Rosen shifted her body, her head moving backward. Dixon realized he didn’t want her to leave, but could think of nothing to get her to stay.
“You were in Iraq?” he blurted out. Wong had told him about the mission she’d volunteered for.
Yes.” She laughed, a tiny little laugh. “I parachuted in with Captain Wong. He’s some sort of skydiving specialist. A regular James Bond.”
“Saved my life,” said Dixon.
“Thank God.” She flexed her fingers, rubbing them together. He’d never seen anyone so beautiful.
“Cold in here,” he said.
“Really? I feel warm.”
“Yeah.” He worked his tongue around his dry mouth, trying to work up some moisture. “It was so cold in Iraq, I’m still frozen.”
“You’re a hero.” She blurted the words out.
“Nah.”
“That helicopter you shot down.”
“That was luck.”
“Well, you saved that sergeant’s life. I saw that ridge and the quarry you were in. It must’ve been hell.”
“You saw that?”
“I was in one of the helicopters. The AH-6. Captain Wong didn’t tell you?
“No.”
“Yeah, I was.”
“Yeah,” he repeated. His head became hollow again; he remembered climbing along the rock face, the wind rushing around his body as he waited for his chance to kill a man— three men, as it turned out, one with his bare hands.
“They wouldn’t have, they wouldn’t have sent you to Iraq if they, they didn’t think you were— brave,” said Rosen.
Her words jerked him back to the present.
“I got tangled up with Delta on my own,” he said. “Ground FAC. I volunteered. I ended up working with Doberman and A-Bomb.”
“Captain Glenon saved us, our helicopter.”
“Good guy.”
Rosen’s cheeks turned red. She said nothing. Surprised, Dixon looked at her, waiting for her eyes to glance upwards from the floor. He hadn’t thought she liked Doberman, not that way at least.
He’d thought, in fact, that she liked him.
She must. Otherwise, why was she here?
“Was it bad?” she asked.
He wanted to tell her about the boy. He saw the boy and he saw the grenade as he began to speak. But instead of telling her about the kid, instead of talking about Iraq and the howl in his head and how much he’d forgotten and how bad his stomach hurt, his tongue found a different story altogether.
“My mother died about a year ago, a little more now,” said Dixon. His head seemed to pull back from the words, as if they were physical things filling the air between them. “I sat by her side for a long time, just waiting.”
The words stopped. Rosen nodded, then stared at him.
Nothing else had ever seemed so beautiful.
“I better go,” she said abruptly, turning for the door.
He caught her arm. The biceps was harder than he expected, a thick tree branch.
“Don’t,” he said.
The kiss was softer, way softer, than he expected, and way longer than he could have hoped.
CHAPTER 27
HOG HEAVEN
28 JANUARY 1991
2145
“The hangar roof makes positive identification difficult, admittedly,” Wong told Colonel Knowlington. “And the enhancement technique that has been applied to the simple infrared rendering has been known to distort images under similar circumstances. Nonetheless, the pitot head at the nose confirms the identification. It is a Mig-29. No other plan in the Iraqi inventory would cast such a shadow.”
Knowlington took the paper and held it less than an inch in front of his eyes, trying to distinguish the black shadow from the rest of the black shadows on the thermal-print paper. The image had started as an infrared videotape of the Splash airfield taken by the Tornado shortly before it had been shot down. British intelligence had analyzed and enhanced the image with a computer program that could separate objects of different primary heat characteristics – in other words, find objects hidden beneath tarps or, in this case, thinly roofed buildings. According to Wong, the aircraft had either been recently flown, or had been heated by the exposure of a day’s worth of sun before being moved into the relatively small hangar building at the Splash airfield. Since it definitely hadn’t been there yesterday, it must have recently arrived.
Knowlington saw only a vague and dark arrow inside a gray rectangle.
“You might prefer viewing this image,” said Wong, removing another sheet from his folder. This was an even blurrier photocopy of the same image, with a portion outlined in fine red pen.
Granted, the outline looked vaguely like the outline of a MiG-29.
Or an F-15. Or a chipped piece of slate.
“It’s an aircraft, I assure you,” added Wong, as if reading Knowlington’s mind. “And it was flown, or at least exposed to the sun, within the past eight hours.”
“But why would they put it there?” the colonel asked.
“I can think of several reasons. The simplest would be to hide it, hoping that the base had been overlooked. It would be easier to get it there than Iran.”
Several Iraqi fighters had scrambled to Iran over the past several days, possibly for safekeeping, though it wasn’t entirely clear why they had gone or what they intended on doing. The Iranians had claimed the planes would be interred, but no one entirely trusted them.
“Maybe they’re staging to Iran,” suggested Knowlington.
“Possible, though once in the air their modus operandi has been to continue east.”
“Mechanical problems?”
“Possibly, though again, I can think of much better places to land.”
“Maybe they’re going to plumb it for bombs and send it south.”
Wong nodded grimly. “The so-called Death Wish scenario cannot be ruled out. It would not be difficult to adapt the plane for use as a bomber, especially if the mission were one-way. There are other developments that indicated this plane may fly again, very soon.”
