Hogs #2: Hog Down (21 page)

Upstate New York

21 January 1991

2120

(22 January 1991; 0520, Saudi Arabia)

K
athy was so
drained she went right to
bed after talking to the reporters. She drifted off right away, but then
something stalled— her mind stuck and she couldn’t get to sleep. She lay under
the blankets, thoughts plowing back and forth.

There
had been plenty of sleepless nights over the past two months, and not because
of the baby. Robby was really perfect.

What
would it be like raising him alone? A boy without a father.

Kathy
wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulder, pushing herself against the
bed. It was nearly impossible to clear her mind of those thoughts. Most of the tricks
she used to get to sleep— thinking about good times in the past, or to come—
just brought her husband back sharply.

She
tried thinking of Paris. They’d never been there, but they had talked about
going. If they had had a real honeymoon, that’s where they would have gone.

When
they had a real honeymoon, she corrected herself. Jimmy had promised they would
go soon. He had leave coming up, and there was a little bit of money saved. Hell,
why not charge the credit cards up like everyone else?

Kathy
rolled herself out of the bed and sat on the edge for a second, wondering if
she should just get up and get dressed. Maybe have some coffee, or maybe even a
cigarette with the others.

She
could hear her father–in–law’s voice in the kitchen. It sounded a little like
her husband’s.

Jimmy’s
was a little deeper. His words came quicker.

It
had been ages since they’d talked. Ages since they’d last slept together. It
had been in this bed. Her back and legs and arms ached to feel him curled
around them.

She
thought she heard the baby stirring. Kathy took two steps, peeked over. He lay
on his back with his eyes closed, mouth open, arms casually flung apart.

A
perfect little boy. She reached down and though he was sleeping, picked him up
and held him tight against her chest.

On the ground in Iraq

22 January
1991

0525

T
he man felt
less substantial than he
expected, his body lighter, thinner, yet he struggled viciously, writhing and
snaking below Mongoose.

It
was all or nothing. The Iraqi’s gun was surely empty, but he’d pound him with
his bare hands if he won, kick him into unconsciousness and then go back and
get one of his men’s guns. Mongoose fought despite the pain, flailing and
shaking and punching and rolling, butting his head into his captor’s chest,
working his legs and knees as if they were battering rams. Every cell in his
body flared with inhuman anger. He heard himself screaming, felt himself being
pushed over, bulled his shoulders and screamed again.

The
gun was in his chest, between them. The Iraqi was screaming, too.

“I’ll
let you go!” Mongoose yelled. “I’ll let you live because you let me live, but
I’m escaping. I’m living.”

They
rolled over twice. Pain was his whole body. He’d never known a time when he
wasn’t pain. Mongoose kicked and crashed his head into his captor’s chin, felt
the groan.

Fingers
clawed at his eye. A nail gouged at the corner, burrowing into the edge of his
nose. Fog and dirt and sweat and sand swirled around their bodies, consuming
them with a fine, misty crud.

The
gun was between them. Mongoose felt its barrel against his chest.

“I’ll
let you go,” he told the Iraqi. “I’ll let you go, but my guys are coming back
and I’m going with them.”

There
was an explosion, and the pain that had taken over his body disappeared. The
air turned to metal and hung in his nose.

The Iraqi
let go of him. Dazed, Mongoose slipped backwards, lay on the ground a good
while. The sky was lightening. It was dawn.

“I
meant it,” he told the Iraqi, sitting up. “My guys are coming back. You can
come with me if you want.”

Mongoose
looked over and saw the major’s body prone on the ground, a large, black and
red oozing hole covering three–fourths of his throat.

Over Iraq

22 January 1991

0535

A
-Bomb pushed
his plane to follow his boss.

The
thing was, Knowlington was a different guy in the air. Not a bad guy, a good
flier definitely, but different.

He
was quicker with his words and used a hell of a lot less of them.

Plus,
on the ground he let people toss their ideas in. Up here, wham-bang, this is
what we’re doing. Follow along and keep your lip zipped.

And
your cockpit music turned down.

Not
that A-Bomb was the sensitive type. And hell, the old coot knew what he was
doing, even if they were flying a good ten miles south of where A-Bomb was sure
Mongoose had gone out.

The
pilot shifted in his seat, feeling himself into a good position. One of these
days he was going to figure out how to get some form-fitting thing going on.
You couldn’t use a thicker cushion; the ejection force was so severe the metal
base would slam up through a pad and hit you harder than a bullet. Still there
ought to be some way of making the frame itself more comfortable. Kind of thing
was done all the time. All it took was creative customization. Maybe old Tinman
could handle it. Guy had a way with metal.

A-Bomb
stretched his neck, working against a kink. His eyes slid around the Hog’s
panels, making sure the numbers agreed with his gut. They did.

The
idea to use the Mavericks was a damn good one. Hell, they should have found
Mongoose by now.

Not
that he wanted to think about that too much. He decided it was probably not a
bad time for a Twinkie. Except that he didn’t have any left.

Have
to go to the backup chocolate Twizzlers in his leg pack.

A-Bomb
slipped his hand down toward the pocket’s zipper and retrieved the bag of
candy. One thing about war— you could never get enough licorice.

The
colonel was already pushing his Hog into the bushes as A-Bomb finished wadding
the Twizzlers into his mouth. They were near the trucks they’d splashed on the
way north before dawn. He could see them in the foggy haze, ghost trucks
haunted by dead men.

Something
was moving down there.

No
way it could be anything but an Iraqi soldier, right?

Shit
.

