Hogs #3 Fort Apache

by DeFelice, Jim

  “Hey!” she yelled behind her. “Where’s my pilot?”

  “Here,” said the man, a tall, chain-smoking Floridian whose name was either Slim, Bim or Flim; she couldn’t be sure.

  “Start it up,” she told him.

  “You don’t want to check it first?”

  “Maybe nothing’s wrong. Start it up. If it works we’ll worry about it later.”

  “What about the rotor blades?”

  Rosen gave the pilot a look that made him climb inside. She took the co-pilot’s seat and examined the interior; nothing was obviously out of place, except for the bullet holes in the windshield— and the dead pilot’s blood.

  “I’m trying to turn her over but I got nothing,” said the pilot. “Instruments are dead. Engine should be coughing and the rotors cranking, see? You gonna check it now?”

  “Good, we’re looking good,” Rosen said. “Kill the power. Don’t smoke until I’m sure there’s no gas leak,” she said, zipping open her toolkit and then clambering out the door to climb between the rotor and the roof. Her mind was still fuzzy, like a TV caught between pictures on two different stations.

  Then it cleared, and she could imagine a motor laid out perfectly in her head.

  Trouble was, it didn’t belong to an AH-6G, or any other member of the MD530 family. In fact, it didn’t belong to a helicopter at all.

  It was a good ol’ Chevy 350, V-8, stock, untuned, lying the center of the vast engine compartment belonging to her grandfather’s Impala.

  Heck of a motor, just not what she wanted to be thinking about right now.

  The stream of bullets that had taken out the pilot had made an arc up the top of the glass across the roof and rotor mechanism. The bullets seemed to have either missed or grazed off. There were dents in the faring but nothing serious.

  “Don’t smoke!” she warned the pilot as she slid off the front of the helicopter.

  “It ain’t lit!”

  She climbed over the rocket launcher and hung beneath the body of the aircraft. A spray of bullets had nearly shot one of the bottom right-side access panels off. The metal was so loose that a touch of her screwdriver kicked it away.

  And damned if the problem, one of them anyway, wasn’t right in front of her— the bullets had chewed up one of the wire harnesses.

  Hey, ignition system, no shit. That was exactly what had been wrong with Grandpa’s Impala. Except it had been damaged by squirrels, not 30 mm bullets.

  There was a warren of wires here, enough to keep a squadron of mechanics busy for hours testing and tying them together.

  Best punt, as Sergeant Clyston would say.

  “OK, Slim Jim, hey, come here,” she shouted. “And for christsakes, don’t fucking smoke!”

  The pilot slipped out of the chopper. Rosen was used to Air Force pilots, most of whom ran instead of walked. The Army Special Ops pilot had a much slower approach to life, ambling around to her.

  Or maybe she had just been thrown into overdrive and the rest of the world was at normal speed.

  “You see colors?” she asked.

  “What do you mean colors?”

  “You color blind?”

  “No.”

  “Good. This is gonna be kind of like a game, except it’s not.”

  Rosen took a roll of spare wire and electrical tape from her toolbox and threw it to him. Then she explained how to strip the ends off the wires and reattach them. She emphasized the importance of getting the color coding absolutely correct; they could easily short something important out if they didn’t.

  “We going to re-attach everyone?”

  “Only if we have to,” said Rosen. “Every five wires, you go see what works. Just shout before you do.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Number one, I want to make sure the gas tanks aren’t leaking before you blow us all to bits.”

  “It ain’t lit!” he protested, taking the cigarette from his mouth to prove it.

  ###

  Hawkins saw that the survivors from the firefight, or maybe reinforcements, had taken away the dead, including the Americans. Relief mixed with his anger as he surveyed the scene. Taking the bodies back would have been difficult if they couldn’t get the second bird going. The captain called his two men back and made sure they had carefully gone through the site. He knew, of course, that they had, but asking was part of his job and they accepted it without complaint, assuring him the site was “clean.”

