HOGS #5: TARGET SADDAM (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) (8 page)

“What
are they tasked for now?” said Booker.

“There
are two flights. One is doing RR, bridges and railroads, north of Baghdad, and
the other just a generic Scud hunting mission down near. . .”

“There
are no generic Scud missions,” said Booker. “Every damn Scud in the Gulf has to
be eliminated.”

“With
all due respect,” said Skull, “don’t you feel nailing Saddam is more important
than going after the Scuds? Hell, the damn things can’t hit the broadside of a
barn.”

“Tell
that to the people in Tel Aviv,” said Booker.

“Eliminate
Saddam and the war ends.”

“I
doubt it. In any event, assassinating world leaders is not one of our war
aims.”

“Right,”
laughed Skull derisively. Even he had his limits. “What priority do we have,
exactly?”

“You
have no priority,” said Booker. “This is a high-risk mission.”

“You’re
vetoing it?”

“I
didn’t say that.”

Booker,
finally called out, physically stepped back. He glanced at his two aides and
gave his shoulders another heave. “The CinC wants it to proceed, if feasible,
but with minimal resources. The Scuds must remain a priority. We can’t divert
from any other missions.”

“Minimal
resources means what?” said Skull.

“No
diminishment of the Scud mission. No diminishment of other priorities,” said
Booker.

They
might have taken a few more turns around that circle had Wong not interrupted.

“The
air defenses have definitely been increased,” he said. “And in a most
interesting way. Possibly with SA-11s. Very interesting.”

“SA-11s?”
said Marks.

“What’s
the significance?” asked Booker.

“SA-11s
are not known to have been deployed in Iraq since experimental use at the
behest of the Soviets during the so-called Iran-Iraq war,” said Wong. He slid
the pictures to the center of table and identified three revetments obviously
prepared for missile launchers; he explained as an aside that there should be a
fourth, though it was not discernible. He then zeroed in on one of the vehicles
in the revetments, showing the circumstantial evidence that had led him to
conclude it was an SA-11 battery.

“These
are clearly placements for two vehicles.” He pointed at the small wedge which
represented a parking spot. “Typically, an SA-11 battery would consist of two
vehicles, one a radar van located here, the other a four-missile turntable
providing 360-degree coverage. The wide envelope would also make sense given
this configuration, for the parameters of the acquisition radars would be
covered, as you can see.”

Wong
quickly traced squiggly circles extending out from his wedges, forming a neat
hedge completely covering the approaches to Al Kajuk. A wedge of open space
covered the right northwestern corner— obviously where the other battery must
be.

“I
don’t see a van,” said Tommy.

“Yes,
precisely,” said Wong. “It hasn’t been moved in yet. This vehicle here,
obscured by the tarp as it moves along the area, is most likely the radar unit.
But we can’t be sure. That is why my conclusion is tentative. There is the
possibility that they are bluffing. There is also the possibility that this has
been established for different missile defenses.” Wong began a dissertation on
the amount of space typically cleared for radar trucks and support vehicles,
concentrating on the one site which had been worked over by a bulldozer or
other earthmover. He could not rule out SA-6s or SA-8s, or even other
potentially portable defenses. Skull kept nodding and signaling to him to wrap
it up; as usual, Wong was delivering much more detail than necessary.

“No
matter what they put there,” said Knowlington finally, cutting him off, “we
should prepare for the more capable missiles.”

“Getting
Weasels might be a problem,” said Marks, referring to SAM killing Phantoms.
“But there’s a flight of Tornadoes available.”

“The
Tornadoes would be appropriate,” said Wong. “Their ALARM missiles could
accommodate the threat.”

“I
agree with Bristol,” said Paddington. “Quite.”

Knowlington
had caught a sniff of gin on the British intelligence expert’s breath when they
were introduced. Even if he hadn’t, he recognized the pale eyes, twitchy
gestures, and most of all the sweat as characteristics he used to have when he
went too long without a drink. Shaking Paddington’s hand, he had stared briefly
into his eyes. He hadn’t seen himself there; a good sign.

Nonetheless,
the British agent knew his stuff. He added a few comments about how the
defenses were likely to be arrayed, Wong nodding along in the background. He
also noted that the British ALARM missiles, designed to be used against
advanced anti-aircraft systems like the SA-11, could linger above the
battlefield until the radar was activated— a distinct advantage compared to the
HARM missiles carried by the Phantoms.

To
the Army people, the discussion of the missile types was clearly academic. To
Skull, it was anything but. The SA-11 was more capable than the SA-6 it
was designed to replace. And the SA-6 was, in the words a Hog driver might use,
a real son of a bitch.

“It
would be reasonable to expect that SA-11 would be deployed as point defense
weapons guarding a high-priority asset,” noted Wong, “such as Saddam.”

“That
doesn’t change the mission’s priority,” insisted Booker. “This is still
speculative.”

“It
does change the targeting,” said Tommy. “We have to take out those batteries if
we’re going to fly up there.”

“If
the attack were carried out at low altitude, I believe we could make do with
one or two, at least at the start,” said Wong. “This corridor would provide
access to the roadway south of the village. Hitting just one several hours to
Straw’s arrival would lessen the likelihood that he would seek other quarters.”

“Possibly,”
said Paddington.

“If
he’s going to go somewhere else, why even bother?” asked Booker.

“A
logical question,” said Paddington, “even from a blackguard. The answer is that
our friend is very superstitious. He has also taken the time to study allied
bombing plans. His conclusion is that you never strike the same place twice.”

“That’s
an exaggeration,” said Booker.

Paddington
shrugged.

“This
seems like an even longer shot than I thought,” said Booker.

