Hogs #4:Snake Eaters (12 page)

K
ING FAHD

26
JANUARY 1991

1710

C
olonel Knowlington nodded
absentmindedly as the young lieutenant finished briefing him on the squadron’s supply of Mavericks and bombs. The two men stood near one of the hangars on the outskirts of Oz, Devil Squadron’s maintenance area. A gray-green stack of Mark 82 iron bombs, oldies but goodies, sat nearby. The lieutenant’s name was Malory but he reminded Skull of an Israeli pilot he’d met during a liaison assignment in the 1960s. A fellow Phantom jock, the Israeli was the same age as this young man but had already shot down five Arab planes, the mark of an ace. Skull had kept in touch with him— and then written to his family when he went down MIA over Egypt in 1972. His body was never found.

There was no good reason for thinking of him
— or the bottle of vodka they’d demolished the first night they met.

“Colonel?”

“Go, ahead Lieutenant,” said Skull, pretending his attention had been drawn by a battle-damaged Hog rumbling past on its way to its hangars. The Hog’s nose art —a toothy shark’s grin— declared it was a member of the proud and venerable 23
rd
Tactical Fighter Wing, descendants of the famous Flying Tigers led by Claire Chennault during World War II.

All of the one
-hundred-some Hogs in the combat theatre shared King Fahd as their home drome. On paper, Knowlington’s 535
th
made up an entire wing, though it was currently only at squadron strength. The unit had been cobbled together back in the States bare weeks before the air war began and consisted of planes originally designated for the scrap heap. The pilots and crew dogs were a mixed bag of high-time Hog drivers, green newbies, and hangers-on.

“Riyadh may ask for strict rationing,” said the lieutenant, poking himself back into his commander’s consciousness. The young man was worried the 535
th
would run out of Mavericks before the ground war began. The AGMs came in several varieties, with either optical or IR guidance, and were a Hog driver’s weapon of choice against tanks and most other meaty targets. They didn’t miss and went boom with authority.

“You don’t worry about Riyadh,” Knowlington told him. “If we start running short, let me know. I’ll make sure we have plenty.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” snapped the lieutenant. He was so new his uniform smelled of wrapper.

Knowlington’s indulgent grin waned as he spotted his capo di capo approaching. Sergeant Allen Clyston tended to amble rather than walk, except whe
n he was angry about something— which he obviously was now, because he looked like a bull elephant on a charge.

“Anything else, Lieutenant?” Skull asked.

The young man followed his boss’s glance toward the capo. “No, sir,” he said, quickly retreating.

“You ain’t going to believe this shit,” said Clyston, drilling his meaty fists into his sides as he halted in front of his commander. The earth shook as he stomped his feet beneath him.

“What shit are we talking about?”

“You know where Rosen is?” demanded Clyston.

“Out at Al Jouf keeping our Hogs in the air, no?”

Clyston shook his head. The capo’s ability to remain calm in the most adverse circumstances was legendary. He had withstood countless Vietnamese shellings during Nam and probably as many inspections by Pentagon bigwigs. But his face was red, and though balled into fists his fingers trembled.

“You okay, Allen?”

“She’s in Iraq!” blurted the sergeant.

“Iraq?”

“It’s not bad enough we have to lose a pilot in a bullshit ground exercise where he had no f’ing business being. That’s a woman, God damn it! She shouldn’t even be over here. Anything happens to her, I’m killing the sons of bitches myself! And then I’m strangling fucking Klee or whoever it was who sent her there. God damn it. God f’ing damn it.”

“All right, let’s find out what the hell is going on here,” said Knowlington. It didn’t seem possible that Rosen was actually in Iraq. He took the capo by the arm and began walking him toward Hog Heaven. Clyston’s body heaved as he walked; Skull worried he might have a heart attack.

It took a while for the gray-haired chief master sergeant to calm down enough to explain what he’d heard. The information had come backchannel via a landline from one of Devil Squadron’s own maintenance geeks at Al Jouf. Basically, the team holding down Fort Apache had lost a helo and needed someone to fix it. With no one else available, Rosen had volunteered
— and been parachuted in from 30,000 feet with Captain Bristol Wong, the Devil Squadron’s intelligence specialist.

“What the hell does Rosen know about helicopters?” Skull asked.

“Nothing,” said Clyston. “F’ing nothing.”

Knowlington suspected that wasn’t entirely true; Technical Sergeant Rosen was in fact qualified as an expert in several areas outside of avionics, her primary specialty for Devil Squadron. After Clyston and perhaps one or two of the other top sergeants, she was the b
est mechanic on the base— huge praise, given the Hog community’s tough standards.

But she was a woman, and no way
in hell should she be in Iraq. Klee or whoever was responsible had gone too far.

Knowlington picked up the phone and called a friend
, the general in charge of the operation over at the special ops Bat Cave.

“I want an explanation,” he started, calm as ice. When the general asked what the hell he was talking about, Knowlington spoke in slow, measured tones, repeating the bare bones of what Clyston had told him.

It was all news to the general.

“We’re pulling the Apache team out tonight, Mikey,” the general told him. “This is the first I’ve heard about your people being up there on the ground.”

