Hogs #1: Going Deep (12 page)

OVER SAUDI ARABIA

1554

Mongoose
found the
two
Hogs flying together at about
three thousand feet. They were
climbing back toward the tanker like a pair of little old ladies walking up a
staircase.

"What the hell happened?"

"I think the wash from the tanker knocked something
loose in the wing," Doberman told him. "That and I might
have had a touch of vertigo creeping
in on the tanker."

"Definite on that first theory," said A-Bomb.
"Part of
your aileron is missing."

"Can you fly that thing?" Mongoose asked.

"Watch me."

"I don't know how that fuckin' wing is holding
together," said A-Bomb. "I
say we head for the nearest set
of sand bags
and the hell with King Fahd."

"I can make it," said Doberman. "I just
need some more
gas, that's all."

"I think we've pushed it far enough," said
Mongoose. He
pulled his
map open, double-checking their position. "Let
A-Bomb and me gas up, then call it a day. We’ll hang with
you until the chopper comes."

"Jesus, we've come this far," said Doberman.
"I know I
can do
that tanker. Just get the guy to come down to me
instead of the other way around."

"The tanker just bingo'd," said Mongoose.
"A
replacement is on the way."

"Fine. Have him meet us en route to Fahd,” said
Doberman. “Hell, I got
plenty
of gas. I can squeeze another hundred miles out of what I've got left. I'll back
off power another ten
percent."

"You're flying backwards as it is," said A-Bomb.
"No
shit, Goose, I
think we've pushed this as far as it can go."

"You can't order me to bail out. That's bullshit.
I'm
not losing this plane."

"You have to get a lot higher and faster to
refuel,"
Mongoose
told Doberman. "I don't know if you'll hang together."

"Get me a divert field then."

"What if the gear doesn't come down?"

"Man, why are you giving up on me?"

"I'm not giving up on you, Doberman. I'm trying to
keep
you in one piece."

M
ongoose bit back an angry response, then looked
at the
list of fields. They were all
pretty damn far from here;
might
just as well go on to King Fahd. He checked his map and the latitude-longitude
on the INS again. But it wasn't until he
glanced at his own fuel stores that it all clicked.

"Devil Two, give me your fuel status."

Doberman reported the weight of the fuel in his tanks
with a hair less belligerence than
before. Mongoose worked
out
the math. He checked his altitude, then cut his own power to take the Hog down
to about one hundred and eighty-five nautical miles an hour. The plane didn't
like
it; he dropped the
nose and went down to five thousand, where her complaints weren't quite as
vociferous.

"Were you serious that you can cut power ten
percent
and still fly that thing?" he
asked.

"Shit yeah."

"Do it."

"What's going on?" asked A-Bomb.

"I may have to take it lower," said Doberman.

"Go where you feel comfortable," said
Mongoose. He could tell Doberman had already figured out what he was
thinking. "Just don't put it into
the sand."

"We have to correct three degrees back north."

"Affirmative. I'll have the controller tell King
Fahd
we're on the way. A-Bomb,
go to the replacement tanker, top
off and come find us. There's a track ahead that I'll jump on as soon
as you're back. Doberman, listen - let's talk it
up the rest of the way back."

"You think I'm falling asleep?"

"Man, I'm tired," said Mongoose. "You got
to be
exhausted."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm a little beat. What do you
want
to talk about?"

"Who's gonna win the Super Bowl?"

"Washington."

"They're not in it."

"They will be by the time I land this thing."

***

According to Doberman's calculations, the stricken Hog
had precisely enough gas to fall one hundred feet short of
King Fahd. And no amount of math
could change that.

What he hoped for was a strategic gust of wind at the
last moment. Or maybe the incalculable
effect of fumes and
pilot willpower.

But even if he managed enough glide to make the strip,
he needed several things to happen. First
of all, he needed
clearance.
While the tower had relayed word that he would
get it, things had a way of changing at the last minute.

Secondly, an A-lOA's flaps were generally set at twenty
degrees to land. Doing that on only
one side would be like telling the plane to pretend it had been made by Black
& Decker. He figured he would be going so damn slow he might be able to
fake it. There was enough runway to roll for quite a ways— unless the strip was
cluttered with too much traffic. Then he'd have to stand on very thin brakes
and
pray.

Assuming the right-side landing gear worked, of course.
There was no way of knowing until
final approach.

But aside from those minor considerations and the fact
that for all he knew the wing could sheer off at any second,
he was having a wonderful day.

***

The thing was, A-Bomb had a double standard. If it had
been him flying the Hog, sure as
shit, he'd have argued for
King Fahd and told
Mongoose not to sweat it.

But he wasn't flying it— and that was no reflection on
Doberman's flying abilities because
the dog man was a hell
of
a balls-out driver— but damn it, he should have punched out as soon as they
were over the border. True, they would
have lost the A-10 in the process. But better safe than
sorry. You just didn't fly a Hog with
a hole in the wing.

Oh sure, you could. A-Bomb could. But he had a double
standard.

"Doberman, you read that?" A-Bomb asked when
the pilot
didn't
immediately acknowledge the tower's instruction that
he was cleared to take it in any way
he could.

"I got it," snapped Doberman.

"You okay with this?"

"You're sounding like my fucking mother today, A-Bomb.
I don't know which one
of you assholes is worse, you or
Mongoose. Why
don't you guys relax, huh?"

"Just making sure, prick-face. You ready to try your
gear?"

"You gonna hold my dick for me while I pee,
too?"

"I might."

A-Bomb slipped his Hog lower, trying to get a good look
beneath Doberman's wings. The front wheel was down
smooth, and so was the wheel beneath
the damaged right wing.

