Hogs #4:Snake Eaters (11 page)

N
EAR AL-KAJUK, IRAQ

2
6 JANUARY 1991

1640

A
s varied and
multi-faceted as his career in the armed forces had been, Bristol Wong had never once been captured. He hadn’t even studied the phenomenon thoroughly. While he could cite to within a centimeter the target envelope of any Soviet-made missile from Scud to SS-25 ICBM, he had only the dimmest notion of the Geneva Conventions governing prisoners. The various survival courses he had taken, including both Navy and Air Force SERE School, provided relatively skimpy background; it was difficult to duplicate the experience of cold metal being pressed against the side of your neck nearly two hundred miles inside enemy territory.

Actually, the metal, which belonged to the business end of an AK-47, seemed a little warm. The man holding the gun had just finished searching him, efficiently removing his ammunition as well as his personal weapons. He now jerked the barrel of his assault rifle against Wong’s neck, motioning that Wong should kneel on the ground next to the S
atcom.

Wong glanced at the Iraqi commander, a squat man in light brown khakis holding a pistol a few feet away. Then he slowly lowered himself to the ground, unsure what the Iraqis intended. The Delta Force com specialist stood two yards away to Wong’s right, three Iraqi AK-47s in his chest. Even if he’d been wearing body armor, any twitch would end the sergeant’s life.

The Iraqi commander told him in Arabic to contact his base and say there was no problem. Wong pretended not to understand.

“What exactly do you wish done?” Wong said in English.

“Tell whomever you were communicating with that there is no problem,” said the man in flawless English.

Wong nodded and bent to the com unit, but before he could touch the S
atcom’s controls, a bullet zipped into the dirt about a foot away. He froze, calling on an old Yoga breathing exercise to empty his lungs slowly.

“There is an emergency beacon on your radio, I assume,” said the captain.

“I’m unaware of any,” said Wong.

“Back away from it,” said the man.

Wong straightened and took a step back. The Iraqi’s game intrigued him; he’d obviously had no intention of allowing Wong to use the device but wanted to study his reactions.

“I will shoot you if I wish,” said the captain.

“Naturally.”

“Your job is to make me not wish to do that,” said the Iraqi. “Why are you here?”

“I am a spy,” said Wong.

The captain began to laugh. He told his men in Arabic what Wong had said. An honest spy, he called him. Then he turned back to Wong.

“We shoot spies at dawn,” the captain said.

“I would expect so.”

“What were you spying on?”

“Your defenses,” said Wong.

“And what did you find here?”

“They appear formidable.”

The captain raised the barrel of his AK-47 so that it was aimed at Wong’s head. Technically speaking, that was not as intimidating as it would have been had it been pointing toward his chest; he held the gun with only one hand, unbraced, and Wong realized that even at this range it was likely to jerk off-target. Still, it delivered the appropriate message.

“What are you really looking for, Captain?” asked the Iraqi. “Who are you looking for?”

Who
– significant, undoubtedly.

“If I came here knowing what I would find, there would have been little sense in coming,” said Wong.

“How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

The Iraqi captain jerked the gun away and fired into the dirt in front of his feet. The ground was soft enough for the bullets to penetrate and there were no ricochets, but Wong saw that the men who were holding their weapons on the sergeant jumped with the sound. All had their fingers on the triggers of their weapons; the odds against an accidental firing were not particularly good.

“I ask you again, how did you get here?”

“As I said, I hiked here. I would have liked to have run but as you can tell, I am not in particularly top condition; it was more like a walk.”

“You walked from Saudi Arabia?”

“Of course not.”

The Iraqi smiled again. Wong thought he could place the accent in the man’s English around Chicago. He guessed the Iraqi had gone to college or university in Illinois.

“And what did you do before you walked?”

“I parachuted.”

“You’re a parachutist?” The man laughed, as if genuinely questioning Wong’s qualifications.

