Hogs #2: Hog Down (4 page)

“Got
a little bit of a hitch. Need a check pilot, and Captain Rogers is down with
that flu or whatever the hell he’s got. Still puking his guts out.”

“Three’s
back together?”

“My
guys got it buffed and shined, Colonel. Shit, you give them any more time and
they’re going to put a sunroof in.”

“I’ll
take it up,” snapped Knowlington.

“Sir?”

The
‘sir’— with its attached tone of surprise— hurt. Knowlington endeavored to turn
it into a joke. “Afraid I’m going to break your plane?”

“No,
sir, Colonel. Not at all. I just thought maybe you’d borrow somebody from one
of the other units.”

Though
he commanded the squadron, Knowlington had come to his post through a
round-about series of events. He actually had barely a hundred hours in the
A-10 cockpit, by far the lowest of the squadron’s pilots. The inspection flight
called for a prescribed set of maneuvers designed to stress its systems in
different regimes; it was far from a picnic, and ordinarily handled by a
functional test pilot, someone who had considerable experience with the plane.

Still,
it was no reason for the concern evident on his chief’s face.

“You’re
thinking I can’t do a milk run?”

“No
way, sir. You’ll do fine.”

“Good.
When do you need me?”

“As
soon as you can, Colonel.”

“Good.
I’ll be right over.”

Clyston
held eye contact for just a second longer than necessary. Knowlington chucked
his old crew chief a sharp punch to the shoulder. “Meet you out back, Chief,”
he said, heading away before his old friend could decide what words ought to go
with that look.

OVER IRAQ

21 JANUARY 1991

1743

I
n normal times
, Lieutenant Col. Fred
Parsons flew a commercial 747 for American Airlines. The big Boeing was a
handsome plane, predictable, steady and recently upgraded with every bell and
whistle the Seattle wizards could stuff into the cockpit. She was everything
the FAA and a travel agent could want in an airliner.

Which
meant she was boring as hell.

The
G model F-4 Phantom he was hot-sticking had more miles on her than a fleet of
Greyhound buses. Smoke poured out of her tail thicker than a wet barbecue,
making her easy to spot at a distance. In full-afterburner go-for-it mode she
could top the sound barrier, but the Vietnam-era mainstay couldn’t come close
to matching the top end of an Eagle or even the Grumman Tomcat, her Navy successor.
This particular plane also had a tendency to drag her left wing— not so much
that the maintenance crew could figure out what the hell it was, but enough so
the pilot felt it on a hard-butt turn.

He
loved it.

Never
very good as a twisty-turny hot rod, the Phantom hailed from an era when
designers first realized missiles and beyond-visual range tactics were the way
to go in a dogfight. They got so excited about the future that they forgot
about the present. Her real value was as a sled for every imaginable weapon and
fantasy the air force and navy could load under her wings. The Phantom was
still flying now, nearly forty years after being conceived, because the
two-seater could accommodate all manner of equipment without completely
compromising performance. Just over fifty radar antennas were currently feeding
data to Parson’s backseat wizard, who in the great tradition of weapons
officers or backseaters went by the name of “Bear.” The Phantom could carry
nearly her weight in arms and fuel— and at 29,000 pounds soaking wet, that was
a very full load of groceries. The fact that she had a backseat allowed Parson
to concentrate on flying while Bear studied the dials and maybe the latest copy
of Playboy.

Equipped
with extra fuel tanks, the Phantom could also stay aloft for an incredibly long
time, an asset that Parsons was putting to good use at the moment, just
entering his third hour in Indian country. He and another Weasel had started
the afternoon with a bombing package, looking to suppress integrated SAM defenses
deep in Iraq. The other Weasel had launched a pair of missiles at one of the
sites, but otherwise the mission had been so quiet Parsons had gladly brushed
aside his fatigue when the request came to assist the Hogs on their Scud-hunting
gig.

“I’m
beginning to think they’re out,” said Bear, whose dog tags identified him as
Captain Harvey Jackson, another member of the Air National Guard and a high
school English teacher in what he called “the real world.” Intel suspected that
at least one battery of SA-2’s and another of SA-6’s were still breathing
below.

“If
they’re not coming up for those Hogs, they’re not coming up,” Bear predicted.
“They should be able to see them. I say we got three minutes to worry about,
then it’s downhill. I hope these assholes try something— I want that SA-6.”

“Me
too. But not if it nails our little buddies.”

“Hey,
those Hogs are tough bastards. I bet you could put a missile through each wing
and they’d still come home– after they made their bomb run.”

“Probably
been done.”

“Don’t
worry, Fred. I’m not letting them get hit.”

In
some of the early model Phantoms, the backseater could look past his control
panel and see the pilot; in fact, it was possible to pass notes back and forth
and even lean forward or backward for an ataboy. In the Gs, though, the two
crewmen were separated by an “iron wall”— actually a wall of aluminum and
glass, electronics, wires and gauges, but it might just as well be iron as far
as Bear in his cave was concerned. Fly with the same guy long enough, though, or
through enough shit and the distance disappeared. His thoughts became your
thoughts; the back-and-forth chatter became a kind of binary code plugging into
your head.

