Hogs #2: Hog Down (18 page)

Over Iraq

22 January 1991

0450

S
kull leaned into
the Maverick’s screen,
trying to sort out the shadow. It was small and faint, but wouldn’t that be
what a body would look like? It was about a half mile east of a trio of
abandoned, probably burnt-out buildings. That was exactly where a pilot hoping
to vector a rescue helicopter in might end up— close enough to give the
helicopters an easy landmark, but not too close to be found when the enemy
searched the obvious hiding places.

Colonel
Knowlington pitched the plane around and had it move through the bank quicker
than he expected; he fought the impulse to snap back, letting himself ease onto
the new course. He was right about the similarities with the old Spad. Not that
you flew it the same, of course; it was more the way you thought about it, more
the mindset. You saved those hard turns for when you were walking through shit.

“We
got something?” A-Bomb asked.

“Not
sure. Something warm, but I can’t tell yet. East of the buildings.”

“This
is still a little south of where he’d be,” said A-Bomb. “But he could have
walked down. Makes sense.”

Skull
was too busy trying to wish the shadowy fuzz into focus to answer. The seeker
head in the Maverick had been designed to home in on hot engines, and in fact
all the experts said it could absolutely not be used as a night-vision device.
As much as Knowlington would love to prove them wrong, he had to admit they had
a point.

“Hey,
we got something moving on the road ten, maybe twelve miles south,” said A-Bomb.
“Uh, nine, ten o’clock.”

Skull
immediately changed course. This time, there was no question what he was
looking at — though it still felt a little like staring at an X-ray machine on
monochrome acid.

“Yeah,
okay,” he told A-Bomb. “Two trucks. Not very fast.” He glanced back at the
artificial horizon, made sure he was level— without real points of reference
and your eyes on the TV screen, it was very easy to get discombobulated. But
his sense of balance was still at spec— his wings were perfectly paralleling
the ground.

“They
must be coming for him,” said A-Bomb.

The
IR seeker glowed with the two vehicles moving slowly along the highway. The
Hogs were approaching from seven o’clock at about eight thousand feet, moving
at 320 knots. He flicked the viewer into narrow mode, increasing the
magnification to six times but temporarily losing the trucks because the view
was narrower. He held his course and they reappeared, fat and slow.

They
might be going for Mongoose, but only if that shadow was really him. They might
also just be passing through. They were still pretty far off; odds were they’d
miss him, even if they searched the buildings.

Attack
them and anyone in range of their radio might put things together.

Or
not. Best just to splash them. Odds were they were working alone.

“We’ll
do a quick circuit, see what else is around,” Skull told him. “You hear the
beacon yet?”

“Negative.
I keep trying.”

“Me
too.”

They
passed over the two trucks and rode out about three miles before banking back.
There didn’t seem to be anything else out here.

Plinking
the truck with the Maverick was child’s play. You flagged the crosshairs onto
the target and locked it; the missile took care of the rest. Skull pushed the
nose of his Hog down, accelerating slightly as he came back around toward the
truck from the northeast. He had 5,500 feet, no wind to speak of, a nice smooth
ride and a good view of the trucks on the screen. He was lower than he probably
had to be but that would only increase his accuracy.

Skull
locked on the engine and ready to fire.

As
he closed, the reconsidered the situation. There were only two Mavericks
aboard. He had to keep one if he was going to use it to see. That meant he had
only one shot, and it seemed like a waste to take out such a soft target with
it.

Better
to use the cannon. Except that it was dark and they’d have to go even lower.

“Whatchya
doin’, Skip?” asked A-Bomb.

“I
don’t think these guys are worth a missile,” said Skull.

“They’re
heading toward Goose. I can feel it,” said A-Bomb.

Skull
pulled the Hog’s nose up, breaking his approach and swinging back to the north.
“Want to get some shooting in?” Knowlington asked his wingman.

“Shit
yeah.”

“Here’s
the game plan. We’ll go back, fly a trail, you behind me. Get good separation.
I’ll hit a flare; you come in and smoke ‘em. If we time it right, you should be
able to splash both trucks on one pass. I’m pulling up and to the left; you go
right.”

“I’m
with you, Colonel. Let’s do it.”

“Watch
your eyes. If you’re blinded, pull off and take another turn. I’ll be spinning
around for your six.”

“Sounds
good.”

Skull
brought his Hog onto the course and reached for the throttle, pulling it out
and bringing the nose down at the same time. The plane jumped downward, air
shrieking around her as she bolted into the attack. He used the Maverick screen
to help measure the distance, one finger up on the panel to kick out the LUU-2
flare. The Hog was low enough now to be heard and he expected ground fire at
any second. It wouldn’t amount to anything but an annoyance— unless, of course,
one of the Iraqis was packing the silver bullet.

Silver
bullet came and got you no matter what. So you couldn’t waste your worry on
that one.

Knowlington
focused on the screen. He pushed himself down into the seat, trying to melt
himself into the plane, make his muscles merge with it. The trucks glowed
brighter and brighter in the TVM. He was just about to pass them and he yanked
the stick— too hard he could tell— but he caught it quick, fired the flare, and
now had his hands full, the Hog bucking above the flash. Temporarily he was
lost. There was light everywhere and something popped in his head— a light snap
and a burst, a thin string breaking— and he was in control, flying the plane,
pushing up through five and then six thousand feet, going faster than he
expected and banking into a turn, positioning himself to watch A-Bomb’s butt
but also step in if he missed.

On the ground in Iraq

22 January 1991

0500

T
his time, he
knew it was a Hog, and he
knew it was coming back. It came at him close and sudden, and he jumped to his
feet in the moving truck, as excited as if a guardian angel had suddenly
appeared in the sky. He pitched around toward the front of the truck, looked
over the cab into the darkness, up at the crescent moon. He thought he saw the
plane’s shadow pass in front, the moon winking at it as it dove to rescue him;
thought he felt the thick wings of the Hog swoop to grab him and pluck him to
safety.

In
the next second, an LUU-2 parachute flare exploded overhead, the light of two
million candles turning the desert brighter than a ballpark during the World
Series. His whole face stung with the sudden light. Rifles next to him started
to fire.

Then
he realized what was happening:

The
Hogs were going to smoke the truck.

Head
down, still temporarily blinded, he pushed to get away, leaping and flailing
toward the side of the vehicle. The earth roared behind him, hell opening up
and spitting sulfur. Major James “Mongoose” Johnson felt himself lifted up,
then flying through the air, brimstone and molten metal stinging his nostrils.

Upstate New York

21 January 1991

2100

(22 January 1991; 0500, Saudi Arabia)

W
hen she’d told
them she’d speak at nine
p.m., it had seemed like a very long time off. But it was here, and even though
she had nothing to say, nothing more than she could have said a few hours ago,
or even days, Kathy Johnson felt as if she had to keep her commitment. She
pushed the palms of her hands across her freshly laundered blue skirt and stood
up from the couch.

Jean,
her mother-in-law, turned her face from the television screen and looked up
from her side.

“It’s
time,” Kathy told her.

None
of the others moved, not her father-in-law Bob on the small upholstered chair,
or the two Air Force officers on the love seat at the far end of the room.
Major Barbara Figundio, an information specialist and PR troubleshooter, stood
in the door frame to the kitchen, where she had been helping herself to a
sandwich.

“I’m
ready,” Kathy said.

“You
don’t have to go out there if you don’t want to,” said Figundio.

“I
told them I would.”

“It’s
still your call. You’re in charge.”

Kathy
had no idea who might really be in charge of this thing, but it wasn’t her.
“How’s my makeup?”

“Perfect,”
said Jean.

“Looks
good,” said the major.

She
walked toward the door, pausing to catch her reflection in the mirror that hung
near the far hallway.

She
was still heavy from the baby. The knit sweater, a light blue, hid a bit of her
midsection. Her hair needed to be cut, but she looked presentable.

The
news people on the front lawn let out a shushing noise as she came out from the
house, a cross between a sigh and a deep breath. They stood back a moment as
she stepped forward, as if they were surprised she had remembered she said she
would come out. Kathy gave a half-wave to the policeman, then beckoned the
media people forward as if she were signaling to a shy child.

No
shy child would have moved so quickly up the lawn. By now, there were more than
two dozen reporters from all media, as well as their assorted camera crews and
assistants. They came right up to the steps, barely leaving her six inches
worth of personal space as they jostled to get their microphones and cameras
into position. She smiled as best she could, waiting for them to settle in.
When one or two pushed forward a little too close, she held her hand out,
motioning them back like Halloween trick-or-treaters who’d gotten a little too
eager for their candy.