“I hold a USPA Class D skydiving license, with gold wings, ruby badges and instructor certification,” said Wong. “If you wish I can recite my entire jump resume, beginning with my first free
fall on a tethered jump at age ten— an illegal dive, incidentally, for which fortunately there were no repercussions.”

“What the hell are you, captain?” asked the Iraqi.

“I am a spy,” said Wong. “Captain Bristol Wong, U.S. Air Force.”

The Iraqi shook his head, then tu
rned to the sergeant. “And you— are you a spy as well?”

The sergeant recited his name, rank, and serial number. The Iraqi moved his head slightly; one of the men guarding the com specialist crashed his rifle butt into his side, sending him to the ground.

“There is no need for that,” said Wong. “I will cooperate with you. The sergeant is merely an enlisted man of no importance.”

“And the rest of your men?”

Wong had considered how to answer the question and decided that a lie was most expedient, even if it wasn’t believed. It would at least give the rest of the team a chance to escape.

“There are no other men,” he said.

“American spies do not travel alone,” said the captain. “Especially when they are part of Delta Force.”

An interesting gambit, Wong thought. The patrol’s uniforms were unmarked, and in theory there was no way to know that they were Delta Troopers or Green Berets. But of course Delta was famous, and it was no secret that they were in the Gulf. Any Iraqi would guess that clandestine operations would be carried out by them. And it would certainly bring cachet to claim to have captured some.

“I myself am Air Force,” said Wong. “My sergeant is a soldier. We do have ambitions, however.”

“Ambitions?”

“It is an honor to join Delta Force,” said Wong, watching to see how the man reacted. “And perhaps someday, after we prove our worthiness, we will achieve that stature.”

“That day will be in another life,” said the Iraqi commander.

One of his men shouted from the other side of the ridge, calling the commander his captain and urging him to come and inspect something they had found. The Iraqi told one of the soldiers guarding the sergeant to come with him; the others were to make sure the sergeant and Wong didn’t move.

“And watch this one,” added the captain, pointing his gun at Wong before going. “He speaks Arabic, though he pretends not to. Very clever for a spy.”

A
PPROACHING AL-JOUF FOA

S
AUDI ARABIA

26
JANUARY 1991

1710

D
oberman cursed as
he heard the controller at Al-Jouf give priority to a battle-stricken Tornado, freezing the landing queue so the British jet could make an emergency landing. While the long stretch of Saudi concrete had been envisioned as a forward operating area for Hogs and Spec Ops troops, the base had quickly become a life raft for battle-damaged Coalition planes. It made for a busy pattern. Besides the Tornado— a two-seat recon type that could use ground-following radar for a quick and hard run over enemy territory— a French Jaguar and an Australian C-130 were slotted between another Hog and an F-16 ahead of Doberman in the aerial traffic jam.

Even less patient than normal, Doberman considered declaring a fuel emergency to get himself pushed to the head of the line. He had plenty of fuel, however, even though he’d goosed the Hog well over four hundred knots all the way back. And he had to give the crew of Special Operations air controllers and support personnel handling Al Jouf their due
; they were clearing planes in quicker than O’Hare on Christmas Eve.

Once upon a time, landing had been fraught with anxiety for him. But now it was routine, or as close to routine as he’d allow anything to become, afraid that if he got too used to it he’d take it for granted.

He settled into his seat as he rounded onto the last leg of the approach pattern. The Hog’s indicated air speed plummeted toward double digits. Gear came out. Air brakes deployed. He surveyed the long splash of concrete in his windshield. He pushed his chest forward and head up as the wheels made a whumping sound, nudging against the pavement. He peered out of the cockpit like a kid watching a baseball game over a picket fence.

A fuel truck headed a line six planes deep at the far end of the access ramp; he cursed when he saw that, convinced that he’d be stuck here until nightfall. He turned off the runway onto the ramp, treading past a parked MC-130, a black-painted Hercules used for Special Ops missions, then spotted another Hog off to his right; the dark DS on the tail told him it was
A-Bomb’s. He couldn’t see his wingman, but two Delta troopers were standing at full attention near it. That gave him an idea. He pulled on his rudders and wheeled next to the plane, spinning around so his nose was pointed for a quick getaway. He powered down and popped the canopy, whipping off his helmet and restraints.