The captain pulled out another sheet of paper from his folder. A satellite image taken around dusk, it was even darker than the Tornado pictures.
“The truck here arrived after the overflight, perhaps a few minutes before this was taken. It appears to be in motion, in fact, though that is difficult to tell here,” said Wong.
“What truck?” asked Knowlington.
Wong pointed to a black curlicue near the runway, which itself was barely discernible. “In this revetment. It is a tanker. And while it could carry any number of liquid cargoes, my best guess would be aviation fuel for the jet.”
“You see a fuel truck there?”
“The limitations of the available technology,” said Wong, sighing with regret. “But yes, that is what that is.”
“Well, if that’s a fuel truck, the plane may be gone already.”
“Possibly. But a night mission would be hazardous, and perhaps beyond the capabilities of both the plane and the pilot. Additionally, the airstrip is very short, even for a MiG-29. It’s unlit, and the falloff at the very end of the runway, combined with the nearby hills, makes the takeoff tricky.”
“None of that would be critical,” said Knowlington.
“I can’t argue decisively,” agreed Wong. “But as the fuel truck is in the revetment, not the hangar area, the soonest I would positively anticipate takeoff would be dawn.”
“Maybe they’re still working on the jet,” suggested Knowlington. Maybe it had engine trouble and set down.”
“Possibly.” It is not obvious from the intelligence. There are no indications of work crews, at least at present. There are several bunkers, nearby, however, which could house any type of weapon.”
“You think they’re going to use it to bomb Riyadh?”
The permutations are endless,” said Wong. “In my personal opinion, it is more likely that the plane will join others in a dash to Iran, or simply remain at
the base. But the aircraft’s present location and the relative lack of defensive assets present a unique opportunity for intelligence gathering.
Knowlington reexamined the images. “These pictures are pretty lousy, Wong.”
“My intention is to gather intelligence first-hand.”
“First hand? You want to go in with Splash?” Knowlington was incredulous. “That’s what you’re saying?”
“It would be convenient.”
Skull scowled. “Convenient? We have to bomb this sucker right away. It’s an easy target.”
“CentCom has already been alerted to the presence of the aircraft, which can be easily interdicted if it takes off. The Splash team can destroy it as part of the operation to search for the missing SAS men.”
“Exactly,” Knowlington said.
“But prior to destroying the aircraft, however,” Wong added, “a few moments of inspection would confirm or contradict a number of theories regarding not only the plane, but the state of the Iraqi air force. It would also added considerably to our store of knowledge regarding Soviet-export MiGs. It is an opportunity, frankly, that one such as myself cannot afford to miss.”
Wong folded his arms in front of his chest, as Knowlington’s scowl deepened. “I have already arranged for a UH-1 to transport me to the area where the Splash team is spending the night. With your permission, I will leave within the hour.”
“And what if I don’t give you permission?”
Wong’s head snapped upright. Knowlington had the impression that it was the first thing he had said that Wong hadn’t already considered.
Knowlington realized that Wong could easily go around him if he chose; the intelligence officer was here only on temporary duty, and ultimately reported directly to an admiral in the Pentagon responsible for Joint Service Intelligence. Wong was considered one of the West’s leading experts on Russian weapons systems, and had dozens of covert actions and spy missions to his credit; this one would hardly seem outrageous.
“What about the SAS men who are supposed to be prisoners here?” Knowlington asked.
“As I noted earlier, I doubt the Iraqis would hold them here,” said Wong. “But it cannot be ruled out. Baghdad might have placed them here until a proper decision on how to best exploit or at least hold them was made; we cannot tell. At the same time, a unit commander deciding to exploit them for political gain or favor with the regime might indeed keep them at an out-of-the-way base while he contemplated the best way to capitalize on their presence. The base appears to be outside the Iraqis’ normal chain of command, or at least is not home to a large contingent of men.”
“Makes sense, I guess.”
“Only in Iraq,” said Wong. “In any event, my inspection of the plane need not interfere with the search for the men, which would remain the primary objective. With your permission, Colonel.”
Knowlington turned his head toward the phone. He expected it to ring any second – expected to end his responsibilities within the hour, if not minutes.
Until then?
Giving permission to Wong was a no-brainer. The danger was clearly outweighed by the information that would be gained.
Was it, though? They knew plenty about MiG-29s, and the Iraqi air force had been a no-show to this point in the war. Sending a guy across the border wasn’t exactly the same as asking him to run down to the 7-Eleven for a gallon of milk.
“You think this is worth the risk?” he asked Wong.
The intelligence expert sighed in the manner of a physics teacher asked once more to explain the relevance of E=MC2.
“Since the operation will go ahead in any event, the additional risk is infinitesimal. Obtaining firsthand information on the plane would be beneficial. There are the obvious questions of what changes, if any, have been made to the weapons systems and whether it has been adapted for ground attack. And then there are the more interesting questions. Has the full N-019 radar set, the so-called Slot Back 1, actually been installed? Has the cannon— ”
Knowlington put up his hand, stopping what promised to be a long list of questions. “All right. Go for it. You sure you don’t want to take a flatbed up there with you and haul it home?”
