And shut the hell up, he wanted to add.
A brown and red stone shot into his windscreen, a meteor tossed down from space. Hack jerked back reflexively before realizing it was the Tornado, several miles off.
He’d never seen a plane on fire before. It didn’t seem to be a plane at all. It didn’t seem real.
Doberman and his wingman were lower, much lower, tracking southward behind the stricken plane.
What the hell had Doberman been doing so far north?
“Bail out, Sister Sadie! Bail out!” Hack said, pushing the mike button.
“Rolands are still hot. They’re gunning for you, Doberman!” said A-Bomb over the squadron frequency.
“Fuck them,” said Doberman.
Hack’s RWR lit up, warning of a fresh salvo of anti-aircraft missiles. Where the hell was that Weasel and his SAM killers?
CHAPTER 14
OVER IRAQ
28 JANUARY 1991
1759
Doberman cursed as a fresh wave of turbulence buffeted his wings, shaking the Hog so hard, his head nearly hit the canopy despite his snugged restraints.
The Iraqis had launched two more missiles; maybe at the Tornado and maybe at him or his wingman.
“Chaff and go lower,” he told Gunny in Devil Four, hoping his wingman had the good sense to take evasive maneuvers and not hang on him as he continued to track the stricken RAF plane. “Sister Sadie, if you’re getting out, now’s the time to go.”
The British pilot said something in return, but static swallowed his words. The rear quarter of the plane was engulfed in flames, and yet it flew on seemingly untroubled by the massive damage, picking up speed as it flashed over Doberman.
“Don’t they have ejection seats in those fucking planes!” Doberman shouted.
The red flames were replaced by a large, hairy spider that grew in an instant and disappeared. Doberman cursed, then yanked his plane hard to left, pushing out electronic tinsel in case the Rolands were still behind him.
Which they were.
The Roland was designed as a medium-range surface-to-air system, intended to work as part of a more comprehensive antiair net, but nasty enough on its own. One of the things that made it particularly difficult to defeat was its ability to track very-low-flying objects; once the missile attached itself to your back, it could trail you even below fifty feet.
Glenon knew that, but hitting the deck was his only defense— the missile was several times faster than the Hog, hard to fool with tinsel, and couldn’t be defeated by the primitive ECM pod slung beneath the A-10’s wing. Doberman and his wingman had only one thing going for them: They were flying Hogs. They slashed across the terrain, throwing out electronic tinsel as they cut, hoping the missile would grab for the electronic ghosts or at least hesitate enough for the Hogs to get away.
Doberman pushed his nose into the dirt, braving the buffeting wind as he ran less than thirty feet from the desert floor. And he urged the missiles onto his back – no way could he live with himself if they took out Gunny.
The warning gear snapped clear. Either he’d ducked the missiles or they were about to crunch his tailfins.
Doberman pulled back on the stick, taking a half breath as he twisted his head, searching for his wingman. A tree of smoke filled the left quarter of his canopy— one of the Rolands had exploded on the ground. Glenon jerked his attention to the other side, and spotted a dark green hulk running off his right wing, almost behind him, flying so low he thought for a second it was a truck.
“You okay, Four?”
“They tell me I am,” said his wingman. “Six is clean. Rolands went off course and splashed in the grass.Weasel says he got ‘em, but I want pictures.”
“You’re starting to sound like A-Bomb.”
“Aw shucks. I’m blushing.”
“Three.” Doberman pushed the Hog’s nose up, trying to puzzle out where he was.
“Devil Three, acknowledge,” said Preston, his voice blurring into static as the rest of his transmission was lost.
“Three. Didn’t hear a word you said, Hack.”
“Are you okay?”
“We’re fine.” Doberman snapped his finger off the transmit button. What did the fuckhead think? Just because he wasn’t flying a fast-mover he couldn’t duck SAMs?
“Weasel reports Rolands are down. SA-2 is not active. Watch the guns at Splashdown. What’s your position?”
Gunny’s excited voice snapped in before Doberman could answer.