“Yo, you guys work for Klee, right?” he yelled down to the troopers. Klee was the Delta Force colonel in charge of most of the American Special Operations troops at Al Jouf as well as those working with Apache.

The soldiers couldn’t hear him with all the noise at the base. Doberman was in such a hurry he didn’t bother cranking down the cockpit ladder— he rolled himself right off the side of the plane, his hands gripping and then slipping off the fairing at the side of the cockpit. He landed on his feet, but just barely, the shock of the concrete reverberating through his legs.

Not that he was about to let that stop him.

“Yo!” he yelled again, running to the troopers. “You guys work for Colonel Klee, yes?”

One of the troopers began to nod.

“I’m Doberman. I need fuel,” he told them. “There’s a Delta patrol in deep shit up north. I don’t care what you do, you get me some jet fuel. Go. Before your friends get fried.”

Doberman’s last words were unnecessary
— the troopers had bolted away. He ran to the port “kneecap”— the housing for the wheel on the left side of the plane. He popped the cover on the refueling controls and gave the gear a quick inspection. Before the war, he’d taken part in two or three exercises where troopers refueled his Hog; in theory everyone on the base could handle it, though he was more than willing to do it himself if it came to that. In the meantime, he needed some candy – bombs, preferably Mavericks. He had just turned to scan the area for ordies, when a bull rammed him from behind.

Not a bull, just
A-Bomb, pounding him on the back.

“About time you got your butt back here,” said
A-Bomb. He was stuffing a wedge of what seemed to be a birthday cake into his mouth.

Doberman knew better than to ask for details. “I need some candymen,” he told
A-Bomb.

“On their way,”
A-Bomb said. “Two Maverick G’s good enough for you?”

“Just two?” Doberman asked.

“All I could steal for you,” said A-Bomb. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve while reaching into a pocket with his other hand. He pulled out a pair of Hostess cupcakes, wrapped in plastic and somehow not crushed. “You want one?”

“I want some CBUs,” said Doberman.

“Cluster bombs are on their way,” A-Bomb assured him. “Now don’t get picky. All we have are standard issue Mark 20 Rockeyes. I know there’s some CBU-71 frag/incendiaries somewhere out here, but they’re harder to find than Dunky Donuts coffee. Which is still pretty fresh, by the way, if you’re interested.”

“No thanks,” said Doberman, spotting a quartet of bomb loaders pushing a pair of bomb-laden trucks in his direction.

“Sure you don’t want one of these cupcakes?” A-Bomb asked. “Got the yellow-goo frosting. Over-sized models some Delta chef special ordered. It’s what I’m talking about. Serious treats.”

“I’ll pass,” said Doberman, trotting to the candymen. The ordinance specialists were part of the enlisted backbone of the Air Force, generally unrecognized professionals who picked up their lunch
pails every morning or night, and went out to do their job with the practiced precision of a championship football team. The men nodded to the captain and started positioning their deadly payload on the Hog’s hardpoints. The weapons were safed— still, a mistake, even a moment’s inattention, could very possibly destroy half the base. Still, the crew moved faster than hotel workers positioning boardwalk chairs on a pleasant summer’s day. Doberman took a deep breath, his anxiety diminishing. His stomach growled and he realized he might actually be hungry— not surprising since he hadn’t eaten anything since taking off from Fort Apache.

“Hey Gun, maybe I will have a cupcake,” he told his wingmate.

“Sorry, Dog Man. All gone. How about a Devil Dog? Kinda poetic justice, don’t you think?”

The dark brown cake was scrunched, but Doberman took it anyway, swallowing it so quickly that even
A-Bomb was impressed.

“Maybe you want to go find something to eat in one of the mess areas,”
A-Bomb said. “One of the units has a pig roast going.”

