He gripped his stick tightly and leaned forward, his plane a dark green angel streaking toward earth.
Chapter 54
On the ground in Iraq
22 January 1991
0535
His eyes were open. They were a small part of the face, with brown irises glossy in the growing blue light.
The final trace of surprise lingered in the cheeks.
Mongoose did not want to touch the body, but he could not leave Kathy’s letter in the dead man’s pocket. He knelt, feeling his joints crack; suddenly dizzy, he reached out to steady himself and put his hand on the dead man’s chest.
The letter. I have to get the letter.
Mongoose fumbled with the button on the dead man’s shirt pocket. His chest was still warm.
The wrong pocket. He removed his hand as if he’d felt a scorpion, undid the other button, grabbed the folded envelope.
Something else slipped out of the pocket. He could tell from the slick backing back that it was a photograph. Mongoose bolted upright and began running away, back toward the burned out shells of the trucks the A-10As had smoked.
He didn’t get very far before finding himself almost out of breath. He told himself to relax, told himself he’d be rescued soon. He needed to get into checklist mode.
Checklist mode. First item ― make sure the rest of these bastards are all dead.
He needed a weapon. The closest body was about a hundred yards away, at the edge of the road. The man’s rifle lay in his out-stretched hand.
Dead? Or was he just pretending, waiting until the American dropped his guard?
Mongoose stopped, edged to his left, off the highway. He froze, scanning beyond the man for any movement.
Nothing.
He edged out further. The ground had a good layer of dust on it, but was hard-packed. He could step easily. It wasn’t like walking on a beach, with all its loose sand.
For just a second, he smelled salt water in his nostrils.
Checklist mode.
The Iraqi wasn’t moving, but something beyond him was. Mongoose pushed his legs and his lungs, started walking, heart-pounding. His muscles were stiff but they seemed to move easier the faster he went.
It was a Russian rifle, an assault gun. Mongoose snatched at it, ready to pry it from the man’s hand, but it came up so easily he nearly fell over.
Something was moving near the far truck. One of the bodies.
He pushed the gun up, cradling it against his ribs and squeezed the trigger, expecting a torrent of bullets. Nothing happened.
The body kept moving. It was coming toward him.
He looked at the unfamiliar rifle in his hand. The gun had a cocking handle on the right side.
Pull it back? Push it?
He had to steady the gun with his legs to get at the handle. He pulled it back, looked up and saw the Iraqi soldier less than twenty yards away, just reaching for a rifle.
He pulled up the gun and pulled the trigger again. The rifle barked ferociously, the ground ahead of the man erupting with bullets. For all the noise, the backlash from the gun was mild, no more than that from a .22 squirrel plinker.
But he missed. And now the soldier had reached the gun. Mongoose felt his legs go out from under him, he landed on his butt and rolled, his bad arm screaming.
Was he cocked? Did he have to reload?
Desperate, his finger flailed for the lever, reached back for the trigger. He heard gunfire but realized it was the other man shooting, not him. Finally, bullets began spitting from his gun. He pushed the barrel up and then over into the cloudy haze of the man, pressed his finger until he realized nothing more was coming out and the soldier had stopped moving.
Mongoose used the rifle to get back to his feet. It slipped from his hands as he got up and he let it fall; it was empty and no good to him now. He walked as quickly as he could to the man he’d just killed. He kicked him to make sure he was dead, kicked the gun away.
Maybe I ought to pray, he thought. Or better, play the lottery. Because I sure as hell have been one lucky son of a bitch. All these bastards lying around me, and I’m the only one left. God damn, I am one lucky son of a bitch.
The low whoosh of an approaching jet brought him back to reality. He stopped for a second, listening, realizing it was Hog, knowing it must be one of his companions.
And he had no way to signal them. They were still some distance off, low enough for him to hear. They’d skim the trucks and think he was an Iraqi.
Or worse, they’d miss him all together.
He’d flung away his flares somewhere around here. A desperate frenzy seized his brain as he trotted around, looking for it. Shadows and hallucinations poked at the corners of his vision, as if the dead were coming back to life, as if he were caught in the middle of a horror film. He tried to hold it all away, to stay in checklist mode. It wasn’t going to get to him. He was too goddamn lucky for it to get him.
