Far north. As in: Iraq.
By the time he realized what was involved, a night HAHO jump into Iraq for starters, it was too late to back out without looking like a complete coward.
And there was also the fact that he had fibbed slightly about his colonel’s permission regarding the assignment.
It wasn’t a fib, exactly. He had given an accurate and direct response, though the question had been posed casually, in what seemed like idle conversation.
Or maybe it hadn’t. Because who in God’s name would actually give permission for something like this.
Or volunteer, for that matter.
But here he was, Dixon with the six men who constituted Team Ruth, waiting in the C-141B to jump into an area just south of the Euphrates River. They weren’t alone, exactly. A larger group, code-named “Apache,” had parachuted into the southwestern desert a few minutes before. Apache was setting up a base to support Dixon’s teams and others Scud hunting in the north and east of the country.
From what Dixon could see, two dozen or so man had parachuted into a black void of nothingness. And they’d stepped off into it gladly, like ascetics giving themselves up to the spirit world.
Damned poetic way of describing idiocy.
Dixon was startled by a sharp punch to his shoulder. Wincing, he turned to face a fully loaded paratrooper wagging a finger across his equipment as if he were a witch conjuring a spell to keep him safe.
No such luck. Just the communications or “como” specialist, Sergeant Joey Leteri, checking his equipment. Leteri was the squad’s jumpmaster.
Leteri gave him an extended middle finger and a grin beneath his mask.
That was supposed to mean he was ready to go. Funny.
Winston submitted to the check next, exchanging fingers and shoulder chucks. Then he turned to Dixon and gave him a peace sign.
Not peace. It meant two minutes.
Two minutes to live.
Dixon nodded, then realized the sergeant wanted a more emphatic answer.
He gave him the finger. Not necessarily without malice.
Winston used the SAW to offer a shoulder-chuck back. If he hadn’t been braced against the side of the plane, Dixon would have gone straight to the deck. As it was, he swore he dented the metal.
The C-141 was flying in formation with two B-52s. The idea was to make the mission look like just another high — altitude bombing run instead of a deep infiltration. Which undoubtedly it would, since who’d think the Americans were this crazy?
Winston leaned closer to the door. Dixon had to go out before him. Or at least, he was supposed to.
So how much of a coward would they think he was if he stayed in the plane?
Big time. Better to shoot himself with the MP-5.
Might be less painful, actually. Certainly a lot less scary.
Winston turned and motioned him forward. Dixon took a small step, then felt himself being pushed forward by Leteri or some other fool.
Arch. That was what he was supposed to do, right?
Arch. Frog position.
Screw it, as long as he didn’t tumble too badly. They’d given him an automatic deployment device. Sooner or later, the chute would open no matter what.
Or maybe not.
The wind kicked up. Even wearing an insulated jumpsuit, Dixon began to shake with the cold.
He thought about the possibility of a freak wind current scooping him into one of the C141’s Pratt & Whitney’s? What if one of the B-52s was out of position.
Oh boy, he thought, it’s dark out there.
Oh boy, I got to take a leak.
Oh boy, here we go.
And then he was dancing at the edge of the universe, assisted with Leteri’s nudge.
He was flying.
Holy Jesus, he was outside the plane.
Holy Jesus, he was falling.
Oh yeah, he thought to himself as his stomach left his body, this is why I dropped out of that goddamn skydiving program.
CHAPTER 2
Colonel Michael “Skull” Knowlington had just decided the time had come to write letters to his sisters; he’d promised them both he would do so at least once a week but hadn’t since coming to the Gulf. But a tall soldier in desert camouflage fatigues knocked at the open door of his office in Hog Heaven.
“General wanted to know if you were available, sir,” said the soldier. Ramrod straight, every pore of his body sweated respect, though Knowlington never knew quite how to take the Delta Force soldiers. He knew this sergeant vaguely; he was part of the general’s retinue at the Bat Cave, the unofficial name of the Special Operations command center at King Fahd. Since Knowlington had spent a considerable time with the general over the past few days, and since there had been some ballyhoo over Skull’s recent mission to rescue one of his men north of the border, it was likely that the sergeant’s respectful tone was sincere. Still, Knowlington knew the Delta Force troopers held all officers in suspicion. Those from other commands, let alone services, were usually considered one notch above the enemy, when considered at all.
The general who headed the joint services mission had himself been Air Force, but the operative word there was “had.” Besides, the general had flown Puff the Magic Dragon gunships in Vietnam and lost enough blood in combat to impress even the hard-ass non-coms who filled his ranks.
Knowlington struggled to remember the sergeant’s first name as they crossed the air base to the Special Ops center in what had once been a parking garage. It was Jake or James or Jack, but taking a guess wasn’t going to cut it. So he merely grunted in appreciation as the trooper faded behind him at the entrance to the general’s suite.
Suite was a bit of an overstatement. It consisted of a roped off area studded with guards. Behind them were walls made of supply boxes. Knowlington found the general inside his situation room.
“Mikey, great,” said the general as Knowlington walked over to the stack of boxes that marked the wall. “We’re go. Apache’s underway.”
For weeks, the Special Ops command had been lobbying for a more active role in the conflict. They wanted to infiltrate Iraq and help destroy the enemy’s supply and command structure, as well as take out Saddam’s only long — range strategic threat, Scud missiles. But General Schwarzkopf had steadfastly refused— until Scuds started falling on Israel.
Delta troopers and other allied Special Ops teams had begun infiltrating Iraq some days before. “Apache” was even more ambitious— it called for establishing a base more than a hundred miles inside Iraq to support the commando teams. A-10As would help— specifically, Colonel Knowlington’s A-10As.
The base would be called “Fort Apache.” Deep in the heart of Injun country.
While Colonel Knowlington had helped prepare the plan, he remained slightly skeptical of it and surprised that it had been approved so quickly. “When did this happen?” he asked, sliding over one of the folding chairs that passed for office furniture.
“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.