Hogs #4:Snake Eaters

by DeFelice, Jim

  CHAPTER 49

  OVER IRAQ

  26 JANUARY 1991

  1900

  This time, Hack wasn’t going to miss. He twisted his Eagle northward for the intercept, ignoring the pinch and pull of gravity as he snapped onto the vector supplied by the AWACS. His radar screen laid out the bandits as if peering down from above. The hostile MiGs were at the very top, triangles with pointers coming off their noses to show their headings. The screen showed friendlies as circles with similar pointers, along with way markers for reference.

  The radio exploded with a cacophony of calls and commands, a chaotic wail that had confused him during the earlier encounter. But this time Hack was prepared. He and his wingman keyed into a clear frequency they had surveyed earlier.

  “Two bandits, ten o’clock, your zone,” said Johnny, his voice crisp.

  “Out of range. Two more coming behind them,” Hack said.

  “Something low.”

  There were now six triangles very close together on the screen. Two veered to the left and temporarily disappeared, possibly obscured by the reflected ground clutter. The other four Iraqi planes altered course, vectoring toward the flight of F-111s.

  Hack rechecked the IDs, making sure he had the unfriendlies.

  No answer. The lead contact was thirty miles away.

  “First two are mine,” he told Johnny. The radar and its weapons control computer had already locked them up. They were tagged on the HUD; he could launch and take them out at will. “You got the others?”

  “Negative, negative. I’m having some trouble here.”

  “Johnny?”

  “Uh, okay, I have it. I— shit! I’m spiked.”

  The lead MiG had just turned its radar on his wingmate. Time to pull the trigger.

  “Fox One, Fox One! I’m on number two. Firing. Fox One!”

  Hack yelled so loud his wingmate probably could have heard him without a radio. He didn’t bother jinking or trying to beam the enemy radars— if his wingmate couldn’t target the other interceptors, he was going to have to close and take them out with his Sidewinders.

  The four enemy planes— still out of visual range, but closing quickly— began moving wildly on his radar screen. One of the missiles seemed to hit the lead plane, he thought— but now everything was moving so quickly, Hack couldn’t afford to divide his attention long enough to make sure he’d gotten the kill. Something beamed him dead ahead. He thumbed into auto-guns mode, then realized he’d dropped to sixteen thousand feet and was still pointing downward. He began to pull back on the stick when a dark shape shot in front of him, less than a mile away.

  His stomach flared as he waited for the glare of a missile or cannon tracer. He pushed the Eagle over on her wing, desperate to duck away. He got a warning, then a second warning— sounds and buzzes and lights. Once more his head was swimming with sweat, gravity, and panic.

  Gravity pushed against his chest. Hack realized the shadow had been one of the F-111s, not a MiG. He cursed himself, rolled level, tried to raise his wingmate on the radio. The small circle representing Piranha Two floated across the HUD, but Hack had lost track of where he was.

  Fear twinged at the corner of his stomach.

  Not this time, he told himself. Clear your head. Do your best.

  Something exploded about three hundred yards in front of his right wing. Fire flew through the air.

  The pipper had a triangle boxed at ten o’clock. He leaned on his trigger, getting off a quick shot but missing as the enemy wagged away. He saw the red circle growing oblong and started to follow, thumbing a Sidewinder on line. But he was too slow and had misjudged the enemy’s turn in the dark. For a second he was in deep shit— inside and ahead of the MiG, the worst place to be. But somehow, knowing exactly where he was cleared his head. Somehow, his stomach went hard and his eyes became focused. He gave the big Eagle more thrust than a Saturn V heading for the moon. The plane shot forward, twisting out of danger as he spit out chaff and flares.

  And then it was over.

  The cockpit went silent. The night became black. Hack heard his breath loud in his ears, saw that he was level at fifteen thousand feet.

  Carefully, almost slowly, he got his bearings and did his instrument checks, pointing the nose of the Eagle southward.

  “Piranha One, this is Two,” said Johnny. “I’m lost airman.”

