Hogs #2: Hog Down (14 page)

On the ground in Iraq

21 January
1991

2230

M
ongoose had almost
reached the trees when he
heard the sound, a low, guttural moan moving in the night. At first he thought
it was an animal, a wolf or hyena or something, a beast that had caught his
scent and was calling its brothers for the kill.

By
the time he flopped to the ground on his belly he realized it was a truck,
maybe two. The moonlight showed him the shadows moving a mile away. They felt
their way toward him, slow and deliberate.

Mongoose
lay on his belly, frozen by a mixture of fear and fascination, as if he were
seeing someone else’s nightmare. The trucks crested a small hill in the distance,
kept coming.

They
didn’t have their headlights on. Smart precaution, but it would make it tough
for them to see him here.

They
were looking for him, no doubt about it. The shadows stopped and a beam of
light erupted from the second, sweeping the ground. It found the trees then
arced slowly, still about a hundred yards away from where he lay.

That
got him moving. Mongoose jumped up and began running in the opposite direction.
He tripped over something, felt himself spilling forward. Somehow he managed to
get his elbow out, and roll with the fall. He tumbled back to his feet, ran a
few more yards, saw the sweeping light from the corner of his eye and dove once
more to the ground.

The
light paused on something twenty yards away: The trees maybe, or a shadow that
looked like a man. Whatever it was, the trucks put their headlights on and
revved their engines, moving again.

Moving
toward him.

Now
would be a great time for a Hog to appear. They weren’t worth shit in the dark,
but they would sure make him feel better.

No
Hog appeared. The trucks came closer.

At
most, he was a half-mile from the road. Much too close. He couldn’t be sure
what they’d seen, but he knew he hadn’t felt the light. He was still hidden. He
ran ten yards, up a slight incline, then fell; rolling, he got a mouthful of
grit before he managed to stop his fall.

The
search beam was trained on the trees. Mongoose scrambled to his feet and
started running again, hoping they would be focusing all their attention there,
hoping he wasn’t making too much noise. He could get over this dune or hill or
whatever the hell it was and he’d be safe.

The
pilot had only taken a few steps when something told him to dive for cover
again; he flopped down, expecting the searchlight to play over him.

When
it didn’t, he turned and looked over his shoulder. One of the two trucks was
now between him and the trees. Its searchlight was examining the area
carefully, moving over the ground like a worm. Two long shadows blurred behind
it. He saw soldiers moving like waves in the light.

Mongoose
pushed back up, determined to get more distance between himself and the enemy.
A machine-gun opened up as he did. The hollow
pop-pop-pop
sent him back
into the dirt, diving around to face them though he knew, he hoped, the bullets
weren’t aimed in his direction. Another gunner began firing— he realized they
were automatic rifles, not machine-guns; AK-47s most likely, though Mongoose
had never actually heard one off a firing range before.

There
were shouts; probably the commander told the men to stop wasting their
ammunition, though the pilot couldn’t understand the language.

The
soldiers had been spooked by the trees or something. That he could understand.

As
they resumed the search, the Iraqis’ shadows fluttered up from the ground, devils
emerging from some ghost hole. Dark, over–sized rifles loomed out at him, their
barrels searching for his heart. The pilot reached for his pistol and gripped
it tightly. He told himself they couldn’t see him. More than likely, they would
inspect the area near the road, fire a few more shots to flush him out in case
he was nearby, then pile back into the trucks and go on.

Logically,
he knew that was what they would do. But it didn’t make it any easier to crouch
here, less than a hundred yards away, listening to their grunts and the chink
of their equipment as they began searching the area. They cursed loudly. One
seemed to trip; again the desert exploded with small arms fire.

The
searchlight swung wildly around the area; the dim edge of its shadow reached to
within inches of where he had been when he first spotted them.

He
had to get up over this hill. Here he was in range of their searchlight. Sooner
or later, a sweep would find him.

Mongoose
glanced down at the gun in his hand. Only its vague outline was visible, but he
could feel it heavy and slightly moist, as if it was sweating.

It
was him, not the gun. He was colder than hell and thirsty besides, yet water
was streaming from his pores.

If
they came for him, should he fire? With surprise on his side in the dark, he
could take out two or three before the others knew what was happening.

What
then? Could he escape the hail of bullets that would follow?

