HOGS #5: TARGET SADDAM (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (20 page)

Which
he had not done.

A
damn, damn shame.

She
tried writing again, thinking of a routine day, but segueing into a dream she’d
had before bugging out of Fort Apache, the clandestine Delta command post in
Iraq.

She
was in her uncle’s junkyard, back by the buses where her cousin Crank used to
smoke dope. A turkey vulture swept down.

Red-headed
turkey vulture. Never saw that in Philly, no way.

But
that was the dream.

She
thought about it, and then her pen began moving, the words arranging themselves
on the blank paper:

Vulture
Death

spread
his wings

and
laughed

boasting
to me with his dark eye

I
stood my ground

His
head fired the sky

but I stood

His
wings pummeled the air

but I stood

His
claws ripped my neck

but I stood until at last

he tired and flew off.

But
that was just a dream

Becky
put down the pen and reread what she’d wrote.

Death
and more death.

Her
fingers tore the page out. She crumpled it up and shoved it in her pocket, then
pulled on her boots to go see what needed doing in Oz.

IRAQ

27 JANUARY 1991

2030

Dixon
and Budge
stopped for a rest amid a small collection of bushes just below the summit of
the hill. Even in the dark, the scrubby vegetation wouldn’t provide much cover,
but it was better than nothing. They didn’t seem to have been followed, and as
far as BJ could tell the hill was unoccupied. It was lower than the hill
opposite to the northwest, with occasional rock outcroppings and jagged
terrain, difficult for the anti-air vehicles to climb. Or at least Dixon
assumed.

The
boy had recovered from his panic, or maybe he was just too tired to do much of
anything— he sat on the ground next to his rescuer, knees pulled up in front of
his chest.

“Hey
Budge, what do you think?” Dixon whispered. “You think there Scuds on the other
side of that hill there?”

He
pointed with his thumb. The boy tilted his head, but said nothing.

“I’m
not sure what the bombers hit,” Dixon continued. “I’m not exactly sure what
kind of planes they were. I fly a Hog,” he added. “An A-10. I’m really a pilot.
I came north to help target Scuds. A-10’s a great plane. They’re made to fly
real low and support ground troops.” He began miming it with his hands, zooming
in low and working the cannon with a stutter. He pretended to be in the
cockpit, then threw his hands out like he was the plane, crouching and dancing.
Budge smiled.

“We
call it a Hog— short for Warthog. Kind of a joke, too, because it looks ugly
and it moves slower than a farm truck. I could have flown Eagles— I was
selected to. But I had to, uh, see, I had some personal stuff going on.” Dixon
knew he was just babbling on, but the kid nodded, as if he understood and
wanted him to continue. It felt good to talk; he’d been alone so long. “My mom
died, she was dying. And my father’s been laid up with strokes since I was
about your age. You lost your parents, too, huh?”

BJ
hadn’t thought about that before, but now he realized it must be true— perhaps
the kid had seen them die.

“Parents
dead?” he asked.

Budge
nodded solemnly, then said something in Arabic. Dixon listened, trying to pick
up the meaning in the tone of the words. They were flat though, and the way the
kid moved his hands he could be miming a parade.

Until
he jumped up and began mimicking what BJ had done, flying a Hog.

“Yeah,
kid, we’ll fly. We’ll fly out of here. If we can find our way. I know there’s
got to be another Delta team around here. I just know it.”

Budge
kept flying. Dixon extended his arms and for a moment the two of them flew
together, bumping wings and laughing as if they were out on a playground a
million miles from the war.

“Okay,”
Dixon said finally. “All right. We have to get serious, Budge.”

The
kid stopped and looked up at him. BJ slung the rifles over his shoulders and
held the boy gently by the neck as they walked.

“What
we’re doing here is kind of like a game,” Dixon said. “Kind of like hide and
seek. Except the guys looking for us have guns, and they’re not going to count
to ten before shooting. But we’re smarter than them, right? You and me. We’ll
kick their butts if they try to do anything.”