“Two chutes! Two chutes! I have two parachutes off my nose, two miles maybe. Shit! Those bastards are luckier than a dog in a whorehouse!”
CHAPTER 15
IRAQ
28 JANUARY 1991
1759
Captain Conrad watched as his navigator hit the ground a good thirty seconds ahead of him, tucking his feet and falling over into the sand. The wind took the nav’s parachute, pitching him along the ground like a bag tossed in the street.
That was all the hint Conrad needed— he got his legs moving as he touched down and worked the snaps off with his hands, hoping to release the chute and step off like a pro. He undid one but not the other and ended up dragged along as ignobly as his backseater. The wind was so strong it finally yanked the chute away, leaving him to roll in the dirt for several yards before his momentum finally gave out.
He stopped facedown, helmet in the dirt; he did a pushup to his knees, then began laughing uncontrollably.
Damn sight for anyone to see, he thought. Good thing his squadron mates hadn’t been along or he’d never hear the end of it.
As Conrad hauled off his helmet the ground shook with the roar of an approaching jet. A pair of American A-10s whipped directly overhead, no more than thirty feet off the desert sand— so close, in fact, that he thought for a moment the Yanks might reach out a hand and try to grab him.
They didn’t. But they circled back so low and slow he could see the lead pilot give him a thumbs up. He waved, then ran to Charlie.
“Up and at ‘em, Charles,” he told the lieutenant, who was hunched over the sand.
“Stomach’s not right,” said the backseater, leaning over to retch.
Not terribly anxious to succumb to the power of suggestion, Conrad quickly backed away. He took out his emergency radio, dialing in the distress frequency. The A-10A pilot answered his hail in under thirty seconds.
“Bravo Baker,” he said, beginning the elaborate recognition procedure, which would culminate with a series of personal questions to prove he was who he said he was.
“Fuck that,” answered the Yank. “I’m Doberman. You guys okay?”
“Tip top,” Conrad.
“Yeah. Hang on while we figure this out.”
“Quite.”
“Come again?”
“Ten-four,” Conrad told him, trying to toss up a little American slang.
“What are you saying?”
“Standing by,” he responded.
The wind howled, shoving gritty sand into Conrad’s eyes; he removed his gloves to clear them, then retrieved his sunglasses from beneath his survival vest for protection. By now the sun had set and the dark glasses turned the landscape into a mass of shadows, blurry grays and blacks, like walls being moved toward him. Conrad lifted the glasses slightly away from his face, holding them like shields against the dust and looking sideways. A thick cyclone of soot rose directly south of him— Sister Sadie.
He ran back to his navigator, who was now sitting cross-legged on the desert sand. Nevins had pulled off his survival vest and found a cap and scarf in his gear.
“You look like a nomad,” Conrad joked.
“Fucking wind,” said Nevins, reaching into a flap pocket on his pant leg. He removed a pair of goggles.
“Thanks,” said Conrad, grabbing them.
“Fuck!”
“Make sure your radio works,” Conrad told him, ignoring the protest. “Quickly. Our contact is Devil Three— Doberman. Go on.”
Nevins to
ok out the radio reluctantly, still a little jittery with stomach upset as he hooked in the earplug. As soon as Conrad saw that he had hailed the Yank, he began trotting away.
“Hey! Hey!” shouted the nav.
“I’ll be back!” Conrad told him, turning and running backwards. “Have to pay my respects.” He wheeled and ran for all he was worth toward the wreckage of their plane, more than a mile away.
CHAPTER 16
OVER IRAQ
28 JANUARY 1991
1810
Hawkins had trouble both hearing the co-pilot and keeping his balance as the Chinooks hovered above a stretch of empty desert about twenty-five miles southwest of their target. Worse, he couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on. He knew the reconnaissance Tornado had gone down— but what about the target? Was it clean, hot or what?
“Devil One isn’t answering,” said the co-pilot.
“Try again.”