  “Yeah, okay, okay, okay.” The words slurred out of Hack’s mouth; he couldn’t stop them or change them into anything coherent. But that was all right— his head was clear, and he calmly found his wingmate only two miles to the northeast, though considerably higher than him. Johnny began turning. Hack continued his climb, heart steady and almost slow.

  “I think I nailed one of those MiGs,” he told his wingman.

  “I think you nailed two.”

  “Yeah?” Hack started to ask whether he’d seen the explosions when he got a new contact on his radar. They were running south at four thousand feet, about two miles west of where the MiG had snuck in and almost unzipped him.

  “We have a fresh contact, Piranha Two,” he said, changing course to catch it.

  CHAPTER 50

  OVER IRAQ

  26 JANUARY 1991

  1910

  The MiG-21 changed course twice as Doberman pitched downward, adjusting to his zigs with ominous zags of its own. Knowing he couldn’t lose the MiG’s Jay Bird radar until he was under 3,000 feet, Doberman poured on the gas, hurtling downward so fast he worried about tearing the plane’s wings off.

  The MiG-21 was a rugged and quick interceptor, well-suited to aerial combat. It was fast, maneuverable, and small. While its avionics systems were not comparable to frontline fighters like the F-15 or even the F-16, it outclassed the A-10A as a dogfighter by miles. It was capable of carrying beyond-visual-range weapons and could even be fitted with infrared night vision equipment, advantages Doberman couldn’t hope to counter in a dogfight. His best bet was scrambling around in the ground clutter until the Iraqi lost interest or the Eagles chased him off.

  As Doberman’s altitude dipped below 2,500 feet, he pulled the Hog into a tight turn north, slashing around in a twisting roll that pulled nearly five g’s, in theory high above the plane’s rated capacity. He began pushing the stick to level off before realizing the horizon bar showed him heading straight downward. The wings started yawing on him and he had a fight now; he was behind the plane, temporarily out of control, reacting to it instead of having it react to him. He got angry— he screamed at the plane to cut the bullshit. As gravity tore at his face and chest, he managed to steady the wings and back off on his speed, pulling out in something approaching a controlled glide. He leveled off at three hundred feet, a lot lower than he wanted to be. The MiG was still up there somewhere, but he didn’t have any indication of it on his gear. The sky above and ahead was a uniform gray. He twisted his neck back and forth, trying to make sure his six was clear as he got his nose pointed directly south.

  Doberman felt a cold stream of sweat running down the side of his flight suit as he stared through his front windscreen. He put his hand on the throttle, pegging his speed at three hundred and fifty knots. He didn’t like not knowing where the enemy was. He tried hailing the AWACS but didn’t get a response.

  The MiG might have passed by him already. In that case it would be turning around somewhere ahead.

  Or not. He was still deep inside Iraq. He started working out his position with the help of his paper map when he saw a stubby building break the undulating ground ahead; he saw a long, straight line and realized he was heading over Fort Apache’s landing strip. His brain seemed to contract— he hadn’t realized he’d come this far east, let alone back this far north.

  Doberman nudged his nose up, working to give himself a little more breathing room while staying in the ground clutter.

  A sand dune moved to the right.

  No, a plane.

  He jumped back in his seat, his mind computing the scenario as his eyes and
ears threw the flight data at it.

  MiG, closing for a front-quarter cannon attack. Kill him head-on.

  No, it wanted him to break; he’d close on Doberman and use his heat-seekers.

  RWR. He was spiked.

  No, nothing. But obviously it saw him. It was coming for him.

  Turning was suicidal. But if Doberman didn’t break, the MiG would go around, use his superior speed to catch him.

  Nail him as he came through. Snapshot by yanking into him.

  A millisecond of opportunity.

  Then what? Where would he be?

  The MiG would come at him from the offset, angling, cheating so he could cut into a tight merge, slide into his victim’s tail no matter what he did.

  The Hog could out-turn the MiG. The Iraqi wouldn’t expect that— the Fishbed could knife around anything else in the sky. If Doberman could brave the front-quarter attack, he could turn inside him, twist back down and away.

  Even better— let him get on his back, but with his nose out, then turn inside quickly at the first moment, have him go past. A tangled rope.