There
was another clip in his pocket. Burn the first one, reload, take them all on?

Yes,
that was what he would do.

It
would mean he’d die. Inevitably. The odds were stacked. There were at least a
dozen shadows in the distance. Sooner or later they would find him and they
wouldn’t be inclined to show mercy.

Nothing
in Iraq is worth dying for.

Better
to be quiet, better to hide. His job was to survive.

His
job for Kath, and for Robby.

To
survive. That was what the Air Force told him. Survive. Don’t do anything
stupid. You’re not Rambo.

And
that’s an order.

But
no way he could give up. Shit, that would be worse than living. Tortured, used
for propaganda and God knows what.

In
the dark, in the desert, they’d never find him. They might search a few yards
around the trees, no more. He had to get up over that hill.

Mongoose
held his breath and got up slowly, watched the shadows for a second, then began
moving up the hill in a crouch-walk.

He’d
gone about six feet when the Iraqis began shouting again. The search beam swung
past the trees in the opposite direction.

Now
was his chance.

He
had just taken a step when the searchlight swung back toward him.

King Khalid

21 January 1991

2230

E
verybody in the
Air Force had their own
specialty. In A-Bomb’s humble opinion, the candy men— the crew dogs who took
care of getting bombs onto the planes— were probably the best guys at making
chili. He had no theory to explain this, beyond the obvious connection with
their profession. There was, at the same time, an inverse relationship between
chili quality and geographical origin. A-Bomb had never met a chili chef who’d
been born further south than Reston, Va., which was not, per se, a chili-making
town. This bomb loader— Sergeant Harris P. Slocum, to be exact— was a case in
point, hailing from Milwaukee. Slocum, who was happy to share his chili with an
obvious connoisseur, had no explanation for it either.

The
sergeant and Chevy, an airman buddy of his, had traded the chili for a pair of A-Bomb’s
Devil Dogs, and had thrown in a can of real Coca-Cola as well. A genuine
bargain, as far as A-Bomb was concerned, given that the Devil Dogs were a bit mushed.
The pilot was so overwhelmed by their generosity that he offered them his last
Twizzler licorice sticks as well.

“You’re
a walking candy store, sir,” said Slocum, lounging on the dragon that loaded
shells into the A-10A’s cannon. “So they let you fly with all this stuff in
your suit?”

“Never
tried to stop me. You got some more of this chili?”

“All
you want, sir,” said Chevy. “Hang on a second.”

He
trotted over to a small wheeled vehicle that usually held iron bombs but had
been pressed into duty as a kind of tool cart. The back had a pair of coolers—
one with hot food, one with cold. A battery rig had been hooked up; a Mr.
Coffee was just squirting water into its pot.

A-Bomb
thought it was damn good to see ingenuity like that so close to the front
lines.

“Buddy
of yours went down, huh?” Slocum asked.

“Yeah.
I got a bead on him, though. We’ll pick him up before the sun comes up.”

“Tough
country up there.”

A-Bomb
shrugged. Chevy returned with a fresh cup of chili. It wasn’t a cup, exactly—
they used old MRE cans as containers. You had to make sacrifices due to the war
and all.

“What’s
it like to get shot at?” Slocum asked.

“Shot
at?” A-Bomb took a mouthful of the chili. Maybe it could have used another hit
of cayenne. “Nothing, really. Hadn’t thought about it.”

“You
don’t think about it?” asked Chevy.

“Nah.
Mostly what you think about is, how can I wax that son of a bitch for having
the balls to try to shoot me? That’s what you think about. That and, maybe I
should’ve had the Boss on instead of Nirvana.”

“The
Boss?” asked Chevy.

“Bruce
Springsteen. You guys never heard of Springsteen?”

“Well,
uh, sure we did, sir,” said Slocum. “But, uh, you listen to music while you’re
flying?”

“Doesn’t
everybody?” A-Bomb got up and showed them his customized Walkman hookup, which
he had wired into his suit. They whistled in admiration. “Nothing like
listening to ‘E Street Shuffle’ while you’re pounding Saddam’s pissants. Uhmm,
you figure that coffee’s ready now?”

