HOGS #5: TARGET SADDAM (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (11 page)

Grief
ran from the kid like water from a busted pipe. Dixon felt his own eyes
swelling; he remembered his mother dying, tried steeling himself against it,
walling himself off, but finally there was no stopping the tears. He let the
rifle fall and took hold of the kid as he sobbed. The first few drops felt like
ice, but those that followed were like warm oil, soothing the corners of his
face, soothing the aches of his body.

BJ
lost his sense of place. He lost his sense of himself. His hopelessness, his
fear— most importantly, his determination to die here in a blaze of gunfire—
slowly ebbed away. The frightened William James Dixon— the one who trembled
before battle; who  froze at one point in every combat sortie; the one that was
paralyzed by confrontation, the part of him that wanted to give up, the self
that had closed his eyes the night his mother died instead of taking one last
look— left his body with a shudder and a sigh.

The
man left behind wasn’t beyond fear, but he understood it in a different way now;
he neither welcomed it nor ran from it, he simply accepted it as a fact.

His
tears eventually stopped. Dixon lifted the boy and gently placed him on the
ground. The kid, too, had stopped crying. He took a step back, looking at him
with an expression of shock, as if he had finally realized that Dixon was an
enemy soldier. He cringed and threw his arms around his thin chest, holding his
tattered shirt.

“I’m
not going to hurt you,” Dixon told him.

The
kid shook his head. It wasn’t until the boy pointed in the direction of the
road that Dixon realized the kid was scared not of him but the sound of a
vehicle approaching down the road from the direction of the village.

HOME DROME

27 JANUARY 1991

1320

Skull
tried to
keep
his face military neutral as Major Preston continued his speech. Any other guy
new to an important post in a combat squadron would keep his remarks— if any— briefer
than hell. But this was vintage Preston, the full-of-himself officer
Knowlington remembered from their stint together at the Pentagon a little more
than a year ago. People who knew him then said the major could out-talk a
congressman; Skull now had proof.

The
worst thing was, he kept telling the assembled Hog drivers that, even though he
was a pointy nose fighter jock pukehead, he was really one of them. Really.

Not
in so many words, of course, but the drift was clear. And it went over like a
Big Blue fuel bomb tumbling out the back of a Combat Talon I.

Being
a pilot in the Air Force meant that you were one of a very select minority, the
cream of chocolate milk. Being a fighter pilot— any fighter pilot— meant you
were the cream of the cream.

And
yet, there was a severe prejudice against Hog drivers because of the planes
they flew. Unlike the sleek F-15 Eagles and F-16 Vipers, A-10As couldn’t
come close to the sound barrier. They could pull maybe half the g’s a pointy
nose could. Now granted, they were kick-ass at the job they were designed for— close-in
ground support, tank busting especially. And the first few days of the ground
war, which saw them flying far behind the lines and doing things their
designers never dreamed of, proved not just the mettle of the planes but the
skills and sheer balls of their pilots. Given all that, there was definitely a
feeling out there that A-10s and their drivers were second-rate. Hog drivers
definitely tended to react to it in various ways, none of which were
particularly pretty.

They
were reacting now, grinding their teeth as Preston told them once again they
had nothing to be ashamed of.

“Uh,
hey, no offense, Major,” said Lieutenant Jack Gladstone finally, “but we ain’t
ashamed of nothing.”

“Damn
straight,” murmured a couple of the other lieutenants. “We’re not second-rate
at nothing.”

“I
didn’t mean you were,” said Preston.

“Yeah,
but you’re making it sound like we are,” said Gladstone.

“No.
I didn’t mean that.” Fortunately for Preston, nearly all of the squadron’s
front-line pilots were out on missions. Even so, the audience was pretty riled.
Doberman, studiously trying to ignore the proceedings in the back, was
frothing. Wong was his usual nonplused self— he wasn’t a pilot, so apparently
he didn’t care.

And
A-Bomb was stuffing his face with what looked like an apple pie, though God
only knew where it came from.

Doberman’s
lips started moving. A bad sign.

Skull
cleared his throat, getting up from the folding chair near the side of the
squadron room. “We’re all glad Major Preston is aboard,” he said. “Now we have
some work to get done. Hack, I think one of those newspaper people is waiting
outside to talk to you about that MiG you shot down yesterday.”

Preston
hadn’t mentioned the fact that he had nailed a MiG— probably he thought
everyone knew already— and Knowlington’s seemingly offhand comment was enough
to temporarily calm the rising tide of dissension. The new D.O. had enough
sense to finally shut his mouth after a line about how much he was counting on
everyone to help him out. He nodded to Knowlington, then joined the men
filtering out of Cineplex.

“Class
A farthead,” Doberman said as he approached Knowlington.

“Relax,
Captain,” said Skull.

“Come
on, Dog, he ain’t that bad. I was in a unit with him couple of years back,”
said A-Bomb. “Good pilot. Very clean turns.”

“Very
clean turns? What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Very clean turns?”

“Doesn’t
spill coffee when he pumps the rudder,” said A-Bomb. “What I’m talking about.”

“Captain
Glenon informed me that he and Captain O’Rourke will be on the mission,” said
Wong, bringing toddler time to a close. “Who are the other two pilots?”

“Oh
they did, did they?” said Skull, frowning at them. “Yeah, they’re coming. If
they don’t fall asleep.”

“I
might catch some Z’s on the way back,” said A-Bomb. “I’m thinking of packing a
pillow, just in case.”

“The
other pilots?” asked Wong.

“I’m
flying this mission,” Skull said. “I have Bozzone in mind to take the last
slot. I told him to be ready to fly tonight but I haven’t given him the
details.”