  Nail him with the Sidewinders on the Hog’s right wing.

  Show the son of a bitch not to mess with Hogs.

  Turn the damn things on. The seeker heads have to do some calisthenics to warm up— or rather cool down, so the head can pick up the SOB’s heat.

  Where is my goddamn radar and the RWR and the AWACS and those stinking Eagles?

  Hell, ask for AMRAAMs while you’re at it.

  Doberman snorted, laughing at himself. He pushed the nose of his plane toward the approaching hulk, heart pounding, ready to take his shot.

  Then he realized it wasn’t a MiG.

  He nudged his stick back; he was coming at the tail end of a helicopter, closing so fast the helo seemed to be standing still.

  An American bird, running dark— one of the Spec Ops AH-6s. He glanced at his kneepad for their radio frequency.

  The RWR screamed that the MiG was closing from above for the kill.

  CHAPTER 51

  OVER IRAQ

  26 JANUARY 1991

  1912

  Sitting in the backseat of the helicopter, Rosen had a difficult time puzzling out the situation from what the others were saying. There were apparently two different sets of Iraqi planes nearby, possibly coming for them. One of the groups included at least two MiG-29s; these were being engaged by F-15s.

  The other plane, probably a MiG-21, was somewhere right behind them. They’d be sitting ducks if the Iraqi interceptor found them.

  There was also an A-10A around somewhere— Devil One, Captain Glenon. The Hog had descended rapidly to their north; it wasn’t clear whether it was trying to hide in the ground effects that confused radar or if it had been hit.

  For years, Rosen had listened to accounts of dogfights that seemed like clear-cut maneuvers— two fighters approached each other, one saw the other first, missiles were launched, bad guys smashed. But the reality of an honest-to-God furball defied description. It was like running through a swirling pile of leaves with your eyes closed, trying to grab a dollar bill. Even the best sensors could only show you two dimensions of reality.

  “MiG closing off our port side,” snapped the pilot. “Eight o’clock. He’s at five thousand feet, diving on us. If he hasn’t spotted us already he will in a second.”

  Rosen took that to mean she ought to grab onto to something and hold tight.

  CHAPTER 52

  OVER IRAQ

  26 JANUARY 1991

  1913

  The contact was low, below a thousand feet. Another plane was approaching from the north and there was a helo or something else incredibly slow in front.

  Nobody answered IDs. Hack guessed that the helo was a Coalition Spec Ops craft; they’d been briefed during preflight to watch for operations here. The two contacts going in its direction must be Iraqis trying to nail it.

  Hack lost the lead aircraft momentarily. The second one, gaining, had been tentatively ID’d as a MiG by the AWACS.

  The first plane popped back up on the screen, closing on the helicopter. Hack was still fifteen miles away, too far to launch the Sidewinders. He tickled the IDs again.

  Nada.

  RWR was clear. The enemy planes didn’t realize he was here.

  Ten miles. If he’d had any more Sparrows left, the bastards would be dead.

  Sidewinders would nail them, soon as he closed. AIM-9s were ready and waiting.

  The lead plane was going to nail the helo any second. He was already in range.

  Hack corrected as the planes began dancing wildly; he had to keep his target within a 45-degree aiming cone to ensure the kill.

  Eight miles. Seven.

  Nada.

  Lead bandit’s going to nail the helo.

  The second plane, the one ID’d as a MiG, had the stops out.

  He couldn’t get them both in one swoop. Stay on the leader.

  Five miles.

  The first plane jinked suddenly, pushing out of the optimum firing cone. Hack moved his stick to follow, waited for the growl from the Sidewinder telling him he had a hot target. His radar coughed up an unidentified contact dead west, flying north very low. He started to run through his queries one more time, still waiting for the Sidewinder to lock.

  As it did, the IFF in the lead bandit beamed back a signal to Hack’s Eagle.

  The plane closing on the helicopter was an A-10.

  Oh my God, Hack thought, jerking his finger away from the trigger. I almost nailed a good guy.