Too many people were counting on him. The squadron. Kath. Robby.
He saw something in the dust, the bandoleer. He ran for it, tripped, stretched his arm out.
Not the bandoleer but a jacket, crusted with blood.
It was impossible to get to his feet. He could hear the planes getting closer, overhead. They’d leave. This would be his last chance.
The ground felt so damn good. Sleep.
Mongoose pushed to his knee, clawed at the earth. He finally reached his feet.
The bandoleer and the small flashlight-like flare gun lay on the other side of the Iraqi captain. It seemed to glow, catching the glint of the hidden sun. The wind kicked up and sprayed dust in his face, bits and pieces of debris clinging to his chest and face. He tried brushing them off with his good hand, waving at the air as if a swarm of flies had appeared to harass him.
One of the things that stuck to him was the photograph. He started to throw it aside before realizing what it was. Instead of letting go of it he pushed it into the fist of his wounded hand.
The bandoleer was at his feet. He knelt and scooped it up.
His fingers fumbled with the launcher as his mind began to float above his body, moving over the ground, far away to a place where he didn’t have to be lucky and blessed or just another sucker about to be done in by the most ironic ending Fate could imagine.
CHAPTER 55
Over Iraq
22 January 1991
0550
Even before he saw the flare, Skull knew Mongoose was here. Call it intuition or ESP or stubbornness or just dumb luck, he knew his guy was there.
He wasn’t sure, though, whether he was still alive. Anybody could fire a flare. It would be a perfect way to lure them close enough for a good shoulder-launched missile.
There was only one way to find out. And it wasn’t a job he could give a subordinate.
A flicker of fear shot through the fingers of his left hand as he steadied the throttle.
Good, he thought. I can deal with that.
“Watch for a ground launch,” he told A-Bomb.
“I got it.”
Low and slow. Dangerous as hell, but there was no substitute. The flaps were out as airbrakes, he was nearly going backwards damn it, but he couldn’t tell. There wasn’t enough light and he was too far off.
And his eyes were failing him. That was the real story. He was old.
There were bodies, but none seemed to be moving.
Someone had fired the flares. He was going to call the search-and-rescue team in.
Hell, it was either that or land the plane.
“See him?” asked A-Bomb as he pulled up.
“I saw someone. I’m coming around again.”
“Go for it. I’m on you.”
He came in even lower and slower than he had the first time, but the truth was, he was still moving too damn fast for his eyes.
Bodies were strewn haphazardly. He couldn’t tell if one was wearing a flight suit; if one was different than the rest.
He couldn’t tell whether they were
all dead. Nothing had moved.
But hell― he knew Mongoose was down there. The flare had definitely been one of theirs.
Skull refused to consider any other possibility. The only thing he worried about now was bringing the helicopter into an ambush.
But wouldn’t anybody looking to grease an American take him out? Ducks flew slower than he did.
Another shot of fear in his fingers. Skull turned the Warthog around for a third circuit. This time, he wasn’t looking at the ground. Instead, he concentrated on holding the plane a half-knot over stall speed as he made his tail as fat a target as possible.
A water pistol could have nailed him.
“Mark the location so we both have it,” said Skull. “I’m calling in the helos.”
“Kick ass.”
* * *
A pair of Special Ops Pave Low helicopters, call signs Big Bear and Little Bear, had been waiting not far from the border to make the pickup. But it was going to take them and their escorts at least a half hour to get here.
“We’ll wait,” Skull told the controller.
The rescue choppers were part of a full-blown “package” or group of airplanes that undertook rescues behind the lines. F-15 Eagles were tasked for combat air patrol, Weasels were watching for SAMS, a fresh pair of A-10As flew close support escorting the choppers in, and tankers were available to keep everyone topped off. Combat might come down to one-on-one, but there were a ton of guys and gals behind the scenes making it happen. Part of Colonel Knowlington’s brain mapped the different elements out as if on a dry-erase board, plotting and planning like a squadron commander.
