve-year-old son. The fact that the women were obviously spoken for made Dixon concentrate even harder on the meat.

  It turned out to be nice and hot, and even juicier than his imagination had hoped. There were mashed potatoes and gravy, and even the carrots looked good. Steam wafted upwards from the dishes. Lush, sensual aromas filled the air. For the first time in several days Dixon actually forgot about being stuck in Riyadh instead of flying a Hog.

  Plate heaped high, the lieutenant barely managed to keep his hands together as one of the Fernandez neighbors launched into a brief benediction. He had just grabbed his fork when one of the two Pakistani servants appeared and announced that someone had come to the front door looking for Lieutenant Dixon of the U.S. Air Force.

  “Me?” he pleaded, but the servant had not made a mistake. He found an Air Force security captain and a pair of Army MPs standing in the front foyer.

  “Lieutenant, I have orders for you.”

  “Now?”

  “My understanding was this was to be expedited.” The captain made an expression designed to convey the fact that he couldn’t explain everything with Dixon’s civilian host standing behind him. “That assignment you were waiting for?” he said. “Well, it’s been approved.”

  “Darn.” Dixon realized he was talking about the Special Ops gig. Talk about timing.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “It’s just— I— roast beef.”

  “Yeah, smells good.”

  “We’ll take up the slack for you, BJ,” said Fernandez. “Open invitation. Come back anytime.”

  “How about a doggy bag?”

  The captain hitched his fingers into his gun belt. “Say Lieutenant, no offense okay, but I had to shanghai half the Army to come out and find you.”

  “All right, I’m sorry,” said Dixon. “I’ll follow you.”

  “No, sir. We’ll have someone else take your vehicle back to Riyadh, if you don’t mind.”

  Man, thought Dixon, attach the words “Special Ops” to something and people really got worried.

  It would be different if he were going to go and get Mongoose. Undoubtedly the squadron DO had been picked up by now— or, more likely, taken by the Iraqis. Even if he hadn’t, it would take the better part of the night if not longer to drive all the way up to the advance base where the Pave Lows operated.

  Probably, this was just part of Knowlington’s backdoor plan to get him back to the base without raising any suspicions. But hell, couldn’t it have waited until he finished dinner?

  “Really, Captain, it’s no sweat for me to take the car back to Riyadh myself,” he said as he went out the front door.

  “I doubt your vehicle will fit in the Huey,” said the captain, pointing to the chopper revving on the front lawn.

  CHAPTER 35

  Over Saudi Arabia

  January 21 1991

  2335

  In the dark, halfway up to KKMC, Skull felt one of the engines behind him stutter momentarily. It was an infinitesimal, practically unnoticeable thing, maybe an odd current that hit that one engine only or some microscopic impurity in the fuel. But it sent an icy shudder across his spine and around to his ribs; his chest and shoulder muscles spasmed and the darkness of the sky enveloped him. He became a rock, not a pilot. He could hear his breath in his ears and feel the mask pinch his face. His legs felt heavy, his arms paralyzed.

  Until that moment, he hadn’t worried about whether he could do this. He felt he had to, and that was enough.

  But now his muscles tighte
ned and he had to work hard to control his breathing. The plane was over whatever tiny stutter it had felt, but his was just beginning. He had to think about what he was doing― with his head as well as his hands and legs.

  Hog wasn’t exactly a quick mover. Stable as hell, and predictable, but she cut through the blackness like a loaded dump truck working on three cylinders.

  For a war zone, there were a hell of a lot of lights visible. Fires, too. Couple of good ones were burning in Kuwait.

  Back in Nam, he’d poured the gas on to get away from the guns on the Laos ridge when his wingmate went down.

  It wasn’t that he was scared; it was that he’d been taken by surprise. His instincts took over.

  And betrayed him.

  Or showed who he truly was, beyond the bullshit and hype, beyond the luck. When you stood totally naked in front of the world, when it was all instinct, you couldn’t lie to yourself.

  There was a coward in him. He had to face that. They’d never recovered the crew and it was his fault.

  Damn, he wanted a drink.

  Fortunately, this was the one place in the world that he absolutely couldn’t get one. Colonel Knowlington worked his eyes around the cockpit very deliberately, letting each needle and number soak into his brain before moving on. Everything was working at shop manual specification; not bad for a plane that had received a new engine, control surfaces and sundry repairs within the past twenty-four hours.

  If his math was correct, he had fifteen minutes to KKMC. Hog might actually be a bit faster than it seemed.

  Two pilots had reported hearing fleeting transmissions over the emergency band as they returned from sorties up north. Whether they were Mongoose or not, no one could tell; they hadn’t been much more than static, and they could even have been Iraqis. The fact that Mongoose’s emergency beacon hadn’t been picked up was not a good omen. Still, the news was vague enough to be interpreted either negatively or positively.