Skull
listened vaguely as the Delta representatives argued with Booker, the
discussion threatening to degenerate into a shouting match. To be honest,
Booker did have a point— the mission was a long shot, even if the payoff was
astronomical. Assuming the information was correct, assuming the profiles of
Saddam were correct, assuming, assuming, assuming— the odds of actually nailing
a moving vehicle in the middle of the night were very high.

“All
right, so it’s a long shot,” Knowlington said finally. “What’s the largest
ground force we can authorize?”

Booker
turned and looked at him. “The smallest force necessary to identify the
vehicle. Two men. That’s all I’m authorized to approve. That’s all the chief
will approve.”

“That’s
way too little,” said Leterri.

“That’s
two men who may be dead in the morning,” said Booker.

“Sure,
if that’s all we send.”

“What
about searching for my pilot?” said Skull. “We need a full team.”

“With
all due respect,” said Booker sharply, pointedly repeating Knowlington’s own
phrase, “Lieutenant Dixon has been declared KIA.”

“But
he’s not.”

“The
speculation put forth by Captain Wong is unpersuasive.”

“Bullshit,
Captain,” said Skull. “Bullshit.”

“Two
men,” said Booker. “There is still the problem of inserting and retrieving the
team.”

“C-141
high altitude jump,” said Leterri.

“The
SA-11s make that problematic,” said Wong. “Better to use an MC-130 infiltrating
at low altitude and making the drop in the clean corridor once the missiles
hit. The mission can be accomplished with three men, two to handle the vehicle
and another to act as scout. I, of course, will take the latter role.”

Knowlington
stared at Booker, silently fuming. He expected Booker or someone to argue with
Wong, but apparently everyone in the room knew of the intelligence officer’s
extensive background with covert operations.

“How
do you get back?” asked Marks.

“If
helicopters are not permitted north, a STAR-Fulton pickup would be the only
logical option,” said Wong.

“At
night?” asked Booker.

“We
can do it if we have to,” said Leterri.

STAR
stood for surface-to-air recovery; Fulton was the name of the man who had
pioneered it. A Hercules flying at just under a hundred knots snagged a line
suspended from a balloon at five hundred feet. The line propelled the man or in
some cases two upwards, streaming him behind the airplane. He was then winched
into the rear of the plane.

Not
pretty, but doable. In theory, at least.

“There’s
one thing I want to get clear,” said Knowlington. “Dixon has to be a priority.”

“Neither
Strawman nor Dixon is a priority, Colonel,” said Paddington dryly. “Obviously,
his Cincship sees this as a mission for volunteers and maniacs.”

“Screw
off,” Knowlington told the British agent.

Paddington
shrugged. No one else spoke.

“We’re
getting Dixon back,” Knowlington said, standing and pointing at Booker.

“If
he’s there,” said the major. “And if you find him, within the other parameters
of the mission. And if we can arrange a package. And if the commander in chief
approves it.” He glanced menacingly at Paddington, who merely smiled, obviously
secure in the knowledge that he could not be touched. Booker nearly spit at him
as he continued. “Frankly, my opinion on this whole escapade is lower than the
general’s I can assure you.”

“And
I can assure you we’re getting Dixon back,” said Knowlington. He crossed his
arms and glared at the rest of them before slowly retaking his seat.

IRAQ

27 JANUARY 1991

1020

The
corpse lay
in a
rut a few steps up the hill, arms thrown over the back of its head as if Death
had held the body prisoner before taking the soul.

Dixon
stared at him for a moment. The Iraqi soldier had killed by the Delta team
yesterday as they escaped after finding the missile launch area and calling in
A-10s and F-16s to strike it.

Or
maybe he’d shot him himself. Dixon couldn’t remember.

BJ
felt as if a dark cloud had descended around his neck, dread trying to strangle
him from behind. He felt something like compassion, something like sorrow, and
even guilt as he looked at the man.

But
the soldier was an enemy.

More
importantly, there was a weapon near his body; that meant more ammunition,
bullets to replenish the ones Dixon had foolishly wasted earlier.

Bullets
that would mean he could kill more men.

More
enemies.

He
lowered himself on wobbly knees, reaching to take the dead man’s AK-47. The
rifle lay less than twelve inches from the Iraqi’s face. As Dixon grabbed its
barrel he felt something on his knuckles, a breath— he jerked his hand away,
snapping upright, swinging his own rifle down to aim at the Iraqi.

Impossible.
The soldier couldn’t be more dead. The back of his shirt and his pants down to
his thighs were caked solid with blood.

BJ
lowered himself more quickly this time, then closed his eyes when he took the
gun.

The
clip, the rifle, were empty.

A
thick web belt circled the dead man’s waist.

A
cartridge holder.

The
heavy, pungent odor of rotting meat drifted up from the corpse as Dixon stared at
him from his knees. The soldier was dead; he had to be dead. There was nothing
to fear.

“You’re
beyond fear,” BJ told himself. He repeated it, then got up, walking cautiously
around the man. He kicked the corpse’s side with his boot.

How
disrespectful, he thought.

“Disrespectful,”
he repeated out loud. Then he kicked it again.

Truly
dead. Dixon lowered himself on his haunches, balancing by using both rifle
butts as a skier might do. Then he dropped the dead man’s gun, let it bounce
against the earth. He gripped the dead Iraqi’s shirt. His fingers dug into the
man’s flesh, soft and pudgy, like a girl’s.

Dixon
gave a heave and pushed the man over.

Thick
pockets sat at the front of the belt, the top of each secured by string looped
around a long, narrow wooden knob. Two held banana-style clips of 7.62 mm
ammunition. A metal clasp and ring topped a third pocket. Dixon reached for the
ring and starting to tug on it before realizing he was holding the trigger
mechanism of a Russian hand grenade. He stared at his fingers for a moment,
then gingerly pulled the small grenade— an old but deadly RGD5— out of the
flap.