“That would be preferable,” said Wong. “In fact— ”
“I’m kidding. Jesus, you’re a ball-buster. Have you told Hawkins?”
“I planned to do so after consulting with you,” said Wong. “There is an additional consideration for the Splash mission inherent in the presence of the aircraft. Regardless of whether the SAS men are being kept at the base or not, if the plane is there, and even more so if it is planning an actual attack, point defenses will be moved in certainly in response to the Tornado overflight. We should expect a half-dozen ZSU-23 chassis, and perhaps a lower-grade missile system. Indeed, I believe at least one SA-9 launcher has been reported en route, though I have not been able to coordinate the intelligence.”
The SA-9 was a short-range surface-to-air missile: while it posed more of a risk to helicopters than Maverick-bearing Hogs, it would have to be dealt with.
“We’ll have to tell Hack. It might be a stretch for two planes to hit all the guns and missiles besides,” added Knowlington. “Doberman and Gunny have a mission at 0600, so they’re coming out of the package.”
“That point was stated during the planning stage.”
“I would say four planes are the minimum neede4d to support the mission— more would be optimum.”
The hangar should be targeted by one of the Hogs. If anything went wrong, a Maverick could obliterate the MiG, whatever Saddam’s plans.
But to arrange for four planes, he’d have to go himself. There simply wasn’t another experienced pilot available who could lead such a hazardous mission.
No?
No.
He hesitated, remembering the idea that had occurred to him earlier, the cloud of 23mm slugs enveloping him.
His own death wish?
Knowlington glanced at the old-style phone on his desk. At any second its ring might change everything.
“All right, let’s get on this,” Knowlington told Wong. “Set up satellite time with the SAS and whoever else needs to be clued in. I’ll deal with the British command, and rejigger the duty rosters to finding two other planes and pilots.”
“Understood,” said Wong.
Aware that he was moving a bit too fast, but unable to slow down, Knowlington jumped from his chair and ran from the room, out of the telephone’s reach.
CHAPTER 28
AR KEHY SAUDI ARABIA
28 JANUARY 1991
2145
“I say, have you a cigarette?”
Captain Hawkins jumped up from the wheel of the howitzer carriage where he’d been sitting, staring over the sandbags at the approaching shadow.
“Startled you?” asked Sergeant Burns, his face finally visible in the dark night.
“A little,” admitted Hawkins.
“Cigarette?”
“Don’t smoke.”
The SAS sergeant leaned against the gun, next to Hawkins. “I do. Have one.”
“No thanks.”
“Not even tempted?”
“No.”
“English cigarettes don’t cause cancer,” said the sergeant. He snorted, then clicked open a metal lighter. An odor of lighter fluid mingled with the smoke as he lit up.
“You did the right thing,” Burns told him. “Calling it off.”
Hawkins shrugged.
“Pilot has two kids.”
Everybody has someone, Hawkins thought. But he said nothing.
“Have another go at dawn?”
“I’d like to, yeah,” Hawkins told the Englishman. “Assuming your guys don’t find them before that. We won’t know until close to midnight. I’ve arranged for a phone conference.”
“Ring ‘em up,” said the sergeant, exhaling. “Ring ‘em up.”
Hawkins wasn’t quite sure what he meant or even what he might want. Probably just wanted to shoot t
he shit for a while.
The Delta captain sat back on the tire, shuffling his feet in the sand. The artillery base was a few miles from Iraq, used more for staging and supply than actual bombardment, though of course that could change in an instant. The team had been given a trio of bunkers to sack out in not far from the makeshift airfield where the helicopters were being serviced.
They’d be ready for another “go” by 0400, assuming the Brits gave the green light. His men would be tired, but so would the Iraqis. There wouldn’t be a last-second fly-by this time, but he’d have the benefit of the latest satellite data as well as the Tornado intelligence, which he’d already seen.
Damn blurry copy of a blurry image. The pilot and his crewman had been airlifted to an RAF base; the video had been processed and several faxed to him. As far as he could tell, there were still no serious defenses beyond the antiair artillery that had been there before.
“I’m a family man myself,” said the sergeant. “Don’t look it, I know,” he added. “Five kids, though. Five shiny faces. Had to join the squadron just for peace.”
“You have five kids?”
“Almost a football team.” The sergeant took a long draw on his cigarette. “Took the family to Blackpool just before we came. Adventure.”
The SAS commando began recounting the trip to the amusement park, which Hawkins took it was the English equivalent to Coney Island, only better. There was a mammoth rollercoaster there, supposedly the highest in the world. Cars reached eighty-five miles an hour on the downhill.
“Scared shitless, I don’t mind saying. Nearly threw up right in the seat. Did on the ground,” said the sergeant. “Scariest thing I ever did.”
“Scarier than this?”
“Oh much. Scarier than Belfast, and I served there eighteen months. And Londonderry.”
“I have relatives there.”
“Oh.” He sucked the cigarette down to its filter. “Catholic, I imagine.”
“That’s right.”
“Hmmph,” said the sergeant. He threw the cigarette down, took out another. “Hard life.”
“Probably is.”
Burns lit his cigarette. He shifted his weight, but didn’t move off the big gun. “I expect we’ll get the go.”
HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Page 9
