Hogs #3 Fort Apache

by DeFelice, Jim

  “Leteri? Where’s Winston?”

  Gladis shook his head. “You want to talk to them yourself. They stepped in a mountain of shit.”

  “Good shit or bad shit?”

  “Both. Very big shit. A mountain of shit. They’re calling it Sugar Mountain, but it’s stinking shit.”

  CHAPTER 33

  AL JOUF

  25 JANUARY 1991

  2350

  The position was vulnerable, certainly. He was definitely over-extended, with only a wire-thin defensive chain; if his perimeter were pierced, he would sustain heavy casualties. His opponent was crafty, fortified, and exceedingly cool.

  But Wong could tell that the deep penetration of his bishop on his opponent’s right flank had left the black commander off-balance. The Caro-Kann defense was ordinarily a solid one, fighting white for control of the middle and often, though not necessarily, shifting the balance of power from the attacker to the defender. And certainly the man behind the chess pieces, Sergeant Curtis, was a worthy opponent, a veteran not only of the Special Forces but Army chess wars. But he had stumbled on the last move, nudging his knight forward unimaginatively and leaving his queen to be guillotined. He made the only available move now, pushing his queen to the far side of the board— a concession that she was toast.

  “Check,” said Wong, pulling his knight forward.

  “Damn,” said Curtis.

  Wong nodded thoughtfully. Curtis had no option but to take the knight with his bishop; the queen would then be taken by Wong’s bishop. Besides the exchange, a strategic hole in black’s defenses would be opened, leaving the entire side ripe for onslaught.

  “You out-commandoed me, huh?” said Curtis, initiating the sequence.

  “I was inspired by the setting.”

  “Another game?”

  “Of course,” said Wong.

  If King Fahd was a scorpion-infested, third-rate trailer park, Al Jouf was a burned-out VW microbus in a sand trap. Still, there was no amenity like chess, and even at the Pentagon it was difficult to find an opponent both competent and worthy. So when a runner came to summon Wong to see Colonel Klee, he got up with something that actually approached regret. Surely the only reason Colonel Klee wanted to see him at this hour was that he had agreed to entertain his request to be shipped to Washington. Wong consoled himself with a promise to look up Curtis again.

  But Wong’s transfer was the furthest thing from Klee’s mind, a fact Wong realized when he approached the colonel’s command bunker and saw that fully half the commander’s officers were already inside.

  “Wong, about time,” growled the colonel. Glowering at Klee’s side was the ubiquitously ignorant Major Wilson. “Look at these images.”

  A bleary-eyed lieutenant passed what seemed to be a fifth-generation copy of a satellite photo to him. Wong’s first impression was that he was looking at a pimple on a walrus’s nose.

  He kept that, as well as his more graphic second impression, to himself.

  “Yes,” he said finally, giving it back to the lieutenant.

  “Well?” asked the colonel.

  “A storage facility. Unmanned. High-value-asset facility, limited access, high-grad protection. The viewing angle is particularly poor, which is quite surprising, actually, given the performance specification of the satellite’s . . .”

  “You get that from a ventilation pipe?” asked Goodson.

  “Of course, there are infinite possibilities in a theoretical sense, and I have to base my assumptions on a best-use thesis, meaning that my theory is based on the facility being fabricated in a manner best suited for its intended use, though as we all know . . .”

  “The bottom line, Wong,” said the colonel.

  “Dry and secure storage facility,” he said. “Originally for inert materials by design. Weapon-wise, I would say it is suited for chemicals, but the Iraqis have demonstrated such ill-informed planning that it could be and probably is for biological assets.”

  “Give him the description of the door,” the colonel told the lieutenant, who passed a piece of yellow paper to him. The paper was an intelligence briefing describing a combination mechanical and electrical lock on an over-sized but non-vehicle entry in a natural-feature-enhanced bunker facility.

  Pretty much what he’d expected. The Iraqis showed a consistent lack of creativity.

  “So?” asked Goodson.

