HOGS #5: TARGET SADDAM (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (25 page)

Two
Iraqis huddled ten feet away. Either they were surprised by him or thought he
was on their side, because neither moved as rose to his knees and aimed his gun
at them. Or perhaps the rest of the world was moving in slow motion. The Iraqi
on the right moved his hand, down towards his belt; it got about halfway before
Salt put three 5.56 mm slugs in the man’s heart. The Iraqi reeled to the side,
stood straight, then collapsed straight forward like a plank pushed from the
top, all the time moving at what seemed to Salt one-quarter speed.

The
other man stood and raised his hands out to surrender. He took a step forward,
and in the dim light of the battlefield Salt saw the grubby bearded face of
Saddam Hussein.

You
bastard, he thought, aiming his gun at the dictator’s belly.

IRAQ

27 JANUARY 1991

2210

The
Iraqi heavy
machine-gun sputtered its bullets in the dirt about ten feet from Wong. He
could tell that the gunner couldn’t actually see him, but the bullets were
still close enough to make him cautious. Sergeant Davis lay on the ground a few
feet away, writhing in obvious pain. Wong still couldn’t hear anything.

There
was no way to aim at the Dushka without exposing himself to return fire, a
nasty proposition. The man with the AKSU Russian submachine-gun had him pinned
in a cross fire. Sooner or later, Wong feared, the Iraqis would use their
superior numbers to advance under the cover of the fire. So he had had two
choices— retreat and flank, or charge forward. In either case, he would be a
target. It seemed better to go forward.

The
odds of getting shot depended on the ability of the Iraqi gunners, of course.
Still, a rough estimate might put them in the three-to-one range, the three
lying in the favor of the enemy. Wong took a breath, remembering a koan from an
old Zen master that translated roughly as, “The bullet you see is not the bullet
you hear is not the bullet you feel, unless it is.” Failing to make sense of
the mystery, he jumped up and rushed for the truck where the man with the light
machine-gun was hidden.

Either
his sheer audacity or pure luck protected him as he ran the twenty or so feet.
Bullets from both guns whizzed past. The flash of an explosion nearby almost
blinded him, then silhouetted his nearest enemy at the front of the cab.

Wong
squeezed three shots from the SiG then flung himself down, rolling beneath the
chassis just in front of the rear wheel. The Iraqi soldier had stopped firing,
though Wong wasn’t sure he’d hit him. He crawled under the truck, fired the SiG
again in the man’s direction, then pushed out and began running. He’d lost
track of exactly where he was, and when a figure appeared to his right he
stopped, thinking it was Sergeant Salt. The man, perhaps five yards from him,
was running toward the road carrying a rifle. Wong stared intensely and
realized the gun was a Kalashnikov. He steadied his aim, fired twice, missing
both times. The man stopped and turned to fire at him; Wong aimed again and hit
him in the chest. The rifle flew to the side but it took two more slugs for the
Iraqi to go down.

Wong
thought of grabbing the man’s gun and took a step toward him when a muzzle
flash ahead caught his attention. He threw himself down into the dirt, then
realized the flash had been about fifteen yards away, down a small incline. He
pushed back up, his knee jerking sideways out from under him as he started running
again. He winced away the pain and reached the hill in time to see Sergeant
Salt standing on the left, holding his M-16 on an Iraqi who held his hands
upright.

A
bearded, pot-bellied Iraqi who could only be the Strawman.

Salt
raised his gun to fire.

“Sergeant!”
shouted Wong. “Sergeant!”

Salt
gave no sign that he had heard Wong.

“Sergeant,
do not fire!” said Wong. “That is a direct order.”

Salt’s
gun remained level but did not fire. Wong’s knee balked as he worked down the
hill.

“I
cannot hear you if you’re talking,” Wong said. “I appear to be deaf.”

The
Iraqi’s face was stained with sweat or tears.

“I’m
going to kill the bastard,” said Salt. “I’m going to kill this son of a bitch
for starting this god-damn fucking war. He deserves to die.”

Salt
raised his rifle to fire.

“You
may be right,” Wong told him. “But we’re not the judges and you cannot shoot
him.”

“Our
mission was to fucking kill him.”

“Indeed,”
said Wong. “But he has surrendered.”

“I
don’t give a fuck.”

“Sergeant,
you must realize that I am giving you a lawful order. The welfare of the
prisoner is now of prime concern.”

The
Iraqi’s hands were trembling but he did not move.

“You
gonna fuckin’ kill me if I shoot him?”

“You
will not shoot him,” said Wong. His pistol was now aimed at Salt.

“Dyin’d
be worth it to nail the son of a bitch,” said Salt.

“I
should not think so,” Wong said. “And such a calculation is besides the point.
My order is lawful and must be obeyed. I would note also that this is not
Saddam. It is an impostor, a lure.”

“What?”

“Saddam
Hussein is taller and older. This man is in his twenties. Frankly, he is a poor
substitute, though obviously he would confuse a crowd when viewed from a car.”

Salt
didn’t change his aim. “I really ought to kill the bastard then. All this for
fuckin’ nothing.”

Wong
gently placed his left hand on Salt’s weapon and lowered it. The Iraqi
collapsed on the ground.

“You
did a good job capturing him,” Wong told him. “He will be invaluable.”

“More
valuable than your pilot?”

Salt’s
question was more to the point than he knew. The rigs that they were to use to
leave allowed only two men to be taken; there were or would be only two rigs.
So if he found Dixon, someone would have to be left behind.

A
decision he would have to make when all the contingencies had played themselves
out. The plan had been to make the pickup with an hour of the attack— would
Wolf hold to that?