“Sergeant Williams in Splash Two wants you.” Tired of trying to act as a go-between, the co-pilot slipped the bulky British headset back to Hawkins, who held it to his ear, bracing himself against the back of the seat with his leg.
“What’s up?” he asked the SAS sergeant who was heading the team in Splash Two.
“My question to you,” answered the sergeant.
“I’m trying to figure it out. We don’t have target data.”
“Heli pilot’s worried about sand getting in his engines,” said the sergeant.
“So’s ours,” Hawkins told him.
“Losing light.”
Hawkins and his men were used to working at night, but neither the Apaches nor the Hogs were equipped with the sophisticated gear that would allow them to support a night operation. Nor were the Chinooks and the SAS teams fully equipped to do so. Escaping as night fell was one thing, but run into serious defenses and the darkness could work against them.
Defenses that could take down a Tornado were by definition serious. But was the missile at the site, or one of the launchers several miles away that they’d been briefed on?
“Stand by Splash Two,” Hawkins told the sergeant. He tapped the co-pilot, who’d turned his attention to his instruments. “Can you get me Devil One?”
“I’ll try. Wind is kicking up fierce down here,” he added. “One your Apaches is turning back.”
“What?”
“Engine trouble. The sand, no doubt.”
“Get me the fucking Hogs. Shit.”
CHAPTER 17
OVER IRAQ
28 JANUARY 1991
1812
Everything was falling apart. They had a plane down, deep in enemy territory. They had no intelligence on the landing zone, and had lost the element of surprise.
And now one of the Apaches had engine trouble.
None of it was Hack’s fault, and yet there was a hole in the side of his stomach. He tried to fight off the doubt that crept all around him, tried to focus on the rapidly dimming landscape outside his canopy. It wasn’t too late; they could still nail this thing down if he kept his head, if everyone kept their heads.
“Devil One, Devil One,” squawked one of the British helicopter pilots, though he didn’t identify himself. “What is this situation? We need a sit rep. Repeat, sit rep.”
“Devil One. British craft, identify yourself.”
Static.
As he transmitted again, Preston checked his fuel. They had between thirty and forty minutes of linger time left before nudging reserves. The dash to the target area would eat up nearly ten of that.
A new voice came back from the RAF Chinook – Hawkins.
“Devil Leader this is Splash Commander. What do we have?”
“Sister Sadie is down; we’re attempting to establish contact,” he told Hawkins.
“What’s the sit at Splashdown?”
“I’m still working on that,” said Preston. “Sadie was hit before he could tell us.”
“We need to know now.”
“No shit, captain,” he said, anger finally spiking. He hated the Delta assholes— he was tempted, sorely tempted, to tell them to go and fly right into the frickin’ SAMs.
“What?”
Hack hated everyone and everything connected with this stinking operation, the RAF crew for getting shot down, Knowlington for making him take the mission.
He hated himself. He was blowing it big time.
“I’ll get to you when I know something,” he told Hawkins, abruptly flipping back to the squadron frequency and hailing Doberman.
“Are you in contact with Sadie?”
“Affirmative.”
“Nice of you to tell me.”
“I’ve been trying to raise you,” said Doberman.
“Does Coyote know?” he asked, referring to the AWACS controller, who would alert SAR assets.
“Can’t raise him either,” said Doberman.
The whole damn mission was going to hell.
“Hold on. I’ll take care of it,” said Preston.
“Shit, we have company,” said Doberman.
“Repeat Three.”
“Vehicles, three vehicles. Must be homing in on our boy’s transmission. Shit.”
“Smoke ‘em,” cut in A-Bomb.
“Yeah, no shit,” responded Doberman. “Gunny, on my back.”
“Covered.”
Preston went back to Hawkins. “Give me your position.”
“We’re in the same fucking position we were in ten minutes ago. What is the situation at Splashdown? Repeat. What is the situation. . .”
Hack pushed the transmit button before Hawkins finished. The mission was finished now—there was no sense sending the assault team to rescue men who might or might not be there, when there were two downed fliers who needed help ASAP.