  Wong rolled his eyes and proceeded to the front of the bunker, where a large pad sat on an easel. He drew a big circle, then the small roadway, and what had to be a passive ventilation pipe.

  “Our key features are the lack of a substantial air-exchange mechanism and the narrow aperture of the doorway,” he started. “The locking mechanism clinches it. It was designed for chemicals or perhaps small-scale valuables such as diamonds, though it would now be a prime candidate for the Iraqi dispersal program. I would suspect some agent on the order of anthrax. My reasoning is not complex. The use of existing geographical features to enhance storage systems dates to the Neanderthal period, and thus parallels are naturally hazardous. Still, we have the benefit here of a paper written in 1978 by no less an authority than . . .”

  “All right, I’m convinced,” said the colonel. “God damn it, five hundred people must have missed this. Is Wong the only officer in Saudi Arabia who knows his ass from a hole in the ground?”

  “That would be his ass from a ventilation pipe,” quipped one of the officers.

  Everyone, even the colonel, laughed.

  Except Wong.

  “If I may move on,” Wong continued, clearing his throat. “The configuration of this site, which I assume we are here to target, will present some very unique challenges for whoever is tasked to hit it. I assume that it was not detected during infrared surveillance, from which we may make several deductions, two in particular. First, that it is not continually manned, which of course we know since the ventilation system is so small, but confirming evidence is occasionally useful, if only for morale.

  “There is no heat in the exhaust,” Wong added for the men at the side who weren’t quite keeping up. “It would have been very obvious. Second, there is probably a thick layer of natural material between the surface and the interior. I predict that the space for the pipe will be found to have been drilled, as unlikely as that sounds to the uninitiated. There will be basically two avenues of attack, the ventilation system and the front door. Going through the front door, of course, has its drawbacks, since it is both thick and protected by several man-lethal devices, more commonly known as booby traps. We don’t know what types, though we can make some guesses, including at least two families of chemical derivatives undoubtedly modeled on the KK-37B facility in the Ural Mountains. . .”

  “Hold that thought a second, Wong,” said the colonel. “How about the vent? Can we get a smart bomb down it?”

  “The shaft is not sufficient for a Paveway series weapon to fly down,” said Wong. “Nor will the vent serve as a sufficient fissure-point for an attack, if my guess as to its construction is correct. The probability of the heaviest weapons in the series being effective can be measured in the range of ten to the negative one-hundredth power. Some would argue for a repeating attack pattern, taking advantage of wave harmonics to enhance the destructive value. There are additional alternatives, but beyond what I have said, my discussion would involve possibilities outside the code-word clearance of anyone in the room.”

  Wong was thinking specifically of an attack by GBU-24/B Paveway III laser-guided bombs, 4,700-pound monsters capable of taking out even the hardened-aircraft shelters Yugoslavia had built for Saddam. The captain’s opinion was classified not because of the bombs— fairly well-kept secrets themselves— but because of the way they would have to be used to have any chance of penetrating the rock.

  The others didn’t quite appreciate that, however, responding to Wong with a variety of predictable curses and mutterings. It was exactly the sort of rumble from the rabble he had put up with all his life. It wa
s the price one paid for being Wong.

  “I like the front door, myself,” said the colonel. “But I know what Riyadh’s going to say. You sure the door is booby trapped?”

  “Without a doubt,” said Wong.

  “Anyway around it?”

  “Given enough time, there is always a way.”

  “We don’t have time,” said the colonel. “They want it hit by dawn, one way or the other. All right, get me Riyadh on the line. Sit down, Wong— someone get him some coffee. Wait,” added the colonel as an assistant flew to the door. “Better make it decaf. I’d hate to hear him on a caffeine buzz.”

  CHAPTER 34

  AL JOUF

  25 JANUARY 1991

  2350

  The way A-Bomb figured it, every hour playing poker was worth two hours of sleep. The idea of sleep, after all, was to restore your creative powers and recharge your muscles. Poker did the same thing, only quicker. It was like taking a sauna, and in fact if you played cards perpetually, you’d never grow old.

