Hogs #2: Hog Down (20 page)

Over Iraq

22 January
1991

0515

S
kull snapped the
mike button as he acknowledged
the airborne controller. Things were getting busy, but even with upwards of a
hundred pilots trucking north no one had heard from Mongoose or picked up his
emergency beacon.

The
ground had an orange glow to it, and some pieces of vegetation near the horizon
looked as if they were on fire. The buildings were dull black and silver, just
starting to catch the light.

The
wrecked overpass and its assorted debris came up on his right wing. Skull
walked past it, indicated air speed down to one hundred and twenty knots— he
could flop down the landing gear and put down on the roadway. Skull gave
himself more throttle and took the Hog into a gentle climb, gradually working
himself into a wide, lazy— considering where they were — turn while he scanned
the ground for any sign of Mongoose or his parachute. It ought to be visible by
now.

Assuming
he’d gone out.

He
gave a quick glance at the gas gauge on his right panel, then put his eyes back
outside, moving ahead toward the wreckage of the A-10A, working out what had
happened for the third or fourth time.

He
was hit back there, the plane crashed up here. Somewhere in between, there
ought to be a chute.

Or
his chair at least, if everything screwed up.

Nothing.

Okay,
so there’s a lot of wind. Still, he didn’t just disappear.

Skull
kept the Hog climbing as he circled again, his eyes working the ground like a
miner sifting for gold. A-Bomb had done all of this yesterday, the F-16s had
done this— nothing.

What
if the Iraqis picked him up right away? That would explain why there was no
radio transmission. They might have taken the chute and seat. Most likely they
would, either as evidence or souvenirs.

Passing
over the Scuds, Skull reset the attack run that had gotten Mongoose nailed.
Devil One was there, Devil Two there. Overpass was immense, got to give them
that. Attack here, zoom in. Bam, bam, bam. Mongoose pulls up.

His
head is still back with the front of the underpass, wondering why the hell he
didn’t get a bigger boom. Maybe he’s figured out they’re decoys.

There’s
no warning until the launch. The gunner must be using his eyeballs or something
is screwed up.

Using
his eyeballs? Shit. What the hell would the odds be on making that shot?

But
something like that happened. The ECMs are useless against the Roland anyway. So
let’s say he lets go and the missile takes up its own targeting. He starts
pulling off here when he’s hit.

Okay,
no, he didn’t quite make the turn. Which actually gives him this vector when
the Roland comes out.

Yes,
and the Hog kicked due north after the ejection, okay, he was going this way
when he went out.

Mongoose
has turned off, he’d be working himself back, momentum shifting around. Doesn’t
see the shot.

Which
hits him here? How?

No.
He’s still moving. Has to be back over there, because otherwise he wouldn’t
have gotten both trailers before he pulled off. But boy, this really doesn’t
line up with the crash site.

Of
course it doesn’t, because the missile takes out part of the wing, enough to
make it spin back.

The
plane was throwing them off. Damn, he knew from ‘Nam you couldn’t trust the
stinking wreckage. Planes had a mind of their own once no one was watching
them. Hell, he’d heard of one flew all the way back to its aircraft carrier and
landed on its own.

Probably
not a true story.

So
Mongoose is fighting a yawl and leaning over like a sinking ship when he pulls
the handles. Comes out like an artillery shot instead of a mortar, sideways.

And
then you add the wind.

He
was further south than they’d been looking.

Much.
Beyond where they’d smoked those trucks.

Shit.

“A-Bomb,
were you inverted when you saw Mongoose?”

“I
was climbing.”

“Put
your plane there.”

“The
exact spot?”

“As
close as you can. Slow it down.”

“I
go any slower I’m going to be moving backwards.”

“Hogs
can’t do that?”

The
colonel watched Devil Two fly over the dead truck, then jerk upwards and
around. “Saw it here out of the corner of my eye.”

“You
sure you weren’t further south.”