Dixon
let go, considering their next move. The plain to the west and southwest of the
hill seemed open; they could sneak back to the Cornfield, several miles away
along the highway west. They could get water there, and it would be easy to
hide during the daylight.

He
remembered passing a building or two. They might be able to get food— better to
try there than in the village, where there were other people and troops around.

But
first, he wanted to look to the south, see what was there.

Hide
out tomorrow. As soon as it was dark, look for one of the Delta or British SAS
teams that were Scud hunting. There ought to be at least one team a few miles
further west. And beyond that there was a forward base, Fort Apache. They could
go there, walk a few miles every night.

They’d
get out of here somehow, Budge and him.

They
began sidestepping toward the southern slope of the hill. Dixon slipped and
Budge grabbed him, holding him up for half a second before tumbling over him.
They rolled a few feet before coming to a stop.

It
was so comical Dixon started to laugh, until he saw the flare of a cigarette
ten yards away.

IRAQ

27 JANUARY , 1991

2113

The
station wagon
was the third car in the procession, trailing two troop trucks. Immediately
behind it was a German transport, followed by a pair of armored cars. A
Mercedes sedan was next to last, sandwiched between two Zils with canvas backs.
The caravan was about a two miles from the spot they’d picked to put down the
explosives. The rest of the vehicles followed at intervals of ten to twenty
yards. With their lights out, they traveled no more than forty miles an hour— but
that was more than enough; there was no way to get the explosives down to the
spot they’d picked out. Wong sent Davis to alert Wolf, then stopped Salt as he
bent to set up his sniper rifle.

“We’ll
have to stop them or slow them down so the bombers have a chance to target
them,” Wong told him. “Wolf will have to scramble the A-10s, and they will be
at least five minutes away.”

“I
can get a shot.”

“One
may not be sufficient, even with the light fifty,” said Wong. “Do you think you
could hit the first vehicle with the grenade launcher when it draws parallel to
us?”

“I’ll
have to get closer to make sure I hit.”

“Do
it then,” said Wong. He reached down and grabbed the explosives set. “Wait
until the last moment, but make sure that you strike it. Take your next shot at
the Mercedes— the station wagon appears empty and in any event will be struck
by the A-10.”

“Where
the hell are you going with those explosives?” Salt yelled as he started away.

“I
will attempt to divert the tank and give you more time to use your sniper
rifle,” Wong yelled. “Please, you have less than three minutes to get into
position.”

LAZARUS

IRAQ

27 JANUARY 1991

2113

Dixon
pushed Budge
down, and in the same motion swung the rifle on his right shoulder around to
level it at the glowing cigarette ten yards away. The dot of red blurred into
an oval meteor, flaring to the right. Dixon slid his trigger finger into the
AK-74, his stomach pinching tight. His entire body jerked against his finger,
pushing his life and hope into the quick burst it commanded, but there was no
rumble at his side, no pull upwards from the front of the barrel, no bullets
flying across the darkness into his enemy.

In
his haste and fear he had put his finger against the guard, not the trigger.

The
cigarette disappeared. The smoker miraculously had not noticed them.

Dixon
waited for the air to come back into his lungs. When it finally did, he
unfolded his finger as deliberately as he could and placed it where it
belonged. The boy lay curled on the ground next to him, his neck on the other
rifle.

Dixon
reached over and gently removed the gun. He put his finger to his lips then
held it up, wagging it to tell him he must be quiet and wait.

“I’ll
be back,” he whispered, patting Budge reassuringly. The child bobbed his head,
seeming to understand.

Moving
silently, the second rifle slung over his left shoulder, Dixon clambered across
the slope toward the spot where the cigarette had flared. He bent his head
forward, eyes peering into the dimness to try and sort the shadows into shapes.

