Hogs #2: Hog Down (9 page)

ON THE GROUND IN
IRAQ

21 JANUARY 1991

1845

W
hen he landed,
Mongoose felt his knee give
slightly. But he was already well into the roll, already peeling over. He
tumbled onto his side and thought for a second that he was going to roll
forever. Realizing the chute’s harness was still attached, he wondered why he
hadn’t released it. He had dirt in his mouth. He pushed himself forward, put
weight on the knee, and again thought of the chute. One hand began reaching for
his knife as the other slipped the harness restraints.

Okay,
he told himself, calm down. The hard part is over; all you have to do is wait
for the search and rescue helicopter. Just relax. Push your buttons.

Remove
the radio from your vest.

Turn
it on.

Very
simple.

Very
calm.

Breathe
first.

* * *

No
one answered his first hail.

He
was having trouble talking anyway, still gulping air. He put his hands to his
chest and steadied a slow breath in and out. Making sure his finger was on the
microphone button, he tried again.

He
gave his call sign, asked for a response. Something floated in, a mangled
transmission from far off. There was too much static for him to make any sense
of it.

Bits
and pieces of his SERE training – Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape–
came back to him as his mind slowly cleared. The first few minutes on the
ground were critical. You wanted to keep yourself in control.

Push
your buttons. Check your list.

He
was going to be picked up. It was just a matter of keeping his head clear.

Damned
if there hadn’t been a shitload of rain during his SERE training. And heat. Now
it was just cold.

This
was a desert, or actually on the edge of one. You’d think it would just be hot
all the time.

Mongoose
tried the radio again. Its range varied according to weather, terrain, and time
of day, but he could probably count on about thirty miles. Planes could zip in
and out of its envelope without getting a good fix; he tried to keep it
straight up and down for maximum range, to speak slowly as he transmitted, and stay
calm.

His
head was still foggy. He had only a vague notion of where he’d been hit,
relative to his target. It was well south and east, he knew that. And after he
had been hit he’d flown through the sky like a missile, away from the plane.

His
breathing was starting to come back under control. He thumbed his radio to a
new frequency, took it from the top.

From
the air, much of southern Iraq looked almost featureless, undulating sand and
gristly dirt extending for miles and miles. Here on the ground, Iraq turned out
to be a silty waste, tiny grains of sand and grit sifting among stubby
branches, as if the desert had flooded an orchard. A rough progression of hills
began immediately to his right, long bumps nudging back north; they could have
been part of an ancient stairway leading to the Euphrates, worn down by time. A
dry creek bed or wadi lay about a hundred feet ahead of him; its gully oriented
approximately east–west. A hard-packed road skirted close to it about twenty
yards from where he was standing. Beyond the road, the terrain seemed a little
harder. There were several clumps of short trees and more hills.

Wind
kicked up grit and slapped his cheeks as he tried the radio again, reminding
him that every transmission by the PRC-90 emergency radio in theory helped the
enemy as much as his would-be rescuers. He had to ration his calls, at least
until he was sure someone was coming for him.

He’d
have to ration his water, too. He had only his pocket canteen and four packets
in his vest.

Mongoose
took out the small canteen and sipped very slowly. But the sips were larger
than he thought; it took only three to drain the container.

A-Bomb
ought to be around up there somewhere. No way A-Bomb would have left him. He
repeated his hail and then switched to beacon, setting the radio to emit a
distinctive SOS that in theory all allied planes could recognize.

Any
Iraqi who wasn’t blind probably saw him land. He had to get the hell out of
here.

He’d
thrown his helmet off after he’d gotten to his feet. It lay upside down a short
distance away, looking a bit forlorn. His chute had tangled in the stubby
vegetation. The ejection seat, its emergency survival pack, and life raft were
all set out like props upstage in a surreal play.

He
ought to hide what he didn’t need, even if it was getting dark. They’d point
the Iraqis toward him, when they came.

As
he stared at the seat, he felt a pain in the back of his head. It was like a
fist pounding from the inside, whacking at the base of his skull and neck. He
put his fingers into the wedge behind his ears, tried to relieve the pressure
by kneading the muscles there. Closing his eyes, Mongoose attempted once again
to control his breathing, slowing it and relaxing all this muscles, hoping to
ease whatever spring had over-wound itself. His body was starting to shake,
whether from shock or the cold he couldn’t tell. He wanted to take stock of his
survival supplies and equipment. All he could think of for nearly a full minute
was the pain. A shock-induced trance was slowly taking hold of him.

The
sound of an approaching truck on the roadway knocked him out of it.

HOG HEAVEN

21 JANUARY 1991

1910

C
olonel Knowlington was
still going over the A-10A
check flight when Captain Wong’s perpetual frown appeared over Sergeant Rosen’s
shoulder. Wong was a rarity— an intelligence officer who was actually
intelligent and had a sense of humor. His dry, anti-bureaucratic wit was so
funny that just looking at his face generally made Knowlington start laughing.