“Billy’s
kind of low-time,” said Doberman.

“True,”
said Skull. Lt. Bozzone was a good pilot, but had only been on one mission
since the Gulf War started. He hadn’t flown much before coming to the Gulf,
either. On the other hand, he had been training for night flights and was used
to using the AGMs to read targets. Skull didn’t doubt his abilities, but there
was no arguing with the fact that he didn’t have a lot of cockpit time.

“What
about Duck?” A-Bomb asked. “He’s always up for an adventure.”

“I
need Captain Dietrich to lead a mission in the morning,” said Skull. “He’s
taking four Hogs out to Al Jouf after a bombing run. If both of you guys are
going, he can’t.”

“Billy’s
just a kid,” said Doberman.

All
of them were to Skull. But he didn’t say that.

“I’ve
been reviewing the latest satellite data and other intelligence,” said Wong.
“The missiles we spoke of have been positioned. I have a ninety percent
confidence that they are SA-11s. There are also several triple-A batteries, and
positionings of low-altitude heat seeking batteries. The information has been
relayed to the F-111 commander. One group of the heat-seeking weapons will have
to be targeted in the initial attack, and of course you must keep the others in
mind during your operations near the village.”

A
few squadron members drifted toward them from the other end of the room,
obviously interested in what was going on. While Skull hated keeping his people
in the dark, the mission was code-word secret.

“Let’s
talk about this in my office,” he told them, ushering Wong and the others
toward the hallway.

“Colonel,
what newspaper reporter?” asked Preston, intercepting them outside.

“Hack.”
Skull shook his head but decided not to bother explaining that he’d only said
that to bail the idiot out. He continued down the hall.

“Uh,
Colonel, could I have a word?” Preston asked.

Skull
stopped. “Sure.”

“In
private?”

“Is
it a private thing?”

“Well.
. .”

Skull
gestured to the others. “You’ve met Glenon and O’Rourke, right? This is Captain
Wong.”

Preston
gave them all a quick nod. “Actually, I wanted to get myself on the roster to
fly ASAP. Tomorrow, if possible.”

“All
the slots are filled,” said Skull.

“There
are four planes that aren’t listed,” said Preston. “There are plenty of low
priority targets available. I’ll find a wingmate and take one. Maybe A-Bomb’ll
fly with me,” added Preston, trying to make his voice sound chummy. “A-Bomb and
I go back to Germany. Used to plunk Volkswagens.”

“Those
planes are spoken for,” Doberman said.

“What
exactly is going on, Colonel?”

Skull
scratched his forehead, rubbing the edges of his eyebrows with his thumb and
middle finger, thinking. Preston had been flying combat since the beginning of
the air war, and while it had been a while since he’d sat his fanny in a Hog,
he had tons of experience. He’d be an obvious choice to take the mission— after
days of orientation, or reorientation, flights.

No
time for that.

“Colonel?”
repeated Preston.

Why
was he hesitating? Because he didn’t like him?

Because
Preston had tried to screw him when they both worked at the Pentagon a year or
so ago?

Maybe
he was a jerk, but he was a good pilot. He’d already nailed a MiG.

“You
ever use Mavericks to fly at night?” Skull asked.

“You’re
not supposed to,” said Hack. “Specifically advised against that. I’ve done
plenty of night flying, though.”

“In
a Hog?” said Doberman.

“Of
course. We used to drop logs and drill with CBUs and Mavs. Problem is the damn
screens have such a small angle it’s hard to get your bearings, so using them
to do more than find your target can be disorienting. Right A-Bomb?”

O’Rourke
smiled but said nothing.

“What’s
this about, Colonel?” asked Preston.

Fly
the number one and number two guys on the same mission? Along with the
squadron’s best pilots?

Why
the hell not? You had to use your best weapons, no?

“Colonel?”

“All
right. Come with us into my office, Major. Assuming you’re up for flying
tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“If
you’re too tired or don’t feel up to it –”

“Of
course I’m up for it,” said Hack.

“And
you got to like long shots,” added A-Bomb. “And Devil Dogs.”

Preston’s
chin twitched for a second, but only for a second.

“I
like long shots,” he said.

KING FAHD

27 JANUARY , 1991

1400

The
easiest thing
in
the world was to say no.

The
general looked at him expectantly. Jack Sherman was so heavy the desk he was
sitting behind groaned as he shifted his elbows.

“It’s
a classified mission,” repeated Sherman. He put his hands down and drummed his
fingers, the beat vaguely reminiscent though difficult to place. “So you can
work things out from that. I’m not authorized to say anything else and to be
honest, I don’t know much more. You’ll be briefed fully if you volunteer. I
mean, obviously it’s going to be hazardous.”

Lars
nodded. A voice inside was telling him to walk away— not just from the request
to fill in for a sick copilot, but from the whole Gulf War. From everything.

General
Sherman’s round, light brown face broke into a smile. He obviously thought he
was doing Lars a favor, pushing an assignment that would. . .

That
would
what?
Get him promoted? Get him a medal?

He
didn’t need no damn medal. He needed to get home, go see his daughter Susie
again.

“Some
of your experience will come in handy,” added Sherman, still tapping. “That was
one of the considerations in asking you.”

Experience?

“It’s
nothing you haven’t done before,” said the general. “And it is in a C-130. An
MC-130”

I’m
not a coward, Lars thought. But I can’t even land the damn plane a hundred
miles behind the lines. And an MC-130 wasn’t going to be running toilet
paper across Saudi Arabia. The Herks were equipped for low-level penetration of
hostile territory. They could perform a variety of missions, none of them
exactly easy.