Hogs #3 Fort Apache

by DeFelice, Jim

  “No, you know I’m nuts. Brave is something else.” Dixon shook his head. “It makes more sense for you guys to be together. You can move faster without me, and probably handle the weapons better. The sergeant and I are safe enough here, as long as you guys make it to the helicopters. That’s where the risk is.”

  There was logic to his argument, but the others insisted that keeping the entire team in one place was the safest plan. Dixon finally agreed to let Leteri take a shot at getting Apache or Riyadh on the line to change the pickup site. But the satellite system refused to fire back up.

  “All right,” Leteri said. “We have to get to the Cornfield. But one of us should stay with you as a lookout.”

  Dixon laughed. “You think I’m that bad a shot? I got half the hill covered, and a minefield besides. I can pin a battalion down from here.”

  “We’re not saying you can’t shoot straight,” said Turk. “We just don’t want you in over your head.”

  Dixon started to laugh. He was so far in over his head that nothing worse would make any difference. “I’m okay. Seriously. Look, it makes more sense for you guys to stay together. You’re the ones in danger, not me.”

  “Yeah, but –”

  “Look, I outrank you all, and I’m giving you an order.”

  “With all due respect,” said Leteri. “I mean, shit, don’t go Rambo, you know?”

  Dixon didn’t feel quite as nonchalant as he acted, but he wasn’t lying about thinking it was smarter for them to go.

  “Who’s going Rambo?” he told Leteri. “The helicopters will get me after they pick you up. You don’t think they’re going to leave me here, do you?”

  “No.”

  “You guys gonna forget the way?”

  “Fuck you,” said Leteri.

  “Fuck you back. Think of it this way— they’re a hell of a lot more likely to come back for me than for one of you guys, don’t you think?”

  Leteri didn’t have an argument for that.

  ###

  Dixon turned over the M-16A2, which had an M203 40mm grenade launcher attached to it. The rifle was still fairly light, though the bulk made it feel a bit awkward.

  “You okay with that?” Leteri asked.

  “Just like a shotgun, right?” he said, pointing at the pump-action on the launcher’s barrel. The grenade mechanism was installed below the rifle’s main barrel.

  “You got maybe four hundred yards range. Better to put one in front of your target than behind— but not too far in front, if you know what I mean. First time you launch it, your shoulder’s gonna kick a bit.”

  “I won’t even need it,” said Dixon.

  “Good thing to have.”

  “Oh yeah. I agree.”

  The grenade launcher and M-16 combo was a standard configuration but Dixon had never seen one up close, much less used one. A breechloader that worked, as Dixon had said, much like a A-Bomb, the launcher was not particularly difficult to use. Still, he wasn’t entirely convinced that his first salvo wouldn’t land at his feet.

  It did make the M-16 look kind of ugly, though. That was comforting. Hog pilots liked things that looked ugly.

  “Take care,” he told them, “see you in a couple of hours.”

  “Sir.” Leteri stood back and snapped off a drill sergeant salute.

  Dixon gave it back. Then he tried to smile, but either he was too tired or reality was starting to sink in. He couldn’t manage more than an awkward, off-kilter grin.

  CHAPTER 36

  KING FAHD

  26 JANUARY 1991

  0100

  Colonel Knowlington had thought, had hoped really, that his flight north to rescue Mongoose would represent some sort of turning point, that getting back in the cockpit under fire would vanquish some of the demons that had followed him for so many years. But they were still there.

  Demons? No, Colonel Thomas “Skull” Knowlington wasn’t oppressed by demons, but by something much closer to him, much more dangerous, much simpler.

  He wanted a drink.

  It was nothing new. He’d wanted a drink every day of his life. He’d resisted before. Twenty-one days now in a row.

  Or was it twenty-two? He felt something close to panic as he couldn’t remember. Not knowing the count was like losing control.

  And he couldn’t do that. He sat straight up in his cot, casting his eyes around his empty room. There was nothing here except his old trunk and the cot and the plain walls. He liked it that way, stoic. It gave him control.