Not
today, though. His face was drawn and worried, and Knowlington knew exactly
what the problem was as soon as he approached.

“Colonel,
you want to get on with Lieutenant Dixon at Riyadh right now, sir,” Wong told
him.

Knowlington
nodded, and without saying or doing anything else, immediately began walking
toward his office in the squadron building. An A-10A fresh from combat
screeched onto the runway, but he didn’t hear it. Nor did he see any of the
several people who greeted him as he walked. He walked in a gray, cold space
alone, nerve endings hardened, ready, though not enthusiastic, to do his duty.

He
didn’t even greet Dixon when he came on the line. All he said was, “Who is it?”

“Looks
like Major Johnson in Devil One,” said the lieutenant. “I’m still pulling in
details. It was their last mission of the day. Their tasking was changed and
they went after Scuds about sixty miles further north. I happened to be in—”

“He
eject?”

“I
don’t know, sir.”

Knowlington
nodded but said nothing, as if his lieutenant could see his response.

“What
else do you know, BJ?”

“Nothing,
really,” said the lieutenant. “A-Bomb’s still up there. They have a search and
rescue operation going, but I don’t have any details. I don’t know that he’s
been heard from. In fact, I kind of think he wasn’t. But I wasn’t, well,
obviously back here—”

“I
understand, BJ. I appreciate your getting the word to me right away on this.”

“I
thought you guys might have heard something.”

“Not
yet. Most of the squadron’s just coming in.”

“You
want me to . . .”

Dixon’s
voice trailed off, most likely because he didn’t know exactly what to offer.
Knowlington told him just to keep his ears open, but otherwise to go about his
normal routine. The colonel had more than enough sources, formal and informal,
to fill in all the blanks on his own.

“Thanks
for calling me,” the colonel told him. “Look, don’t piss anybody off over
there. I’m going to get you back ASAP.”

“Yes,
sir. Thank you.”

Knowlington
just barely resisted the impulse to shove the phone through the wall. Mongoose
had been diverted sixty miles north? Shit, why not just send him up to Baghdad
and get it over with?

Sending
Hogs that far into enemy territory was contrary to just about every lesson the
air force had learned since Eddie Rickenbacher got his sights on a German
biplane. The plane had been specifically built for close-in ground support. Because
of that, she was slow, didn’t carry much in the way of sophisticated ECMs, and
was unsuited for anything but low altitude tactics.

She
was a fantastic tank buster and a hell of a ground attack meat-grinder; the Army
loved her. The men who flew her rated as some of the best stick and rudder
jocks Knowlington had ever met. But send her on missions deep into Injun
territory and eventually you were bound to lose her. This wasn’t a black jet or
a Strike Eagle you were talking about here.

Knowlington
had written something like that in a report many years back, when the Hog’s
viability was being studied and he was pulling an unwished-for stint on
someone’s evaluation staff.

He
had, in fact, recommended the plane been phased out.

Ancient
history.

But
the missions on Day One of the air war had been just as deep, and he had gone
along with them. Where was his head then?

More
to the point, why did he let someone else lead them? Over-the-hill or not, it
was his job, his duty, as commander to be at the head of the line, not back.
Screw anyone who had a different opinion.

And
screw his other problems. He was beyond them. Today, anyway.

In
his experience, the odds on recovery were a real downward curve against time—
the quicker you made radio contact, the better the odds of a good extraction.
The problem was that things had a tendency to go less than perfectly. In the
first rush of landing your head got scrambled and even the most experienced
pilot made poor decisions. Shock jumbled your brain in weird ways; he’d heard
of guys who’d neglected to use their radios or flares, and even one who
inflated his life raft and got aboard in the middle of a jungle.

It
was getting late; if they hadn’t already made contact with him, there was a
real good chance Mongoose would be spending part of the night in Indian
country.

Assuming
he wasn’t already a prisoner, or permanent resident.

Looking
out his small office window at the steadily darkening sky, the colonel refused
to consider those possibilities.

On the ground in Iraq

21 J
anuary
1991

1915

M
ongoose dropped flat
in the sand. He pushed up
and saw the truck, still maybe a mile away on the road, then reached beneath
him for his service pistol.

The
9mm Beretta was a serious gun, a good one, well-cared for, meticulously cleaned
at least once a day.

Hopefully
he wouldn’t have to use it. He tucked his elbows beneath his body and levered
himself into a kneel, and then a crouch. He looked toward the roadway and out
into the wasteland. The blur driving toward him in the darkening twilight
sharpened into a white pickup. It seemed out of place, and for a moment he felt
a strange dislocation, as if instead of being in southern Iraq the wind had
carried him all the way back to the States, over to Iowa or South Dakota.