A
dozen steps and he entered a patch of light thrown by the moon; he inched back,
eyes adjusting well enough to see the edge of a wall eight feet away around the
slope. In the dimness the enemy position looked as if it were made of books,
immense dictionaries or encyclopedias stacked on their side. BJ hugged the
ground, eyes pinned on a narrow globe at the middle of the row of books— the
head of a soldier, who leaned against the sandbags, peering down the hillside
through a pair of binoculars or a starscope.

A
red dot flaring behind and to the left of the globe showed Dixon where the
cigarette smoker was. The dot moved further back, behind the bend, out of his
sight and aim.

Were
there others? Dixon narrowed his mouth, stifling his breath into long, quiet
pauses so he could hear. If there were other Iraqis, they were silent, not even
fidgeting.

The
man with the binoculars said something to his companion. He stretched back and
the other man got up, took the glasses. They jerked into action.

Now
was the time to fire. He could get them both with the same burst— get them both
with the same bullet.

Trucks
approached in the distance below, driving from the south in the general
direction of the hill. The men began speaking excitedly, tapping each other.
They leaned forward across the wall, trying to share the viewer.

Best
to sneak away, Dixon realized. He and the kid could slip down the hill while
their attention was drawn to the trucks.

He
took a step back, kicking loose rocks.

One
of the Iraqis jerked his head around. Dixon’s finger snapped, this time against
the trigger.

OVER IRAQ

27 JANUARY , 1991

2118

Doberman
mashed his
throttle,
urging the turbofans to give him every ounce of thrust they could. The wind had
shifted to kick the Hog in the face, holding her back at precisely the wrong
moment. The pilot cursed and strained against his seat restraints, as if his
weight might make a difference to the aircraft’s momentum.

If
stinking Preston hadn’t screwed up his first attempt to hook into the flying
tanker they’d be there by now.

Stinking
rusty major who thought he was hot shit just because he’d flown pointy-nose
teenagers.

“Keep
up with me, Four,” Doberman snapped to his wingman.

“Four,”
grunted Preston. He sounded as if he’d gotten out of the plane and was pushing
it uphill.

Actually,
Doberman’s indicated air speed was four hundred and sixty-five knots— close to
an all-time Hog record for level flight with a combat load. But he was still a
good two or three minutes away from getting into target range.

Once
there, it could take considerably longer to find the convoy.

“I’ll
call the targets,” Doberman said. “The station wagon’s our priority. Screw any
SAMs or Zsu-Zsus— leave them for the Tornadoes. Wolf has them right behind us.”

“Four.”

Stinking
Wong. Why the hell couldn’t he get the goddamn time right?

Doberman
glanced at the Maverick targeting screen. He had the outline of a highway at
the top right corner. It was the highway that led to Al Kajuk and intersected
with the one Strawman was on. Swinging along it would make it easier to find
his target.

But
it would also take him through the lip of the remaining SA-11s’ radar
coverage. Flying at medium altitude, he’d be an easy target.

Worth
the risk.

“Follow
my turn,” he barked to Preston, hanging a hard right, eyes glued on the Mav
screen to guide him.

“Four.
We’re moving off the briefed course, into –”

“Follow
my turn.”

“Four.”

Wolf,
the mission controller, called back, asking for an ETA.

“In
target range in zero-two,” said Doberman, afraid that wouldn’t be good enough.

The
highway cut a sharp line in the middle of the screen. He plotted the target
zone in his head, decided he’d look for the T, then pivot; the station wagon
would sit to his right, roughly in the center of the screen if he could hold
this course.

More
speed, more speed.

Ninety
seconds.

“Wolf
acknowledges. We have live bait. Ground team attempting to tie them down.”

The
controller said something else but Doberman lost it. Before he could ask him to
repeat it his RWR went crazy. The SAMs had woken up, and they were angry.

Somewhere
to the south, the electronic warfare operators aboard the two Tornadoes tasked
to the mission licked their lips and lit the wicks on their spanking new BAe
ALARMS; the high-tech radar killers burst from beneath their bellies, streaking
upwards as their integrated circuits calculated the surest way of quashing the
offending defenses.