* * *

His
stomach full and thermos loaded with the security crew’s coffee— a little weak,
but no sense complaining— A-Bomb did a careful preflight of his Hog. The
plane’s stores had been reloaded; its gas tanks, made of a special bag-like
material and protected by a fire-suppressant foam, were now filled to the brim.
Four Rockeye II cluster bombs had been slapped onto the hardpoints. The big
drum that fed the cannon was packed with bullets, and A-Bomb had even managed
to scrounge a few plastic-wrapped generic brand cupcakes to refurbish his
survival pantry.

 Moving
from front to back, A-Bomb checked over the plane carefully. He ran his hands
across the wings and ailerons, feeling the metal. The plane had flown all day
over Iraqi territory, and hadn’t caught a whisker of flak. He gave the big fan
jet a pat, moving to the forked tail at the rear of the plane. He touched it
gently, almost kneading the metal the way an experienced cowboy might massage a
trusted but slightly tired horse. Then the pilot gave the right rudder a good
hard slap and continued around the plane, making sure she was ready to go. He gingerly
touched the pitot head, used to measure airspeed, and practically saluted the
AN/ALQ-119 ECM pod that hung off the right wing — A-Bomb believed in wallowing
in the mud, but there was nothing wrong with sending out a good swath of
electronic interference while you were doing it, especially when the enemy was
spitting flak and missiles at you.

Back
at the nose of the plane, he gave the cannon a good tug, just to let it know he
was counting on it. Satisfied that the Warthog was ready to go, A-Bomb pulled
on his helmet and gave his flight gear a quick check— the last thing he wanted
was to misplace his Three Musketeers chocolate bar during combat. Satisfied
that he was ready to go, the pilot hoisted himself up onto the wing and
clambered atop the plane. He settled against the fuselage, legs extended out
from the wing root, head back, trying to grab a Z or two while he waited for
the colonel to arrive with the Mavericks.

Hope
Mongoose is half as comfortable as this,
he thought as his eyelids closed.

King Fahd

21 January 1991

2230

S
argeant Clyston took
a turn around the back end
of the avionics shop, making sure there were no problems before heading out to
find Colonel Knowlington. He hadn’t decided on what he was going to do or even
say; probably the words wouldn’t be anywhere near as important as the glance
that would pass between them.

All
of the squadron’s Hogs had returned to base intact after a long day of
missions. Clyston’s men – and a sprinkling of women – had inspected each one,
repairing and refurbishing them with the speed of an Indy race car crew and the
precision of a team of Mercedes mechanics. The Hog was a fantastically tough
airplane, designed not only to withstand hot zones but also made to be easily
maintained during war. Still, she couldn’t quite take care of herself, and
people like Rosen were critical to keeping the squadron in the air.

Which
was why he put up with her.

“Chief,
we need more tacan fins,” she complained as soon as she spotted him.

“Why?
We lose one?”

“Not
yet. But—”

“Don’t
be jinxing me with that kind of talk then,” said Clyston, sliding away. He
could see the colonel walking from the hangar where he’d suited up for the
flight.

“Yah,
Sergeant, I haft a problem with a ving hinch,” said one of Clyston’s chiefs, a
geezer named Tinman who knew nearly as much about the planes as Clyston but was
considerably better with an acetylene torch. Tinman’s only drawback was his
thick accent, which few could easily identify, much less decipher.

“Wing
hinge? What the hell are you doing, making these planes ready for carrier
duty?” Clyston asked.

“Daht
Tomcat landed earlier. They askt me to inspect. I find damache from flak.”

“Okay,
Tinman, I’ll be with you in a second.”

Clyston
managed to squeeze away and had Knowlington in sight when another of his
sergeants, Pearlman Greene, tapped him on the shoulder. Greene’s black face
glistened with sweat and his eyes were narrowed down to slits.

“Chief,
could I have a word?”

Greene
wasn’t the kind of guy who asked for “a word.” Clyston realized immediately
what was up— Greene headed the squadron’s survival equipment shop and had
undoubtedly rigged Mongoose’s chute.

He
let Greene lead him a few yards away, around the side of one of the hangars.

“You’re
supposed to be sleeping, Pearly,” he said when the rigger finally stopped.

“I
heard there wasn’t a chute.”

“Ah
shit, that’s bullshit. Who told you that? Captain Wong? He’s from the goddamn
Pentagon. He doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“Not
Wong. Not an officer.”

Clyston
scowled, holding it a little longer in case Greene couldn’t quite catch it in
the darkness. “It’s still bullshit. Was the guy there? No. Geez, you know how
these rumors get going. How long you been in the air force?”

