by Jim DeFelice
When two more hails failed to reach Wong and his men, Doberman went back to Wolf. The ABCCC hadn’t heard from the ground team either. The Herk that was supposed to make the pickup had suffered a casualty aboard— apparently a heart attack— but was proceeding anyway.
There was some good news. The Iraqis were desperately trying to radio about a dozen units; the controller took that as a hopeful sign.
Doberman didn’t. It meant there’d be no chance for the ground team to linger. The whole operation had moved so quickly he doubted there had been time to find Dixon.
Son of a bitch. As far as he was concerned, that was the whole reason for the mission.
Son of a bitch.
And now they had other things to worry about— the AWACS monitoring the area spotted two Iraqi fighters taking off from an air base about seventy miles away. At the same time, two SA-2 SAM sites thought to have been eliminated suddenly came back to life.
The SAMs would only be a problem going home, and then only if the Tornadoes or somebody else didn’t splash them. The Iraqi jets were another story. Tentatively ID’d as MiG-29s, they could get within missile range in roughly three minutes. Without a head start, the Hogs would never get away.
The AWACS controller prudently directed Doberman and Preston to snap onto an escape vector away from the Iraqi planes and out of the battle.
“Negative,” answered Doberman. “We’re staying on station.”
The controller’s response— undoubtedly not pretty— was conveniently overrun by another transmission. Doberman tried the ground team again without getting an answer. He turned his full attention to the Maverick screen as he swung back south, as if he might somehow be able to see Wong through the tiny aperture.
“Devil Three, this is Four,” said Preston. “Bandits are positively identified and heading this way.”
“My radio’s working fine,” Doberman told him. It took a superhuman effort not to add something to the effect that Preston was welcome to run away if he was scared.
“I have your six,” said the major.
A-Bomb would have said something funny, but at least Preston didn’t try and pull rank. And, in fact, he had given the proper Hog response— screw the enemy, I’m staying here until my job is done.
Which didn’t make him all right, just slightly less of a jerk.
“Okay, Hack,” Doberman said. “Your old buddies in the Eagles’ll take care of the MiGs.”
“We’ll nail them if they don’t.”
Okay— that was something A-Bomb could have said.
Doberman eyed the village with the Mav’s infra-red eye; he caught a grayish blur at the left edge of his screen that came into focus as a large vehicle, possibly an APC though it didn’t have the wedge-shaped Dog associated with the Iraqi vehicles. No matter— there was something else behind it, a truck big enough to be a troop transport. And another. Doberman nudged his stick to try and get the lead vehicle back into his targeting scope; he slid his whole body to urge the plane around. He coaxed the pipper on target, locked and fired as he muttered his ritual “Bing-bang-boing.”
“I got trucks moving out of the village,” he told Preston. “I targeted a personnel carrier, or what looked like a personnel carrier.”
The Maverick smashed the vehicle as Doberman paused for a breath. As the explosion flared, the ZSU-23s to the east began firing, this time nearly straight up. Doberman banked west immediately; Preston said something but it was garbled.
A thick spray of red tracers arced for his nose as he turned, frothing in his path.
CHAPTER 50
IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
2210
Salt pressed his chin against the dirt. The world had become a sharp buzz, the air above him on fire. He wasn’t wounded, he was sure of that, but he was equally sure that if he moved, if he twitched, he’d get fried. Things were burning, things were exploding, but he couldn’t see anything except for a hazy gray mist, the shroud they threw over you before dumping your body into the earth. He waited for it to clear, but instead of lifting it drifted downwards, its electric tingle moving closer and closer. Salt pressed himself further and further into the earth, dirt filling his nose and throat and lungs as he breathed. The sky flashed white with heat so intense he could feel every hair on his body singe. Only then did the mist start to evaporate.
He lifted his head, saw nothing in front of him. The wreckage of the Mercedes, a twisted collection of burned metal, fabric, and plastic, sat to his left. The door was open.
