Hogs #3 Fort Apache

by DeFelice, Jim

  “I didn’t challenge him,” Dixon said. “Hell, I almost shook his hand, thinking he was you.”

  “Then you killed him.”

  “Yeah.”

  Leteri paused. “First time?”

  For a moment Dixon didn’t answer. “Well, I got that helicopter when the air war started. Those guys probably died, too. Except, you know, I didn’t think about it. I was flying. I never really saw them. Not as people.”

  “First time for me today, too,” said Leteri quietly.

  Dixon thought about the look in the man’s face for only a second, then banished it, concentrating on keeping his momentum up. He felt as if a fire had started in the back of his head; it burned there to keep him going. His hunger was gone and he was beyond feeling numb or tired. His gut had grown raw with the will of survival.

  “How are we going to take that bunker out if the bombs didn’t?” Leteri asked as they got closer.

  “I don’t know that we are.”

  “We have to somehow.”

  “Yeah.” Dixon walked silently. They were about a quarter of a mile from the road, on the opposite side from Sugar Mountain. He was more worried about traffic finding them than doing anything about the shelter. There was plenty of light and they had little cover on this side of the road.

  “What do you think?” Leteri asked. “The grenade launcher?”

  “Grenade’s not going through that door. Turk said the C-4 wouldn’t even take it out. Besides, we got other problems.”

  “Captain’ll come for us, if that’s what you’re thinking. I know Hawkins. He won’t give up. And neither will our colonel. He’s a prick, but he’s a good prick.”

  About a half mile from the quarry, they rested at a small group of rocks a few yards from the highway. Dixon paused for only a second, rocking his body back and forth.

  “I’m going to go scout the quarry,” he told Leteri. “There’s a back way up to the sergeant a few yards ahead. I’ll make sure it’s clear.”

  “I’m gonna come,” said Leteri. “My side doesn’t hurt as much as it did.”

  “Better to hang here,” Dixon told him. “There’s a hell of a lot of climbing this way, and if you go the other way, you’ll be in full view of anything that comes down the road.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  Dixon examined the H&K. The fire in his head was burning steadily now; his eyes had narrowed their focus the way they did in the last few seconds on a bomb run in a Hog. “You stay here,” he said. “I’ll be back. Take the morphine if the pain gets too much.”

  Without waiting for Leteri to answer, Dixon began trotting toward the highway, clutching the small submachine gun close to his side. The sun had started to warm the air. For a second, he felt as if he were running along the beach at his town lake, trotting for an ice cream or maybe back to the car for the stereo.

  Then he heard the rattle of a truck. He dashed across the highway and headed for the back of the hill where he’d left Sergeant Winston. As he did, a small pickup truck crowded with soldiers appeared from the direction of Sugar Mountain, kicking up dust and skidding to a stop across the middle of the road. Dixon threw himself face first behind the rocks, his heart lost somewhere in the dirt as the soldiers jumped out and took up positions all along the highway, less than ten yards away.

  CHAPTER 59

  AL JOUF

  26 JANUARY 1991

  0650

  Even though the tent was empty, it was hardly private; anyone could walk in at any time. And yet she couldn’t control herself. For her entire military service, Rebecca A. Rosen she had steeled herself against exactly this open vulnerability and nakedness. But she was helpless now, sitting on the edge of the cot and shaking like a windup toy.

  There were no tears at least, or hardly any. But the shaking was nearly as bad. It wasn’t as if there was anything between her and Lieutenant Dixon, anything more than a few kisses stolen at random moments. He might not even remember who she was.

  That was nonsense. Of course he did. But he wouldn’t think anything of it, or at least he would be surprised, maybe shocked, to see her like this.

  And yet she couldn’t stop.

  I’m a useless blob, she told herself. She pulled her arms across her chest Stop. This wasn’t helping him. It wasn’t helping anyone.

  But she kept shaking until she managed to think about the capo di capo.

  That brought her back to center. Sergeant Clyston was the closest thing to a father she’d ever had. He was closer to her than her mother, even.

  Rosen saw Clyston’s face now in the tent, the way he would cock his head at her and push his lower lip tight against the top. “F-ing hell,” he’d say. “Rosen, get your butt in gear and see what needs to be done,” he say.

  “Yes, Sergeant. Right away, Sergeant,” she’d say.

  And so she did. She pushed her arms down to her side and took a huge breath, ending the shaking for good. Then she took out a small makeup mirror and checked her eyes and face.

  She took another breath and got off the cot.

  The two Devil Squadron Hogs— her Hogs— were ready to go. But there would be something else for her and her men to do, plenty. And in the meantime, she’d try to come up with something to wring more time on station for the Hogs. Tinman might have something; he was always good for something that had worked in the Dark Ages before screwdrivers were invented.

  Actually, there was an even simpler solution: The A-10As had three hard-points plumed for external fuel tanks. While the idea of using them to extend range had been rejected for several reasons at different points, it might be worth reconsidering, assuming they could get a few tanks out here. Rosen decided to check with Sergeant Clyston about it before going to Doberman. No use making a pitch for something she couldn’t do. She headed for the command bunker, hoping that one of the colonel’s men could set something up for her.

  She found the colonel himself, frowning at an Army captain. Even though the two men were still talking, the colonel motioned her forward.

  “Sergeant?” he said.

  “Sir, begging your pardon, I was wondering if we could arrange a landline back to my chief. I, we, I’m sorry to bother you with this but I was hoping to squeeze more time on station out of the Hogs and wanted to get his ideas, sir. He had mentioned a modification that conceivably could do the trick, sir, and I’d like to spec it out with him.”

  Rosen had thrown more than the mandatory number of “sirs” in the air, and the colonel seemed at least partly amused.

  “You have to run down Major Mosely,” he told her. “He’ll set you up. Sergeant, let me ask you something— any of your crew know anything about helicopter electronics?”

  “What electronics?”

  The Army captain gave the colonel a look Rosen knew all too well – it meant, see what happens when you ask a girl a serious question?

  She stifled her urge to forearm the bastard. “Sir, I’ve worked on the Pave Low systems, if that’s what you have in mind,” Rosen said, her eyes fixed on the idiot captain. “I’ve served as an instructor.”

  “What do you know about AH-6Gs?” asked the colonel.

  “Based on the McDonnell Douglas 500M, they’re powered by Alison gas turbines. The electronics suite is contemporary.”

  “Contemporary?” said the captain.

  “It will do. It’s Army,” she shrugged. “You can’t expect perfection. The power plant’s actually a nice piece of machinery, though.”

  The captain started to say something that would undoubtedly have not been very pleasant, but the colonel stopped him. She could tell that he was the sort of officer who didn’t smile much; nonetheless, he had the beginnings of a grin on his face.

  “You know a lot about that aircraft?” the colonel asked.

  “A fair amount, sir. It’s not my specialty.”

  “You think you could help get one of those things in the air?” the colonel asked her.

  “Sir, I’ll bust my butt doing anything
you want.”

  “That’s not the question, Sergeant. Can you fix helicopters?”

  “If there’s a problem with the electronics I can take a shot at it. I don’t know much about the weapons suite at all. That’s army, and I’m not meaning that disrespectfully. As far as the rest, I helped overhaul Kawasaki license-built models in Japan. I can fix the engine, that’s nothing. Engines were where I started, and like I say, that’s a nice piece of work, that one.”

  The colonel nodded.

  “So where is it?” Rosen asked.

  “Two hundred and fifty miles north of here,” said the captain with a snide grin. “In Iraq.”

  “All right— Apache,” she said, making a fist and swinging it in the air. “Let’s go!”

  The captain had undoubtedly expected her to faint if not burst into tears. But even the colonel was surprised by her reaction.

  “Sergeant, did you understand what the captain just said?” he asked.

  “Oh, he’s just an asshole who thinks women don’t belong in the service,” she said. “Don’t worry about him. He probably couldn’t fix a flat tire. When am I leaving?”

  CHAPTER 60

  AL JOUF

  26 JANUARY 1991

  0650

  Doberman tried to work off his frustration by taking a walk around the base, but that was about as effective as using gasoline to douse a fire. When he realized he was starting to rant at an F-16 that was landing with battle damage for no other reason than the fact that it was a pointy-nose fast-jet, he decided to take a different tack and went over to the Special Ops mess area.

  Masters of the fine art of combat supply, the troopers had laid out an extensive breakfast spread that included fresh eggs and what at least smelled like fresh ham. Doberman helped himself to a bagel and pineapple jelly and then sat at a small table. He had managed only a single bite when the gaunt figure of Tinman appeared before him, wagging a finger.

  “A caul isk signk,” said the crewman. His lips were bluish and his cheeks caved in; his white hair flared up as if an invisible wind blew through it. He looked like a portrait of the Ancient Mariner, tied to a lost ship’s bowsprit.

  Make that, the Ancient Mechanic.

  “A caul isk signk,” he repeated.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” said Doberman.

  “He’s telling you you were born with a caul,” said a Special Forces sergeant, coming over with a tray. The man, not quite as tall as Tinman but nearly as lean, smiled and said something to the Air Force technician. Tinman’s eyes widened and the two began a conversation that Doberman swore was encrypted with a 64-byte key.

  “So what the hell are you two talking about?” Doberman finally asked.

  The sergeant gave him an apologetic smile. “Like I said, he says you were born with a caul.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, for one thing, it means you fight demons. Well, you know.”

  Tinman nodded approvingly.

  “No, I don’t know,” said Doberman. “What the hell language are you talking with him?”

  “It’s not really a language. Kind of a patois. Name’s Joe Kidrey. I’m from Louisiana. Bayou country. Backwoods, though, even for there.” The sergeant sat down across from Doberman.

  “Is that where you’re from, Tinman?”

  Doberman’s question drew an indecipherable response.

  “He says not exactly. Apparently it’s a long story,” Kidrey said. “I assume you don’t want to hear it.”

  “No. But what’s this caul all about?”

  Kidrey scratched his eyebrow and gave Doberman an embarrassed smile. “It’s this birth membrane thing, comes out sometimes on a baby’s face when he’s born. My mom’s a midwife. I guess you see it every so often.”

  “And I had one?”

  The sergeant nodded.

  “How the hell would he know?”

  “Oh, the old-timers know.”

  “What about you?”

  Kidrey gave a half-shrug. “Sometimes there’s a birth mark.”

  “I don’t have a birthmark.”

  The sergeant did the shrug again. “Anyway, the old-timers, I guess the thing is in the old days it was rare to survive that, you know, at least without problems, so these myths built up. You ever hear of Santeria?”

  “What are we talking about here, voodoo?”

  Kidrey shook his head quickly, but not fast enough to keep the Tinman from launching into what even Doberman understood as an agitated denunciation.

  “I’m sorry, relax, relax,” Doberman told him. “You’re going to have a heart attack. Shit.”

  Kidrey said something and Tinman calmed down. The Special Forces sergeant gave the pilot a half wink, then turned back to the Ancient Mechanic and asked him a few more questions. Words flew back and forth, punctuated by nods and deep gestures. Doberman felt like he had stepped into a carnival sideshow.

  “Now I’m not saying I believe any of this, you understand,” said Kidrey, turning back to Doberman. “But, did, uh, the sergeant here give you a cross or something?”

  “Well, he gave it to my wingmate. I don’t believe in that superstitious crap.”

  “Oh.”

  Doberman didn’t like his tone, but before he could say anything Kidrey turned back to Tinman and resumed their coded conversation. It was amazing to him that someone as skilled as the Tinman— whose mechanical genius was obviously the only reason off-the-wall fuel drop worked— could believe in witchcraft.

  Or whatever the hell they were “patoising” about.

  Kidrey finally turned back to Doberman with an apologetic smile. “Thing is Captain, and like I say, I don’t necessarily believe this, okay? Some of the old-timers, they see the world as kind of two parts. There’s us, and then there’s this whole other thing, spirits you’d call it. A few people can go back and forth.”

  “Back and forth, what?”

  Kidrey shrugged. “It’s hard to explain, especially if, you know, you’re not one of them.”

  “What’s it got to do with me?”

  “Well.” Kidrey laughed. “I’m not saying it does.”

  “But Tinman does.”

  “See, the old-timers believe people with cauls are kind of special. They got the power. Like karma or something?”

  Doberman nearly choked. “You’re talking about luck?”

  “That’s not it,” said Kidrey, shaking his hand quickly. Tinman looked as if he was going to stoke up again, but the sergeant leaned back and laid his hand on Tinman’s arm, calming him. ”They think it’s power. Not luck. Definitely not luck.”

  “And I got it?” Doberman asked incredulously.

  “Oh, yeah, big time. See, stuff like that cross he gave you is supposed to focus it. The whole thing comes from Europe or Africa or somewhere. I haven’t a clue. The word my mom used means ‘nightwalker’ in kind of pig-French.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t use that other word.”

  “What word?”

  “The one you were going to use. The one that starts with a W.”

  Doberman had, in fact, been going to ask if Kidrey’s mother was a witch. Instead, he glanced over at Tinman, then leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “I don’t want to get Tinman all twisted up again, but you don’t believe in this bullshit, do you?”

  “Well,” whispered the sergeant back, “I would say it’s kind of in the category of stuff that couldn’t hurt. You know, like throwing salt over your shoulder, lucky pennies, that kind of stuff. If you know what I mean.”

  Doberman leaned back. The Tinman was nodding, a very satisfied look on his face.

  The entire fucking world had gone nuts.

  “Thing is, I have seen some stuff I can’t explain,” added Kidrey. “So you never know.”

  The Tinman pointed his crooked finger at Doberman. His eyes grew large and his cheeks began to inflate. Undoubtedly a huge pronouncement was on the way. That or the geezer was going to have a heart attack, which would really
screw them big-time.

  “All right, all right, I’ll take the goddamn cross,” said Doberman. “Shit.”

  The Tinman’s smile could have lit an airfield.

  CHAPTER 61

  AL JOUF

  26 JANUARY 1991

  0705

  As Wong had suspected, the bombs had not been sufficient to penetrate the bunker. He was annoyed though not surprised that his advice hadn’t been solicited on targeting; it had been his experience at Black Hole that no one there appreciated his abilities.

  Be that as it may, he had a relatively straightforward solution— take out the doors, which he calculated could be done with as little as 130 kg of high explosive.

  It was beyond the doors that things got complicated.

  His experience with Russian sites that featured these door types told him that it led directly to a concrete-reinforced hallway precisely three meters long. At the end of the hallway— which were generally adapted from an existing mine shaft— there would be a stairwell at an exact ninety-degree angle. It would general contain twenty steps downward to the storage area in the direction of the passive ventilation pipe. From there any of three different configurations could be used. The result was the same, however— an isolated storage area.

  He now tentatively identified the materials being placed there as biological, thanks to an admittedly third-hand description of a truck and single courier that had appeared at the facility. He hesitated drawing other conclusions from the absence of protective gear; the Iraqis had uniformly proven idiotic. Indeed, the incident could be viewed as a Rorschach.

  “Which means what, exactly?” asked Colonel Klee, who had sat through the briefing with uncharacteristic patience.

  “Which means that it means whatever the interpreter wants it to mean,” said Wong. “It’s open to many possibilities.”