  “Wait for me by our helo,” he told them, then headed over to Rosen. She was working on something at the tail end of the aircraft.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “If this rotor control and the wires are the only problem, I’m thinking another ten minutes, fifteen tops. This isn’t serious at all.”

  “What if they’re not the only problem?”

  “Well, I think they are. The blades are all good, the engine itself wasn’t hit and there’s gas. The infra-red radar will probably be out and I won’t vouch for anything electrical until the engine’s back, but Slim Jim ought to be able to fly it back.”

  “Gary’s his name.”

  “Gary?” It was the first time since they’d met that her face betrayed anything but dead certainty. “Really?”

  “We’re going to leave you here and get our guys,” said Hawkins. “You run into trouble, call us.”

  “What if the radio doesn’t work?”

  “If we don’t hear from you, we’ll come back,” he called back, already trotting toward his helicopter.

  CHAPTER 68

  SUGAR MOUNTAIN

  26 JANUARY 1991

  1015

  There was no way he was sneaking up on this guard, and no way was he getting lucky enough to dump him easily either.

  Twenty feet of rubble and a sixty-degree slope separated Dixon and the soldier posted near the summit of the cliff. The man had his side to Dixon and his back to the lip of the bomb crater where the man with the missile was. And he was paying attention to his job— Dixon had to duck back around the cliff wall as the man walked his short line back and forth across the ledge.

  Rush the man now and everyone would hear. He might be able to kill the soldier, then get up over the lip of the crater and take out the man with the missile, but only if the second man wasn’t armed. And only if this guard was the other soldier he’d seen climbing the hill with him.

  Too many ifs.

  He could wait until he heard a plane. The Iraqis might find him by then.

  Dixon could walk back around to the other side and try to get a firing position. That would take at least forty-five minutes, and he’d be in the open much of the way.

  If he went back and put on the uniform of the man he’d killed, he might be able to get close enough to take them out before they realized he was an American.

  Nah. It was covered with blood and too small.

  Dixon stuck his head around the corner of the rocks. The guard had walked further along his lookout ledge and was out of view, though Dixon could hear his footsteps scrunching in the dirt.

  The ledge blocked most of the cliff face directly below his sight. If Dixon could go down about twenty feet and then tack out across the rock face, he’d get by him without being seen. That would put him a few yards from the side of the crater, with a good view of the soldier with the missile.

  That would also put him in clear view of the guard.

  He’d have to take them both out very quickly.

  Doable. Then fire the missile into the dirt.

  Better yet, into one of the tanks. If he could figure out how it worked.

  Dixon studied the cracks on the quarried rock face below the guard. It wouldn’t be easy.

  Doable, though. Best way.

  The guard turned and Dixon ducked back behind cover. He’d have to wait until the guard was about halfway before starting.

  Dixon was going across. It would take fifteen minutes and some luck.

  Make it ten, he decided. And screw luck
.

  CHAPTER 69

  THE CORNFIELD

  26 JANUARY 1991

  1027

  “Try it!” Rosen shouted.

  Nothing happened.

  But damn, all the wires were together. She had current. There was definitely fuel. What the hell?

  Her fingers were just touching the body of the engine when she felt a vibration. At first she thought it was an electrical shock; she yanked her hand back as the turbine coughed.

  It started, coughed again, and stopped.

  Progress.

  “Shit,” said the pilot.

  “Give it another shot.”

  “These things are supposed to start right up.”

  Rosen rolled her eyes. Pilots!

  Sergeant Clyston wouldn’t have this problem. When he told a pilot to do something, they damn sure did it.

  It had to do with the way he used his voice.

  “Give it another shot,” she said, trying to sound exactly as the sergeant would have.

  The engine cranked to life.

  “Let it run!” she shouted, running to the cockpit. “I have to make some adjustments and see what I can do about the panel. Then I’ll get the radio to work.”

  “Radar’s out. No radio,” said the pilot. “How the hell am I going to fly without a radio?”