The other part focused on the desert, scanning the ground for possible resistance.
Two halves, commander and pilot. The pilot was younger, more primitive Knowlington― one with better reflexes and a cast-iron gut. He was damn sure Mongoose was down there, and alive.
The commander wasn’t quite so positive. Sure be nice if one of the bodies down there got up and started doing a jumping jack or something.
The two Hogs patrolled the area in a large orbit at about eight thousand feet, giving themselves a decent vantage to check for movement on the roads. There had been none in the five minutes or so since Skull had called for the pickup.
“Looking at a dust bunny comin’ out of the north,” said A-Bomb. “Shit. Somethings heading down the road, beyond the buildings.”
Skull immediately cut short his leg of the circle and the two planes winged into a combat trail, A-Bomb offset on the right side of the lead and back a half-mile.
“Let’s bring this out to the west then take a fast turn to head back,” said Skull. “I don’t want to billboard Mongoose’s location.”
“Gotcha.”
“Take it up to fifteen, give us a little more margin for error.” He quick-checked his instruments as the Hog began climbing, making sure he was ready for action. He considered calling for reinforcements but decided to hold off until he knew what they were up against. The helicopters were still a good ways off, and A-Bomb’s dust bunny might turn out to be a jeep dragging a screen ― he still hadn’t spotted it.
Even without a lot of ordnance to weigh her down, the Hog took its time going uphill. Take an Eagle and put her nose at the sun and bam, she was there. Same with an F-16.
Thud could climb with the best of them, unless she had a full load. Even then she could go like all hell. The Pratt & Whitney J75 turbojet was a brand new engine at the time, with huge thrust ― nearly 25,000 pounds in afterburner, which could carry the plane over Mach 2. A bear and a half to service, and from the early days there were problems with the autopilot, the computer, and the fire control system. But damn he loved to fly the Thunderchief, a lot more than the Phantom. They said the F-4 was a better plane, but you couldn’t prove it by him.
He’d had his worst days in a Phantom.
Leaving his wingman. Chickened out.
Negated everything else.
“Looks like there’s a whole convoy or something. Be almost nine o’clock, north there.”
For just a second the voice sounded unfamiliar, as if Skull had been expecting Bear to be talking to him from the backseat.
“How the hell did you see that through the ground fog and all?” Skull asked A-Bomb when he finally spotted it. He took the Hog further east, pushing to come at the convoy from the side.
“Got X-ray eyes,” said A-Bomb.
The airborne controller checked in with the SAR helicopter’s time to pickup― twenty minutes. By the time Skull acknowledged, he was close enough to A-Bomb’s dust bunny to see that wasn’t a jeep.
Or rather, it wasn’t just a jeep. There were at least two dozen vehicles on the road. They were moving fast, in the direction of their flier. Skull was up to ten thousand feet, flying a bit slow but in a reasonable position for a Maverick attack. He kept coming, deciding to make his approach angle as steep as possible.
“Looks like we’re going to have to smoke these guys,” he told A-Bomb.
“Hot damn.”
“They must think Mongoose is the fucking President. All right, we freeze the column first. I take the lead truck and whatever else I can get at the head. Put your cluster bombs about a third of the way back if you can. Shit, they may see us ― column’s starting to break up.”
The AWACS controller broke in before A-Bomb could acknowledge. “Devil Flight, snap one-eighty. Snap one-eighty.”
It was a dire warning telling him to take evasive maneuvers by jumping quickly to a new course― enemy interceptors were coming for them.
Ordinarily, Skull would have complied immediately. He was supposed to comply immediately; the warning was meant to save his plane and his life. Taking evasive action was the prudent thing to do.
But he wasn’t being prudent. He was saving his guy. No way he was turning around and running for home with his tail between his legs, not this time.
He ignored the controller.
The AWACS, with its powerful radar, knew instantly that its order had not been followed.
“Devil leader. This is Abracadabra. We have a pair of MiGs taking off from Al Nassiriya. Take evasive action.”
“Noted,” he told the controller. He didn’t bother communicating with A-Bomb; he knew he would stay with him.