He
gripped his stick tightly and leaned forward, his plane a dark green angel
streaking toward earth.

On the ground in Iraq

22 January 1991

0535

H
is eyes were
open. They were a small
part of the face, with brown irises glossy in the growing blue light.

The
final trace of surprise lingered in the cheeks.

Mongoose
did not want to touch the body, but he could not leave Kathy’s letter in the
dead man’s pocket. He knelt, feeling his joints crack; suddenly dizzy, he
reached out to steady himself and put his hand on the dead man’s chest.

The
letter. I have to get the letter.

Mongoose
fumbled with the button on the dead man’s shirt pocket. His chest was still
warm.

The
wrong pocket. He removed his hand as if he’d felt a scorpion, undid the other
button, grabbed the folded envelope.

Something
else slipped out of the pocket. He could tell from the slick backing back that
it was a photograph. Mongoose bolted upright and began running away, back
toward the burned out shells of the trucks the A-10As had smoked.

He
didn’t get very far before finding himself almost out of breath. He told
himself to relax, told himself he’d be rescued soon. He needed to get into
checklist mode.

Checklist
mode. First item ― make sure the rest of these bastards are all dead.

He
needed a weapon. The closest body was about a hundred yards away, at the edge
of the road. The man’s rifle lay in his out-stretched hand.

Dead?
Or was he just pretending, waiting until the American dropped his guard?

Mongoose
stopped, edged to his left, off the highway. He froze, scanning beyond the man
for any movement.

Nothing.

He
edged out further. The ground had a good layer of dust on it, but was
hard-packed. He could step easily. It wasn’t like walking on a beach, with all
its loose sand.

For
just a second, he smelled salt water in his nostrils.

Checklist
mode.

The
Iraqi wasn’t moving, but something beyond him was. Mongoose pushed his legs and
his lungs, started walking, heart-pounding. His muscles were stiff but they
seemed to move easier the faster he went.

It
was a Russian rifle, an assault gun. Mongoose snatched at it, ready to pry it
from the man’s hand, but it came up so easily he nearly fell over.

Something
was moving near the far truck. One of the bodies.

He
pushed the gun up, cradling it against his ribs and squeezed the trigger,
expecting a torrent of bullets. Nothing happened.

The
body kept moving. It was coming toward him.

He
looked at the unfamiliar rifle in his hand. The gun had a cocking handle on the
right side.

Pull
it back? Push it?

He
had to steady the gun with his legs to get at the handle. He pulled it back,
looked up and saw the Iraqi soldier less than twenty yards away, just reaching
for a rifle.

He
pulled up the gun and pulled the trigger again. The rifle barked ferociously,
the ground ahead of the man erupting with bullets. For all the noise, the
backlash from the gun was mild, no more than that from a .22 squirrel plinker.

But
he missed. And now the soldier had reached the gun. Mongoose felt his legs go
out from under him, he landed on his butt and rolled, his bad arm screaming.

Was
he cocked? Did he have to reload?

Desperate,
his finger flailed for the lever, reached back for the trigger. He heard
gunfire but realized it was the other man shooting, not him. Finally, bullets
began spitting from his gun. He pushed the barrel up and then over into the
cloudy haze of the man, pressed his finger until he realized nothing more was
coming out and the soldier had stopped moving.

Mongoose
used the rifle to get back to his feet. It slipped from his hands as he got up
and he let it fall; it was empty and no good to him now. He walked as quickly
as he could to the man he’d just killed. He kicked him to make sure he was
dead, kicked the gun away.

Maybe
I ought to pray,
he thought.
Or better, play the lottery. Because I sure as hell have been
one lucky son of a bitch. All these bastards lying around me, and I’m the only
one left. God damn, I am one lucky son of a bitch.

The
low whoosh of an approaching jet brought him back to reality. He stopped for a
second, listening, realizing it was Hog, knowing it must be one of his
companions.

And
he had no way to signal them. They were still some distance off, low enough for
him to hear. They’d skim the trucks and think he was an Iraqi.

Or
worse, they’d miss him all together.

He’d
flung away his flares somewhere around here. A desperate frenzy seized his
brain as he trotted around, looking for it. Shadows and hallucinations poked at
the corners of his vision, as if the dead were coming back to life, as if he
were caught in the middle of a horror film. He tried to hold it all away, to
stay in checklist mode. It wasn’t going to get to him. He was too goddamn lucky
for it to get him.

Too
many people were counting on him. The squadron. Kath. Robby.

He
saw something in the dust, the bandoleer. He ran for it, tripped, stretched his
arm out.

Not
the bandoleer but a jacket, crusted with blood.

It
was impossible to get to his feet. He could hear the planes getting closer,
overhead. They’d leave. This would be his last chance.

The
ground felt so damn good. Sleep.

Mongoose
pushed to his knee, clawed at the earth. He finally reached his feet.

The
bandoleer and the small flashlight-like flare gun lay on the other side of the
Iraqi captain. It seemed to glow, catching the glint of the hidden sun. The
wind kicked up and sprayed dust in his face, bits and pieces of debris clinging
to his chest and face. He tried brushing them off with his good hand, waving at
the air as if a swarm of flies had appeared to harass him.

One
of the things that stuck to him was the photograph. He started to throw it
aside before realizing what it was. Instead of letting go of it he pushed it
into the fist of his wounded hand.

The
bandoleer was at his feet. He knelt and scooped it up.

His
fingers fumbled with the launcher as his mind began to float above his body,
moving over the ground, far away to a place where he didn’t have to be lucky
and blessed or just another sucker about to be done in by the most ironic
ending Fate could imagine.