The Hog gave it to him, winding her engines with a cheerful roar. No A-10A liked sitting on the ground, and this one seemed to relish the challenge ahead. She leapt into the fresh breeze more than three hundred feet before the specs said she ought to, snorting at the fools who’d underestimated her.
Doberman nudged the throttle gently once he was airborne, adjusting, adjusting, adjusting, determined to give the plane just enough fuel to fly. The Hog seemed to understand, holding steady as her pilot banked toward the south. She jostled in the air until she found a wind current to help push her along.
Earlier in the air war, heavy weather had clogged the sky. The winter had been unusually stormy, even considering that they were in the middle of what passed for the rainy season. Today there was nothing but blue, punctuated above Doberman’s canopy by the contrails of allied jets crisscrossing as they sought to eradicate Saddam’s ability to fight. Over 2,700 sorties would be made today, bringing the war to Iraq with unprecedented ferocity.
The radio was heavy with traffic. Wingmen offered each other advice and reassurance, flights warned others what lay ahead, and controllers scrambled fighters to meet different threats. Doberman caught some chatter from a group of F-111s well behind and above him on his squadron frequency; the bombers were making their way back from an open house hosted by Saddam’s interior ministry. This was apparently the first time they’d attacked during the day, and the pilots were making jokes about how they had to close their eyes so they knew what to do.
Doberman nudged the stick, pushing his nose to the proper compass point slotted in the thick dial in front of his chest. He nailed it, then took a quick run through the fuel and navigational data and glanced at his kneepad, where he’d made a cheat sheet of his fuel calculations to show him whether he was going to make it or not. He was right on course with fifteen minutes to go to the tanker and four minutes of fuel beyond that; assuming Rosen’s measurements and not the somewhat pessimistic fuel gauge were correct.
Had to go with the girl.
He hit his first way marker and made a minor correction. It was just a straight run south now. The course would take him over two known Iraqi positions, and possibly others as well. Doberman checked his altitude; he was at twelve thousand feet.
“Devil One this is Tiger,” said the AWACS controller, checking in.
Doberman acknowledged. The controller confirmed that the tanker, an Air Force KC-135 known as “Bluebeard,” had been alerted and would be ready at the northern end of its track. The planes circled in patterns similar to extended oval racetracks. Depending on the track and circumstances, several tankers could be lined up, with half a dozen thirsty planes queuing to “tank.” Doberman was getting seriously special treatment due to his mission and his fuel state. The KC-135— basically a 707 with jet fuel instead of passengers— not only had to fly to the northern-most point of her orbit just in time to meet him, she was coming down from her usual twenty- or twenty-five thousand feet as well. And nobody was going to give the crew a medal for the extra danger.
Doberman thanked the AWACS controller and worked his eyes carefully through his instruments, triple-checking the gauges and indicators that accessorized his office. With eight minutes left to the border, he was just about to spin his radio over to the tanker’s radio frequency when a warning from the AWACS boomed in his ears.
“Devil One, snap ninety,” the controller shouted tersely.
It was an impossible command, directing him to take a sharp turn he couldn’t afford to make. Immediately, the radar warning receiver on his dash showed him the reason— a ground radar had begun tracking him, undoubtedly with the intention of firing missiles in his direction.
The controller’s next transmission was overrun by a Wild Weasel, a specially modified F-4 Phantom tasked with taking out SAMs. The words flew by so fast Doberman could only get the gist, but that was enough— an SA-2 battery they’d thought dead had just snapped back to life.
Worse, it was launching.
Correct that: had launched. There were two visual sightings; confirmed by radar and by Doberman’s own eyes as they glanced involuntarily to the left. Two small white-and-black puffballs erupted three miles ahead of his left wing. Two dark black slivers arced out of the smoke.
Doberman didn’t have to glance at a cheat sheet or run the numbers in his head to know it was already too late to run away, even if his tanks had been overflowing with fuel.
CHAPTER 5
With his plane temporarily grounded and no Dunkin’ Donut franchise in sight, A-Bomb figured he’d kill a few hours by taking Hawkins up on the sentry thing. Which he assumed was a serious offer, even though the captain had been smirking when he made it. So he went and asked him about it after Doberman took off.
“Uh, with all due respect, Captain,” said Hawkins. “And no offense intended, but you’re Air Force.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb. “Do I get one of those 203 grenade launchers? Or do I have to settle for an MP-5?”
“Neither.”
“Have to use what I came with, huh?” A-Bomb slapped the holster of his customized .45, which was wedged inside his customized flight suit. “Fair enough.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“Why?” asked A-Bomb. “Is that a job requirement?”
A Delta-Force sergeant listening nearby took Hawkins aside. A-Bomb waited as they stepped a few paces away, talking in voices too soft for him to hear. Finally Hawkins turned back to the pilot and pointed at him.
“Don’t get yourself hurt,” Hawkins yelled. Shaking his head, he stalked off toward the helos at the other end of the base.
“Captain, my name is Sergeant Coors,” the NCO informed A-Bomb. His mouth spread into the standard issue Special Ops smile: half-sneer, half-inside-joke. “I’ll be your tour guide this afternoon, if you’re up to it.”
“Shit yeah, I’m up to it,” said A-Bomb. He pounded the sergeant’s shoulder to emphasize his point. Coors was about A-Bomb’s height but not nearly his weight. The Delta operator grimaced and nodded.
“We have a post out this way we need manned,” said the sergeant, leading the way.
“Great, Beerman,” said A-Bomb, following. “You sergeants are all right.”
“Well thank you, sir. Some of my best friends are captains.”
“What’d you say to Hawkins to convince him?”
“I told him I was going to run your ass ragged,” said Coors. “Sir.”
“Shit, my ass is so big it’s going to take a lot more than you,” said A-Bomb. “But take your best shot.”
Coors led A-Bomb across the cement landing strip behind the two net-camouflaged helicopters to what seemed to be a pair of low sand dunes. In fact, the dunes had been constructed by the sappers from canvas and dirt to conceal Fort Apache’s small motor pool, which consisted of one slightly banged-up FAV.
Officially the abbreviation stood for “fast attack vehicle.” Unofficially, it stood for a lot of other things, all of which began with an “f” word other than “fast.”
The craft was a two-tiered dune buggy straight out of The Road Warrior movie. With a low-profile and extra-large mufflers, the FAV was a Go Kart with guns. The driver manned the bottom cage; the passenger sat on a platform behind him working a machine-gun, TOW missile setup, and maybe a grenade launcher.
Unfortunately, this particular unit had been stripped of weapons. It did, however, move pretty fast. Grit sandpapered A-Bomb’s face as the FAV revved northeastwards to a high point along the western wadi that marked one side of the base. Though technically still part of the desert, the wasteland was far more solid here than further south in Saudi Arabia. There were short scrubby bushes and occasional outcroppings of something similar to weedy grass.