“No time,” said Doberman, dodging out of the way as a fuel truck barreled up. The two troopers who’d been guarding
A-Bomb’s Hog were on the hood. The truck looked suspiciously like the one that had been at the head of the refueling cue before, but he wasn’t about to ask any questions. A staff sergeant jumped from the rear before the truck came to a halt and ran forward with the refueling hose, fireman-style. The men were familiar with the procedure and had the nozzle connected before Doberman could say anything. He watched them start the pump and then went back to A-Bomb.

“So how’s your Hog?” Doberman asked. A pair of ladders stood against the plane’s right engine and wing. A gaunt figure loomed from the other side, appearing over the motor as if he had suddenly levitated there.

Tinman, Devil Squadron’s ancient mechanic. Doberman half-believed he had levitated there; the geezer was into some weird Louisiana voodoo witchcraft stuff. With Rosen north, Tinman was responsible for the two Hogs.

“Be up in the air in ten minutes,”
A-Bomb said.

“Knock tenk,” shouted Tinman, shaking his head. The Tinman spoke in an indecipherable tongue rumored to be a cross between pigeon English and a deep Bayou dialect.

“Hey, come on Tinman, it’s only an oil leak,” A-Bomb yelled back. “You can fix that with your eyes closed.”

“Isk knock jester oil,” said the ancient mechanic, going back to work. The GE’s gizzards were exposed; from where Doberman was standing, they looked like a mess.

“Ain’t no thing,” A-Bomb told Doberman. “He just likes to complain. Old guys are like that. Hell, I can fix that motor,” he added. “Easier than tuning a Harley. That’s what I’m talking about. So what’s your story? You bounce the Scuds or what?”

Doberman gave him the executive summary.

“They’re going to hold their position and watch for the missiles,” he said, glancing at the sun sliding toward the horizon. “I ought to make it back right around the time they’re moving them.”

“You flying up there solo, Dog Man?”

“You got a better idea?”

“I’m talking ten minutes,” said
A-Bomb.

Tinman slammed a piece of metal on the Hog.

“I can’t wait.”

“Wong’ll probably have somebody else splash the Scuds,” said
A-Bomb.

“Maybe,” said Doberman. “But somebody’s going to have to cover the fire
team. They pulled the helos back to Fort Apache.”

“Yeah,” said
A-Bomb. “Sending an MH-60 Blackhawk to grab Wong and the gang after the Scuds are hit.”

“Why didn’t they use the Blackhawk to get the people out from Apache and keep the AH-6s there.”

“If it made a lot of sense, it wouldn’t be an Army operation,” said A-Bomb. “I think it had to do with the fuel. They were tight when we were there, remember?”

Doberman nodded. The Little Birds were small helicopters, with limited range.

“Don’t sweat it, Dog Man. Rosen and Braniac will get back okay. What I was figuring was, we go up, cover Wong, then help Apache bug out. Just, you know, be in the area. They’re doing a rendezvous with a Pave Low pilot about thirty or forty miles north of the border. The little Birds are going to shuttle back and forth. We can watch.”

“Yeah,” said Doberman. The ground crew had finished loading the bombs on the wings. There were four cluster
bombs, one each on stations four, five, seven, and eight, straddling the wheels. The Mavericks were mounted one apiece at hard points three and nine, just outboard of the bombs. The Hog’s ECM pod sat at the far end of the right wing. On the left was a twin-rail with a pair of Sidewinder air-to-air missiles.

“Look
A-Bomb, I got to go.” Doberman trotted toward his plane.

“I got a pizza comin’
!” yelled his wingmate. “You sure you don’t want some for the road? Sausage, ‘shrooms, peppers, meatballs, extra cheese, onions, and anchovies.”

Doberman glanced back over his shoulder.
A-Bomb was grinning, but you never knew I was talking to the Pave Low pilot’s going to meet them halfway. he might actually be telling the truth.

“No thanks,” yelled Doberman. “Anchovies give me heartburn. Don’t want to be burping when it’s time to pickle.”

“What I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb.