Hogs #4:Snake Eaters (19 page)

O
VER IRAQ

2
6 JANUARY 1991

1910

T
he MiG-21 changed
course twice as Doberman pitched downward, adjusting to his zigs with ominous zags of its own. Knowing he couldn’t lose the MiG’s Jay Bird radar until he was under 3,000 feet, Doberman poured on the gas, hurtling downward so fast he worried about tearing the plane’s wings off.

The MiG-21 was a rug
ged and quick interceptor, well-suited to aerial combat. It was fast, maneuverable, and small. While its avionics systems were not comparable to frontline fighters like the F-15 or even the F-16, it outclassed the A-10A as a dogfighter by miles. It was capable of carrying beyond-visual-range weapons and could even be fitted with infrared night vision equipment, advantages Doberman couldn’t hope to counter in a dogfight. His best bet was scrambling around in the ground clutter until the Iraqi lost interest or the Eagles chased him off.

As Doberman’s altitude dipped below 2,500 feet, he pulled the Hog into a tight turn north, slashing around in a twisting roll that pulled nearly five g’s, in theory high above the plane’s rated capacity. He began pushing the stick to level off before realizing the horizon bar showed him heading straight downward. The wings started yawing on him and he had a fight now; he was behind the plane, temporarily out of control, reacting to it instead of having
it react to him. He got angry— he screamed at the plane to cut the bullshit. As gravity tore at his face and chest, he managed to steady the wings and back off on his speed, pulling out in something approaching a controlled glide. He leveled off at three hundred feet, a lot lower than he wanted to be. The MiG was still up there somewhere, but he didn’t have any indication of it on his gear. The sky above and ahead was a uniform gray. He twisted his neck back and forth, trying to make sure his six was clear as he got his nose pointed directly south.

Doberman felt a cold stream of sweat running down the side of his flight suit as he stared through his front windscreen. He put his hand on the throttle, pegging his speed at three hundred and fifty knots. He didn’t like not knowing where the enemy was. He tried hailing the AWACS but didn’t get a response.

The MiG might have passed by him already. In that case it would be turning around somewhere ahead.

Or not. He was still deep inside Iraq. He started working out his position with the help of his paper map when he saw a stubby building break the undulating ground ahead; he saw a long, straight line and realized he was heading over Fort Apache’s landing strip
. His brain seemed to contract— he hadn’t realized he’d come this far east, let alone back this far north.

Doberman nudged his nose up, working to give himself a little more breathing room while staying in the ground clutter.

A sand dune moved to the right.

No, a plane.

He jumped back in his seat, his mind computing the scenario as his eyes and ears threw the flight data at it.

MiG, closing for a front-quarter cannon attack. Kill him head-on.

No, it wanted him to break; he’d close on Doberman and use his heat-seekers.

RWR. He was spiked.

No, nothing. But obviously it saw him. It was coming for him.

Turning was suicidal. But if Doberman didn’t break, the MiG would go around, use his superior speed to catch him.

Nail him as he came through. Snapshot by yanking into him.

A millisecond of opportunity.

Then what? Where would he be?

The MiG would come at him from the offset, angling, cheating so he could cut into a tight merge, slide into his victim’s tail no matter what he did.

The Hog could out-turn the MiG. The Iraqi wouldn’t expect that— the Fishbed could knife around anything else in the sky. If Doberman could brave the front-quarter attack, he could turn inside him, twist back down and away.

Even b
etter— let him get on his back, but with his nose out, then turn inside quickly at the first moment, have him go past. A tangled rope.

Nail him with the Sidewinders on the Hog’s right wing.

Show the son of a bitch not to mess with Hogs.

Turn the damn things on. The seeker heads have to d
o some calisthenics to warm up— or rather cool down, so the head can pick up the SOB’s heat.

Where is my goddamn radar and the RWR and the AWACS and those stinking Eagles?

Hell, ask for AMRAAMs while you’re at it.

Doberman snorted, laughing at himself. He pushed the nose of his plane toward the approaching hulk, heart pounding, ready to take his shot.

Then he realized it wasn’t a MiG.

He nudged his stick back; he was coming at the tail end of a helicopter, closing so fast the helo seemed to be standing still.

An American bird, running dark— one of the Spec Ops AH-6s. He glanced at his kneepad for their radio frequency.

T
he RWR screamed that the MiG was closing from above for the kill.

