His head is still back with the front of the underpass, wondering why the hell he didn’t get a bigger boom. Maybe he’s figured out they’re decoys.
There’s no warning until the launch. The gunner must be using his eyeballs or something is screwed up.
Using his eyeballs? Shit. What the hell would the odds be on making that shot?
But something like that happened. The ECMs are useless against the Roland anyway. So let’s say he lets go and the missile takes up its own targeting. He starts pulling off here when he’s hit.
Okay, no, he didn’t quite make the turn. Which actually gives him this vector when the Roland comes out.
Yes, and the Hog kicked due north after the ejection, okay, he was going this way when he went out.
Mongoose has turned off, he’d be working himself back, momentum shifting around. Doesn’t see the shot.
Which hits him here? How?
No. He’s still moving. Has to be back over there, because otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten both trailers before he pulled off. But boy, this really doesn’t line up with the crash site.
Of course it doesn’t, because the missile takes out part of the wing, enough to make it spin back.
The plane was throwing them off. Damn, he knew from ‘Nam you couldn’t trust the stinking wreckage. Planes had a mind of their own once no one was watching them. Hell, he’d heard of one flew all the way back to its aircraft carrier and landed on its own.
Probably not a true story.
So Mongoose is fighting a yawl and leaning over like a sinking ship when he pulls the handles. Comes out like an artillery shot instead of a mortar, sideways.
And then you add the wind.
He was further south than they’d been looking.
Much. Beyond where they’d smoked those trucks.
Shit.
“A-Bomb, were you inverted when you saw Mongoose?”
“I was climbing.”
“Put your plane there.”
“The exact spot?”
“As close as you can. Slow it down.”
“I go any slower I’m going to be moving backwards.”
“Hogs can’t do that?”
The colonel watched Devil Two fly over the dead truck, then jerk upwards and around. “Saw it here out of the corner of my eye.”
“You sure you weren’t further south.”
“I might’ve been a little. My angle was sharper, that’s for sure. I saw him while I was jinking.”
“And he got both Scud decoys on his run?”
“Smoked ‘em.”
“Take my wing.”
“What are we doing?”
“Just crank up your music and follow me.”
CHAPTER 50
On the ground in Iraq
22 January 1991
0520
When the Iraqi major was sure the soldier was dead, he knelt near him and with his knife cut away a piece of his shirt. He worked roughly, keeping one eye on Mongoose the entire time. He knotted the strip of cloth with his teeth, then flung it toward the pilot.
The sling landed on the ground. Mongoose waited for the major to step back, then took a step and scooped it up.
He caught a strong whiff of the dead man’s sweat as he pulled it around his shoulder.
The pain had leveled off. He eased his arm into the sling, then pressed his fingers into a fist around the edge of the material. They were limp and starting to swell slightly.
“And now we start walking,” said the Iraqi. “You first.”
Mongoose turned and started toward the road. The sun was nearly up now. He knew the Hogs would come back; it was just a question of waiting long enough for them.
Had the Iraqi been lying about the soldiers coming for them? No matter; the Hogs would smoke them as they’d smoked the trucks.
They might smoke him, too. He’d have to wave a flag or something.
How?
If the planes appeared, he might be able to convince the Iraqi to surrender with him. Maybe that was why he was treating him so well— maybe he hoped an SAR team would pop up over the horizon.
He’d been trained as an engineer in America. Maybe he wanted to go back.
That was why he was being so nice.
“You’re going slow,” said the Iraqi. He sounded like he was ten feet behind him.
“I’m tired.”
“You’ll sleep soon enough.”
“What happened to the rest of your men? The planes didn’t kill them all.”
A sore point, obviously– the Iraqi didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was sharp and stern.
“That is not your concern.”
They walked more. Mongoose’s legs were starting to wear out, but his head raced with the pain and adrenaline. He needed some plan to get away, but his mind wouldn’t focus long enough on any one possibility. Run for it, turn around overpower the Iraqi, talk his captor into giving up with him— ideas flitted indiscriminately through his brain, each as likely as the next. He had no more judgment.
“Why have you stopped?” the captain asked him.
“I’m stopped?”
Mongoose turned around, genuinely surprised. The sky had lightened sufficiently now that they could see each other’s expressions from ten paces away, and the Iraqi must have realized that his prisoner was not trying to trick him.
“We cannot stop,” he said. “You may be too tired to keep moving.”
“I’m really tired. I’ve been up since very early yesterday.”
“If you cannot come with me, I’ll kill you. I’ll say that the planes did it, or that you were trying to escape.”
“My legs feel like they’re going to fall off. Let me sit a moment, then I’ll try again. Or we can wait for the men you said were coming for us.”
Reluctantly, the Iraqi motioned that he could rest. Jangled as he slipped down, Mongoose’s arm screamed with pain. In a way, he welcomed it— the Iraqi was right; he was dangerously close to falling asleep.
