CHAPTER 22
“If I get the chance, I’m nailing him.”
“Who says you’re getting the chance?”
Salt glanced toward the front of the cargo hold, where Captain Wong was consulting with one of the Herk’s crewmen. “If I get the chance, I’m nailing Saddam,” he repeated to Davis.
Davis shrugged. “Planes’ll get him. We’ll be a mile away.”
“I’m not saying they won’t get him.” Salt edged his toe against his weapons rucksack on the floor of the plane. He wouldn’t completely suit up until ten minutes to drop time, set for 2002. And he’d wait until precisely then; it was a superstition thing, and no matter how much it bugged everyone else, he stuck to it. By contrast, all Davis had to do was slap on his helmet and he was good to go. “I’m saying if I get the chance, I’m nailing him.”
“Sounds fair.”
“What else you figure he’s up to?”
“Who?”
“Captain Wong. That need-to-know bullshit.”
“Couldn’t even guess.”
“You got enough explosives to blow the road?” Salt asked.
“I got enough to blow up Saddam’s ever-lovin’ bunker.”
Salt laughed. Unlike most troopers — unlike most soldiers, period — Davis rarely used profanity. “Ever-lovin’” was about as bad as he cursed.
“I wish this crate would hurry up,” said Salt. “I’d like to have the road mined already.”
“Probably won’t even get a chance to blow it.”
“We will.”
“I will,” said Davis.
“Yeah, fuck, you will.” Salt had known the black sergeant almost since basic training; they’d saved each other’s butts a few times — in bars, not combat. The two operations they had been on together, once in Panama and once before the start of the air war scouting targets, had gone as easily as visits to a church fair.
“I hate these low jumps,” said Davis.
Surprised, Salt jerked his head toward his friend. “You scared?”
“You bet I am.”
“Ah. Fuck you.”
“I am scared,” said Davis.
“Yeah.” Salt patted Davis’s leg. “Me fuckin’ too.”
CHAPTER 23
The ground intercept station betrayed no sign of life as Doberman leveled Devil Two off at five thousand feet. But the station wasn’t the point — Doberman continued toward it, holding the plane at an altitude that not only made it visible on radar but also fairly easy to hear from the ground. If the Iraqis were looking for Hogs up here, they had two very visible ones to track.
But there was no indication that he was being tracked. The AWACS had discounted Skull’s Roland read; there was nothing between here and Kajuk that could see them, let alone harm them. And the GCI site — just now visible in the Maverick’s IR viewer — looked like a kid’s squashed Erector set.
Doberman knew from bitter experience that the moment you thought you were safe was the moment you were most likely to get whacked. The Iraqi missile men had learned to keep their radars off-line until they were absolutely ready to fire; the handful of operators who had survived the early days of the war were good enough to flick the set on, fire within seconds, then shut down to lessen the odds of a wild Weasel or Tornado sending them to la-la land. Just because his RWR was quiet, just because the AWACS said he was clean, didn’t mean he was safe. On the contrary, it meant he had to sit at the edge of his seat, as wary as ever. The threat could come from any direction.
He missed having A-Bomb on his butt. Frankly, Preston didn’t exactly impress him. For one thing, the guy hadn’t flown an A-10 in years; Doberman didn’t understand why Skull let him join a mission where he’d not only be flying far behind the lines but at night. Better to take Bozzone, even if he was a kid. Billy had the moves and the stuff; all he needed was a little experience and he’d be a kick butt driver.
Plus, Preston didn’t like the A-10. Anyone could see he thought he ought to be back flying Eagles. Why the hell had he been sent here? Punishment?
Had to be something serious. A guy didn’t just fall into the A-10 community after flying Eagles. Hell, no. Especially a guy who’d nailed a MiG.
Doberman checked his INS. The units had a bad habit of drifting while you were flying, throwing everything off. Naturally, it only happened on a mission when precise timing and location were important.
Like tonight’s.
“Devil Three, this is Four. Uh, we still turning?”
Doberman cursed before hitting the mike button. “Turning,” he said, angry with himself for letting his thoughts drift, even though he was only about two seconds off the mark.
“Four,” acknowledged Hack.
Not like him to be late. Preston had him all out of whack.
As he banked south, Glenon began pulling back on the stick, beginning a gradual climb that would take them to just about fifteen thousand feet as they crossed the border. The tanker should be in a track about two miles further south.
Flying through enemy territory at “high” altitude went against everything a Hog driver was taught. The plane didn’t seem to like it either; she didn’t buck, exactly, but she did seem to be dragging her wings, taking her time on the long climb. She might also be wondering why she was heading south with unfired missiles.
Right about here, Doberman thought to himself, A-Bomb would chime in with something funny. But Preston stayed quiet.
Which was, after all, how they’d briefed it — silent com, talk only when necessary.
Damn, he missed flying with A-Bomb.
As Doberman’s radar picked up a pair of approaching F-15s, a voice on the long-distance radio frequency demanded that he and Hack identify themselves. As he went to acknowledge, Preston beat him to it.
“Hey assholes, we’re on your side,” said Hack.
If A-Bomb had said that — and it was the sort of thing he might have said — Doberman would have laughed. But somehow Preston’s remark pissed him off.
“Devil Three to Piranha Seven,” he told the interceptor pilot who had queried them. “We’re A-10As from the 535th Devil Squadron, heading for a refuel. You got a problem with that?”
The Eagles carried electronics gear to identify friendly aircraft; the FOF “tickled” equipment in the Hogs and painted them on the displays as good guys. That should have been done by now. The AWACS controller would also have given them information about the planes, since it was responsible for tracking flights in the sector.
So why were they being challenged?
“Yo, Blaze, it’s Hack. What the fuck are you doing?” said Preston.
“Hack? Major Preston? No way. I’m looking at a pair of flying pickup trucks. Hack’s a real pilot.”
“Stop busting our chops, Piranha,” snapped Doberman. “If this is a real fucking challenge, then get your goddamn ident gear fixed. Stand the fuck down.”
“Hey, relax Devil Flight,” answered the fighter pilot. “Just trying to giggle your nugget wingman.”
“You don’t bust chops by targeting me with your radar,” said Doberman.
“Negative. Negative. You weren’t targeted. Jesus,” said the Eagle jock. “Relax.”
“We have not targeted you,” said the other Eagle pilot. “Radars are not targeting you.”
Doberman, still playing righteous, didn’t even acknowledge. The planes rocked off to the east, back to whatever it was they were supposed to be doing.
“Devil Three, I have your six,” said Preston over the squadron frequency. “Blaze is okay. He’s just a ball buster.”