“No, I got you,” said A-Bomb.
“We’re going over that spot near the buildings with a fine tooth comb.”
“Listen, I didn’t mean that I thought you wouldn’t warn me if someone was shooting at me. I just had a hunch, like I felt something coming off the ground for me.”
Knowlington didn’t bother answering.
CHAPTER 46
On the ground in Iraq
22 January 1991
0500
Mongoose landed arm first and felt a bone in his forearm snap.
His head blanked. His whole body moved away from him. Dirt pushed into his nose and mouth. He bit the inside of his lip, felt the dizziness come, and rolled.
The pilot remembered the flares tucked inside his flight suit. He got to his knees and reached for the bandoleer. Halfway there the pain overwhelmed him and his right arm fell limp; he fell forward onto his head, scraping against the dirt. Bent into the earth, resting on his shoulder, he reached for the flares with his good hand, tearing at his suit to retrieve them.
There was shouting and moaning and crying behind him. The A-10s had pulled off, probably to line up for another pass. They’d see the flare if he fired.
The gas tank on one of the trucks exploded. He felt the heat on his back, felt himself pitched to the side. He rolled, loosing the bandoleer with the flares before he stopped against something large and soft.
It was one of the Iraqi soldiers. Reaching to push himself away Mongoose felt the man’s uniform. It was wet; he’d been so scared he’d peed himself.
Shuffling himself to his knees Mongoose, realized the man was dead. It wasn’t piss, it was blood. His left hand was smeared with it.
He turned away, looking for the bandoleer. The flare the Hogs had launched was still descending but its light was becoming fitful. One or two men moved on the far side of the road. He heard crying. His own arm hurt so bad he couldn’t be entirely sure the moans weren’t his own.
He saw the flares and pushed his body down for them as if he were a snake, not a man, curling in the cold fog and fine dirt. He made an effort to keep his right hand close to his body and immobile, but firing the flares was more important. He grappled with the holder and the small gun, had to use his bad arm, and might have screamed with the pain, but his head was swimming now with adrenaline. He managed somehow to push the jackhammering throb to one side. He rolled back on his haunches into a seated position, cradling the launcher on the ground, and fired.
Nothing happened.
He started to move his head forward to take a look when the rocket hissed upward, streaking toward the sky like a July 4th firework. Shocked, he jerked backward, dropped the launcher, and fell onto his back as the rocket climbed quickly to nearly six hundred feet, where its small warhead ignited with a red burst.
Did they see it? The LUU-2 was still burning, and now there were other flares just north of them, decoys probably; whoever was flying the Hogs was worried about ground missiles.
They hadn’t seen him. He would have to fire another. Mongoose scooped up the bandoleer and forced it into his right hand. His fingers had numbed but he managed to hold it steady enough to remove another of the small, cylindrical metal cartridges. There were like mini-thermoses, filled not with water but life-giving fire.
“No,” said a voice behind him.
Mongoose turned and saw the Iraqi captain, his pistol aimed at his face. The man’s uniform was singed and tattered; fog and smoke swirled around him. But his mouth and eyes looked calm and determined despite the chaos.
“If you try to fire another flare, Major, I will kill you. Put the launcher down.”
The jets had moved off. Their engine noise was gone; they’d missed him.
“Put the launcher down. Now, Major. I will not tell you again.”
Slowly, carefully, Mongoose complied.
CHAPTER 47
Over Iraq
22 January 1991
0505
Colonel Knowlington pushed the stick hard, felt the world drop away. His brain split into two halves. One contained the fuzzy TVM image, and the other the blur of dark earth in front of the Warthog’s nose. He wanted to be low so Mongoose would be sure to hear them. He wanted to make this fast, just in case someone other than his pilot was down there.
He also wanted not to plow into the earth.
But he worked the roll and dive well, pushing the plane over, then around, and finally into a majestic swoop as pretty as poetry, pulling out and starting to recover just as the altimeter touched two hundred feet. He rocked across the path he’d mapped above as perfectly as if he were drawing it on paper.
The TVM was blank. The dirt here was cold and dead, without so much as an old log on the surface. He pushed around, checked his altitude, checked the screen, looked outside. Nothing.
The Warthog loved it down here. She felt like a horse finally released from the paddock.
Most likely, A-Bomb hadn’t meant the flares as a vote of no-confidence.
Knowlington nudged the Hog into another turn. He made four more low-level circuits, scanning the entire area as carefully as a miner working an old stream.
The TVM stayed blank. He couldn’t get the shadow back, not even a hint of one.
“See anything?” he asked his wingman.
“Negative. I was hoping for a strobe, but nada.”
“I’m going to do it again.”
“Gotcha.”
He got his airspeed down even further for the second low-level pass, dropping down toward a hundred knots, slower than a car on a highway. Plane didn’t seem to mind; she seemed capable of just about stopping in midair.
He knew Mongoose wasn’t here but he made a complete circuit anyway. Where the hell could he be?
Most likely, the Iraqis had gotten him already. That explained why there were no radio transmissions.
There could be another explanation. The pilot’s body could be lying back there in the wreckage, mangled beyond recognition. They could be wasting their time, and risking their own necks for nothing.