But of all things, his left wheel was stuck.

"Uh, Doberman, you're not going to believe this— "

"I'm already trying to get it down manually. It
must
have been hit when the missile
struck."

"No, man, the left wheel. The right one looks
fine."

"You sure you know your left from your right?"

"What's your indicator say?"

"Damn."

***

Doberman hit the handle to lower the gear twice more.
He couldn't for the life of him
figure what the hell the problem was. Like nearly all other aircraft flying, a
hydraulic system automatically snapped the landing gear in place. But the Hog
also had a safety system; because the
wheels folded backwards, they could be manually released
and
locked into place
with help from the slipstream or wind
beneath the plane. And that should have happened by now.

One good thing— dropping the right wheel hadn't
snapped the wing in two. Not yet,
anyway. But it hadn't made
it any easier to
fly.

The runway was maybe a hundred feet away, and damned if
the engine wasn't starting to choke.

He reached for the handle and once again dropped it.
Finally, he felt it move.

Or thought he did. Or hoped he did. There was no
turning back now.

***

Mongoose felt a surge of relief as Doberman's Hog rolled
along the tarmac, smart and sharp as if she'd just
been up for a quick qualifying spin.
Right behind her came an HC-130 Spectre gunship, also low on fuel and just
about
trailing an engine.

The major gunned his engine. Looking for his place in
the landing stack, he realized that he
had to pee so bad he
was
going to have to duck under the wing once he touched
down.

Assuming he could wait that long.

AL JOUF FOB

1539

Technical Sergeant Rosen
did a decent job with the Hog,
good enough to get the radio and all
of the instrumentation
working.
Between her and the scrub base's own mechanics, the
A-10 was patched and ready to go in
what must have been
world
record time. In fact, for a few minutes it seemed like
the base colonel was going to stick
it into a four-ship
element tasked to go north
and bomb trucks.

Dixon felt a twinge of panic when he heard that. But he
was also disappointed when the idea
was dropped and he was
told just to go home
instead.

The fuel queue was backed up worse than the entrance
ramp to the LA Freeway at rush hour.
There was an HC-130 at
the
head of the line, and damned if the big four-engined monster didn't look like
she was going to drain the trucks
dry.

Dixon tried to look disinterested as he sat in the
cockpit, checking his way points and
all of the marginalia
critical
for his return trip through King Khalid Military
City and back on to King Fahd. He was nervous, and
he wasn't
nervous. He
could do this in his sleep; it was an easy
ferry
trip home through friendly skies.

As long as he didn't come under fire. Then all bets
were off.

No they weren't, he told himself. He'd gotten spooked,
sure, but that was because it was the
first time and he
didn't
know what to expect. The next time would be better.
The next time he'd nail the son of a bitch.

He hated the fact that he had lied to Mongoose about
dropping the bombs. But on the bottom
line, it really didn't matter. He'd dropped them. He'd gotten his plane back in
one
piece. That was what was important.

He wondered if he shouldn't feel a little pissed off at
being moved into Doberman's plane.
Yeah, he was the lowest
ranking
pilot, the least experienced by far, but damn! That
was his plane.

And the son of a bitch had kept him from redeeming
himself.

You fall off a horse, you get right back on.

He could. He knew he could.

Whether the Herc was finally topped off or had just
exceeded the limit on its credit card,
the gas line began to
move.
Dixon eased up, wondering at the succession of jets that kept straggling onto
the desert strip. The end of the
runway and the access ramp were crowded with planes. If Jouf was this packed,
he wondered what the home dome, King Fahd,
would look like. Though much further behind the lines,
it housed a full list of units, not to mention every A-10 in the theater. And
its long, smooth runways would make it a convenient rest stop for battle weary
planes based further
south
or on one of the two carriers in the nearby Gulf.

"Hey Yank! Yank!"

Dixon suddenly realized that a man in a green flight suit
was doing jumping jacks in front of his right wing. His mouth seemed to be
moving; in any event, it was fairly obvious that he wanted to talk to him.
Dixon waved the fellow around to the left side of the plane and popped down the
cockpit ladder. He soon found a British pilot
leaning over the side into his seat. Damned if, through
the myriad of fuel and oil smells, the
stink of exhaust,
sweat,
gunpowder and metal, he didn't catch a strong whiff
of Scotch off the man.

The Brit gestured for Dixon to take off his helmet so he
could hear better. Reluctantly, Dixon did so. It didn't
help him hear any better, and now he
was sure it was Scotch.

"I want to thank you for helping rescue me,"
said the
visitor.

"When?"

"Just now. Up near Mudaysis."

"Wasn't me."

"What?"

"Wasn't me," shouted Dixon. He tried to
explain that
the Hog had
been grounded for the entire afternoon, and had
only just been repaired. The Brit nodded at about half
of
what he said.

"Some of your mates, then," said the other
pilot. "They
were definitely A-lOs."

"There's a bunch of us."

"Bloody good crew. They risked their lives. All
kinds
of radar operating there."

"Radar?"

The man nodded. "Got us coming in and out. My
commander
got a clear signal."

"Commander?"

"Lost we think." The pilot's eyes edged
downwards ever
so
slightly, then rose again, as if he had been watching a rowboat on a gently
ebbing river. "Thank your friends."

"I will."

Dixon waited for the man to jump down and run off
before obeying the ground crew's wild
gestures to come the
hell
forward and take fuel. Cinching up to get ready for takeoff, he wondered if he
had heard what the man said
correctly.

The GCI site they were supposed to take out that
morning was just south of Mudaysis.

His fuckup had cost someone his life.