Had
the terrain looked a hair less desert-like, he might even have believed that.

Just
because it was a pickup didn’t mean that it wasn’t an army truck. And even if
it was being driven by a civilian, it still presented a very real danger. Most
likely there was a price on his head.

Dead
as well as alive.

The
truck kept coming. The driver had his running lights on but not his headlights;
probably he could see well enough without them since the sun had only just gone
down. Besides, putting them on was an invitation to get smoked.

Mongoose
felt his legs and back stiffening. The truck driver would have a clear view of
him, assuming he looked in his direction.

He
could easily be seen if he got up and ran. Best to stay still, hope the guy
wasn’t paying attention, or the shadows obscured him. Movement attracted the
eye.

The
Beretta had a faintly oily feel to it. It was warm in his hand, and heavy. He
put his left hand around the right, giving himself a good, steady platform to
fire from.

Mongoose
had learned to shoot when he was ten, plinking cans with his dad’s BB pistol in
the backyard. He’d moved up to a .22 rifle, took a gun safety and marksmanship
course in the Boy Scouts. By the time he got to the service he’d become a
reasonably accurate shot, even with a handgun. He might not be a marksman, but
compared to most Air Force officers he was William Tell.

He
had a good firing position, well anchored in the ground. If the guy stopped, he
could smoke him. The road was less than ten yards away— a good shot with a
pistol, but not spectacular.

Belatedly,
the pilot thought of trying to hide. But there didn’t seem to be any sense; it
wasn’t like he had enough time to dig a hole in the streambed.

It
was his job to take out this guy.

No,
his job was to survive. First rule, only rule.

Most
likely, the guy would pass him by.

If
he was like a farmer in Iowa, probably he’d be so focused on his work or where
he was going or what was playing on the radio, he’d never notice someone
crouching five meters off the road.

But
the truck started to slow.

Mongoose’s
mouth was dry. The gun was heavy in his hands; he tried to relax his arm
muscles a bit, ignoring the pain in his head.

What
could the guy have seen?

The
plane? Sure, but that was miles away.

The
chute?

Maybe.
Falling objects did have a tendency to attract attention, even in Iraq.

The
truck stopped directly in front of the wadi. It looked like a Toyota, five or
six years old at least. Its front end was crimped and crinkled, and it had a
dirty sheen to it.

It
was ten yards away, even a little less.

The
driver cranked down the window and looked at him. The man’s face was
illuminated by a dull glow from the instrument panel. It was unshaven, with a
thick mustache but a spotty beard, black and grayish whiskers patched around
his chin. He was wearing a white shirt and some sort of hat. He stared at
Mongoose the way a man might stare at a tiger found in its cage on a city
street.

I
should smoke him, Mongoose thought.

Had
the man gotten out of the truck, had he raised a gun to the window, the pilot
would have brought his pistol up an inch and fired. There was no question of
hitting him. Mongoose saw it all in a far corner of his mind, saw himself
pumping the trigger four or five times, saw one of the slugs catching the man
in the shoulder, wounding him only, but enough to stop him from getting away.
Mongoose saw himself jumping up from the crouch, breath hot and shallow in his
lungs, saw himself run and pump two bullets into the man’s head.

He
could have done all this, and he would have had the man done anything but
stare. He would have done it without agonizing or even thinking much about it,
because it was his job to survive. He would have done it because he had to.

But
the man never moved toward him. He only stared from the truck, a voyeur in an
unreal world. Mongoose stared back, equally out of place.

The
hard thunder of an F-16 crossed into his consciousness. The plane was flying
high, but very close.

The
radio was on the ground. He’d have to take a hand off the gun to reach it.

Not
possible.

Unless
he shot the guy first. He should just squeeze the trigger and fire. Get him
right through the open window, hit him in the face.

He
was looking at him with such a blank, open expression. Something like wonder,
not hostility.

A
real enemy. A real person.

They
stared at each other as the fighter’s noise faded. There was no question the
Iraqi knew Mongoose didn’t belong here, and no question that by now he would
have realized there was a gun in his hands.

Any
move, even opening the door, even waving hello, he’d smoke him.

But
why didn’t he just kill him now? He had a good, clean, clear shot.

Mongoose
remained stock still, his movements held in balance by a hair-thin thread of
fate.

Finally,
the truck started to ease forward. It moved slowly, only gradually picking up
speed, continuing down the highway in the direction it had been going before
stopping.

The
pilot remained kneeling until it had shrunk to the size of a worm in the
distance. Slowly, carefully, he rose. He started to walk down the wadi,
gingerly at first, then quickly, his legs falling into a trot.

For
some reason he couldn’t fathom, he stopped and looked both ways before crossing
the empty highway.