“I’m
going to take us further north near that SA-6,” Parsons told Bear. “I have a
feeling they’re down there and waiting.”

“Hang
loose, Colonel.”

It
wasn’t the words but the tone that told the pilot his backseater had a
tingling. The APR-47 radar attack and warning receiver sniffed out a quick hit
as Parson’s grip on the stick tightened.

“Oh
yeah. He’s turning it on and off. Just a two-second burst. I have him. SA-2.
Hasn’t launched yet. Okay, okay.”

“Roger
that. Scope’s clear except for Squeaky,” answered Parsons. “Putting him on
beam.”

“Still
looking for the SA-6.”

“I
have ten miles to target. That SA-2 battery’s going to launch any second. You
ready to fire?”

“PPI
has it,” said the pitter, referring to the Plan Position Indicator, which
displayed enemy threats in relation to the Weasel. “I’m handing off.”

It
took a bare second for the Phantom’s computer to send the targeting information
to the HARM AGM-88 missile under her wing. The antiradiation missile took in
the numbers, crunched them to fit, and blipped the light on Bear’s panel
telling him it was ready to talk turkey with the Iraqis.

“Got
a light.”

“Launch.”

“Missile
away.”

“They’ve
launched!” Parsons saw the ground flash and blew hard into his mask. The SA-2
had been in action since the Vietnam War; it had a small bag of tricks, and to
a plane as fast and as high as Rheingold One, it did not pose much of a threat.
Still, he had to be careful. He was just about to push the Phantom into a roll
when his backseater shouted into the com set.

“Son
of a bitch— there’s two batteries. Hold it— there’s our SA-6. Colonel, go to
twenty-five mile scope.”

“Roger
that. We got a telephone pole headed in the other direction. Get the six first.
How far is it?”

“Fifteen
miles. In two, start your turn to the left. We’ll take a beam shot, then go
back for the twos.”

“Shit—
more launches. The twos. I thought these motherfuckers were hit day one. It
looks like Cape Canaveral down there.”

Parsons
tightened his grip on the control stick. The SA-6s, persistent missiles immune
to the ECM pods used by many USAF planes in theater, had top priority.

The
Hogs were on their own against the SA-2s.

OVER IRAQ

21 JANUARY 1991

1751

S
omewhere at the
edge of his consciousness,
the radar warning receiver was lit up like a Christmas tree, telling Mongoose
that the missile was coming at him from the northeast. By the time the
information fully registered, the pilot had already begun turning the plane to
“beam” the missile’s radar guidance system— pulling the Hog ninety degrees to
the radar to defeat its pulse-doppler signals.

“Missile
in the air,” said A-Bomb, his voice cold and crisp in Mongoose’s helmet.

When
his first maneuver and the chaff failed to shake the missile, Mongoose rolled
the Hog, tucking his right wing to the earth as his eyes hunted the sky for the
enemy bullet. Gravity crashed into his face and side, Newton’s laws of motion
making him work for a living. His fingers tightened on the control stick as he
felt the Hog tug a bit. The Mavericks and Rockeyes were still tied to his wings
but the plane wasn’t complaining so much as letting him know it could still do
its job once this diversion was over.

First
he had to get clear. He poked his nose back, still coming down, but the last
thing he wanted to do was fly right into the son of a bitch.

But
it was fine. Around it was okay. Away from it was better.

A-Bomb
yelped something else. The words rushed by incomprehensibly.

Mongoose
looked in the direction the warning unit advised but saw nothing. The edge of
his helmet slammed against his neck as he jerked his head around; the sting
crept down his back like a pack of night crawlers.

The
Weasel pilot barked something at him, another break most likely.

More
missiles. His warning unit had them.

One
problem at a time.

He
sucked air hard twice before his eyes found what looked like a thick telephone
pole pushing toward him. It looked more like a tree trunk propelled by a
tornado than a missile, more blunted than streamlined. Mongoose caught a good
glimpse of its nose as he pushed the Hog down, trading altitude for energy and
speed. He was lucky; he could already tell from the trajectory the missile
would miss him. It was too big to come back to his course. Too big, too fat,
too ugly, too old, even for a slow mover like the Hog.

He
was clear; none of the other missiles had locked on him.

He
had a good view of one of them. Big bastard, but kind of a wimp— didn’t even
have the guts to spin back in his direction and keep the fight going.

Then
he realized the missile was going after A-Bomb, whose big green shadow passed
through a low cloud a depressingly short distance from the thirsty, blunt nose
of the SA-2.

Over Iraq

21 January 1991

1752

A
-Bomb fired
another round of chaff and
kicked a couple of flares out the back for good measure. He could feel the
missile starting to breathe in gulps, like a tiger closing in for the kill.

“Screw
yourself,” he told it, bending the nose of the Hog as he jackknifed the
airplane toward the ground. He rolled and caught sight of the missile closer
than he’d suspected, so close in fact that he knew he’d almost blown it big
time.

