That was how he found himself here, close to two hundred miles inside Iraq, sucking dirt as the interminable wind whipped up through the hills surrounding the small pimple of a settlement called Al Kajuk. He and the Delta troopers accompanying him had at least a mile of climbing to do before getting a clear view of the village, such as it was.
Wong had worked with Delta and other Special Ops troops before. Aside from a predilection for running when walking would have been sufficient, he found them competent, professional, and taciturn, characteristics he thoroughly appreciated.
The sergeant in front of him held up a hand, signaling a stop. Wong passed the signal along to the team’s com specialist behind him, who in turn passed it on to the tail gunner. There were only four troopers on this ad hoc team: Sergeant Mays at point, Sergeant Franks at the rear, Sergeant Holgrum with the satellite communications gear, and Sergeant Golden, the team leader. Golden was in charge; Wong was in theory just along as an adviser and knew better than to interfere.
“Let’s rest here a minute,” said Golden, coming back. “We have a house or something over that hump and down the slope, maybe half a mile, a little more. That way, there’s a road and the village. Over there’s the highway, on our right. Looks like when we get to the peak, we’ll be exposed, the sun in our faces. We should be able to position the Satcom up there somewhere, but let’s scout the area first. Kind of weird we got vegetation on that side of the hill and pretty much nothing here,” he added. “Must be water underground or something.
Wong nodded. He suspected that the vegetation on the long, sloping hillside to their left had more to do with the wind pattern, which would amplify the modest moisture effect produced by the nearby river. But he knew from experience that meteorological matters hardly ever interested anyone, except while waiting for a train.
“Captain Wong and I will go on ahead,” the sergeant told the others. “That okay with you, Captain?”
“It would suit me.” Wong dropped his pack on the ground, pulling his M-164 and its 203 grenade launcher up under his arm. It was not his preferred weapon, but it would serve.
“Captain Hawkins said you were with him when he jumped into Korea,” said Golden. The sergeant was short for a Green Beret, about five-seven, and fairly skinny. Wong, at six-two, towered over him, even on the incline.
“Yes. An interesting mission.”
“You killed two gooks?”
Wong smiled at the racial slur, but didn’t answer. Golden was white, but obviously of mixed ancestry; no one ethnic group could have produced a face quite so ugly. Wong himself was fifth generation Chinese-American born in Hong Kong to a Scottish mother — not quite classic “gook,” but undoubtedly close enough for the sergeant.
“We may be doing some killing here,” said Golden. “I know you Pentagon boys don’t like to get your hands dirty.”
“I would not be surprised to find mine are dirtier than yours,” Wong said, starting up the hill ahead of him.
CHAPTER 16
Doberman eyeballed the paper map on his kneeboard as A-Bomb gave his wayward engine another shot at relighting itself. He had already decided he was sending his wingmate home, no matter what, but he realized the news wasn’t going to go over very well.
“Damn, Dog Breath, she won’t catch for me no way, no how,” cursed A-Bomb. “Son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, okay, you think you can make Al-Jouf?”
“You sending me home without supper?”
“You want me to come with you, no sweat.”
“Shit. Shit.”
“You have to go back, A-Bomb.”
“Yeah, I know, I know. Damn. You ever, ever heard of one of these engines giving out? Ever?”
There was only one acceptable response. “No. Must be a fluke,” said Doberman. “All right, let’s go.”
“I don’t need you holding my hand,” answered A-Bomb.
“The most important thing is that you get back in one piece.”
For some reason, that unleashed a fresh stream of curses loud enough to nearly shatter Doberman’s shatterproof helmet.
Flying solo with one engine— frankly, even with two— over hostile territory was not exactly risk free, but A-Bomb pointed out that Doberman had a job to do. There were plenty of Coalition aircraft to call on if needed. Besides, there were worse things, especially as far as he was concerned.
“See now, this is the kind of thing that really pisses me off,” said A-Bomb, his tirade fading down. “This Spec Ops coffee tastes like green tea.”
Doberman nudged his stick, widening the circle he was drawing over the Iraqi scrubland. Al Kajuk lay ten miles to the northeast. Iraqi air defenses were thin but still potent. The village could easily be hiding flak guns and mobile missiles. He was at eight thousand feet, circling high enough so he couldn’t be heard, but the sky was clear and anyone with a good set of eyes, not to mention binoculars, ought to be able to spot him from the ground. And if a radar was turned on— well, that was show business.
“If you think you can make it…” Doberman started to say.
“It’s what I’m talking about.” Hell. Unless you don’t think you can handle things.”
“Screw you,” snapped Doberman.
“Anytime.”
“Yeah, all right. Sorry about the coffee,” Doberman told his wingmate.
“Coffee’s the only reason I’m going to Al Jouf,” said A-Bomb. “You want anything?”
“Taco with beans,” Doberman answered.
“I’ll see what I can do,” said A-Bomb. “Devil Two, gone. You’re solo.”
A-Bomb had a million personal call signs, signoffs, nicknames, curses, and slang sayings, but that was one Doberman had never heard before.
“Yeah,” was all he could reply.
The Warthog’s top speed was supposedly 439 miles an hour, though there was considerable debate and not a little bragging among Hog drivers about the “real” speed. It was a kind of inverse of bragging— pilots liked to say how slow the A-10A really flew, even going downhill with the wind at her back.
Normal cruising speed was less than four hundred miles an hour, so slow that a World War II era propeller-driven fighter could easily keep up. Cutting his circles around the Iraqi desert south of his target area, Doberman’s indicated air speed was exactly 385 nautical miles an hour.
Vital flight data was projected in front of his eyes via a HUD or heads-up display. While it was easy to see out of the airplane, the front windshield area was narrow and even cluttered by the standards of planes like the F-15 or F-16. But it was also better protected. A thick frame held armored windscreen panels, a tacit acknowledgment of the fact that the people a Hog driver most wanted to meet weren’t welcoming him with open arms. Doberman sat in what amounted to a bathtub constructed of titanium. The mass of metal protected the airplane’s most vital part— him. If at times he felt a bit like a bear in a cave, it was a highly secure cave.
The ground team, “Snake Eaters,” was supposed to come on the air at precisely 1600, or in one minute and thirteen seconds. Doberman, impatient by nature, tried to divert himself by starting a very slow instrument check. He began with his fuel gauge, a large clock-faced dial over the right console, just above a selector switch that allowed him to separately measure the stores in the various tanks. He moved deliberately, slowly, precisely, expecting to be interrupted— hoping to be, actually— but concentrating on what he was doing.