Hogs #3 Fort Apache Page 2

  “We got the go this afternoon. We went.”

  “I’ll have your planes at Al Jouf tomorrow afternoon,” said Knowlington.

  “I’m counting on it,” said the general. “But I was hoping to have them in the morning.”

  “The morning?”

  “There a problem?”

  The squadron had a full frag set for the morning, and nearly everyone who could fly was already assigned. A “frag” was the portion or fragment of the Air Tasking Order that pertained to a specific unit, in this case the 535th Attack Squadron (Provisional), which made up its own wing and was under Colonel Knowlington’s command. The unit had been thrown together from planes headed for the scrap heap and hustled to the Gulf. So far, it had done a hell of a job bashing Saddam.

  But finding some planes to fly more than a hundred miles into Iraq on less than twelve hours’ notice?

  Not easy.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Knowlington. “We were originally talking about twenty-four hours.”

  “Things change,” said the general. “I’m getting your best guys?”

  “We agreed on volunteers.”

  The general smiled. The agreement was that Knowlington would ask his best men first, and both officers knew or at least suspected they would volunteer. They were, after all, Hog drivers.

  “I’d like to get a special maintenance team at Al Jouf,” added the general.

  “Wait a second,” said Knowlington. “There are some good people there already. Plenty, from what I hear. We’re running full sorties out of there.”

  “We want to keep the Apache force separate. Security.”

  “Aw come on. That’s just bullshit.”

  Knowlington would have made the same response even if he and the general hadn’t been through some butt-wrenching times together over the years— one of the reasons Knowlington was still only a colonel. The general gave him a just a hint of a disapproving stare, then folded his hands outward as if he had no choice.

  Which Knowlington knew was complete bullshit.

  “We don’t need your entire squadron,” said the general. “But I want people we can count on. Right now we’re screwed on the helicopter maintenance side. I have one person to keep two helos in the air. That’s an accident waiting to happen, don’t you think?”

  Of course it was, and Knowlington couldn’t argue. But it wasn’t necessarily relevant. There were plenty of A-10 specialists from other Warthog squadrons out at Al Jouf, which was on the other side of Saudi Arabia much closer to the border. As a matter of fact, a crew of them had patched one of his planes together just the other day.

  “I don’t want one of my pilots flying in a plane that’s not one hundred percent,” added the general.

  “Those are my pilots,” said Knowlington.

  “Our pilots,” said the general, about as diplomatically as he ever managed.

  That was a bad sign, thought Knowlington, realizing he was going to have to concede. “What do you need?”

  “Well, we can pick up the survival shop out there.”

  The survival specialists were in charge of, among other things, making sure the pilots had working parachutes.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Work with me, Tommy. I just want to make sure the planes are ready to go.”

  “I have the same problem here,” said Knowlington.

  “Ah, your guy Clyston’s put together a Super Bowl team. Come on. I’m not asking for everybody, just a few key guys.”

  “I’ll see who we can spare.”

  The general gave him a look that implied he better spare at least a few of his best technical wizards, but said nothing more.

  “You have up-to-date intelligence on that strip you want to use?” Knowlington asked, changing the subject as a tactful surrender.

  “The last satellite picture shows it there, with no guards, no nothing. Improving it to the point where we can put in C-130’s still a long shot. Now if we had gotten the J’s though congress...”

  “I wasn’t part of that,” said Knowlington, who had heard the pointed lament at least twice in the past three days. He was fudging a bit. Knowlington’s most recent Pentagon assignment had included “briefing” Congressmen. He had been asked unofficially to help lobby for the special-edition cargo planes, which could land fully loaded on even shorter strips than the normal models; 1,500 feet was the supposed spec. But Knowlington’s boss was opposed to the program because of other funding priorities. The issue was one of the few where the colonel had strictly obeyed orders.

  “I better get going,” said Knowlington when the general didn’t respond. “I have to get your volunteers.”

  “Thanks for your help.” The general got up and walked with him to the boxes that marked the sit-room door. “And thanks for Dixon, too.”

