Hogs #2: Hog Down (16 page)

Upstate New York

21 January 1991

1555

(2355, Saudi Arabia
)

S
he saw them
through the window. At first
she thought the man and woman in the car were lost, looking for a neighbor’s
house. Then another car pulled up behind, followed by a van.

The
van had a television station’s logo on the side.

Robby
stirred in her arms. He was hungry again. She sat on the couch, opened her
blouse and let him suckle. Ordinarily, he was more active in the afternoons,
but he seemed to sense that his mother needed him to be calm. He poked her a
few times with his hand, happy to be getting his milk, then settled back down.

Her
in-laws were still out, not due back until five. The Air Force people, none of
whom she knew, were on the way. They were far from an air base, and because the
squadron had been patched together at the last minute from other units and
reserves their stateside home base existed only on paper. Still, she knew the
procession of blue cars would soon make their way through the twisty rural
streets, hunting for the tiny house.

Part
of her preferred to be alone, though now that the reporters were outside she
wasn’t sure what to do. Sooner or later, one of them would ring the doorbell.

She’d
locked the door earlier, but double–checked it now just to make sure.

When
she realized that the commentators had no real news to report, Kathy had turned
the sound off on the television. She kept glancing toward the screen every so
often, however, alternately hoping for good news and dreading what she might
see.

A
new map of Iraq flashed on the screen, too vague to give any real idea of the
country. It was followed by a picture of the A-10A lifted from Jane’s, the
encyclopedic military reference work. A retired Air Force colonel appeared on
the screen, a man she hadn’t seen in any of the sequences before.

The
words, “Former POW,” flashed under him.

Had
Jimmy been captured? Was he alive?

She
reached for the remote control, put the sound back on.

The
phone rang as she did. She jumped up and startled the baby. He started to cry.

It
was more a moan, forlorn and passive. Not his usual cry.

By
the time she soothed him, the answering machine had picked up. A woman’s voice
came over the speaker. “Mrs. Johnson, my name is Teresa Fisher. I’m a reporter
for WFDC over in Calhoon. We’re very sorry to hear about your husband.”

There
were about a dozen reporters outside, the woman told the tape. They wouldn’t
come in and bother her, but if she wanted to say anything, they would be
waiting outside. Three times the woman said she was sorry about her husband.
Her voice sounded sincere.

“If
you need anything,” added the reporter, “let us know. We’re sorry we’re
disturbing you. You should know that the whole country supports you. We’ve
already had calls at the station, saying how much everyone is praying for you.”

Kathy
stared toward the kitchen hallway as the phone clicked off. Behind her on the
TV, the newscaster was repeating that there was no new information about Major
Johnson or the other pilots lost over Iraq.

Then
he asked the retired Air Force officer about the possibility of torture.

Kathy
pushed the red button on the remote, killing the power.

__PART THREE__

SMOKE ‘EM

IF YOU SEE ‘EM

Over Iraq

22 January 1991

0415

C
olonel Knowlington’s eyes
were scratchy, straining in
the darkness as they swept the cockpit instruments. His shoulder muscles were
still a little tight, but otherwise he felt settled in the plane, the Warthog
strapped around him. He couldn’t quite tell the performance by feel alone yet—
part of his problem was that he expected things to happen faster than they did—
but maybe that was just as well; it meant he took less for granted.

A-Bomb
was in a combat trail not quite a mile behind him in the dark sky. They flew on
silently, observing the general rule that unnecessary transmissions were almost
always the ones the enemy used to home in on you.

One
thing about the Gulf War that made it a hell of a lot different than Nam— Big
Brother was definitely looking over your shoulder. There was an airborne
controller working close-in and a fleet of AWACS charting everything but the
pigeons from here to Berlin.

Pigeons
probably had their own radar planes. Knowlington had always approved of the
concept in theory— it greatly increased the odds of holding off enemy
interceptors, which in turn meant better survivability for bombers. But it also
chipped away at a pilot’s autonomy. Skull had been taught that individual
initiative was the cornerstone of successful air combat— in contrast to the
heavily orchestrated and ground-controlled Soviet system. The fact that
information from the four AWACS on station was relayed back to the command
center in Riyadh meant that it could easily be fed to Washington, D.C. Given
what had happened in Vietnam, the colonel shuddered at the possibility of some
White House janitor helping coordinate the air war on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

That
hadn’t happened yet, at least. The two Hogs of Devil Flight had full autonomy
to carry out their mission as an unscripted part of the search and rescue team.

Knowlington
wanted a drink, but he could deal with that. It was like dealing with the SA-2s
or -8s or -13s or Rolands, except that the launch warning was always sounding.
You did your jinks, threw your chaff, lit your flares—

Belay
the flares at night. Blind the shit out of you. And useless against a radar
missile.

Skull
rechecked his position on the INS, making sure he was precisely on beam. They
were at eighteen thousand feet, which in his mind felt low though it was near
the top of the Hog’s comfortable operating envelope. Fires burned in small
sparkles in the distance; bulky shadows stretched out around them. Knowlington
resisted the impulse to assign positions to the shadows; it was too easy to get
the wrong idea stuck in your head. Better to stick to the abstract numbers.