“I expect to see Rosen and Wong standing in front of my desk here at 0600,” Skull said calmly.

“You can count on it,” answered the general. “Excuse me, I have some heads to chop off.”

Clyston’s large frame hung over the sides of the small metal chair across from him as Skull put down the phone. The capo had calmed down some and his fingers had stopped shaking, but he looked old. Knowlington wondered if he looked that old himself sometimes.

Probably worse.

“What’d the general say?” asked the sergeant.

“They’ll be back in the morning.”

“That was a two-star you were trashing?”

“I thought I was pretty calm.”

Clyston smiled— it was weak, but at least his spirits were moving in the right direction. “Thanks.”

Skull nodded. Clyston didn’t say anything else or make a move to get up. It was senseless telling Clyston that Rosen would be all right
— they’d both been around too long to feed each other feel-good lines. So he changed the subject, telling Clyston he was thinking of making Captain Glenon the squadron DO.

“He’s got seniority and he’s a good pilot,” Skull told the squadron’s first sergeant. “What do you think?”

The capo nodded. “His temper’s the only problem.”

“I know,” said Knowlington.

“Crew respects him. He’s fair. I think he’s only hot headed with people who out rank him.”

Knowlington smiled. At the moment, he was the only one who outranked the short, fiery Hog driver. But he didn’t mind aggressive subordinates; on the contrary
— he liked someone with an edge to keep him sharp.

“I think he’s a good choice,” added Clyston. “A lot better than bringing someone in from the outside.”

“I don’t disagree,” said Knowlington. He waited a moment, but Clyston still made no sign of being ready to leave. “We going to be ready for tomorrow’s frag?” he asked.

“Oh yeah, all the planes are set. Something was flaky with the landing gear on Devil Seven, but I had Harvey overhaul it. I think Smokes just landed too hard because he had to take a leak.”

Clyston grinned, but he still wasn’t back to normal. Skull wanted to say something else reassuring, but couldn’t think of what that would be. Some commanders had a knack for the right word; he always felt tongue tied.

“Well, hell, I guess I got some work to get to,” said the sergeant.

“Me, too,” said Knowlington, rising.

But Clyston lingered a m
oment longer. He had a question— and Skull suddenly realized it wasn’t about Rosen but about him.

Clyston wanted to know if he was drinking again. He’d smelled the Depot on him earlier, maybe saw him coming from that direction. There might even be rumors.

He wanted to tell him he wasn’t. He wanted to admit, too, that he’d been tempted. That he was still tempted, that he’d always be tempted. That maybe he was only a short walk away from plunging back into the numb hole he’d so recently escaped from.

Skull opened his mouth, not sure exactly what the words would be. But before any came out, the sergeant nodded and began walking away.

F
ORT APACHE

2
6 JANUARY 1991

1715

Ca
ptain Hawkins watched
as the two AH-6 Little Birds skimmed along the desert terrain toward the landing strip. The two helos were flying maybe three feet from the ground, moving at over a hundred and thirty miles an hour. Tornadoes of dust whipped behind them, as if they were chewing up the dirt and spitting it out.

Hawkins wanted to do something like that, maybe punch and kick it, though he was far too disciplined a soldier to reveal anything approaching the frustration he felt in front of his men. He wanted to ignore the order to withdraw, wanted to grab the phone and call Riyadh or Washington or wherever the damn order originated, yell and scream and tell them how stupid it was to leave now that they were just getting settled.

But he wouldn’t. He wasn’t even going to share his opinion. He was going to get the two dozen people here, and their equipment, out safely.

“Captain?”

Hawkins turned to Rosen. The diminutive tech sergeant had a bag of tools in her hand that looked to weigh more than she did.

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“I’d like to make sure my fixes are holding,” she told him.

“As long as you can do it while they’re refueling.”

“Yes, sir. How did the strike at Al Kajuk go? We get the Scuds?”

“Not yet,” he told her. “They ran into some targeting problems. I had to order the helos back so we can bug out. Blackhawk’s going to pick them up later on.”

Rosen nodded.

“You’re in the first team out,” he added. Because the helicopters were so small
— fitting five people in them was nearly impossible— Hawkins had divided up the base contingent into three shifts. They’d fly fifty miles south, although the course was actually more like seventy-five miles, because of two jogs to avoid possible Iraqi encampments. A Pave Low would be waiting to meet them there. It had better be, since they had exactly enough fuel left to get there and no further. Klee didn’t want to risk detection by sending the large Air Force Special Operations helicopter directly to the base.

“Begging your pardon, sir, and no disrespect,” said Rosen, who unlike some of his men sounded as if she meant the words when she said them. “But it would make better sense if I flew with the helicopters the whole time. Something goes wrong, sir, I’m the only one who can fix them. I’m worried about Two. Slim Jim and me just curled the wires together in that harness. I mean, I can’t guarantee they’ll hold forever.”

“Too risky,” snapped Hawkins.

“Riskier than parachuting down here strapped to Captain Wong? Sir?”

Hawkins had to smile. Now
that
could have come from any of the troopers in his unit.