  “What do you mean, Dixon?”

  “Lieutenant Dixon. The assignment you cleared.”

  “I didn’t clear any assignment. You mean the trip with the helicopter crew that picked up Mongoose? I’m still pissed at that.”

  “No,” said the general. “The ground FAC assignment. You didn’t clear it?”

  “I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  The general stifled a laugh. “Typical Hog pilot.” he shook his head. “You didn’t tell Lieutenant Dixon to see Jeff Marg in Riyadh?”

  Marg was one of the colonels in charge of the infiltration teams.

  “No way,” said Knowlington. “I sent him over to Black Hole to cool his heels for a week or two, but I want him back eventually. If only to spank his behind. He got hooked up in that rescue mission on his own.”

  “Jeez, go easy on the kid. Marg told me he shot down a helicopter. And a whole platoon of Iraqis surrendered to him.”

  “They surrendered to me and my wingman,” said Knowlington. “I’m not saying the kid’s not a good pilot,” he added. “Or that he’s not brave. Or stupid. But he’s still green. Shit, Dixon’s barely old enough to have a beer.”

  “Ah. You were young once.”

  “Not naive, though. Where the hell is he?”

  “Parachuting into Iraq.”

  “Parachuting? Into Iraq? Dixon is parachuting?”

  “Well, yeah. We needed someone who could talk to pilots and he volunteered. Marg thought you cleared it. Dixon’s not a skydiver?”

  “As far as I know, he’s as much a skydiver as I’m a skateboarder.”

  “Well I sure as shit hope you’re world class,” said the general.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE DEPOT, SAUDI ARABIA

  24 JANUARY 1991

  2200

  Doberman took another swig from the soda can and squirreled his eyes into something he hoped would look like a perplexed squint.

  “Hey Dog Man, you betting those threes or what?” asked A-Bomb, who was sitting across from him at the poker table.

  Captain Thomas “A-Bomb” O’Rourke was Captain John “Doberman” Glenon’s wingman in Devil Squadron, a Hog driver with considerable experience in the cockpit and even more playing cards.

  “Yeah, I’m in.” Doberman kicked in a chip to meet the bet. He was showing a pair of threes, separated by a king and a ten. It looked like a dumb move and, truth was, it wasn’t a percentage play at all.

  The thing was, though, both the king and the ten were spades. And his first two cards, dealt face down in this game of seven-card stud, were also spades.

  An ace and a queen, as a matter of fact. Ordinarily Doberman would run the odds through his mental computer and reject any possibility of winning with a flush or a straight, let alone a royal flush. But he was so far ahead tonight, he could afford to play a wild long shot. In fact, he’d been doing that all night, a complete reversal of his usual poker operandi, which had brought completely unexpected results: He was winning.

  The pilots were playing in a back room of the Depot, an off-base club located in what seemed to have been an old bomb shelter literally yards from th
e King Fahd runway. Who ran it, let alone who had built it, was unknown. Some guys said it sprung whole from the desert after too many GIs had too many wet dreams; you didn’t have to take more than a step into the hazy interior to believe that was true. The uniforms the waitresses wore covered less than the average postage stamp. There was a floor show, a cage show, and a ceiling extravaganza – not to mention several rooms that even A-Bomb advised weren’t to be entered.

  The official attitude toward the club was difficult to gauge. On the one hand, it was the epitome of everything prohibited in Saudi Arabia. On the other hand, at least one two-star general was known to be among the frequent “guests.” The Devil Squadron Commander, Colonel Knowlington, didn’t approve but didn’t censure, either. The other squadron commanders were equally ambiguous.

  “I’ll see Wong’s raise, and go five more,” snapped the player to Doberman’s left, Kevin Sullivan. Captain Sullivan had three fours on the table. Normally, his cherubic expression could be counted on to give his hold cards away. But he had worn a consistent scowl from the very first hand, and for the past hour had growled nearly as sharply as the plane he piloted, an AC-130 mean-ass gunship armed with a variety of cannons and a very nasty temper. Sullivan was a particularly poor loser, and like everyone else at the table except Captain Bristol Wong, was down heavily to Doberman.