Not even sleep, oblivion. His body had been through so much in the past twenty-four hours, in the past week, since the war began, in the past two months— he just didn’t have anything left. Sleep was a warm, beckoning sauna, waiting to sweat the fatigue from his body.
He had to survive. Sleep was as much the enemy, more the enemy, than the Iraqi major.
“Why did you leave the States?” Mongoose asked.
“I told you. I came home,” said the Iraqi. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, savoring the nicotine.
“You married?”
“Yes. I have two children.”
“I just had my first. I was there when he was born. Pretty intense.”
The Iraqi took another long drag of his cigarette. He held his pistol straight down in his hand; it was a dull shadow against his leg.
“What are their names?” Mongoose asked.
“Names?”
“Your kids.”
“Amir and Sohrab. Boys.”
“Mine’s Robert. Robby. He’s three months old. Or three and a half by now. Almost four.”
The Iraqi didn’t answer. Maybe he was tired, too, or maybe he was thinking about the men who’d deserted him.
Or the ones lying dead a few hundred yards down the road.
I’m going to have to kill him, Mongoose realized. He’s not going to let me go when the Hogs come back. And he’s not going to surrender.
“Come on,” said the Iraqi. “Let’s move.”
“Won’t your headquarters people be coming soon? Can’t we just wait?”
“It’s better for you to walk. You have to keep blood circulating. Besides, you may go into shock.”
“I already am.” Mongoose tried to laugh.
“I don’t think so.”
“You a doctor?”
“I took an EMT class at the college.”
“Why’d you go to America for school if you were coming home?”
“I wasn’t coming home then.” The captain t
ook one more serious breath from the cigarette, burning it down to its filter. He flicked it away just as the ember reached his fingertips. “I wanted to be an American.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to be rich. Come on, let’s go.”
“Are you going to give me back my letter?”
“Up!”
Mongoose had trouble getting up. The ligament in his knee had stiffened; the pain wasn’t much compared to his arm, but with the fatigue now it slowed him even further. The major was right— he had to keep moving or his muscles would just shut down.
“So I guess you didn’t get rich,” he told his captor as he started to walk.
“There are more important things.”
Maybe he didn’t shoot me because there are no bullets in his gun.
Mongoose had heard stories of troops not being issued ammunition for fear that they would revolt against Saddam. But were those stories true? And would an officer not be given ammunition?
Why else would he let me live? Because he’s a nice guy?
Because it was his duty to bring me back alive.
“You’re walking much too slowly.”
“I’m sorry. Everything’s tightening up on me. I slammed my knee when I parachuted. My body feels like it’s paralyzed. And my damn head is pounding like a jackhammer. Back of my neck.”
“Keep moving. It’s the best thing.”
“I’m trying. What made you change your mind?”
“About what?”
“About coming back here.”
The Iraqi didn’t answer.
“My son was born three months ago,” said Mongoose. Talking felt like taking a long sip of a very sweet drink, something sappier than a margarita. He was in shock, definitely. And he was so tired his mind was drifting into a dreamy unreality. He felt as if he might be on the verge of hallucinating. He felt as if he might be on the verge of dying.
And he had to kill this man if he was going to be rescued.
“I was there for his birth,” Mongoose said, feeling each thread of his consciousness slipping away.
“What was it like?” the captain asked.
What was it like?
Like something beyond comprehension. The moment standing there, seeing his head inching out, then all of a sudden bolting, almost flying forward.
Holding the baby, warm and sticky.
“I don’t know if I can describe it,” Mongoose told him. “It was very, surreal.”
As surreal as now, standing stock still in the middle of the Iraqi desert with a man who had a gun a few feet from his chest, pointed at the ground but easily raised?
It had to be empty or he’d be dead already.
Maybe not. But he’d never get the Iraqi to let him go or join him. For all the kindness he had shown, he had to be killed.
No. If he could overpower him he could just leave him here, make him walk away.
But what made him think they were coming back? By now the Air Force had probably concluded Mongoose was dead. They’d have seen the wreckage and not heard a radio. The Hogs had probably greased the trucks out of frustration and anger. They were mad because they had to give him up.
“I would have liked to see the birth of one of my children,” said the Iraqi.
“Maybe you will. The next one. Could I have some water? I really need a drink.”
The Iraqi reached to his belt for his canteen.
Now, Mongoose’s brain said. Now is your last chance. Jump him.
By the time he told himself it was a foolish move, he was already rolling on top of the enemy.
CHAPTER 51
Upstate New York
21 January 1991
2120
(22 January 1991; 0520, Saudi Arabia)
Kathy was so drained she went right to bed after talking to the reporters. She drifted off right away, but then something stalled— her mind stuck and she couldn’t get to sleep. She lay under the blankets, thoughts plowing back and forth.
There had been plenty of sleepless nights over the past two months, and not because of the baby. Robby was really perfect.
What would it be like raising him alone? A boy without a father.
