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

  “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.

  CHAPTER 12

  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.

&nbs
p; 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.

  It was wet with blood. There was at least one more in the ammo pocket. He teased it out, gently feeling along the tube at top, past the fuse lever, to the smooth round body before gripping it. BJ pulled it out and placed both grenades next to each other on the ground. He reached into the belt again and felt something sharp and jagged, his fingers flinching back against the blood-saturated webbing material.

  It was part of the man’s pelvic bone, smashed out of place by one of the bullets that had killed him.

  Slowly, Dixon pulled his hand away. He took another breath, then retrieved the gun clips. He slid the grenades into his chest pockets.

  As he stood back, the corpse began to move.

  He took another step back, trying to raise his gun. But the rifle suddenly felt heavier than three bags of cement.

  The corpse jumped to its feet, arms extending over its head in victory, Death vanquished. It danced and flung itself in a swirl around the desert.

  Dixon’s breath caught. He closed his eyes and willed the cloud and its black noose away. He felt the gun hanging from his hand, felt the strain in his shoulders and his neck. He felt the pain in his leg and in his ribs, felt each bruise and scrape, felt the air slowly emptying from his lungs.

  When he opened his eyes, the corpse lay back on the ground, head off kilter, its mouth pasted in a sad frown.

  Dixon curled the rifle under his arm and pushed on.

  CHAPTER 13

  KING FAHD

  27 JANUARY 1991

  1210

  “There’s no place like Home Drome. There’s no place like Home Drome— Wow, look at that Dog. Oz!”

  “Oh, you’re a fuckin’ riot, A-Bomb,” answered Doberman as they trundled into the Devil Squadron parking area in front of the hangars, an area affectionately dubbed “Oz” because of the wondrous things the maintenance wizards did there. As the two planes wheeled into their assigned spots, a large bear emerged from one of the hangars and began ambling in their direction— the Capo di Capo was gracing them with a personal welcome. Crewmen genuflected and fell over themselves to get out of his way.

  Powering their mounts down, the Hog drivers descended to the tarmac. Chief Clyston waited a short distance away, his presence evident in the quick snap of the men scurrying to secure the planes.

  “Hey, Capo, what’s shakin’,” said A-Bomb, walking over.

  “You better not have broken my airplane,” growled the chief.

  “Geez, who bit you in the ass?” said A-Bomb. By common consensus, he was the only member of the squadron, officer or enlisted, who could get away with a remark like that to the capo.

  Clyston harumphed in response, then turned to Doberman.

  “Captain Glenon, sir, I heard what you did with that MiG. Kick-ass flying, sir. I’m f-in’ proud of you, and every member of this squadron is f’-in’ proud of you, even if they don’t officially know what you did.”

  “You mean they don’t know, or they don’t know that they know,” laughed A-Bomb.

  “Yeah, thanks, Chief. I appreciate it,” said Glenon, who wanted desperately to get out of his gear and grab something to eat.

  That and take a leak.

  Clyston took a measured step backwards and did something that nearly knocked Doberman over: He lifted his hand up for a salute.

  Glenon hesitated; truth was, he’d never seen Clyston salute before. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen any chief master sergeant in the Air Force salute before, certainly not to him.

  But here was Clyston, grizzled bear of grizzled bears, seriously waiting for him to snap off a salute in return.

  “Okay,” said Doberman. He gave his best impression of a parade color guard— in truth not a very good one— and returned the salute. “Thanks. Your guys, I mean, Rosen and Tinman and the rest out at Al Jouf, they were kick ass, too.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Clyston remained at attention.

  “I appreciate the sentiment, really. But, you know.”

  “Yeah. I know. You got a bullshit deal. But these guys appreciate what you did. They won’t forget.” Clyston glanced over Doberman’s shoulder toward the crews examining the planes. He morphed back to his old self with a loud growl at one of his men. “Grimsley, you start on the other side of that first, for christsake. Geeee-zus-f-ker-eye-st.”

  Doberman started shagging along toward the life support shop, where he could change. He and O’Rourke would have to gather their thoughts for a round of reports on both the border incident and their time north at Fort Apache; he wasn’t looking forward to intel debriefings but they were a necessary part of the job. Inevitably, he’d forget some vital thing that somebody else would remember and he’d have to answer a ton of questions about it, trying to stretch his memory when all he’d be interested in doing was playing cards or catching Zs. He started outlining what had happened with the tanks and the SA-7 as he walked; he had the play-by-play more or less summarized before realizing Clyston was tagging along with them.

  “Something up, Chief?” he asked.

  “Couple of things,” said Clyston. “New D.O. is a certified asshole, for starters.”

  “New D.O.?” said A-Bomb. “I had ten bucks on Dogman here getting the post.”

  Clyston’s scowl deepened. “Between you, me and the lamp post, sirs, I truly wish he was. I’m sorry if this is news to you, Captain.”

  “I don’t want to be D.O. anyway,” said Doberman.

  “A Major Horace Gordon Preston,” said Clyston, answering the obvious question. “You can tell he did time at the Pentagon. For my money, he belongs back there.”

  Coming from Clyston, the pronouncement was libel. And his next sentence explained why:

  “Fucking zippersuit wants us to take down our Saddam sign.”

  “Eat shit, Saddam? Oh man, you can’t do that,” said A-Bomb. “That’s, like, our motto. It’s what I’m talking about. You have to leave that up. You have to leave that up.”

  “I didn’t say it was coming down,” said Clyston slowly. “Only that Preston wants it down.”

  “What’s the Colonel think?” asked A-Bomb.

  Clyston shrugged.

  “Skull wants it down?”

  “I haven’t talked to him about it,” said Clyston. “Not my place.”

  “Well, I will,” said A-Bomb.

  Clyston turned his head slowly to O’Rourke. “I’d appreciate that, Captain.”

  More than the sign was obviously at stake. The chief was by far the closest man, regardless of rank, to Colonel Knowlington on the base. Rumor had it they had served together when the Air Force was still using biplanes. If Clyston mentioned it to Knowlington himself, the odds were overwhelming that Knowlington would make sure the sign stayed.

  So it must be that the chief
saw Preston as a threat, and not to him.

  “I’ll speak to the colonel, too,” said Doberman. “And we’ll watch out for him. He’s a good commander. A-Bomb and I were just telling some clods from the CinC’s staff at Al Jouf that, as a matter of fact.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” The chief’s smile extended slowly. “There’s a meeting scheduled for 1300 hours to introduce the new DO, pilots, senior NCOs, and probably an f-in’ cheerleading squad if Preston has any input on it. In the meantime, you sirs might want to run into Major Wong.”

  “Wong’s back?” asked A-Bomb.

  “And last I saw, headed for lunch,” said Clyston. “You really, really want to talk to him, Captain,” he added, turning to Doberman. “You’ll be glad you did.”

  CHAPTER 14

  27 JANUARY 1991

  1240

  Skull stared at the top sheet of the lined pad on his desk. He’d sketched a backwards “7” in the lower left-hand quadrant; atop it was a sideways, script “v.” Two small squares sat like ink blots at the top stem.

  Anyone glancing at it would have thought the hieroglyphics meaningless. In fact, it was the outline of his mission.

  A maniac’s mission, as Padington had put it. And obviously the reason CinC wasn’t willing to dedicate more than a few Hogs and an old C-130 to it.

  Not true. The Hogs were backing up four F-111s, and the C-130 wasn’t old. There were a dozen other planes involved, counting the CAP that would be orbiting nearby, the ABCCC command and control plane, the electronics-warfare craft, the SAM suppressers, and the rest of the support team.