  She ran back to the engine shaking her head. Pilots.

  CHAPTER 70

  SUGAR MOUNTAIN

  26 JANUARY 1991

  1028

  Dixon slid his hand into the crack, pushing it sideways to get as secure a grip as he could manage before swinging his right leg toward the foothold.

  His boot slipped and he had to strain to hold himself up. He pushed off with his left foot and caught a got foothold just as the ache in his arms became unbearable. He breath deeply, then inched his left hand to the same crack as his right, pulling his body across the face of the rock as he found a new place for his right hand.

  He had maybe five feet to go, five easy feet. All he had to do was get there and he’d be beyond the guard and have a line on missile boy in the crater. His head sagged backward. He was tired as hell, but he wasn’t stopping now. As he flexed his shoulder muscles slightly, the guard’s footsteps approached above him to the left. He froze, waiting for the man to continue his rounds, walk past him, turn, then go back the other way.

  While he waited, Dixon plotted his next two hand-holds: large, squared notches on the rock. He had a good ledge for his feet, though it was a bit of a stretch to get to the holds. As the guard turned and began walking back, Dixon moved his right leg, found solid footing, then pulled for the new spot. He was there, he had it, only two feet to go and he’d be on the rocks, scrambling toward the top.

  Something gave way behind him.

  Rocks tumbled. He heard curses and people running. Dixon curled his body into a ball and plunged to the right, landing hard on the rocks at the side of the hill where he’d been aiming. He pulled the submachine-gun up, ready to take a long blast, make something out of nothing before they killed him.

  But the shouts weren’t for him. A helicopter was approaching, a dark bee in the distance.

  And something else, something that exploded nearly straight down from the sky. It came faster than an archangel and with considerably more prejudice, not to mention a lot more explosives.

  The Hogs had arrived.

  CHAPTER 71

  OVER IRAQ

  26 JANUARY 1991

  1031

  A-Bomb had both tanks at about eight-thousand feet and three miles off, a turkey shoot for the Mavericks, which were salivating in anticipation on his wings— and who could blame them? But he had to hold them in reserve, in case Doberman missed. As unlikely as he knew that was, it was the plan, and so A-Bomb merely sighed and soldiered on, getting ready to drop the iron bombs instead. He fixed the Hog’s nose at nearly a ninety-degree angle toward the ground, nonchalantly making his wind adjustments and bopping to the beat of E Street shuffle.

  Finger itching on the pickle button as he framed the first tank in his HUD, A-Bomb decided that The Price is Right was just what he was looking to play here.

  Or rather, The Bomb is Right.

  “Who’s today’s lucky winner, Johnny?” he asked as the target grew fat and ever more juicy. “Why, it’s tank number one, a lovely little T-72 model fresh from the factory at Minsk. I know it’s not really Minsk, Bob, but I just love saying that. Minsk. Minsk.”

  “And what have they won?” continued the pilot. “Why, two lovely five hundred pound bombs, right down the poop chute.”

  He releasing his bombs and pushed the stick for a quick drop on the second tank. It was close to physically impossible to nail them both on the same swoop given their separation and his steep angle, but A-Bomb went for it anyway, swinging the Hog’s wings.

  The shot fluttered toward the aim point, then fritter away.

  The Iraqis actually had the gall to try and shoot at him as he began to pull back on his stick; a fair-sized knot of soldiers appeared in the center of his windscreen and he had to exercise an extreme amount of willpower not to toss his bombs at them, saving the heavy iron for the tank.

  Which, really, he should have gotten on that first run, tough angle or not. Problem was, he decided, he hadn’t gone with the flow. He’d gone with a game show, when he should have just gone with The Boss.

  No problem. He clicked the play button on his personal stereo and dished up “Thunder Road.” At the same time, he slammed the Hog into a butt-crunching, face-distorting negative-G turn and climbed, looping out at the top, and nailing down into a dive toward the tank. The Hog snapped her tail and picked up speed, revving with pleasure as her pilot decided to use the cannon instead of the bomb.