Salt pushed forward like a sprinter lining up for a race. He took the M-16 and awkwardly sprung forward, unbalanced, low to the ground, legs propelling him forward in something like a stuttering dive rather than a trot or run. He pushed himself sideways, stumbling for three or four yards before collapsing in a roll. Something moved to his right. He got back to his feet and went in that direction, six yards this time, falling down a shallow hill, sliding like a kid belly-whopping without a sled down a snowy incline.
Two Iraqis huddled ten feet away. Either they were surprised by him or thought he was on their side, because neither moved as rose to his knees and aimed his gun at them. Or perhaps the rest of the world was moving in slow motion. The Iraqi on the right moved his hand, down towards his belt; it got about halfway before Salt put three 5.56 mm slugs in the man’s heart. The Iraqi reeled to the side, stood straight, then collapsed straight forward like a plank pushed from the top, all the time moving at what seemed to Salt one-quarter speed.
The other man stood and raised his hands out to surrender. He took a step forward, and in the dim light of the battlefield Salt saw the grubby bearded face of Saddam Hussein.
You bastard, he thought, aiming his gun at the dictator’s belly.
CHAPTER 51
IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
2210
The Iraqi heavy machine-gun sputtered its bullets in the dirt about ten feet from Wong. He could tell that the gunner couldn’t actually see him, but the bullets were still close enough to make him cautious. Sergeant Davis lay on the ground a few feet away, writhing in obvious pain. Wong still couldn’t hear anything.
There was no way to aim at the Dushka without exposing himself to return fire, a nasty proposition. The man with the AKSU Russian submachine-gun had him pinned in a cross fire. Sooner or later, Wong feared, the Iraqis would use their superior numbers to advance under the cover of the fire. So he had had two choices— retreat and flank, or charge forward. In either case, he would be a target. It seemed better to go forward.
The odds of getting shot depended on the ability of the Iraqi gunners, of course. Still, a rough estimate might put them in the three-to-one range, the three lying in the favor of the enemy. Wong took a breath, remembering a koan from an old Zen master that translated roughly as, “The bullet you see is not the bullet you hear is not the bullet you feel, unless it is.” Failing to make sense of the mystery, he jumped up and rushed for the truck where the man with the light machine-gun was hidden.
Either his sheer audacity or pure luck protected him as he ran the twenty or so feet. Bullets from both guns whizzed past. The flash of an explosion nearby almost blinded him, then silhouetted his nearest enemy at the front of the cab.
Wong squeezed three shots from the SiG then flung himself down, rolling beneath the chassis just in front of the rear wheel. The Iraqi soldier had stopped firing, though Wong wasn’t sure he’d hit him. He crawled under the truck, fired the SiG again in the man’s direction, then pushed out and began running. He’d lost track of exactly where he was, and when a figure appeared to his right he stopped, thinking it was Sergeant Salt. The man, perhaps five yards from him, was running toward the road carrying a rifle. Wong stared intensely and realized the gun was a Kalashnikov. He steadied his aim, fired twice, missing both times. The man stopped and turned to fire at him; Wong aimed again and hit him in the chest. The rifle flew to the side but it took two more slugs for the Iraqi to go down.
Wong thought of grabbing the man’s gun and took a step toward him when a muzzle flash ahead caught his attention. He threw himself down into the dirt, then realized the flash had been about fifteen yards away, down a small incline. He pushed back up, his knee jerking sideways out from under him as he started running again. He winced away the pain and reached the hill in time to see Sergeant Salt standing on the left, holding his M-16 on an Iraqi who held his hands upright.
A bearded, pot-bellied Iraqi who could only be the Strawman.
Salt raised his gun to fire.
“Sergeant!” shouted Wong. “Sergeant!”
Salt gave no sign that he had heard Wong.
“Sergeant, do not fire!” said Wong. “That is a direct order.”
Salt’s gun remained level but did not fire. Wong’s knee balked as he worked down the hill.