“The
prisoner is of more value than any of us.” Wong walked over and pushed the man
flat onto the ground. He quickly patted him down, retrieving a small revolver
and a knife attached to his leg. The man also had a vial taped to his leg— probably
for suicide, as well as some pills in a pocket bottle.

“Quaaludes,
I believe,” said Wong, tossing the bottle and pulling the man up by the back of
his fatigue shirt. “He does appear somewhat calm.”

“I
thought you said you couldn’t hear,” said Salt.

“I
couldn’t. Your curses apparently jarred my senses back into working order. I am
obliged.”

Salt
began laughing. “Fuckin’ comedian.”

Wong
told the ersatz Saddam in his poorly accented Arabic that he would allow the
sergeant to execute him if he gave the slightest hint of trouble. The man
nodded, then began telling him that he was only a poor farmer from the north.

“We
will conduct a proper interview at another point,” said Wong, first in English,
then in Arabic. The man babbled on, even after Wong pushed him up the hill.

“Where’s
Davis?” Salt asked.

“On
the other side of the highway, in that direction,” said Wong. While his hearing
had returned, he had a peculiar ringing in his ears that made it seem as if he
had his head in a fishbowl. “He’s been wounded.”

“Why
are we going this way then?”

“Because
he is pinned down by a heavy machine-gun approximately thirty yards from here,”
Wong explained. “And unless we disable it we will not be able to rescue the
sergeant. Will you take point or shall I?”

“Fuck
you,” snapped Salt, moving out ahead of him.

OVER IRAQ

27 JANUARY 1991

2210

Hack
winced as
Doberman turned directly into the tracers he’d been trying to warn him about.
He’d already pickled a Maverick at the Zeus; cursing, he dished another one out
at the same target, the AGM falling off the rail just as his first hit.

He
realized as the rocket motor flashed that he’d made a nugget mistake, the kind
of thing a greenhorn scared shitless lieutenant might do, not a veteran combat
flier who was supposed be DO of a squadron. For he’d just lost his night vision
gear, as primitive as it was.

He
was also out of position, swinging in the wrong direction as Doberman bucked and
weaved. Hack swooped lower, back in Doberman’s direction. The only surviving
guns now were well to the west and north.

Something
flickered across the thin quarter of the moon; Preston nudged left and found
the dark hull of a Hog sailing just ahead, apparently none the worse for wear.

“There’s
a troop transport trying to get around the APC,” Glenon told him. “Take it
out.”

“Can’t.
I’m out of AGMs.”

Doberman
said nothing, but the static that followed was more than enough to convey his
displeasure.

“I
used them on the gun that almost brought you down,” Hack said finally.

There
was dead air for a second.

“Bank
and follow me back to the pickup zone. I have a fuel leak in two of my tanks
but I’ve isolated them. I want to make sure I get the STAR pods down, assuming
it’s clear.”

Hack
followed along dutifully, sliding out on Doberman’s flank. The prime pickup
area lay two miles to the southwest of the village at the top of what looked
like a succession of long steps leading back in the direction of Saudi Arabia.

Devil
Three orbited once then skipped low. While dropping a flare would have made it
easier to see, it might also draw the attention of nearby troops. Hack couldn’t
see the over-sized gift packs slide off the Hog, nor could he see the chutes,
though he had his helmet against the glass, trying to.

“All
right, check your fuel,” said Doberman. “And stay in formation. We’re going
back and doing a box, like we briefed.”

“I
thought you had a leak.”

“I’ve
taken care of it,” Doberman said. “I got movement on the highway four miles
west of here. Follow me.”

OVER IRAQ

27 JANUARY 1991

2215

Doberman
nudged the
Hog’s
nose into a thirty-five degree dive, straight on the lead truck— or at least he
figured it would be straight on the target, since he was transposing from the
TVM, triangulating with the dark shadows before him. He wanted to keep his last
Maverick in reserve and didn’t want to risk a flare, figuring it might help the
Iraqis find the ground team.

Besides,
the GAU tracers would light up the night.

A
shadow moved into the middle of his HUD. Doberman centered his targeting cue,
waiting while the shadow grew fat. Something kept him from pulling the trigger—
the man who normally calculated everything, who did the math on every shot
backwards and forwards before pressing the trigger, hesitated because it just
didn’t
feel
right yet.

Damn.
A-Bomb was rubbing off on him.

The
shadow didn’t move. He was looking at a house or something.

No,
it was the truck, but it had stopped. Two others were pulling around it to the
right, live targets.

He
shifted in his seat, as if merely moving his fanny would move the Hog onto the
new targets. Somehow it did— Doberman squeezed the trigger and the black night
flashed with the fire of death, the bullets slashing through the thinly
protected side hatch of an armored car, up into the turret just to the right of
the gun before flailing through the engine. Doberman rode the hot stream into
the second vehicle, obliterating it with a long burst. He still had enough of
an angle and altitude to get his gun onto a third vehicle approaching down the
highway, but he was moving too fast and had come too low to do more than spit a
few shells in its general direction before flailing off to the south to
regroup.

“Three,
I don’t have a target.”

“Yeah,
just hang with me, Hack. That’s all I want,” Doberman told him, swinging a wide
circle. “You just keep cool.”

“Four.”

He
checked his fuel. Sealing off the flaky tank had worked. The game plan had
called for them to fly all the way back to KKMC; even if he hadn’t lost a bit
he’d be close to bingo by now. He could change that easily enough, though; just
run south and hit the tanker.

What
about Preston, though? He’d had trouble before and he’d be tired now.

Whack
a few more ground vehicles, or walk Preston home?