  Who had been advertised as the night’s pigeon.

  “You guys are too rich for me,” said A-Bomb, folding. Richie Stevens did the same. Wong, who was showing two pair, aces high, pushed forward five chips. The intelligence officer, on loan from the Pentagon G2 staff, had been advertised as the night’s pigeon. He’d proven anything but: only Doberman’s incredible string of luck had held him in check.

  Not that Doberman thought it was luck exactly.

  “Out,” said Hernandez, throwing down his cards.

  The bet was back to Doberman. Statistically speaking, his best hope was to land another three, and that wouldn’t even beat what Sullivan was showing. The way he read the table, Sullivan and Wong were both riding full houses; all he was doing was making the pot fatter for them, something he’d been doing all night.

  And yet, if he pulled a jack of spades, how sweet that would be. The odds on getting a royal flush were astronomical: well into the millions. On the other hand, having been dealt the four cards to start with, the odds really weren’t that ridiculous. In fact, they were no worse than 1 out of 32, since Doberman already knew the card he needed wasn’t lying face up on the table.

  Still a long shot. But he’d never had a night like this before.

  “Call,” he said, pushing forward a five-dollar chip.

  “Feeling lucky?” mocked A-Bomb. “Oh, I forgot, you don’t believe in luck. So how come you’re in?”

  “Just deal the cards,” Doberman told him.

  “For somebody that doesn’t believe in luck, he’s sure riding high,” said Sullivan.

  “I got the luck of Job,” said Doberman.

  “Anybody want a beer?” Hernandez asked.

  “I’ll take one,” said A-Bomb. “See if you can get some of those scorcher wings. I showed Manny or whatever his name is in the back how to pep them up with that hot sauce I got the other day.”

  “When did you have time to do that?” asked Hernandez. Like A-Bomb and Doberman, he was a Devil Squadron Hog driver. “Don’t you sleep?”

  “Shit, I sleep all the time,” said A-Bomb. “Hell, we’re flying and things are slow, I take a nap in the cockpit. Right, Dog Man?”

  “The snores are unreal,” said Doberman. “Now deal the fuckin’ cards.”

  “You want a beer, Wong?” asked Hernandez.

  “He ought to pay for a round,” suggested Sullivan. ”He’s the new guy.”

  “I am not drinking beer,” said Wong. “And I will not contribute to your dereliction by purchasing any. It is against the custom and law of the country.”

  “Shit, Wong, are you for real?” asked Hernandez.

  “He’s busting your chops. Go ahead, it’s on him,” A-Bomb said. “He’s got a tab.”

  “Why does everyone on this base think I’m making jokes?” Wong asked. “And since when do I have a tab here?”

  “I set it up,” said A-Bomb. “You can thank me later.”

  “Hey, are we playing cards or what?” demanded Doberman.

  “You’re pretty antsy for somebody who’s got butkus,” said Sullivan. “Or do you suddenly believe in luck?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Dogman ain’t lucky at planes or cards,” said A-Bomb.

  “Shit, yeah, he is,” said Sullivan. “Nobody in the world could take so many bullets and keep flying.”

  “Hell, that ain’t luck. Hog loves to take bullets,” said A-Bomb. “Holes in the wing make it fly faster.”

  “Just because I know what I’m doing and you don’t, doesn’t mean I’m lucky,” said Doberman.

  “Yeah, right,” Sullivan said.

  “You ever fly your crate home without hydraulics?”

  “Last card down,” said A-Bomb, dishing Wong’s card to begin the final round.

  The plastic beads walling off the room parted, revealing Lieutenant Jack “Happy Face” Gladstone, who, contrary to his nickname, perpetually frowned.

  “Colonel needs to see you right away, Captain,” he told Doberman. “Wants you, too, sir,” he told Wong.

  Wong immediately pushed his chair back and rose.

  “Whoa! Wait a second. We got a hand to finish here,” said Sullivan.