“I
might’ve been a little. My angle was sharper, that’s for sure. I saw him while
I was jinking.”

“And
he got both Scud decoys on his run?”

“Smoked
‘em.”

“Take
my wing.”

“What
are we doing?”

“Just
crank up your music and follow me.”

On the ground in Iraq

22 January
1991

0520

W
hen the Iraqi
major was sure the soldier
was dead, he knelt near him and with his knife cut away a piece of his shirt.
He worked roughly, keeping one eye on Mongoose the entire time. He knotted the
strip of cloth with his teeth, then flung it toward the pilot.

The
sling landed on the ground. Mongoose waited for the major to step back, then
took a step and scooped it up.

He
caught a strong whiff of the dead man’s sweat as he pulled it around his
shoulder.

The
pain had leveled off. He eased his arm into the sling, then pressed his fingers
into a fist around the edge of the material. They were limp and starting to
swell slightly.

“And
now we start walking,” said the Iraqi. “You first.”

Mongoose
turned and started toward the road. The sun was nearly up now. He knew the Hogs
would come back; it was just a question of waiting long enough for them.

Had
the Iraqi been lying about the soldiers coming for them? No matter; the Hogs
would smoke them as they’d smoked the trucks.

They
might smoke him, too. He’d have to wave a flag or something.

How?

If
the planes appeared, he might be able to convince the Iraqi to surrender with
him. Maybe that was why he was treating him so well— maybe he hoped an SAR team
would pop up over the horizon.

He’d
been trained as an engineer in America. Maybe he wanted to go back.

That
was why he was being so nice.

“You’re
going slow,” said the Iraqi. He sounded like he was ten feet behind him.

“I’m
tired.”

“You’ll
sleep soon enough.”

“What
happened to the rest of your men? The planes didn’t kill them all.”

A
sore point, obviously– the Iraqi didn’t answer right away. When he did, his
voice was sharp and stern.

“That
is not your concern.”

They
walked more. Mongoose’s legs were starting to wear out, but his head raced with
the pain and adrenaline. He needed some plan to get away, but his mind wouldn’t
focus long enough on any one possibility. Run for it, turn around overpower the
Iraqi, talk his captor into giving up with him— ideas flitted indiscriminately
through his brain, each as likely as the next. He had no more judgment.

“Why
have you stopped?” the captain asked him.

“I’m
stopped?”

Mongoose
turned around, genuinely surprised. The sky had lightened sufficiently now that
they could see each other’s expressions from ten paces away, and the Iraqi must
have realized that his prisoner was not trying to trick him.

“We
cannot stop,” he said. “You may be too tired to keep moving.”

“I’m
really tired. I’ve been up since very early yesterday.”

“If
you cannot come with me, I’ll kill you. I’ll say that the planes did it, or
that you were trying to escape.”

“My
legs feel like they’re going to fall off. Let me sit a moment, then I’ll try
again. Or we can wait for the men you said were coming for us.”

Reluctantly,
the Iraqi motioned that he could rest. Jangled as he slipped down, Mongoose’s
arm screamed with pain. In a way, he welcomed it— the Iraqi was right; he was
dangerously close to falling asleep.

Not
even sleep, oblivion. His body had been through so much in the past twenty-four
hours, in the past week, since the war began, in the past two months— he just
didn’t have anything left. Sleep was a warm, beckoning sauna, waiting to sweat
the fatigue from his body.

He
had to survive. Sleep was as much the enemy, more the enemy, than the Iraqi major.

“Why
did you leave the States?” Mongoose asked.

“I
told you. I came home,” said the Iraqi. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply,
savoring the nicotine.

“You
married?”

“Yes.
I have two children.”

“I
just had my first. I was there when he was born. Pretty intense.”

The Iraqi
took another long drag of his cigarette. He held his pistol straight down in
his hand; it was a dull shadow against his leg.

“What
are their names?” Mongoose asked.

“Names?”

“Your
kids.”