He was going to catch holy shit when Glosson found out about this little adventure. It’d be worth it if he came back with Mongoose.
What the hell. At his age, the only thing he was really good for was getting yelled at.
No. He could still fly. Damn Hog proved that. For all the bad things he’d once said about her, she didn’t hold even the barest of grudges. She might be smirking a little bit, just around the edges, but otherwise she did what he asked, real smooth and professional.
Knowlington began pulling up as he returned to his starting point. This time A-Bomb asked him if he’d seen anything.
“Negative,” Skull told him. “Maybe that shadow wasn’t anything, or maybe he heard all the commotion and started heading north. Let me come up a bit and then let’s follow the highway.”
“Gotcha.”
“Say A-Bomb, I have a question for you. Is that music I hear behind your transmissions?”
“The Boss. Bruce Springsteen.”
Knowlington snorted into his mike. “You planning on blasting the Iraqis with it?”
“I told Clyston it would be a good idea,” said A-Bomb. There was no question he was serious. “A couple of speakers mounted below the wings and I could scare the piss out of them while I was taking a bomb run. Like a Stuka’s siren. That’s what I’m talking about.”
Hog drivers.
But hell, Knowlington thought, I’m one of them.
“Don’t let it break your concentration,” he told his wingman, fixing his eyes back on the TVM as he swung onto the new course.
CHAPTER 48
On the ground in Iraq
22 January 1991
0510
His arm hurt like all hell. The pain seemed to push his whole body off at a strange angle, twisting his movements into a tortured caricature as the various muscles and nerves tried to compensate for the imbalance the injury had caused.
Mongoose had sprained his wr
ist twice in high school playing football, but this was a million times worse. His stomach felt as if he’d swallowed a bowling ball. His temples were cold and sweaty. It might be because he was tired and hungry and thirsty, drained from the ordeal of the last twenty-four hours, or maybe it was just the way broken bones felt. He sat with his head against his knees, eyes closed, as the Iraqi captain surveyed the remains of his command. The bandoleer with its flares was only a few yards away, but it might as well be miles now. Mongoose mouthed a piece of his flight suit into his teeth, gritting against it as if it might offer some sort of relief.
“Your arm,” said the Iraqi, standing over him. “What happened?”
“When I fell off the truck. It broke, I guess.”
“You friends did that to you.”
He didn’t answer. The captain didn’t know how right he was. The attackers had definitely been Hogs, and they must have been looking for him. He would bet anything that A-Bomb had been one of the pilots.
Pretty damn ironic.
“My division headquarters will send troops to pick us up. You will not escape.”
Mongoose nudged his head back toward his knee, bit again. The ground was tilted to his left, keeling over on its axis.
He wondered how long he could remain conscious.
“All right, Major, let us move back to the road. There is more light there. Come on now, get up.”
Mongoose flinched when the man touched him under the shoulder, but once again his grip was light, not quite gentle but not wrenching either. He stumbled, aware that the captain had his pistol drawn.
“Go, ahead of the trucks. I am right behind you.”
Mongoose began walk. They were alone. Four or five bodies were scattered near the trunk, including that of the man he had landed against when the gas tank exploded.
There had been at least a half-dozen more, but they were nowhere around. It was possible they were biding their time in a defensive position up the road, or had regrouped with an NCO. But Mongoose didn’t think so; he thought they had run off. They were mostly kids, after all, and it was a good chance that this had been their first real combat.
He’d heard a lot of things before the war about how tough the Iraqis were; the country had sustained a long conflict with Iran, after all. But the Iraqis didn’t seem to be living up to their advance billing.
“Ahead of the truck and onto the road,” said the major. “Keep moving.”
Mongoose corrected his course. Walking along the highway had its advantages; it would make it easier for the Hogs to find him.
They’d be back soon. The sun was starting to peek up at the far edge of the horizon. They’d have an easy time spotting him once it was light.
What would the major do then?
Shoot him most likely.
They walked together for no more than five minutes, Mongoose leading the way slowly, holding his damaged right arm but not looking at it.
“Stop now. We’ll rest here. Let me see your arm.”
“It’s fine,” Mongoose told him.
“Let me see it,” said the captain. He held his pistol in his left hand, close to his body. Mongoose eyed it, thought of trying to wrestle for it. The Iraqi didn’t seem particularly powerful, but of course Johnson had only one good arm. And he was too far away; he’d get off at least two shots before Mongoose even came close.
Bile welled in his throat as he held his right arm out. If he’d had anything in his stomach besides water he would have puked.
“Undo your shirt sleeve. This is as close as I’m getting.”
As Mongoose reached to his sleeve, he realized it was covered with blood. His first thought was that the blood had come from the Iraqi he’d stumbled over earlier, but as he curled his fingers beneath the cuff he realized it was wetter beneath the sleeve. The involuntary startle sent a fresh wave of nausea and pain through his body. He dropped his arm with a groan and sank slowly, finally overwhelmed. Everything beyond the immediate confines of his body disappeared into a hazy buzz.