  He needed to drink.

  He had to do something. Maybe wander over to Oz. No matter what the hour was, there would be at least a few people working in the maintenance areas: coffee too— Oz always had some going.

  Knowlington didn’t like to make his men too nervous by hanging around, but on the other hand they liked to know that he took an interest. Something good always came from the few minutes he took to chat.

  He was tired. He should sleep. He didn’t need to get up. He needed to sleep. He closed his eyes.

  He hadn’t made a decision on Mongoose’s request to stay with the unit yet. Damn Mongoose. Was he out of his mind? Who wouldn’t want time off? See the kid, for cryin’ out loud. And make love to his wife. Hell, stay in bed for a whole year.

  If it were him, he might not want to go home either. But that was different – he didn’t have a home, or a kid, or a wife to go to.

  He did have a home, in the Air Force. He was a lifer, and way beyond that. His damn skin was blue.

  Mongoose was, too. In a different way.

  Maybe he ought to let him stay. It would help the squadron, certainly. And if it helped the squadron, it would help the Air Force, and that made sense.

  Knowlington felt his eyes closing. He started to drift off. . .

  Mongoose’s wife yelled at him.

  She screamed that he had killed her husband.

  The colonel bolted upright in his bed.

  It had been a dream, or the start of one, and so vivid that he was trembling from it.

  He needed a drink.

  Knowlington got up, rubbing his arms against the cold, barely pausing to throw on boots before hiking over to Oz.

  CHAPTER 37

  AL JOUF

  26 JANUARY 1991

  0230

  Doberman had about as much chance of falling asleep as a butterfly hitching a ride on a Hog. He gave it a decent try— flipping over and over in the cot, pushing his arms into different positions, pulling more blankets on and throwing them off. But it didn’t work.

  Klee pissed him off and Dixon worried the shit out of him. The kid was on the team that found the NBC storage site. Which figured. Volunteering to go north with the commandos was pretty stupid, no matter how you looked at it, but it was typical Dixon. The kid reminded Doberman of his brother, reckless in a good-natured, gung-ho, ‘scuse-me-ma’am way. Doberman actually felt a little proud of him— but he didn’t want to see him hurt.

  Which made it difficult to sleep. After a few million rolls, he decided to do something about it. He pulled on his clothes and headed toward the Hog pit area.

  ###

  Rosen and the rest of the crew had been assigned a large tent directly behind the area they were using to maintain the Hogs. Doberman hovered at the entrance a moment, trying to see if anyone was awake. He couldn’t hear anything, but decided to at least step inside and see if someone was stirring.

  He got half his right foot across the threshold when something hard, cold and metallic was shoved into his stomach.

  “You’re gonna identify your fuckin’ self or there’ll be a nine millimeter hole through your colon.”

  “Rosen?”

  “Captain Glenon? Sir?”

  Doberman started to explain but Rosen reached her hand to his face to shush him.

  “Outside,” she said. The pistol was still in his stomach.

  Glenon backed out as quickly and as quietly as he could, with Rosen and her gun following. She was wearing a milit
ary T-shirt and boxer shorts. Maybe it was the light, maybe it was the Beretta, but Rosen looked damn good.

  Better than that. Absolutely beautiful, despite the scowl on her face.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he told her.

  “You didn’t startle me. What’s up?”

  “I wanted to know how soon we can get the Hogs in the air.”

  Her voice softened just a bit. “Now?”

  “There’s some sort of trouble north with Dixon’s party. I want to be there.”

  Rosen lowered the gun.

  “Look, I don’t want you making a big fuss,” Doberman said. He explained what he had heard about the NBC site and the need to evac Dixon’s team. Technically, the Hogs weren’t signed up for the operation— but since he was in charge of the planes, and he was just sitting around . . .

  “Sir, we’ll have those planes ready to fly faster than you can take a leak. You round up your gear and A-Bomb; I’ll get some ordies and take care of everything. Hell, I’ll top you off myself if I have to.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant, I appreciate it.”