  Doberman nonetheless begged off, if “fuck yourself” could be understood as begging off.

  A-Bomb eventually found his way into a game with some of Klee’s support staff; within a half-hour he was twenty dollars ahead in a quarter-limit game. They were conservative for commandoes, and had apparently not even heard of Baseball. He was just explaining the intricacies of the poker variant when a youngish staff sergeant appeared and called the officers to a meeting with the Special Ops colonel.

  A-Bomb immediately decided that he and Doberman belonged at the meeting.

  “Screw off and drop dead,” grumbled Doberman, when A-Bomb tried to wake him.

  “Yo, Colonel Klee wants to see us.”

  “Why, the war over?”

  “Could be.”

  Doberman turned, but only enough to determine from the lack of light that it was still nighttime. “Go away,” he growled. “Tell the colonel to eat shit.”

  “He’s standing right here.”

  “My ass.”

  This was the sort of challenge that made it worth fetching the colonel and bringing him back, just to see the look on Doberman’s face when he saw that he actually had cursed out a colonel. But that would take too long, and he really wanted to check out the meeting. So he settled for merely shaking the cot.

  “Hey, let’s go,” he told Doberman. “Something big’s got to be boiling. I was playing cards with half the guy’s staff and. . .”

  “You’re out of your friggin’ mind.”

  “Nah, they’re not that good.”

  “Good night, A-Bomb.”

  “If there’s anything going down, I want to be there. Maybe Dixon’s in trouble.”

  Doberman rolled over. “Oh fuckin’ hell goddamn all right. Shit. All I want is ten god-damn minutes of rest in this country.”

  “Shoulda come and play cards. Fountain of youth. That’s what I’m talking about.”

  ###

  By the time the two pilots got there, Klee was talking with someone on a scrambler phone set. The man obviously outranked him, since he was being uncharacteristically polite.

  A-Bomb’s attention was suddenly snagged by a half-full Mr. Coffee at three o’clock. He set an intercept vector, jinking past a pair of semi-hostile-looking majors, arriving at the machine just as the colonel hung up the line.

  “All right, I guess you probably heard that,” the colonel told his officers. “Riyadh’s tasking an F-111. Don’t bother Wong,” he added quickly. “I know what you’re fucking going to say but it’s no use. Chris, you and Cleso get with Wong here and figure out some sort of backup plan. One that’ll work and that we can do ourselves. Kelly, get Hawkins on the line at Fort Apache and tell him what the hell is going on. Get our people as far away from there as you can. Ruth will be compromised by the hit, even if they’re not poisoned. Put those helicopters to work. Charly, find them a new sector to sift.”

  A-Bomb took a gulp of coffee, then immediately spit it back into the cup.

  Decaf. The ultimate war crime.

  He looked up and realized that everyone was staring at him.

  “So what’s our assignment?”

  “Assignment?” asked the colonel. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

  “Waiting for an assignment,” said A-Bomb. “Certainly not drinking coffee.”

  “You’re supposed to be resting.” Klee gave a furious glance behind A-Bomb toward Doberman.

  Not nearly as furious as the one Doberman gave to A-Bomb.

  “Ah, we’ll rest on the way,” said A-Bomb. “We bird-doggin’ for the Aardvarks? Or escorting the helos?”

  “Who the hell said you had an assignment?”

  “Excuse us, Colonel,” said Doberman. “We just thought, since our guy is up there –”

  “Get your butts back to bed,” snapped the colonel, “or wherever it is you damn Hog pilots go when you’re not blowing up things. Shit, what are you trying to do, win the war all by yourselves?”

  “Only if we have to,” said A-Bomb— whose words, fortunately for him, were muffled by Doberman’s hand as he was dragged toward the door.

  CHAPTER 35

  SUGAR MOUNTAIN

  25 JANUARY 1991

  2355

  “Captain’s on the line,” Leteri told Dixon, holding out the radio handset. “Reception’s in and out, but I think it’ll hold together.”