“I cannot hear you if you’re talking,” Wong said. “I appear to be deaf.”
The Iraqi’s face was stained with sweat or tears.
“I’m going to kill the bastard,” said Salt. “I’m going to kill this son of a bitch for starting this god-damn fucking war. He deserves to die.”
Salt raised his rifle to fire.
“You may be right,” Wong told him. “But we’re not the judges and you cannot shoot him.”
“Our mission was to fucking kill him.”
“Indeed,” said Wong. “But he has surrendered.”
“I don’t give a fuck.”
“Sergeant, you must realize that I am giving you a lawful order. The welfare of the prisoner is now of prime concern.”
The Iraqi’s hands were trembling but he did not move.
“You gonna fuckin’ kill me if I shoot him?”
“You will not shoot him,” said Wong. His pistol was now aimed at Salt.
“Dyin’d be worth it to nail the son of a bitch,” said Salt.
“I should not think so,” Wong said. “And such a calculation is besides the point. My order is lawful and must be obeyed. I would note also that this is not Saddam. It is an impostor, a lure.”
“What?”
“Saddam Hussein is taller and older. This man is in his twenties. Frankly, he is a poor substitute, though obviously he would confuse a crowd when viewed from a car.”
Salt didn’t change his aim. “I really ought to kill the bastard then. All this for fuckin’ nothing.”
Wong gently placed his left hand on Salt’s weapon and lowered it. The Iraqi collapsed on the ground.
“You did a good job capturing him,” Wong told him. “He will be invaluable.”
“More valuable than your pilot?”
Salt’s question was more to the point than he knew. The rigs that they were to use to leave allowed only two men to be taken; there were or would be only two rigs. So if he found Dixon, someone would have to be left behind.
A decision he would have to make when all the contingencies had played themselves out. The plan had been to make the pickup with an hour of the attack— would Wolf hold to that?
“The prisoner is of more value than any of us.” Wong walked over and pushed the man flat onto the ground. He quickly patted him down, retrieving a small revolver and a knife attached to his leg. The man also had a vial taped to his leg— probably for suicide, as well as some pills in a pocket bottle.
“Quaaludes, I believe,” said Wong, tossing the bottle and pulling the man up by the back of his fatigue shirt. “He does appear somewhat calm.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t hear,” said Salt.
“I couldn’t. Your curses apparently jarred my senses back into working order. I am obliged.”
Salt began laughing. “Fuckin’ comedian.”
Wong told the ersatz Saddam in his poorly accented Arabic that he would allow the sergeant to execute him if he gave the slightest hint of trouble. The man nodded, then began telling him that he was only a poor farmer from the north.
“We will conduct a proper interview at another point,” said Wong, first in English, then in Arabic. The man babbled on, even after Wong pushed him up the hill.
“Where’s Davis?” Salt asked.
“On the other side of the highway, in that direction,” said Wong. While his hearing had returned, he had a peculiar ringing in his ears that made it seem as if he had his head in a fishbowl. “He’s been wounded.”
“Why are we going this way then?”
“Because he is pinned down by a heavy machine-gun approximately thirty yards from here,” Wong explained. “And unless we disable it we will not be able to rescue the sergeant. Will you take point or shall I?”
“Fuck you,” snapped Salt, moving out ahead of him.
CHAPTER 52
OVER IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
2210
Hack winced as Doberman turned directly into the tracers he’d been trying to warn him about. He’d already pickled a Maverick at the Zeus; cursing, he dished another one out at the same target, the AGM falling off the rail just as his first hit.
He realized as the rocket motor flashed that he’d made a nugget mistake, the kind of thing a greenhorn scared shitless lieutenant might do, not a veteran combat flier who was supposed be DO of a squadron. For he’d just lost his night vision gear, as primitive as it was.
He was also out of position, swinging in the wrong direction as Doberman bucked and weaved. Hack swooped lower, back in Doberman’s direction. The only surviving guns now were well to the west and north.