O
VER IRAQ

26
JANUARY 1991

1912

S
itting in the
backseat of the helicopter, Rosen had a difficult time puzzling out the situation from what the others were saying. There were apparently two different sets of Iraqi planes nearby, possibly coming for them. One of the groups included at least two MiG-29s; these were being engaged by F-15s.

The other plane, probably a MiG-21, was somewhere right behind them. They’d be sitting ducks if the Iraqi interceptor found them.

There was also an A-10A around somewhere— Devil One, Captain Glenon. The Hog had descended rapidly to their north; it wasn’t clear whether it was trying to hide in the ground effects that confused radar or if it had been hit.

For years, Rosen had listened to accounts of dogfights that seemed like
clear-cut maneuvers— two fighters approached each other, one saw the other first, missiles were launched, bad guys smashed. But the reality of an honest-to-God furball defied description. It was like running through a swirling pile of leaves with your eyes closed, trying to grab a dollar bill. Even the best sensors could only show you two dimensions of reality.

“MiG closing off our port side,” snapped the pilot. “Eight o’clock. He’s at five thousand feet, diving on us. If he hasn’t spotted us already he will in a second.”

Rosen took that to mean she ought to grab onto to something and hold tight.

O
VER IRAQ

2
6 JANUARY 1991

1913

T
he contact was
low, below a thousand feet. Another plane was approaching from the north and there was a helo or something else incredibly slow in front.

Nobody answered IDs. Hack guessed that the helo was a Coalition Spec Ops craft; they’d been briefed during preflight to watch for operations here. The two contacts going in its direction must be Iraqis trying to nail it.

Hack lost the lead aircraft momentarily. The second one, gaining, had been tentatively ID’d as a MiG by the AWACS.

The first plane popped back up on the screen, closing on the helicopter. Hack was still fifteen miles away, too far to launch the Sidewinders. He tickled the IDs again.

Nada.

RWR was clear. The enemy planes didn’t realize he was here.

Ten miles. If he’d had any more Sparrows left, the bastards would be dead.

Sidewinders would nail them, soon as he closed. AIM-9s were ready and waiting.

The lead plane was going to nail the helo any second. He was already in range.

Hack corrected as the planes began dancing wildly; he ha
d to keep his target within a 45-degree aiming cone to ensure the kill.

Eight miles
. Seven.

Nada.

Lead bandit’s going to nail the helo.

The second plane, the one ID’d as a MiG, had the stops out.

He couldn’t get them both in one swoop. Stay on the leader.

Five miles.

The first plane jinked suddenly, pushing out of the optimum firing cone. Hack moved his stick to follow, waited for the growl from the Sidewinder telling him he had a hot target. His radar coughed up an unidentified contact dead west, flying north very low. He started to run through his queries one more time, still waiting for the Sidewinder to lock.

As it did, the IFF in the lead bandit beamed back a signal to Hack’s Eagle.

The plane closing on the helicopter was an A-10.

Oh my God
, Hack thought, jerking his finger away from the trigger
. I almost nailed a good guy.

O
VER IRAQ

2
6 JANUARY 1991

1913

T
he ancient ALQ-119 ECM
pod on Doberman’s right wing cranked away, filling the airwaves with a cacophonous symphony of electronic confusion. Designed to drive the Iraqi MiG’s radar and every dog within a hundred miles nuts, the Westinghouse unit was a first-generation noise and deception jammer that had joined the service before Doberman had.

But either it was working or the
Iraqi pilot was doing a very convincing impression of being blind, for the Fishbed streaked down nearly in front of him, seemingly unaware that Doberman was now right on his tail. Doberman didn’t even have to move his stick as the low growl sounded from the Sidewinder AIM-9L indicated it had acquired its target.

Something about the way the shape fluctuated in his windshield made Doberman hesitate; in the next second the MiG flashed downward and to the right. He lost his firing position
; had to pull the Hog tight over his shoulder to get the front of the plane back onto its target. He saw the helo out of the corner of his eye but couldn’t find the MiG, sensed it had turned around him, trying for a shooting angle.

He was the quarry again.

Doberman worked the Hog tighter, climbing slightly, then pushing the nose back down, bucking the plane in mid-air and swirling around. He heard another growl but worried the Sidewinder had locked on the helicopter. It took only a millisecond to realize it hadn’t; by then he’d lost the shot again, the MiG cranking and wanking in a series of high-g turns that Doberman couldn’t keep up with. He pulled his wings level, eyes blurry. He tried focusing on the compass heading, unsure where the hell he’d spun himself around to, when a sudden shudder passed over the Hog. The MiG had cleared his right wing at less than ten feet.