  CHAPTER 53

  OVER IRAQ

  26 JANUARY 1991

  1913

  The ancient ALQ-119 ECM pod on Doberman’s right wing cranked away, filling the airwaves with a cacophonous symphony of electronic confusion. Designed to drive the Iraqi MiG’s radar and every dog within a hundred miles nuts, the Westinghouse unit was a first-generation noise and deception jammer that had joined the service before Doberman had.

  But either it was working or the Iraqi pilot was doing a very convincing impression of being blind, for the Fishbed streaked down nearly in front of him, seemingly unaware that Doberman was now right on his tail. Doberman didn’t even have to move his stick as the low growl sounded from the Sidewinder AIM-9L indicated it had acquired its target.

  Something about the way the shape fluctuated in his windshield made Doberman hesitate; in the next second the MiG flashed downward and to the right. He lost his firing position; had to pull the Hog tight over his shoulder to get the front of the plane back onto its target. He saw the helo out of the corner of his eye but couldn’t find the MiG, sensed it had turned around him, trying for a shooting angle.

  He was the quarry again.

  Doberman worked the Hog tighter, climbing slightly, then pushing the nose back down, bucking the plane in mid-air and swirling around. He heard another growl but worried the Sidewinder had locked on the helicopter. It took only a millisecond to realize it hadn’t; by then he’d lost the shot again, the MiG cranking and wanking in a series of high-g turns that Doberman couldn’t keep up with. He pulled his wings level, eyes blurry. He tried focusing on the compass heading, unsure where the hell he’d spun himself around to, when a sudden shudder passed over the Hog. The MiG had cleared his right wing at less than ten feet.

  It was going south. With nothing between it and the Fort Apache helicopter.

  “Damn me,” he yelled.

  This time he yanked the stick so hard the only thing that kept it tied into its boot was the massive smack of gravity that punched the plane in the face. There was a theory that the Hog couldn’t withstand anything higher than 3 gs, but no Hog driver had ever subscribed to that notion, and if Doberman had been able to talk, he would have sworn twenty gs grabbed him and his airplane as it changed direction.

  Amazingly, the wings stayed on the aircraft. So did the engines, which had every right to flame out but kept spinning just the same. Doberman found the tail of the MiG disappearing into a mist of
sand a quarter mile ahead. He’d almost pushed the button to fire the AIM-9s when he realized he wasn’t locked. He jiggled the Hog to the right, hoping somehow that realigning his nose would give him a better target. It didn’t; he saw something below him on the desert floor, a small lump— the helo had stopped.

  He caught a glimpse of it, saw that it was intact, whirlies whirling. He got his eyes back to where they belonged, couldn’t find the MiG, realized he’d flown to barely twenty feet. If he didn’t start climbing soon he was going to become part of the landscape.

  Doberman pulled back on the stick, easing upwards. He got to eight hundred feet when he realized where the MiG was.

  He yanked the Hog’s left wing over just in time to avoid the rush of a close-quarter cannon over his canopy, but didn’t have enough altitude to chance more than a shallow roll before recovering. A fresh stream of cannon exploded in front of his canopy and he felt something nudge his wing, an angel tapping him to see if he was ready for heaven.

  The MiG had hung with him somehow and was right on his back. The stream of its tracers jerked toward his canopy.

  Then the front of his cockpit filled with a dark green shadow. Thunder and lightning roiled around him and the air reverberated with exploding brimstone.

  “Hog Rule Number One!” shouted a familiar voice in his earphones. “Never leave home without your wingman!”

  Captain Thomas “A-Bomb” O’Rourke had arrived.

  CHAPTER 54

  OVER IRAQ

  26 JANUARY 1991

  1913

  A-Bomb’s front-quarter attack was mostly flash— heads-on was a notoriously difficult way to shoot down an enemy, even when you could see what you were doing— but it had the desired effect. The MiG broke off, banking hard to A-Bomb’s left as they passed.

  “I got him low,” A-Bomb told Doberman as he began pulling the Hog around so the MiG couldn’t get him from behind. “He’s west of us, west. Shit, I’ve lost him.”