  “Guess I might as well come, too,” said A-Bomb, putting the deck down and standing. “What’s going on, Smile Boy?”

  “Hey come on, let’s finish the hand,” said Doberman. “Where the hell are you guys going? Wong, get back here. A-Bomb.”

  “Colonel’s pissed about something,” said Gladstone. “The capo told me he was over in the Bat Cave a little while ago. That’s all I know.”

  “Uh-oh,” said A-Bomb. The “capo” was the wing’s top sergeant, Chief Master Sergeant Allen Clyston, a man wise in all things and with more sources than the CIA. A-Bomb scooped up the pot.

  “Hey,” said Sullivan. “We can finish the hand.”

  “Colonel wouldn’t be asking to see us this time of night unless it was real important,” said A-Bomb. “I’ll cash out everybody on the way over to Hog Heaven.”

  “Shit, he doesn’t want all of us,” said Doberman. He had already decided this must be an administrative thing; the squadron DO was due to be shipped home, and Doberman was among those in line for the job.

  Not that he wanted it.

  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere without your wingman watching your butt,” said A-Bomb. “I’m trusting you guys to remember what you bet that last round,” he added, stalking away.

  Sullivan cursed and tossed his cards down. Doberman took a deep breath and rose, the last one in the room.

  His next card was lying face down on the top of the pile.

  He hesitated for a second.

  More than likely, it was a five or a seven or even another king or queen, something in diamonds or hearts.

  More than likely, Gladstone had just saved him a bundle.

  He started to walk out the room, got as far as the beads, turned back. Doberman reached down and flipped over the card.

  Jack of spades.

  CHAPTER 4

  OVER IRAQ

  24 JANUARY 1991

  2203

  The first thing Dixon felt was overwhelming numbness.

  The next thing he felt was a severe yank against his chest.

  The chute had opened.

  Already? It should have taken at least twenty seconds to fall down to 30,000 feet. He’d only just stepped out of the plane.

  Dixon glanced upwards, aware that he was supposed to check the canopy to make sure it was properly deployed, but damned if he could remember what the hell it was supposed to look like.

  It was too dark to see anyway. He had a flashlight somewhere, but h
e wasn’t supposed to use it unless it was an emergency.

  Or was that the flares?

  Fuck it. If the chute was screwed up he’d be tear–assing downward. And he didn’t seem to be.

  Dixon actually felt himself relax a little. Now that the chute was open, all he had to do was steer to his landing spot.

  Which wasn’t necessarily impossible. Hell, all he really had to do was land. Let the commandos worry about finding him.

  They would, wouldn’t they?

  Dixon reached up for the steering togs in place on the rig above each of his hands. He was so surprised to find them that he pulled down a hell of a lot harder than he intended.

  His chute flared, exactly as the tug told it to. Unfortunately, since the still-deploying chute hadn’t had enough time to adequately slow his momentum, and since he was swaying besides, the canopy began to wrap.

  Which, in layman’s terms, meant things were starting to get pretty screwed up. Dixon was in danger of becoming a QPO – a quickly plummeting object.

  Whether it was the shock of the spin, instinct, or his long-forgotten skydiving lessons, Dixon managed to ease back and open the ram-air chute enough to stabilize. But before he did every muscle in his upper body went ballistic; his arms got more rigid than a corpse’s. There was no way was ever going to steer the rig like that.

  He tried relaxing by thinking relaxing thoughts. But all he could think of was how pissed Colonel Knowlington was going to be if he pancaked into the Iraqi countryside.

  Somehow, the image of Knowlington’s furling lips relaxed his muscles— or scared them into pliability. Dixon began to feel almost comfortable in his parachute rig, finally confident that he was gliding and not falling. He turned his head to read the night-glo altimeter strapped to his left wrist.

  Instead, his attention was grabbed by the dark shadow of a large parachute just beyond his arm, close enough for him to touch.

  Dixon held his breath and tried to keep his arms relaxed, worried that anything he did to steer away would only take him closer. He lifted his legs, remembering at the last second to keep them together, so he wouldn’t change his momentum abruptly.