“Like what?”
Wong sighed. It was always such a chore briefing people outside their area of specialty.
“It could be that they assume we would notice a large force and they want to remain inconspicuous. It could mean that they were delivering lunch or paperwork or perhaps orders to someone inside, though I assure you this is an unmanned facility. It could and most likely means that they are simply stupid.”
“There are definitely weapons there?”
“I didn’t say that. I said there is a strong possibility. There are only indications and inferences. If they respond to the bombing, that would be another strong indication.”
“You’re talking like a goddamn intelligence officer again, Wong. I don’t like it.”
“With all due respect, you asked for my opinion. As far as being an intelligence officers, let me remind you that I am attached to Admiral. . .”
“All right, I don’t want your goddamn Pentagon job classification again. How are we going to blow this thing up?”
“If we merely block the stairway with enough rocks we will accomplish the same thing,” said Wong. “And we can do so quite simply, though admittedly there will be a high coefficient of variables beyond skill involved.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I think he’s trying to say it’ll take some luck,” said Major Wilson.
It was the first time Wong had heard him say anything intelligent since they met, and he nodded before describing his plan. Wong’s preferred solution called for an F-117A Nighthawk flying a pair of Paveways through the doors. The difficulty for the Paveways was in the first shot; if it was off target, it could trigger a landslide which would effectively protect the interior from the second explosion. Unlike a crushing blow inside, exterior damage could be removed easily and would present only a nuisance. The warhead of the Paveways was actually a bit bigger than optimum, and not optimally shaped for this penetration, but the F-117s had a very limited choice of weapons if their stealth profile was to be maintained.
“What’s your less preferred way?” asked the colonel.
“A Maverick model G could pierce the door, if it hit precisely three-fourths of the way up,” said Wong. “There is an advantage in that weapon since it is unlikely to trigger a shock wave of sufficient size to block the entrance. But the second missile has to follow on within two seconds to take advantage of the initial shock, and avoid the likely rockfall. While this could theoretically be accomplished. . .”
“Spare me the specifics,” said the colonel. “You check this with the A-10 pilots?”
“It was not my preferred option,” said Wong. “Although the A-10As are equipped to fire Mavericks, without the addition of a LANTIRN targeting system. . .”
“Can it be done?”
“Of course, but . . .”
“Well make it happen,” said the colonel. His tone suddenly changed, becoming almost charming.
Almost.
“But before you do, tell me something— you parachuted into North Korea with that Gregory Team, didn’t you?”
Wong shuddered at the memory. He hadn’t been able to find anything to eat but fish the whole two weeks in country.
“Yes, sir.”
“As a matter of fact, you have a class D skydiver’s license and a jumpmaster’s ticket, don’t you?”
“I have done some skydiving, yes, sir.”
“Oh, that’s more than some,” said the colonel. “That’s more than most of my men. You’re current?”
“I believe I am.”
“You’re too modest Wong.” The colonel shook his head, as if that were something he had never expected to hear himself say. “That Korean jump was a tandem jump, as a matter of fact, wasn’t it?
“As it happened.”
“I like you, Wong. I really do. I want you to find Sergeant Hillup after you brief the pilots. I have another mission for you. Not quite as exciting as Afghanistan or Korea, I’ll bet, let alone your Vietnam foray last year, but it ought to raise your bp.”
“With all due respect. . .”
“This is right up your alley, Wong. Turns out you’re the only person in my command qualified for a tandem jump that I can actually spare to make one. We lost our last mechanic on a static-line solo jump because he didn’t know how to steer and hit the ground too hard. I can’t take any more chances. We need someone who can do a tandem jump and set her down gently.”
“Her who?” managed Wong.
“Sergeant Rosen.” The colonel grinned. “You’re going to deliver her to Fort Apache.”
CHAPTER 62
SUGAR MOUNTAIN
26 JANUARY 1991
0712
Dixon rolled over, waiting for the Iraqis to appear. Instead, the truck screeched around in a circle and headed back in the direction it had come. He couldn’t tell whether it had left the soldiers, and for the moment didn’t care. Scrambling to his feet, he proceeded as quickly and as quietly he could up the craggy slope.
The back of the hill could not be seen from the roadway or most of the quarry, but once he turned the corner to reach the spot where Winston was hidden, he would be totally exposed for nearly ten yards. He hesitated, spotting something that looked like the top of a vehicle near the entrance to the bunker. Finally, unable to wait any longer, he just went for it, crouching low and using the MP-5 for balance. He reached the rocks and slid in, just barely missing the prone body of the gravely wounded sergeant as he rolled onto his knees. He craned his neck up to catch a glimpse of the enemy below. He saw the turret of a tank at the head of the path, swinging around into position to guard the access to the cave.
Then he felt the cold barrel of a gun at his neck.
“About fucking time you got back,” rasped Winston beneath him.
###
The sergeant could move his arms, but little else. He swore it was just because of the cold. His legs ached as badly as the rest of his body; Dixon figured that was a good sign.
“I was worried you guys just left me,” Winston told him. “I heard the trucks but couldn’t see what the fuck was going on.”