  This is what she was designed to do: unzip Soviet tanks. And even if this wasn’t Europe and the big hunk of metal in front of her was technically bigger and thicker than her designers had envisioned her frying, the Hog had fury and momentum on her side.

  The tank commander’s 7.62mm winked at the plane as she came. It seemed to A-Bomb that a bullet or two actually grazed off the lower titanium hull.

  “Don’t do that,” A-Bomb warned. “You’re only going to piss her off.”

  The tank commander obviously heard him, for the stream of bullets veered away.

  “You know what I’m here for,” sang Shotgun, echoing Bruce Springsteen as he pressed the kill button. His first bullets greased harmlessly across one of the Dolly Parton plates at the front of the t-72. The stream moved upwards, streaming left and right, until A-Bomb found the relatively soft top of the turret.

  Then he nailed it down, riding the rudder pedals as his uranium slugs erased the bastard’s top and back end.

  Shotgun let off on the gun, pulling up and sailing over the rock quarry, considering whether to find something else or get more altitude. He was just banking when he heard Doberman shouting in his head. A frantic warning cut through the chaos, drowning out the Big Man’s saxophone:

  “Missile on the hill! Missile on the hill!”

  CHAPTER 72

  Sugar Mountain

  26 January, 1991

  1031

  Dixon scrambled to his feet as the bombs separated from the Hog, aimed squarely at the top of the tank stationed to the east of the mountain. By the time they exploded, he was throwing himself forward over the edge of the crater, and in the same motion spraying the figure standing below him with bullets.

  Wounded, the man staggered backwards, away from the SAM pack; Dixon pushed himself to his feet, felt the ground exploding and remembered the guard. He lost his footing and fell, tumbling in the dirt against the jagged rocks, bullets flying around him. He tried to aim his gun but lost his grip. He saw the guard, and fumbled to get his finger back on the trigger. Someone yanked at his leg as he fired.

  He missed the Iraqi guard, but made him duck for cover.

  The other man he’d shot clung to Dixon’s leg, clawing at him and reaching for his pistol. Dix
on smashed him with the side of the submachine gun, crushing his own finger against the man’s skull. Dixon yelped in pain, then pushed back as the man grabbed again for his pistol, sending three slugs into the Iraqi’s skull.

  Dixon spun and threw himself in the direction of the missile pack on the ground, letting off a long burst from the MP-5 back in the direction of the ridge. The Iraqi guard there fired back. Dixon pumped his gun until the clip emptied. Finally, the Iraqi soldier disappeared— whether hit or simply reloading, Dixon didn’t care.

  A heavy machine gun began peppering the ridge as Dixon grabbed the SA-16 missile launcher from the dirt. He ducked, fumbling with the controls. When the machine gun stopped, he rose, propped the launcher on his shoulder and aimed it toward the Iraqis.

  Nothing happened when he pressed the trigger. He had to duck down as the Iraqi machine gunner chewed up the rocks in front of him. Examining the launcher, Dixon realized there were two triggers, one a primer and one the actual trigger. As soon as the machine-gun stopped, Dixon jumped up and fired the heat-seeking missile downward in the direction of his enemies.

  CHAPTER 73

  OVER IRAQ

  26 JANUARY 1991

  1034

  A-Bomb cursed as the SAM launched toward him. He kicked out more flares and wagged his butt around, jinking crazier than a topless dancer working for tips, before realizing the rocket had been aimed downwards. It flew straight into the hillside, bouncing off a rock before exploding. A sixth sense told him Dixon had grabbed the SAM, the kid deciding to try playing wingman without a plane.

  Just then, the CD skipped four tracks. “Born to Run” slammed into his ears.

  Talk about karma. At exactly the same moment, the helo pilot hit the radio and said he was coming in and could somebody do something about the machine guns? A-Bomb lit the Gatling, aiming to ice the enemy nests near the roadway.