“Hey Gun, maybe I will have a cupcake,” he told his wingmate.
“Sorry, Dog Man. All gone. How about a Devil Dog? Kinda poetic justice, don’t you think?”
The dark brown cake was scrunched, but Doberman took it anyway, swallowing it so quickly that even A-Bomb was impressed.
“Maybe you want to go find something to eat in one of the mess areas,” A-Bomb said. “One of the units has a pig roast going.”
“No time,” said Doberman, dodging out of the way as a fuel truck barreled up. The two troopers who’d been guarding A-Bomb’s Hog were on the hood. The truck looked suspiciously like the one that had been at the head of the refueling cue before, but he wasn’t about to ask any questions. A staff sergeant jumped from the rear before the truck came to a halt and ran forward with the refueling hose, fireman-style. The men were familiar with the procedure and had the nozzle connected before Doberman could say anything. He watched them start the pump and then went back to A-Bomb.
“So how’s your Hog?” Doberman asked. A pair of ladders stood against the plane’s right engine and wing. A gaunt figure loomed from the other side, appearing over the motor as if he had suddenly levitated there.
Tinman, Devil Squadron’s ancient mechanic. Doberman half-believed he had levitated there; the geezer was into some weird Louisiana voodoo witchcraft stuff. With Rosen north, Tinman was responsible for the two Hogs.
“Be up in the air in ten minutes,” A-Bomb said.
“Knock tenk,” shouted Tinman, shaking his head. The Tinman spoke in an indecipherable tongue rumored to be a cross between pigeon English and a deep Bayou dialect.
“Hey, come on Tinman, it’s only an oil leak,” A-Bomb yelled back. “You can fix that with your eyes closed.”
“Isk knock jester oil,” said the ancient mechanic, going back to work. The GE’s gizzards were exposed; from where Doberman was standing, they looked like a mess.
“Ain’t no thing,” A-Bomb told Doberman. “He just likes to complain. Old guys are like that. Hell, I can fix that motor,” he added. “Easier than tuning a Harley. That’s what I’m talking about. So what’s your story? You bounce the Scuds or what?”
Doberman gave him the executive summary.
“They’re going to hold their position and watch for the missiles,” he said, glancing at the sun sliding toward the horizon. “I ought to make it back right around the time they’re moving them.”
“You flying up there solo, Dog Man?”
“You got a better idea?”
“I’m talking ten minutes,” said A-Bomb.
Tinman slammed a piece of metal on the Hog.
“I can’t wait.”
“Wong’ll probably have somebody else splash the Scuds,” said A-Bomb.
“Maybe,” said Doberman. “But somebody’s going to have to cover the fire team. They pulled the helos back to Fort Apache.”
“Yeah,” said A-Bomb. “Sending an MH-60 Blackhawk to grab Wong and the gang after the Scuds are hit.”
“Why didn’t they use the Blackhawk to get the people out from Apache and keep the AH-6s there.”
“If it made a lot of sense, it wouldn’t be an Army operation,” said A-Bomb. “I think it had to do with the fuel. They were tight when we were there, remember?”
Doberman nodded. The Little Birds were small helicopters, with limited range.
“Don’t sweat it, Dog Man. Rosen and Braniac will get back okay. What I was figuring was, we go up, cover Wong, then help Apache bug out. Just, you know, be in the area. They’re doing a rendezvous with a Pave Low pilot about thirty or forty miles north of the border. The little Birds are going to shuttle back and forth. We can watch.”
“Yeah,” said Doberman. The ground crew had finished loading the bombs on the wings. There were four cluster bombs, one each on stations four, five, seven, and eight, straddling the wheels. The Mavericks were mounted one apiece at hard points three and nine, just outboard of the bombs. The Hog’s ECM pod sat at the far end of the right wing. On the left was a twin-rail with a pair of Sidewinder air-to-air missiles.
“Look A-Bomb, I got to go.” Doberman trotted toward his plane.
“I got a pizza comin’!” yelled his wingmate. “You sure you don’t want some for the road? Sausage, ‘shrooms, peppers, meatballs, extra cheese, onions, and anchovies.”
Doberman glanced back over his shoulder. A-Bomb was grinning, but you never knew I was talking to the Pave Low pilot’s going to meet them halfway. he might actually be telling the truth.
“No thanks,” yelled Doberman. “Anchovies give me heartburn. Don’t want to be burping when it’s time to pickle.”
“What I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb.
CHAPTER 27
Colonel Knowlington nodded absentmindedly as the young lieutenant finished briefing him on the squadron’s supply of Mavericks and bombs. The two men stood near one of the hangars on the outskirts of Oz, Devil Squadron’s maintenance area. A gray-green stack of Mark 82 iron bombs, oldies but goodies, sat nearby. The lieutenant’s name was Malory but he reminded Skull of an Israeli pilot he’d met during a liaison assignment in the 1960s. A fellow Phantom jock, the Israeli was the same age as this young man but had already shot down five Arab planes, the mark of an ace. Skull had kept in touch with him— and then written to his family when he went down MIA over Egypt in 1972. His body was never found.
There was no good reason for thinking of him— or the bottle of vodka they’d demolished the first night they met.
“Colonel?”
“Go, ahead Lieutenant,” said Skull, pretending his attention had been drawn by a battle-damaged Hog rumbling past on its way to its hangars. The Hog’s nose art — a toothy shark’s grin— declared it was a member of the proud and venerable 23rd Tactical Fighter Wing, descendants of the famous Flying Tigers led by Claire Chennault during World War II.
All of the one-hundred-some Hogs in the combat theatre shared King Fahd as their home drome. On paper, Knowlington’s 535th made up an entire wing, though it was currently only at squadron strength. The unit had been cobbled together back in the States bare weeks before the air war began and consisted of planes originally designated for the scrap heap. The pilots and crew dogs were a mixed bag of high-time Hog drivers, green newbies, and hangers-on.
“Riyadh may ask for strict rationing,” said the lieutenant, poking himself back into his commander’s consciousness. The young man was worried the 535th would run out of Mavericks before the ground war began. The AGMs came in several varieties, with either optical or IR guidance, and were a Hog driver’s weapon of choice against tanks and most other meaty targets. They didn’t miss and went boom with authority.
“You don’t worry about Riyadh,” Knowlington told him. “If we start running short, let me know. I’ll make sure we have plenty.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” snapped the lieutenant. He was so new his uniform smelled of wrapper.
Knowlington’s indulgent grin waned as he spotted his capo di capo approaching. Sergeant Allen Clyston tended to amble rather than walk, except when he was angry about something— which he obviously was now, because he looked like a bull elephant on a charge.
“Anything else, Lieutenant?” Skull asked.
The young man followed his boss’s glance toward the capo. “No, sir,” he said, quickly retreating.
“You ain’t going to believe this shit,” said Clyston, drilling his meaty fists into his sides as he halted in front of his commander. The earth shook as he stomped his feet beneath him.
“What shit are we talking about?”
“You know where Rosen is?” demanded Clyston.