She
waited until everyone stopped fussing. It was remarkable what good manners they
actually had.

She
saw her breath in front of her as she opened her mouth to speak.

“My
name is Kathleen Johnson and obviously you know why I’m here,” she heard
herself say.

It
was a good start. She remembered tricks from her college speech class: look
people in the eye, be upbeat, replace the ums and uhs with pauses. When in
doubt, silence looked smart.

“I
really can’t say anything beyond what the Air Force has told you. My husband
was a pilot when I met him and I’ve understood the risks since before we were
married. He has an important job to do and . . . the, uh, the other members of
the squadron are professionals and they have a job to do, too.”

Her
voice wavered. All of a sudden she wasn’t sure what she was talking about— professionals?
Well of course they were, but what was the point?

She
could feel her lips starting to waver.

She
was out here not just to answer questions, but to inspire others who might be
in the same position. She couldn’t break down; that wouldn’t inspire anyone,
except maybe the people who had shot down her husband.

She
wanted to call an end to this quickly, but stopping would just make it worse.
She ducked her head ever so slightly the way a horse might during a tough part
of a race. “I’m sure Jimmy will be back in one piece very, very soon,” she
said. “In the meantime, I’m fine and the rest of the family is fine. We
appreciate the country’s concern.”

She
smiled. Good enough.

She
reached behind her for the door handle.

“You
have no information on where your husband went down?” asked a reporter.

It
caught her slightly off-guard. “Of course not,” she said. “And if I did, do you
really think I would broadcast it to Saddam? He’s sure to be watching these
reports. The man is a murderer; I’m not going to lead him to my husband.”

“The
Air Force won’t tell you?”

The
major bristled beside her; Kathy squeezed her arm before she could say
anything. “The Air Force has been exceedingly helpful. They’re family,” she
said, her voice sharp. “Are there other questions?”

“How
is your little boy?” asked a woman reporter on her left. She recognized the
voice— it was the person who had left the phone message.

“Well,
almost sleeping through the night these days,” Kathy told her.

It
was the same thing she told all the relatives— but the reporters took it as a
joke and laughed.

“I
remember those days,” said the woman.

“Could
we have his age?” asked a man near her.

“Three
months. Almost four.”

“Wow.
That’s tough.”

“A
lot of military families have more children and are in the same position as I
am— well almost the same,” Kathy said. “What about you? Do you have children?”

“Two.
And the first one had colic. I don’t think my wife or I slept for the first six
months.”

“He
took after his dad,” quipped one of the reporters. The others laughed.

“Well,
Robby doesn’t have colic, thank God,” said Kathy. “But I really should get back
to him. Are there other questions?”

“Has
the President called yet?” said a man on her right.

“Why
would the President call?” she asked him. His face looked vaguely familiar;
Kathy believed she had seen him on TV but couldn’t quite place him.

“He
said he would.”

“Could
we listen in?” asked the jerk who had wanted her to direct Saddam to her
husband.

“I’m
sure anything he’d have to say would be private,” said Kathy. “And anything I’d
say would be trivial. I don’t think he’s calling; I mean, I wouldn’t think he
would. Not for this. It’s not, it’s not necessary.”

She
felt her lip quivering. The Air Force people hadn’t told her about the
President.

She
didn’t think he’d be calling if it was good news.

The
moon, a flat yellow crescent, caught her eye. Its glow seemed to brighten for a
moment, twinkling with an obscure reflection. It warmed her, helped her catch
her lip. She stared at it for a moment, wondered at how far away it was, how it
hung there, constant.

“All
right,” she said, feeling exactly how heavy and cold her hands had become. She
wrapped them together across her chest. “I’m going back now. Thank you for
coming.”

Thank
you for coming? But what else would you say? She gave one last smile, then
turned to the door.

“When
will you talk to us again?” asked the jerk.

Never
to you, she thought. But the cameras were still rolling; she didn’t want it to
look as if she were running away.

“In
the morning, unless I need you to watch the baby,” she said.

“Hey,
I’m good at burping kids,” said the reporter whose child had been colicky. “Let
me know if you need help.”

The
others laughed and she smiled, squeezing back through the door.

Kathy
took two steps inside before she began to shake. A moment later, she found
herself crying on her father-in-law’s shoulder, nearly out of control even as
he told her she had done real fine.