“I didn’t leave you,” said Dixon. “I had to get Leteri.”
“Where the hell is that weasel?”
Dixon explained what had happened. Then, he crawled back to survey the Iraqi position from the rocks, exposed but just barely.
As Turk had suspected, the Iraqis had positioned the mines to enhance preplanned defensive positions. Dixon could see part of a tank — he guessed T-72— on Sugar Mountain’s driveway. It was about fifty yards away on a diagonal. To see more than just the gun and top of turret, Dixon had to stand and expose himself fully, which he naturally didn’t want to do.
He had a better view of a second tank at the far end of the quarry near the highway, even though it was two hundred yards or so away. Four or five Iraqi soldiers milled around behind it; he assumed that the group included the commander, since men kept approaching and then leaving.
He hadn’t seen any antiair defenses. Thirty seconds worth of Hog action and these bastards would be toast.
But he wasn’t in an A-10. He might just as well fantasize about being on a beach with supermodel Christie Brinkley.
If the commandos came back for them, could they take out the tanks? If the Hogs flew cover for them, they could. It’d be a piece of cake.
Except for him and Winston, who’d be right in the middle of the action.
Winston would be. Dixon could still get away. Once he was off the ledge, he could probably get back around the hill. If he trekked west a ways, he could probably find a spot to cross the road to Leteri without being seen.
But that meant leaving the sergeant, and that was unacceptable, especially now.
Dixon sized up the Iraqi defense. How much of it was blocked from his view? Half? A quarter? Was there another tank or three more? Mobile SAMs? Self-propelled triple-A?
His fingers were wrapped so tightly around the MP-5 that he had to
pry them free with his other hand, then try to shake them back to flexibility. The fear of being spotted kept pumping adrenaline through his body, but he was tired as hell and ached everywhere. He couldn’t have eaten if he tried, but he was thirsty, and though he told himself it was better to ration sips of water he found his eyes constantly wandering to the canteen at his belt. Finally he couldn’t stand it and slid back into the shelter next to Winston to get a drink.
The sergeant’s arm twitched, jerking the pistol to the side.
“Sergeant? You okay?”
The trooper didn’t answer. His eyes had closed again. Dixon leaned down; for a moment he thought Winston had died but then he heard the sergeant’s chest rattle with fluid as he breathed. He reached over to his forehead, gently placing the back of his hand against it to see if he had a fever. He didn’t seem to, though Dixon’s fingers were so numb he might not be able to tell. He rubbed them together and then edged himself hard against the rocks, trying to find a semi-comfortable spot where he could remain hidden but see some of the Iraqi soldiers below.
###
A half-hour later, the lieutenant heard the distant whine of an approaching jet. Several planes had passed far overhead during the last two hours, but he knew right away this one was different— it was low and it was coming right toward them. The sound increased exponentially, then, even as the ground started to shake, the jet was overhead and gone, fleeing so quickly that Dixon got no more than a glimpse of its shadow. He guessed that it was a recon plane, most likely a British Tornado tasked for BDA or bomb damage assessment on Sugar Mountain.
The Iraqis behind the far tank threw themselves on the ground. They got up chattering, but they didn’t seem to be congratulating themselves on their good fortune. The commander pointed and shouted, and Dixon saw two of the men run to the parked truck beyond the tank at the edge of the highway. They took something out and began climbing up the side of the mountain toward the bomb crater.
They were still in view when he heard something move on the hillside behind him. He swung around, pulling up the submachine gun, cursing himself for not keeping a better guard.
He just barely avoided putting half-dozen rounds through Leteri’s face.
“Thought I’d see how you were making out,” said Leteri, ducking down to cover.
“That’s twice today I almost shot you,” said Dixon.
“Put me out of my misery.” Leteri unclenched his teeth and smiled briefly before his expression once more surrendered to the pain of his wounds. “I’m all right,” he told Dixon. “Took me forever to realize there was only one guard watching the whole back end of the quarry. I got around him easy but I was worried about running into someone else. Guess they don’t know we’re here, huh? How’s Winston?”
“He goes in and out.”
“That plane ours?”
“Yeah. He was checking for damage,” Dixon told him. “They’ll hit the bunker again. But before they do, we have to remove a slight impediment.”
“What’s that?” asked Leteri.
“Two of our friends over there just hauled something up the hill with them. I didn’t get a good look, but my bet is that it was a shoulder-fired missile, probably an SA-16. Anything comes back, it’s going down.”
CHAPTER 63
AL JOUF
26 JANUARY 1991
0730
“You’re out of your gourd, Wong. No way anybody can guarantee those shots,” said A-Bomb. He shook his head and jerked his thumb back toward Doberman. “I don’t even think the Dog Man could do it, and he’s the best Mav gunner in the stinking Air Force. Mr. AGM.
“I attempted to point out the difficulty involved,” said Wong. “But the colonel. . .”
“I can do it,” said Doberman. “I set up on the way in and hand off without firing, get both nailed down, dial back, and bing-bang-bam.
“Two seconds?”
“Precisely 1.8 would be optimum,” said Wong.