It was going south. With nothing between it and the Fort Apache helicopter.

“Damn me,” he yelled.

T
his time he yanked the stick so hard the only thing that kept it tied into its boot was the massive smack of gravity that punched the plane in the face. There was a theory that the Hog couldn’t withstand anything higher than 3 gs, but no Hog driver had ever subscribed to that notion, and if Doberman had been able to talk, he would have sworn twenty gs grabbed him and his airplane as it changed direction.

Amazingly, the wings stayed on the aircraft. So did the engines, which had every right to flame out but kept spinning just the same. Doberman found the tail of the MiG disappearing into a mist
of sand a quarter mile ahead. He’d almost pushed the button to fire the AIM-9s when he realized he wasn’t locked. He jiggled the Hog to the right, hoping somehow that realigning his nose would give him a better target. It didn’t; he saw something below him on the desert floor, a small lump— the helo had stopped.

He caught a glimpse of it, saw that it was intact, whirlies whirling. He got his eyes back to where they belonged, couldn’t find the MiG, realized he’d flown to barely twenty feet. If he didn’t start climbing soon he was going to become part of the landscape.

Doberman pulled back on the stick, easing upwards. He got to eight hundred feet when he realized where the MiG was.

He yanked the Hog’s left wing over just in time to avoid the rush of a close-quarter cannon over his canopy, but didn’t have enough altitude to chance more than a shallow roll before recovering. A fresh stream of cannon exploded in front of his canopy and he felt something nudge his wing, an angel tapping him to see if he was ready for heaven.

The MiG had hung with him somehow and was right on his back. The stream of its tracers jerked toward his canopy.

Then the front of his cockpit filled with a dark green shadow. Thunder and lightning roiled around him and the air reverberated with exploding brimstone.

“Hog Rule Number One!” shouted a familiar voice in his earphones. “Never leave home without your wingman!”

Captain Thomas “
A-Bomb” O’Rourke had arrived.

O
VER IRAQ

26
JANUARY 1991

1913

A
-Bomb’s front-quarter
attack was mostly flash— heads-on was a notoriously difficult way to shoot down an enemy, even when you could see what you were doing— but it had the desired effect. The MiG broke off, banking hard to A-Bomb’s left as they passed.

“I got him low,”
A-Bomb told Doberman as he began pulling the Hog around so the MiG couldn’t get him from behind. “He’s west of us, west. Shit, I’ve lost him.”

A-Bomb
had a real hunger for some Good & Plenty, but the little pellets of licorice had a nasty habit of sliding down your mouth in the middle of a high g turn. He decided to settle for a Tootsie Roll instead. He reached for his suit when instinct told him his six was hot. He shoved his Hog down and to the left, ducking a nasty round of cannon fire from the MiG’s GSh-23.

Okay, so the Iraqi pilot’s pretty good,
A-Bomb thought as the Fishbed tried to hang with him on the turn. The MiG had to slow down to make the maneuver. A-Bomb tried taking advantage of his tighter radius by breaking away to the south and getting away clean. But the MiG pilot somehow managed to stay with him, crossing back as they yo-yoed through the night sky. A fresh round of shells sliced just over the Hog’s fuselage.

A-Bomb
cranked hard again back to the right. If he could let the MiG go ahead he’d fire the Sidewinders up its tailpipe. But the Iraqi pilot had finally realized the Hog could turn inside him; he stayed back, letting A-Bomb cut his tight zigs and then using his bigger engine to catch up.

A-Bomb
realized what the Iraqi was doing as a fresh set of tracers flared at an angle past his windshield. He bucked the Hog so low he’d have to pull the nose up to extend the landing gear, and tried a full circle. The MiG stayed right with him, occasionally winking its GSh in his direction.

With an afterburner, the Hog would have easily snapped away and been gone. But
A-Bomb didn’t have the horses to outrun the Iraqi, or even to break the twisting yo-yo. He cut left, then right, and got some fresh tracers.

Only one thing to do – crank up the Boss and wait for Doberman to nail him.

Good thing he’d had the foresight to put on
The River
before setting sail north. This might take a while.