“Amir
and Sohrab. Boys.”

“Mine’s
Robert. Robby. He’s three months old. Or three and a half by now. Almost four.”

The Iraqi
didn’t answer. Maybe he was tired, too, or maybe he was thinking about the men
who’d deserted him.

Or
the ones lying dead a few hundred yards down the road.

I’m
going to have to kill him,
Mongoose realized.
He’s not going to let me go when the Hogs
come back. And he’s not going to surrender.

“Come
on,” said the Iraqi. “Let’s move.”

“Won’t
your headquarters people be coming soon? Can’t we just wait?”

“It’s
better for you to walk. You have to keep blood circulating. Besides, you may go
into shock.”

“I
already am.” Mongoose tried to laugh.

“I
don’t think so.”

“You
a doctor?”

“I
took an EMT class at the college.”

“Why’d
you go to America for school if you were coming home?”

“I
wasn’t coming home then.” The captain took one more serious breath from the
cigarette, burning it down to its filter. He flicked it away just as the ember
reached his fingertips. “I wanted to be an American.”

“Why?”

“I
wanted to be rich. Come on, let’s go.”

“Are
you going to give me back my letter?”

“Up!”

Mongoose
had trouble getting up. The ligament in his knee had stiffened; the pain wasn’t
much compared to his arm, but with the fatigue now it slowed him even further.
The major was right— he had to keep moving or his muscles would just shut down.

“So
I guess you didn’t get rich,” he told his captor as he started to walk.

“There
are more important things.”

Maybe
he didn’t shoot me because there are no bullets in his gun.

Mongoose
had heard stories of troops not being issued ammunition for fear that they
would revolt against Saddam. But were those stories true? And would an officer
not be given ammunition?

Why
else would he let me live? Because he’s a nice guy?

Because
it was his duty to bring me back alive.

“You’re
walking much too slowly.”

“I’m
sorry. Everything’s tightening up on me. I slammed my knee when I parachuted.
My body feels like it’s paralyzed. And my damn head is pounding like a
jackhammer. Back of my neck.”

“Keep
moving. It’s the best thing.”

“I’m
trying. What made you change your mind?”

“About
what?”

“About
coming back here.”

The Iraqi
didn’t answer.

“My
son was born three months ago,” said Mongoose. Talking felt like taking a long
sip of a very sweet drink, something sappier than a margarita. He was in shock,
definitely. And he was so tired his mind was drifting into a dreamy unreality.
He felt as if he might be on the verge of hallucinating. He felt as if he might
be on the verge of dying.

And
he had to kill this man if he was going to be rescued.

“I
was there for his birth,” Mongoose said, feeling each thread of his
consciousness slipping away.

“What
was it like?” the captain asked.

What
was it like?

Like
something beyond comprehension. The moment standing there, seeing his head
inching out, then all of a sudden bolting, almost flying forward.

Holding
the baby, warm and sticky.

“I
don’t know if I can describe it,” Mongoose told him. “It was very, surreal.”

As
surreal as now, standing stock still in the middle of the Iraqi desert with a
man who had a gun a few feet from his chest, pointed at the ground but easily
raised?

It
had to be empty or he’d be dead already.

Maybe
not. But he’d never get the Iraqi to let him go or join him. For all the
kindness he had shown, he had to be killed.

No.
If he could overpower him he could just leave him here, make him walk away.

But
what made him think they were coming back? By now the Air Force had probably
concluded Mongoose was dead. They’d have seen the wreckage and not heard a
radio. The Hogs had probably greased the trucks out of frustration and anger.
They were mad because they had to give him up.

“I
would have liked to see the birth of one of my children,” said the Iraqi.

“Maybe
you will. The next one. Could I have some water? I really need a drink.”

The
Iraqi reached to his belt for his canteen.

Now,
Mongoose’s brain said. Now is your last chance. Jump him.

By
the time he told himself it was a foolish move, he was already rolling on top
of the enemy.