And you’re going to get a solid aim point with the infrared?” said A-Bomb. “Exactly three quarters of the way up?”
“Don’t sweat it,” Doberman said. Part of him knew that even physically hitting the buttons quickly enough to get the shot off fast enough was nearly impossible.
Another part of him knew that he was going to do it. And fuck everybody else. Including and especially Klee.
A-Bomb, for maybe the first time he’d known him, was temporarily speechless. And Wong . . .
Wong was incapable of such a condition, unfortunately.
“There is a significant error coefficient,” Wong said. He had a pained expression that made it look like he was about to barf up a dissertation.
“Tell me about it later,” said Doberman. He turned toward the Hog pit area. “Let’s go talk to Rosen and make sure the planes get a last-minute tweak.”
“I’m afraid she won’t be available,” said Wong. “The sergeant and I are relocating.”
“Where you going?” asked A-Bomb.
“North,” said Wong. “Very far north.”
###
“I am going to do you the biggest favor of your life, Captain, and forget every fucking word you just told me.” Colonel Klee pushed his words out in a perfect imitation of the Big Bad Wolf blowing down one of the pig’s straw houses. “You get your fanny in gear and you do your job. I’ll worry about who else goes where, why, and how.”
Doberman didn’t bother biting his teeth together, or taking a breath, or counting to ten, or any of the one million things he’d done in his life to try and keep his temper under control.
They never worked anyway.
“Squadron personnel are my responsibility,” he said. “And Rosen. . .”
“I expect that door down before 11oo hours. You got that?”
“Screw you.”
“What?”
“Screw you.”
Doberman stormed out of the command post so hot his head probably would have melted metal. A-Bomb, who’d been waiting outside, had to run to keep up.
“Colonel didn’t appreciate you pointing out to him that Rosen’s female, huh?” said A-Bomb as Doberman passed him outside.
Doberman didn’t answer.
“Kind of funny if she becomes a war hero, don’t you think?” A-Bomb began trotting to keep up.
Doberman wasn’t quite sure where he was going to go. He wanted to hop into the Hog and take it straight north to Baghdad and give Saddam a Maverick enema.
Then he’d come back and do the same for Klee, the shithead.
“You sure you want to take both shots? I mean, I know you can make them, that’s not what I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb. “Hey, for a little guy, you sure walk fast.”
“Who says I’m little?”
“I do.”
“Screw yourself,” said Doberman, picking up his pace.
“You got to play cards with me tonight,” said A-Bomb, trotting behind him. “I figure we can win enough for a couple of nightscopes. These guys think Baseball’s something you do with a bat.”
Doberman had known A-Bomb for a long time, and there was no one he would rather fly with. O’Rourke was the best wingman in the Air Force, period. But there were times when he was just too much to take. He was always making a joke about something, or finding some way to bend the rules in his favor, or just ignoring them. Not only did he flout convention, he thought the laws of physics were optional.
“Screw you, A-Bomb,” Doberman said, his legs cranking faster. “We got to get in the air, right now, and I don’t want any more of your bullshit.”
“Hey Dog Man, hold up,” said A-Bomb, trotting beside him. “Yo man, you got to calm down a bit.”
“I am calm.”
“Listen, Dog.” A-Bomb’s fingers grabbed his biceps like a vice. Doberman swung around, ready to slug his friend away for joking around.
But the look on his face stopped him. A-Bomb’s words were flat and calm and cold, as direct as the arc of a bomb on a ninety-degree drop.
“Your job now is to stay level,” said Captain O’Rourke. “You’re going to be the squadron Director of Operations when we get back to the Home Drome. You and I both know it. Everybody’s going to depend on you. You can’t let your anger go like you used to. Shit, Dixon and these Special Ops guys are depending on you. Me, too.” A-Bomb’s fingers tightened. “I got your six. No matter what. But you level off.”
Doberman nodded. “Yeah, I know.” He pulled his arm free. “Damn. I’m pissed.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” said A-Bomb.
“You’re looking at me like you got a question.”
“Yeah, I got a question. You sure you can make those shots?”
“In my sleep,” said Doberman.
A-Bomb nodded deeply. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Doberman started walking again. It was hard for him to stay pissed at A-Bomb. It was hard for him to stay pissed at anyone. Except Saddam and Klee.
He could do the shots. It was physically impossible, but who the hell cared? Line ‘em up and spin the bottle. One-two, bing-bang-bam.
He’d have to lose the thumb thing, though. Bad habit anyway. Just a tic. Where had it come from, anyway? It was a superstition— bullshit.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Doberman told A-Bomb as they walked. “We get the Hogs gassed and we support the helos at their cow field or whatever the damn pickup is.
“Cornfield.”
“Yeah, good. We load up for bear, help them get their helo, and make sure Dixon’s okay. Then we nail the motherfucker door.”
“You sure we have the fuel to do all that?” A-Bomb asked.
“No problem.”
“We don’t get Sugar Mountain, the colonel’s going to be mad, no?”
“You want to hit it while Dixon’s still there?”
“No way.”
“Then we better make sure he gets out, right?”
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
Hogs #3 Fort Apache Page 19