Something flickered across the thin quarter of the moon; Preston nudged left and found the dark hull of a Hog sailing just ahead, apparently none the worse for wear.
“There’s a troop transport trying to get around the APC,” Glenon told him. “Take it out.”
“Can’t. I’m out of AGMs.”
Doberman said nothing, but the static that followed was more than enough to convey his displeasure.
“I used them on the gun that almost brought you down,” Hack said finally.
There was dead air for a second.
“Bank and follow me back to the pickup zone. I have a fuel leak in two of my tanks but I’ve isolated them. I want to make sure I get the STAR pods down, assuming it’s clear.”
Hack followed along dutifully, sliding out on Doberman’s flank. The prime pickup area lay two miles to the southwest of the village at the top of what looked like a succession of long steps leading back in the direction of Saudi Arabia.
Devil Three orbited once then skipped low. While dropping a flare would have made it easier to see, it might also draw the attention of nearby troops. Hack couldn’t see the over-sized gift packs slide off the Hog, nor could he see the chutes, though he had his helmet against the glass, trying to.
“All right, check your fuel,” said Doberman. “And stay in formation. We’re going back and doing a box, like we briefed.”
“I thought you had a leak.”
“I’ve taken care of it,” Doberman said. “I got movement on the highway four miles west of here. Follow me.”
CHAPTER 53
OVER IRAQ
27 JANUARY 1991
2215
Doberman nudged the Hog’s nose into a thirty-five degree dive, straight on the lead truck— or at least he figured it would be straight on the target, since he was transposing from the TVM, triangulating with the dark shadows before him. He wanted to keep his last Maverick in reserve and didn’t want to risk a flare, figuring it might help the Iraqis find the ground team.
Besides, the GAU tracers would light up the night.
A shadow moved into the middle of his HUD. Doberman centered his targeting cue, waiting while the shadow grew fat. Something kept him from pulling the trigger— the man who normally calculated everything, who did the math on every shot backwards and forwards before pressing the trigger, hesitated because it just didn’t feel right yet.
Damn. A-Bomb was rubbing off on him.
The shadow didn’t move. He was looking at a house or something.
No,
it was the truck, but it had stopped. Two others were pulling around it to the right, live targets.
He shifted in his seat, as if merely moving his fanny would move the Hog onto the new targets. Somehow it did— Doberman squeezed the trigger and the black night flashed with the fire of death, the bullets slashing through the thinly protected side hatch of an armored car, up into the turret just to the right of the gun before flailing through the engine. Doberman rode the hot stream into the second vehicle, obliterating it with a long burst. He still had enough of an angle and altitude to get his gun onto a third vehicle approaching down the highway, but he was moving too fast and had come too low to do more than spit a few shells in its general direction before flailing off to the south to regroup.
“Three, I don’t have a target.”
“Yeah, just hang with me, Hack. That’s all I want,” Doberman told him, swinging a wide circle. “You just keep cool.”
“Four.”
He checked his fuel. Sealing off the flaky tank had worked. The game plan had called for them to fly all the way back to KKMC; even if he hadn’t lost a bit he’d be close to bingo by now. He could change that easily enough, though; just run south and hit the tanker.
What about Preston, though? He’d had trouble before and he’d be tired now.
Whack a few more ground vehicles, or walk Preston home?
What Doberman really wanted to do was scoop up Dixon. It wasn’t his job— Wong and the others were doing that— but he’d do anything to get the kid back, including landing and tossing him on the back of the plane. The kid was like his little brother— exactly like him, which was why he was in trouble in the first place, as a matter of fact.
He hailed Wolf, but they hadn’t heard from the ground team either. He told the controller that the pods had been put down and mapped out the trucks they’d just hit. Wolf told him a pair of F-16s were coming north to assist. In the meantime, a flight of F-111s out of Turkey had been rerouted to hit the stranded convoy one more time.