Kathy wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulder, pushing herself against the bed. It was nearly impossible to clear her mind of those thoughts. Most of the tricks she used to get to sleep— thinking about good times in the past, or to come— just brought her husband back sharply.
She tried thinking of Paris. They’d never been there, but they had talked about going. If they had had a real honeymoon, that’s where they would have gone.
When they had a real honeymoon, she corrected herself. Jimmy had promised they would go soon. He had leave coming up, and there was a little bit of money saved. Hell, why not charge the credit cards up like everyone else?
Kathy rolled herself out of the bed and sat on the edge for a second, wondering if she should just get up and get dressed. Maybe have some coffee, or maybe even a cigarette with the others.
She could hear her father–in–law’s voice in the kitchen. It sounded a little like her husband’s.
Jimmy’s was a little deeper. His words came quicker.
It had been ages since they’d talked. Ages since they’d last slept together. It had been in this bed. Her back and legs and arms ached to feel him curled around them.
She thought she heard the baby stirring. Kathy took two steps, peeked over. He lay on his back with his eyes closed, mouth open, arms casually flung apart.
A perfect little boy. She reached down and though he was sleeping, picked him up and held him tight against her chest.
CHAPTER 52
On the ground in Iraq
22 January 1991
0525
The man felt less substantial than he expected, his body lighter, thinner, yet he struggled viciously, writhing and snaking below Mongoose.
It was all or nothing. The Iraqi’s gun was surely empty, but he’d pound him with his bare hands if he won, kick him into unconsciousness and then go back and get one of his men’s guns. Mongoose fought despite the pain, flailing and shaking and punching and rolling, butting his head into his captor’s chest, working his legs and knees as if they were battering rams. Every cell in his body flared with inhuman anger. He heard himself screaming, felt himself being pushed over, bulled his shoulders and screamed again.
The gun was in his chest, between them. The Iraqi was screaming, too.
“I’ll let you go!” Mongoose yelled. “I’ll let you live because you let me live, but I’m escaping. I’m living.”
They rolled over twice. Pain was his whole body. He’d never known a time when he wasn’t pain. Mongoose kicked and crashed his head into his captor’s chin, felt the groan.
Fingers clawed at his eye. A nail gouged at the corner, burrowing into the edge of his nose. Fog and dirt and sweat and sand swirled around their bodies, consuming them with a fine, misty crud.
The gun was between them. Mongoose felt its barrel against his chest.
“I’ll let you go,” he told the Iraqi. “I’ll let you go, but my guys are coming back and I’m going with them.”
There was an explosion, and the pain that had taken over his body disappeared. The air turned to metal and hung in his nose.
The Iraqi let go of him. Dazed, Mongoose slipped backwards, lay on the ground a good while. The sky was lightening. It was dawn.
“I meant it,” he told the Iraqi, sitting up. “My guys are coming back. You can come with me if you want.”
Mongoose looked over and saw the major’s body prone on the ground, a large, black and red oozing hole covering three–fourths of his throat.
CHAPTER 53
Over Iraq
22 January 1991
0535
A-Bomb pushed his plane to follow his boss.
The thing was, Knowlington was a different guy in the air. Not a bad guy, a good flier definitely, but different.
He was quicker with his words
and used a hell of a lot less of them.
Plus, on the ground he let people toss their ideas in. Up here, wham-bang, this is what we’re doing. Follow along and keep your lip zipped.
And your cockpit music turned down.
Not that A-Bomb was the sensitive type. And hell, the old coot knew what he was doing, even if they were flying a good ten miles south of where A-Bomb was sure Mongoose had gone out.
The pilot shifted in his seat, feeling himself into a good position. One of these days he was going to figure out how to get some form-fitting thing going on. You couldn’t use a thicker cushion; the ejection force was so severe the metal base would slam up through a pad and hit you harder than a bullet. Still there ought to be some way of making the frame itself more comfortable. Kind of thing was done all the time. All it took was creative customization. Maybe old Tinman could handle it. Guy had a way with metal.
A-Bomb stretched his neck, working against a kink. His eyes slid around the Hog’s panels, making sure the numbers agreed with his gut. They did.
The idea to use the Mavericks was a damn good one. Hell, they should have found Mongoose by now.
Not that he wanted to think about that too much. He decided it was probably not a bad time for a Twinkie. Except that he didn’t have any left.
Have to go to the backup chocolate Twizzlers in his leg pack.
A-Bomb slipped his hand down toward the pocket’s zipper and retrieved the bag of candy. One thing about war— you could never get enough licorice.
The colonel was already pushing his Hog into the bushes as A-Bomb finished wadding the Twizzlers into his mouth. They were near the trucks they’d splashed on the way north before dawn. He could see them in the foggy haze, ghost trucks haunted by dead men.
Something was moving down there.
No way it could be anything but an Iraqi soldier, right?
Shit.
Hogs #2: Hog Down Page 18