“I
never lost a guy. Never.”

“And
you didn’t now.”

“I
checked the rig as carefully as I could.”

“I
know you did, Pearly. Listen, if something fucked up, it wasn’t the chute. I
guarantee that. You’re the best rigger I ever met, and let me tell you, I’ve
met a bunch. What the hell are you letting yourself worry for, huh? Crap, I
guarantee the chute opened.”

Greene
didn’t answer. A few guys, not many, but some, could totally divorce themselves
from the job. Plane goes down, well hey, that’s show business.

Most
though, and certainly the ones the Capo di Capo wanted working for him, felt it
to the core. Caring was part of what made them so good. Guys like that, you
could logic them to death about how it wasn’t their fault, and they still felt
like they’d pulled the trigger on the SAM that took down the plane.

“Thing
is, A-Bomb saw the chute,” offered Clyston.

“He
did?”

“Damn
straight. That’s what I heard, and you know no one’s lying to me and living to
tell about it. A-Bomb saw the ejection. Which means he saw the chute. You know
Captain O’Rourke. He doesn’t bullshit anybody, right?”

“Captain
O’Rourke is okay.”

“Damn
straight he’s okay. Listen, Johnson is on the ground cooking up some MREs right
about now, probably heating them with one of your flares. Fucking officer,
right?”

Greene
laughed— weakly, but still it counted for something.

“Thing
is, we’re going to get him back,” Clyston told him. “Colonel Knowlington’s
going up himself.”

Even
in the dark, Clyston could see Greene’s face light up. “The colonel. Wow.”

Clyston
nodded solemnly. “You know if the colonel’s going up there, Major Johnson is on
the way back.”

“No
shit.”

“So
the chute must have worked. Because Knowlington isn’t wasting his time heading
into bad guy land for someone who’s not there.”

“Yeah,
no way. Not the colonel. And he’ll get him back, too.”

“Damn
straight. Go catch some Z’s, Sergeant.”

“I
will. Thank you, Alan.”

“Yeah,
yeah,” grunted Clyston, his legs already churning as he headed away.

* * *

By
the time he found the colonel, Skull was partaking of a flight ritual his old
crew chief recognized well from Thailand.

The
pre-flight, below-wing pee. The good-luck piss. The best leak in the business,
Knowlington called it.

Unofficially,
of course. Doing your business on the edge of a runway wasn’t something a pilot
ever did under any circumstances ever, not in the jungle, not in the desert,
not anywhere.

And
luck? No officer of the U.S. military was that superstitious.

“Combat
has some advantages, huh Sergeant?” said Knowlington, business done. His
aw-shucks grin made him look twenty-three again. “Have to try that at Andrews
sometime and see what the reaction is. What’s up?”

“Nothin’.”

“Plane
looks like she’s ready to fly. One of the candy men told me you had them rope
on a pair of LUU-2 flares.”

“Thought
they might come in handy.”

“I’m
coming back. Don’t worry about me.”

“I
wasn’t.”

Knowlington
laughed. “Sure you were. That was the first time in your life you took a
compliment without growling. Make sure the rest of the planes get off okay. If
the frag gets screwed up because I took the spares, someone’s going to be
pissed.”

It
wasn’t like he’d come to say a lot, but Clyston found his tongue tied. “I
will,” he managed, smiling and stepping back. Two airmen came over to make some
final check and Clyston felt himself drifting back as the colonel jumped up the
ladder and slipped inside the A–10A cockpit.

He
really did seem like he was twenty-three again, full of vinegar. The old pros
called him “Stick Boy.”Part of it was a compliment in honor of his flying
skills. Part of it wasn’t.

Long
time ago, that. In those days, Clyston hadn’t really thought of making the Air
Force a career. But after Vietnam, it just seemed to be the thing to do. No
explaining why.

Pre-flight
finished and plane ready to crank, Knowlington gave them a thumbs-up signal as
the Hog’s rumble turned serious. The plane began edging toward the firing line,
ready to launch itself into the darkness.

Chief
Master Sergeant Clyston stood and watched until the glow from the twin jets at
the back of the plane vanished into specks smaller than the stars. Finally, he
nodded, hitched up his pants, and turned to see about where in hell he could
find a hinge for Tinman.