His
pulse hadn’t picked up yet. He figured it would, eventually. The adrenaline
would start pushing into his stomach. There’d be a quick shock of fear, a
motivator, not a paralyzer.

He
could deal with fear. He’d been afraid before, plenty of times. Being afraid
was familiar.

You
took that whale breath, blew it out, let the muscle spasms pass through your
system. You went through the wall and on the other side there was perfect
clarity.

Usually.

Way
point reached. Skull pushed the Hog gently, easing her left wing toward the
earth as he brought her onto the prearranged course for the crash site. The
plane slipped into the long, shallow glide as smoothly as a canoe edging onto a
quiet lake.

The
A-10A had two personalities. One was balls-out mud-fighting bitching, in
Saddam’s face, screaming. The other, a surprise to Knowlington, was actually
gentle. Partly it was her responsiveness to the controls, her tendency to go
where you told her. Partly, too, it might have been her lack of top-end. But
there was something else there, as if the plane were as human as he was. Maybe
it too was trying to monitor the emergency frequency, listening for the
piercing squeak of the rescue beacon or, better, Mongoose’s familiar voice.

Nothing
but static.

Knowlington
worked his controls carefully, putting his eyes around the cockpit and going
through his paces, getting ready for the adrenaline. This was a marathon race,
and they hadn’t even gotten to the start line yet.

There
were sparkles far, far off in the distance. Somebody was taking flak.

Or
more likely, an Iraqi gunner was spooked.

If
the Hog’s navigational systems were working, they were now about two miles from
the spot Mongoose and A-Bomb had been attacking when the plane went down. The
colonel eased the Hog’s throttle off further; they were making two hundred and
five knots and crossing seven thousand feet. The planes could not be heard
above five thousand, and in the dark with their blackish green camo they were
essentially invisible to anyone without radar. They’d trace out the attack
route as closely as possible at this altitude, then gradually bring it down.

Skull
definitely wanted to bring it down; while they were still in bad guy country
and ought not push their luck too far, he figured the Hog sound would be
instantly recognizable to Mongoose. If anything would provoke a flare, the hum
of two Hogs would.

The
seeker head in the Maverick found the wrecked overpass still hot from its
pounding late yesterday; it was a fuzzy collection of wrecked debris in the
small television monitor on the right side of the dash. Knowlington kept it on
what passed for wide magnification, easing the Hog toward it with the
fascination of a diver approaching an ancient wreck.

“How
are we looking?” asked A-Bomb over the squadron’s common frequency as they
pushed over the wreckage.

“I
have the dummy missiles or what’s left of them,” said Skull. “Bunch of roadway.
Maybe the two carriers, I think. A couple of trucks. There’s the Roland
launcher. Broke it in half. Good shooting.”

“Wish
I’d gotten it sooner.”

“You
hear anything on Guard?” Skull asked.

“Nah.
You?”

“No.
Keep listening.”

“You,
too.”

“I’m
turning,” said Knowlington, moving to follow the path they believed Mongoose
had taken when he was hit. He felt the prick of adrenaline in his stomach as
the Maverick screen traced the ground into blankness.

Over Iraq

22 January 1991

0420

A
-Bomb wanted a
flare. A little Mark 79
pencil flare, shooting up to six hundred feet, sparkling for four or five
seconds before dying out. A big Mark 13 would be even better. Those suckers
lasted forever and you could see them from Washington, D.C.

Hell,
he’d even settle for a strobe.

But
the darkness gave him nothing back. The pilot gripped his stick tighter,
following the colonel around the shoot-down area about three-quarters of a mile
for another circuit. Scanning the ground with the TVM was slow work, a bit like
panning for gold.

A
shitload of guys had already been over this but they weren’t Hog drivers. Not
that they lacked motivation or expertise or anything like that; they just
weren’t part of the Hog brotherhood. Brothers felt stuff other relatives
didn’t, simple as that. If he hadn’t been able to find him before, that was
just because Mongoose was busy, maybe evading the enemy or something.

So
give me a stinking flare, Goose boy.

“Let’s
get low enough for him to hear us,” said the colonel, tilting the Hog’s nose
downward as he spoke.

“Exactly
what I was thinking,” said A-Bomb. He glanced at the radio controls, gave it
more volume. The emergency band stayed silent; no chirp, no voice, no nothing.

Hot
damn, Goose. Get your butt out of that pup tent and flag us down. My Big Mac’s
getting cold, bro.

He
ran his eyes around the ground. He’d have preferred having one of the Mavericks
himself. Knowlington told him switching them around would have cost them too
much time, and even laughed when A-Bomb told him he could set it up himself.

Which
he could have, no sweat.

A-Bomb
willed his eyes into full-blown owl mode as he stared from the cockpit. Maybe
from now on he’d carry some carrots with him, get that extra night-light boost.

Hell,
if only he had found an Apache pilot and made that trade. It was top priority
when he got back.

Better
yet, go mail order and buy himself a pair of starlight goggles. There’d be
complications with the instrument glow but hell, Clyston or one of his guys
could figure that out.

Maybe
they could take whatever the gizmo was that worked the damn thing and expand it
to fit the glass of the canopy. So you could have an entire panel of night
vision.

That
was what he was talking about.

Give
me a flare, Mongoose. One lousy, stinking flare. That’s all I’m sayin’.