He
saw the wobble and then the shock wave that consumed the SA-2’s long shaft as
the warhead exploded. He saw that before he felt it, before he hunched his
shoulders up and reflexively ducked his head, steadying the stick and telling
the Hog not to worry. Energy and shrapnel rushed toward him; he swept his plane
to the left, riding some of the wave but rocking like all hell, knowing they
were going to make it okay. He squeezed the A-10 close to him, swaying with her
like a teenager at a prom, whisking her off to a quiet corner of the dance
floor where he could feel beneath her bra without the chaperones taking notes.

Of
course, that was exactly the sort of thing that got him kicked out, that and
the beer cans in his tux, but what the hell.

His
plane stable again, the pilot keyed his mike, not for Mongoose or Rheingold but
for the Iraqi who’d launched the missile:

“Missed,
Saddam. Kind of a sissy explosion, if you ask me.”

Mongoose
replied but A-Bomb didn’t have time to explain, spotting a fresh trio of missiles
silhouetted against the ground, rising off his right wing just as he began
pushing his nose back toward the few scattered clouds in the sky.

“More
missiles,” he called. He squeezed his chaff button and began a new jinking
routine.

All
this maneuvering was starting to work up a good sweat, the kind of thing
Gatorade was invented for.

Problem
was he hadn’t packed any. A-Bomb pitched the Hog back for the ground. This time
he was putting the plane down so low not even a gopher could follow it.

All
three missiles were coming for
his
butt, not his commander’s. Which was
what he got for making smart ass remarks over the radio.

One
of the SA-2s inexplicably disappeared. The other two kept coming. A-Bomb leaned
forward in his seat as the radar warning receiver started to get frantic. He
was out of tinsel and didn’t have all that much sky left in front of him
either.

SA-2s
ought to get lost in the ground effects, their guidance system confused by the
natural shadows and echoes thrown up by the earth.

Nope.
They were coming for him big time.

The
Hog didn’t like this. She had her head down and was running for all she was
worth, screaming as she broke below two thousand feet.

She
didn’t like to run away. She wanted to turn around and nail the missile in the
teeth with a few rounds from her gun.

A-Bomb
held on, skimming the ground at five hundred, four hundred, two hundred feet.
By all rights he should have been clear by now — that or bagged— but he could
feel he wasn’t. As he jinked, the shadow of one of the missiles poked into the
far corner of his vision, dark and ugly. Stinking Saddam must have loaded this
one up personally and fueled her with his piss, because the bitch was staying
with him.

The
missile was now in terminal-intercept phase— its onboard guidance system had
locked on the Hog. It didn’t have to hit him; it just had to get close. There
was no question of outrunning the missile in the much slower airplane, and A-Bomb
didn’t seem to be lucky enough to outlast it.

No
way the damn missile should still be on him. At two hundred feet?

Maybe
it smelled his Twinkies.

He
yanked the Hog back, pushing, shoving, straining, standing the sucker on her
tail as its nose spat right in the missile’s face before he shoved back toward
the dirt in almost the opposite direction.

It
was like flashing a mirror in front of a charging bull and then diving down a
manhole. The SA-2 twisted to follow the last echo of its radar, shuddering as
its momentum carried it beyond the Hog.

It
exploded with an angry tear, but by then A-Bomb had revved the engines higher
than an Indy race car, flinging himself away from the last SA-2, which had been
flying roughly parallel maybe a hundred yards behind the first. He was so low
he could have landed. Its explosion rattled the American plane bad, pushing it
down and yanking its tail sideways so violently that, at first, the pilot
thought he’d been hit.

By
the time he managed to steady the plane and dance his eyes through the gauges
to confirm that the plane was still in one piece, A-Bomb was heading for a small
observation post on a hill that stood over the desert like a crow’s nest. He
had maybe three inches of clearance over the roof of the tent and had he
lowered his landing gear he could have wrecked it.

A-Bomb
would have left the post alone and started tacking north to hook up with his
lead if it weren’t for the fact that the Iraqis manning the post decided to
protest his low flight by firing every weapon they could find at him.
Fortunately, they had nothing more formidable than AK-47s, and possibly the
newer AK-74s, which had almost no recoil, a really good bark when you pulled
the trigger, and a bullet that squished up good like a dum-dum.

Deadly
against a person at a few hundred yards, but useless against a Hog.

Still,
it was the thought that counted. Hunkering in his titanium bathtub, A-Bomb
brought the plane around in a quick, tight bank. No one fired at a Hog without
paying for it. He dialed up his cannon, steadied his hand, and let loose with a
stream of high-explosive and depleted uranium that turned the position into a
dervish of sand and burnt flesh.

Past
the outpost, he gunned the throttle and nosed northwards, looking for Mongoose.

As
he did, he reached inside his flight suit and hit the replay on his CD unit
until he could hear the beginning of “Born in the USA.” Something about that
song brought out the best in an airplane, no shit.