  “No sweat, sir. Uh, you can call me Becky if you want. Most of the guys do.”

  God, thought Doberman – she’s hot for me.

  “Thanks,” he told her.

  “Kick butt,” she said, disappearing back into the tent.

  Doberman admired one butt in particular, then got his own in gear.

  CHAPTER 38

  AL JOUF

  26 JANUARY 1991

  0230

  Some things you could bluff, some things you couldn’t.

  A full house, aces over jacks, you couldn’t.

  But when you were sitting pretty with five aces – three natural, one permanently wild and one declared in the special version of Hide and Seek Draw Out that A-Bomb had taught the Special Ops officers— there wasn’t much need to bluff.

  And while the guys were, in general, good losers, the fact that A-Bomb had completely cleaned out the lot of them made for some less than harmonious comments.

  Which didn’t necessarily seem like bluffs either.

  Not that he was worried. On the contrary. He had finally arrived at the spot he had been aiming for since joining the game.

  “Seeing as how this was your first time playing a Hog pilot,” A-Bomb told them, pushing the chips back into the middle of the table. “I don’t think it’s fair for me to take your money. But there is something you can do for me in return.”

  Which was how, with a minimum of haggling (as those things went), A-Bomb ended up behind the wheel of a butt-kicking, desert romping rat mobile, officially known as a “FAV”— for Fast Attack Vehicle.

  The FAV was essentially a very fast go-cart with two machine-guns and an AT4 antitank missile launcher. She was a two-seater; the driver, in this instance A-Bomb, sat in the bottom between a light-caliber machine gun and extra gas tanks. Directly behind and above him sat a gunner, in this case Major Wilson, who had drawn the low straw. A-Bomb suspected that in normal operations, the man on top actually had the better seat, since he got to work both the missile launcher and the .50 caliber-machine gun, as well as a lashed-on grenade launcher. But considering that it was nighttime and they weren’t technically authorized to shoot anything— in fact not be technically authorized to drive at all— A-Bomb contented himself with handling the wheel.

  And damned if this little buggy didn’t move. It reminded him of an old big-block Chevy he’d had briefly, little ol’ Nova that he’d rebored and jacked up. Bottom line, it couldn’t hold the road worth shit, no matter what he tried doing with the suspension. For a little car it sure felt like a truck, but you stepped on the accelerator and she cranked, baby.

  Just like this. The FAV spit sand ferociously as A-Bomb blasted off into the desert. She had a whole row of headlamps but he figured, there being a war on, it didn’t make sense to use them. He could see pretty well with the infra-red night setup he’d insisted on as part of the deal.

  Damn helmet was heavy, though.

  A-Bomb veered to the right, narrowly missing either a large rock or a buried tank. He thought he heard the major groan, and felt his boot kicking the chair.

  “Yeah, I know I can go faster!” shouted A-Bomb. “Hang on!”

  He mashed the accelerator pedal. The rat mobile pushed herself down as she picked up speed. They were doing sixty, maybe seventy.

  The major’s kicks became more violent.

  “It’s at the firewall now,” yelled A-Bomb. “Problem is you got that muffler holding the engine back. You take that off, then we’re talking speed.”

  A fence or the edge of the earth loomed ahead. A-Bomb yanked hard right, felt the FAV starting to tip, corrected. Two wheels came off the ground before the go-cart settled down and began accelerating in a new direction.

  No wonder Dixon volunteered to go north, thought A-Bomb. He was probably driving one of these right now.

  Parachuting and driving a FAV. Some guys had all the luck.

  For a brief second, he wished it was him and not Dixon who had gone north. Then he thought again about trying to get his Harley into the Gulf.

  Not the good one, just the ’89.

  That short moment of inattention caused him to miss the fact that he had headed straight up a dune.

  Had he seen it, he would have accelerated.

  The FAV flew off the top, launching into the air like an F/A-18 catapulted from an aircraft carrier.