  Dixon glanced at Winston before speaking. The sergeant’s face seemed somewhat peaceful; he was snoring.

  “This is Dixon.”

  “Hey,” said Hawkins. The line clicked on and off, but the words that did come through were sharp. “We have orders.”

  The line died for a second. “. . .Cornfield.”

  “Repeat,” said Dixon. When there wasn’t an answer, he asked again.

  “Solo at four,” said Hawkins. He said something else that was lost, then repeated, “Solo at four. Cornfield.”

  It was the command for an evacuation. Four was 0400, and the Cornfield was the spot where they had first watched the highway.

  It was a good location for the helicopters, but would Winston make it?

  “You know our situation?” he asked the captain.

  There was a long, empty silence. Finally, Hawkins’ voice snapped onto the line. “They’re flashing the pipe 0500.”

  A bombing mission.

  “Repeat?” asked Dixon, but again there was no answer. He tried twice more before Hawkins came back with the bug-out command.

  “Acknowledged. We copy. We’ll be waiting,” Dixon told him, signing off.

  ###

  The scream sounded like something out of a horror movie, only it didn’t end.

  “Put him back. Okay, okay,” said Dixon. He felt his hands starting to shake. Sweat poured from around his neck as he and Turk lowered Winston as gently as possible. Leteri was already pushing the plunger on the morphine as they stood back.

  The sergeant continued to scream, then gasped for breath. Dixon fell to his hands and knees. He stooped over Winston, wondering if he should give him mouth to mouth.

  Or maybe just let him die.

  He couldn’t.

  As he leaned forward, the sergeant’s breath caught; he started screaming again, though this time the howl was softer. Dixon took that as a good sign.

  Twenty minutes passed before the morphine finally took hold. Winston’s groans gradually faded into a soft scat song of pain. Finally, his mouth loosened and his breathing became more regular.

  As soon as they lifted him again, he yelled again.

  “Down,” said Dixon. He had the sergeant’s head, and cradled it gently as they replaced the wounded man on the ground. “We’re going to have to leave him here,” he told the others.

  “Leave him?” said Leteri.

  “I don’t mean alone. I’m staying.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” said Turk.

  “We’re screwing something up just lifting him,” said Dixon. “I don’t want him paralyzed.”<
br />
  “Better that than dead,” said Bobby.

  Dixon could tell from their expressions that some of the others weren’t so sure.

  “You don’t think he’s paralyzed already?” asked Leteri.

  “He wouldn’t scream if was, I don’t think,” said Turk. “Maybe if we had a backboard or something.”

  Winston turned his head into Dixon’s knee. His eyes were closed but he seemed to be struggling to say something. Dixon bent to listen, but the words weren’t intelligible.

  His mother had done that a few days before she died. The image of monitors and their color-coded lines and numbers right next to her head blurred in his eyes as he leaned over.

  What he thought she said was, “Kill me.” But he couldn’t be sure.

  Maybe it was “Save me.” That was what he wanted her to say. That was what he wanted to do.

  “Lieutenant?”

  “Here’s the deal,” Dixon said, standing. “I stay with the sergeant. You guys go up to the Cornfield, get picked up, come back for us. We have an hour before the bomb strike; that’s plenty of time.”

  “I think I should stay,” said Turk. “Me and Bobby.”

  “Why don’t we just have the helo pick us all up here?” Leteri suggested.

  “Even if the radio were working right, Apache’s off the air by now,” said Dixon. “They won’t be listening for us.”

  “Fuck, we can get them through Riyadh once the helicopter’s in the air. Or the AWACS. We can take a shot at it, at least.”

  “We don’t know what other contingencies there are,” said Dixon. “They’re going to be coming through shit.”

  “Yeah, but hell, there’s shit and then there’s shit,” said Leteri. “And splitting up is shit.”

  Leteri was right, but something made Dixon shake his head. “Let’s do it this way. We get in and out without any sweat.”

  “Captain, let’s be realistic, okay? You don’t have to prove anything,” said Turk. “We already know you’re brave. We saw you go into the minefield.”