“Repeat?” asked the AWACS.
“Noted. We are engaging a troop column approximately ten miles north of our pickup area.”
“Devil Leader, the MiGs are off the field and are vectored in your direction. Snap one-eighty. Repeat, snap one-eighty!”
The first vehicle looked like some sort of armored personnel carrier, wheeled, not tracked. A good, easy target for a Maverick.
Even a greenhorn like him ought to be able to splash the damn thing. Problem was, he couldn’t get the crosshair to move. And all of a sudden he was feeling disoriented, eyes not knowing where to look, TVM or windscreen.
Stick to the monitor, damn it.
The personnel carrier was fat in the middle of the targeting screen, and the cursor sat at the bottom. He switched from the narrow to wide and back to the narrow view but better magnified view, losing his target momentarily. He eased the plane’s nose just a tad and had his target back, juicy and hot. And now the cursor had it right in the middle.
Didn’t make sense, but hey, there it was.
“Devil Leader? The MiGs!”
“Noted,” he told the controller, locking his cursor.
“Sir?”
“Noted!” he said, and in the same second the Maverick thumped off the wing, hiccupping in the air before her motor kicked into high-gear.
CHAPTER 56
Over Iraq
22 January 1991
0600
The flak vest the sergeant had given him was way too big, and no matter how Dixon tried adjusting it he couldn’t get comfortable in it. For the Special Ops troops used to it, the gear was a lightweight second skin, but for him the damn thing felt more awkward than wearing a parka at July Fourth picnic.
He shifted under it and tried to get a fix through the window on where they were. They had come in over the border more than an hour ago, sitting here so they would be ready to grab their guy once he was found. As far as the air commandos were concerned, squatting in enemy territory was no more dangerous than waiting on line for a roller coaster ride.
The chopper’s massive turboshafts cranked with an immense fury; they didn’t seem to lift off so much as vibrate forward, the big Pave Low lifting off gracefully. The air force crew chief emerged from the pilots’ station and announced that they had a good fix on Major Johnson, even though his radio was out. Shouldn’t be much of a problem snatching him from the jaws of death this time around.
The rest of the men, all well-versed in behind-the-lines operations, grinned and rechecked their M-16s. Most had been completely silent since Dixon came on board.
Iraq passed by ten feet below. The helicopter rushed forward with an angry beat, its powerful rotors churning the sky.
The pilot called back that they were ten minutes from their man. And there was a column of Iraqi Republican Guards racing them for him.
The sergeant chucked him on the shoulder. “No offense, sir, but you just hang back the first few seconds, make sure the area is secure before you go jumping out of the aircraft. Okay?”
“No sweat.”
“Good.” The sergeant stuck an M-16 in his hands. “It’s loaded and ready to rock.”
Dixon’s stomach flipped over backwards as he grabbed the rifle.
“Thanks,” he yelled.
“Don’t mention it. But, uh, sir, again, no offense, but I’d be obliged if you didn’t point it in my direction.”
CHAPTER 57
Over Iraq
22 January 1991
0600
Skull edged the stick ever so slightly as he got ready to launch his second missile. The plane was right there, right with him, as tight to his body as anything, even his old Thud. Better than that, really, and truer, without having to worry so much about your muscles giving out. He was well into his dive, coming steep as if he were dropping unguided munitions— old-school habits— but this wasn’t a problem. He had the number three truck dead-on. The pilot punched out the Maverick, then turned his attention back to his windscreen. His cannon was loaded and ready to chew. An armored personnel carrier rumbled into his aim and he pushed the button on his stick. The force of the seven-barrel Gatling’s ten-thousand pound recoil seemed to hit him in the face, slamming his head back away from his eyes. His eyes didn’t move because they were fixed on the HUD and windscreen, guiding the steady stream of metallic death into the metal. He still had altitude and a good angle as he found another APC toward the end of the line and squeezed the trigger for three short bursts. The bullets sliced through the front and then the top of the lightly armored personnel carrier as easily as if it were made of tin.
Hogs #2: Hog Down Page 19