“You want to fly on every trip?” he asked her.

“I can work the weapons,” Rosen said.

“Rosen, I’m going to marry you someday,” he shouted as the helos came in.

N
EAR Al-KAJUK, IRAQ

26
JANUARY 1991

1730

W
ong had managed
to ease about ten feet closer to the rifle on the ground before the Iraqi captain returned with one of his men. Apparently they had been unable to find the rest of the team, though that did not convince the Iraqis that Wong was telling him the truth about being there alone.

“You may sit,” the commander told him.

“I’d rather stand,” said Wong.

“A stoic spy,” laughed his captor. Then he said in Arabic that it would be wise for Wong to sit, or he would take out his pistol and shoot him without further warning.

Wong knew that it was another of the Iraqi captain’s tests, this one designed to see if he spoke Arabic. He decided he would gain more by letting his captor think he had won the round.

“Why is it so important that I sit?” Wong asked in English.

“It’s not important,” replied the captain in Arabic. “If you wish to stand, then you will stand. Forever. Your sergeant, too.”

Wong made no reply, but shifted his feet slightly, once again edging in the direction of his weapon. He was still a good five or six yards below the rocks where he’d put it.

The sun had gone behind the hill, and the ground where he’d left his weapon lay in the shadows. That made it less likely the Iraqis would spot it, but it might also cost him a second or two locating it.

Wong wondered how long they would stay here. Perhaps until they gave up looking for the rest of the team.

Then what would they do? The easiest thing would be to execute him, though a self-admitted American spy had enormous value, even if he offered no tactical or strategic information. If they did not kill him, they would either relocate him immediately or go to a place where the captain would contact superiors for directions.

Beyond that, their specific course was impossible to predict but easily outlined. Information extraction was likely to be primitive but relatively effective. Wong’s real value was not to the Iraqis but the Russians, who would be highly interested in knowing exactly what he, and thus the Pentagon, actually knew about their weapons. The captain had a cyanide implant in his leg near the groin; he would use it when and if appropriate. Until then, he would proceed with a hierarchical set of goals. Escape lay at the top of his grid, followed by destruction of the Scuds
, and finally information-gathering about the Iraqi command and control structure, methods, and operations.

“So you see that you are checkmated,” said the Iraqi, speaking again in English.

“An interesting choice of vocabulary,” said Wong. “Do you play?”

“Chess? It happens that I do.”

Wong nodded.

“Why is that of interest to you?”

“I am always looking for worthy opponents,” said Wong.

The Iraqi captain made a snorting sound, then climbed back to the top of the hill, barely two feet from the rocks where the M-16 lay. Wong took the opportunity to sidle up another two steps. As he did, he glanced at the Delta trooper captured with him. The sergeant gave him a half wink, showing that he knew what Wong was up to.

“I am beginning to think that you were telling the truth about coming alone,” said the captain, turning around.

“There is little sense in lying,” said Wong. “When precisely do you plan on killing me?”

“Would I kill a fellow grandmaster?” The Iraqi’s clean-shaven lip was well suited to ironic grins, turning itself up and outwards at the corner. Wong wondered if the physical feature and personality preference were linked in the DNA.

“I am hardly a grandmaster,” said Wong. “My rating is merely 1900.”

“And I a mere hundred points higher,” said the Iraqi. The quickness of his response betrayed the fact that he was padding his rating— unlike Wong, who’d subtracted a thousand points.

“It’s a pity that we don’t have a board,” said Wong.

“Yes, since we will be here for some while.”

Why, Wong wondered. To prevent Wong from observing the Scuds? But that would mean they would be walking down the hillside in the dark, a time when it would be easier for the prisoners to escape.

What of that earlier reference to “who” rather than what? Surely the Iraqi knew English too well to confuse his pronouns. And what of the curious identity of his unit? The men were all obviously well-trained, but were clearly not Republican Guards. Perhaps the chemical-warhead Scuds had been given special units?

“You may sit, Sergeant,” the Iraqi told the com specialist.

“I will stand with my captain, sir.”

The Iraqi took out his pistol. Wong edged another step up the hill toward the M-16A.

He couldn’t see it, but the rock was at least four yards away. Two and a half steps, a full second and a half. Add another to pick up the rifle or even to kick it, get the grenade to go off.

Three seconds, optimistically. The sergeant would be dead and so would he.

“You may sit, Sergeant,” Wong told him.

“No
! You sit, Captain,” said the Iraqi. “I’m not sure why you want to stand, but I want you to sit. Or your man will die.”

The Delta trooper straightened, a calm air rising with his spine. He intended to die enshrouded with honor.

No need for that now. Not yet.

“We will both sit then,” said Wong. He bent slowly and then, as if losing his balance, fell over into the dirt.

Another yard and a half.

The barrel of a pistol slammed hard into his cheekbone as he rose.

“You will stop flailing around,” said the captain, leaning so close Wong was nearly suffocated by the stale tobacco scent of his breath. “Or the next movement you make will be your last.”

As if to underline his statement, an automatic rifle began firing in the distance, somewhere down the hillside.