  Of course, an F/A-18 had wings. The FAV didn’t. It hit nose first in the sand, somewhat harder than A-Bomb would have expected.

  That didn’t stop him from giving a proper war whoop, however.

  The major didn’t kick. Obviously he’d decided A-Bomb was going as fast as he could.

  The pilot glanced at his watch as he cranked around for another turn. He really ought to be getting back.

  Time for one more try.

  This time, he managed to get the FAV to accelerate sufficiently to land on the back wheels. The resulting wheelie wasn’t much— barely five seconds long— but it was a hell of a way to end the night.

  ###

  Doberman was waiting as A-Bomb drove up to the Hogs’ maintenance area. He hopped out of the vehicle and turned to help the major down. But the Special Ops officer waved him off.

  The light wasn’t that good, but it seemed to A-Bomb the major looked a little under the weather. Probably the homemade hooch.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Doberman demanded. “We’re going to back up that helo flight that’s picking up Dixon. The Hogs are fueled and armed.”

  “About time you got out of bed,” said A-Bomb, starting to trot toward the shack where his gear was stored. “Be with you in two minutes.”

  “Make it one.”

  “I don’t think Tinman can brew the coffee that fast,” A-Bomb yelled back. “But I’ll have him try.”

  CHAPTER 39

  OVER IRAQ

  26 JANUARY 1991

  0310

  The F-111F had barely taken off from its airfield, joining the rest of the package on a precision-strike deep into Iraq when the AWACS controller broke in with a change in plans.

  Captain Jay “Heavy” Muir, sitting in his weapon officer’s slot next to the pilot, pushed back in his seat as the new target info came in: a suspected NBC site near the Euphrates. Heavy’s mind clicked, erasing everything it had stored about the aircraft shelter they were originally tasked, then rebooting for the new challenge.

  Among other things, Heavy handled the Aardvark’s Pave Tack radar, which guided the big laser-guided bombs strapped beneath their wings. Heavy was rated the best operator in the squadron, which made him among the best in the Air Force, so he didn’t consider the new mission itself that difficult. Still, the change in plans put a fresh kink in his already wrenched neck. Especially when he was told that his aim point was a small exhaust pipe on the side of a hill in an old quarry. That wouldn’t be particularly easy to spot on the targeting screen. He had no ph
oto, no briefing folder, nothing more than a vague description and a set of coordinates to help prompt him.

  “Needle in a rock pile,” said his pilot, Captain Chris Klecko, as they laid out the new course.

  “Yeah,” said Heavy. He studied his paper map, letting the details soak in. The pipe was in a rock quarry, above a large metal door. Just a pipe, not even a full ventilation system.

  Not easy. But yesterday he had put a pair of Paveways down a chimney.

  The idea here was just to break the top of the shelter. His Paveways were serious hunks of explosives. He didn’t have to hit the pipe, exactly.

  But he would. As soon as he could see it in his head.

  “Doable?” asked Klecko.

  “Oh yeah,” said Muir. “Assuming we can find it.”

  “We should have plenty of time. They want it splashed by 0500. We’ll be there by 0400, latest.”

  Muir closed his eyes, clearing everything else away. “I’ll get it,” he told Klecko.

  CHAPTER 40

  SUGAR MOUNTAIN

  26 JANUARY 1991

  0340

  The first thing Dixon thought when he heard the noise was that his friends in the truck were returning. A half-second later he realized it was far too loud to be just one vehicle.

  He shifted around behind the rocks near the sergeant, pulling the M-16 and its grenade launcher next to him but not shouldering the weapon. He was so cold he was shivering. They’d left him with one of the night scopes and it felt like an ice cube when he held it to his face.

  An armored personnel carrier was leading a pair of light trucks on the highway; there was another APC, and maybe a second and third in the blur behind. A tank loomed behind them like a vast battleship on the horizon. It took a moment for his eyes to separate enough detail so he could tell that it was riding on a flatbed.