“Splash One, stand by for coordinates to pick up Sister Sadie’s crew.”
“Fuck you,” sputtered Hawkins.
“Fuck yourself,” said Hack. “Stand by for coordinates. Iraqi vehicles en route. We’re on them.”
He could see Doberman starting to dive to the north, and worked out a vector and distance for the Chinook.
“Tell the helicopter pilot to look for the burning trucks ten miles to your north,” he added. “Go!”
CHAPTER 18
IRAQ
28 JANUARY 1991
1820
In life, Tornado GR.Mk 1A ZA981 SS Sister Sadie had worn a speckled brown coat, the latest fashion in desert dress. In death, she wore a very appropriate black, her twisted frame wrenched across about a quarter of a mile of shadowy desert. Her arms had been shorn off and her tail scattered into several pieces, but Conrad was interested specifically in her fuselage— and even more specifically in the mission tapes, which would show what her sensors had recorded. Always an agreeable girl, Sadie had had the good sense to wedge herself into the dirt at only a slight angle, making it comparatively easy for Conrad to pick his way through the mangled metal and retrieve the video.
Except that the cartridge refused to budge.
“Haven’t all day, Sadie,” Conrad complained, but the stricken plane refused to give up her prize. The pilot stepped back, unholstered his personal pistol— a German Glock, as it happened— and fired a salvo at the locking mechanism guarding the access panel.
Sadie groaned, but the foreign bullet glanced harmlessly away. Conrad tried again. This time, the ricochet nearly skinned the side of his face.
He threw himself against the plane, this time putting the gun to much better use as a hammer. Smashing back and forth, he was finally able to wedge the barrel in and use it as a lever. He paused, took out the gun and contemplated a fresh attack, when the tape inexplicably spit out.
“Thanks, Sadie.” Conrad slapped the plane on her fuselage, then stood back and gave her a proper salute. But any temptation to linger was overwhelmed by the sound of trucks approaching across the desert. He took two steps away, turning to his right as the vehicles emerged from the shadows, ripping through the dust no more than a quar
ter-mile away. They must be coming for the wreckage he thought, starting to run, but as he did a shell landed less than fifty yards away, throwing him forward in the grit.
But that was just as well— a machine-gun began firing from one of the vehicles, its stream of red tracers slicing through the air only a few inches from his head.
And then a roar from above overwhelmed the noise of the Iraqi vehicles and their hellish gunfire. The rattling sound could only be properly described as the snort from a very angry animal.
A Hog, as a matter of fact.
Conrad’s guardian angels had arrived.
CHAPTER 19
OVER IRAQ
28 JAUARY 1991
1830
Doberman nudged his rudder pedals, lining up the crosshairs on the shadow closest to the downed Tornado. Before he could press the trigger, red sparks spewed from his target.
“Aim higher,” he told the enemy armored personnel carrier. Then his thumb danced over the trigger button, first to one side, then the other. “Bing-bang-boing,” he said, unleashing a flood of spent uranium at the Iraqi vehicle. The spray decimated the enemy, like hot water eliminating a spider.
Doberman worked his pedals, pushing his aim toward a second shadow; another bing-bang-boing and more than a hundred shells erased the Iraqi vehicle, this one apparently a truck with some type of medium-sized gun mounted over the cab.
Glenon pulled back, sweeping around as he temporarily lost his bearings in the dark shadows of the fast-approaching night.
“I have something moving near the plane,” said Gunny, viewing the scene through his Maverick’s IR seeker in Devil Four.
“Pilot?”
“Uh, can’t see. Should we drop a log?” said his wingman, asking if they should light a flare.
“Hold off. Hang on. Fuck.”
Doberman yanked his stick back with all his weight, just barely pulling off the ground. Paying attention to the windscreen instead of his instruments, he’d inadvertently dropped too low. Flying the Hog at night wasn’t necessarily difficult, but you had to pay attention to what you were doing.
HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Page 6