“Do not move,” said the captain from inside the haze. Mongoose felt the barrel of the pistol against his cheek. A knife appeared at his sleeve and he felt the fabric being torn away. The pain he felt in his arm made Mongoose shriek. He stumbled against the captain, then cringed, his eyes closed, expecting the man to shoot him.
But he did not. The Iraqi waited for Mongoose to catch his balance with his good arm, then calmly took two steps backwards. He slipped the knife back into its sheath.
“You have a compound fracture. It will have to be set as soon as we get back. There will be a doctor. Just be sure to say that I did not do that to you when we reach my headquarters.”
Mongoose stuttered a yes. The buzz began to subside, the pain receding or his ability to deal with it growing. He leaned back from his three-point stance, resting in a crouch.
It seemed inconceivable that the officer would be this kind. Surely, if their situations had been reversed and his own men were lying dead nearby, at least some of his anger would have shown through. He might even have shot the son of a bitch. No one would blame him, and he could always say the guy was trying to escape.
If anyone even bothered to ask.
Maybe it was a duty thing, the major under orders to fetch the pilot back alive. Maybe there was a reward, and it would only be paid if he was unharmed. Still, to act so mildly toward him— it seemed incredible.
And yet he was the enemy, not a friend. He had meant it when he said he would shoot him if he tried to escape; there seemed no doubt about that.
“I’m going to put a canteen on the ground. When I step back, you can have a drink.”
“Thank you, Major.”
“You’re welcome, Major.”
Mongoose focused his eyes on the ground in front of him, waiting for the canteen. His tongue was dry in his mouth, brittle; he wanted water so badly, his heart started pounding.
It could be a trick, he thought when the canteen failed to appear. Maybe perverted revenge.
But no, he had only been unscrewing the top. The Iraqi stepped back and motioned for Mongoose to come forward.
He did quickly. The water felt incredibly delicious. He knew he shouldn’t have too much— more than a few mouthfuls on an empty, parched stomach and it would all come shooting back, leaving him more dehydrated than before. But it took great effort to stop. He squatted with the canteen between his legs and fixed the cap with his good hand.
“Very creative,” said the Iraqi after retrieving the canteen. “You must have been a good engineer.”
“Actually, I probably sucked. All I’ve ever really wanted to do was fly. Engineering was just a backup.”
“Too bad you didn’t choose it.”
“I’ve done all right.”
As Mongoose finally rose, a fresh breeze scratched at his face. He didn’t feel its chill; instead, it seemed to push more of the pain away.
He remembered Kathy’s letter and reached for it involuntarily.
“Stop!” demanded the Iraqi.
“It’s nothing. Just the letter you gave me back before. From my wife.”
It was too dark to read his face clearly, but the major’s tone said that he would no longer completely trust him. “Empty your pocket slowly,” the Iraqi told him.
Mongoose reached inside and took out the letter. He held it up.
“Just the letter from my wife. It’s not worth anything to you. You already saw it and gave it back.”
They were silent for a moment. The Iraqi reached forward to grab the letter and Mongoose felt anger well up inside him. For a half-second he thought he was going to dive into the man; his muscles tensed for what would have been a quick, suicidal fight.
Then the major snatched the letter from his hand and jumped back. Any chance of attacking him was gone.
“I haven’t read it yet,” said Mongoose.
“You’ll have plenty of time later. Let’s find something to make a sling,” said the Iraqi. “And then we will wal
k. It is better than sitting around waiting for your friends to come back, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER 49
Over Iraq
22 January 1991
0515
Skull snapped the mike button as he acknowledged the airborne controller. Things were getting busy, but even with upwards of a hundred pilots trucking north no one had heard from Mongoose or picked up his emergency beacon.
The ground had an orange glow to it, and some pieces of vegetation near the horizon looked as if they were on fire. The buildings were dull black and silver, just starting to catch the light.
The wrecked overpass and its assorted debris came up on his right wing. Skull walked past it, indicated air speed down to one hundred and twenty knots— he could flop down the landing gear and put down on the roadway. Skull gave himself more throttle and took the Hog into a gentle climb, gradually working himself into a wide, lazy— considering where they were — turn while he scanned the ground for any sign of Mongoose or his parachute. It ought to be visible by now.
Assuming he’d gone out.
He gave a quick glance at the gas gauge on his right panel, then put his eyes back outside, moving ahead toward the wreckage of the A-10A, working out what had happened for the third or fourth time.
He was hit back there, the plane crashed up here. Somewhere in between, there ought to be a chute.
Or his chair at least, if everything screwed up.
Nothing.
Okay, so there’s a lot of wind. Still, he didn’t just disappear.
Skull kept the Hog climbing as he circled again, his eyes working the ground like a miner sifting for gold. A-Bomb had done all of this yesterday, the F-16s had done this— nothing.
What if the Iraqis picked him up right away? That would explain why there was no radio transmission. They might have taken the chute and seat. Most likely they would, either as evidence or souvenirs.
Passing over the Scuds, Skull reset the attack run that had gotten Mongoose nailed. Devil One was there, Devil Two there. Overpass was immense, got to give them that. Attack here, zoom in. Bam, bam, bam. Mongoose pulls up.
Hogs #2: Hog Down Page 17
