Jim DeFelice
Death Wish
PROLOGUE
Standing watch one morning in their trench a few yards from the Iraqi border, Private Smith and Private Jones began discussing aesthetics.
Or more particularly, how shit-fully ugly the desert in front of them was.
The conversation soon turned to a comparison of the ugliest things they had ever seen.
“The back end of a seventies’ Buick,” said Jones.
“Mary Broward’s face,” said Smith.
“Things, things,” said Jones, trying to rein in the discussion.
“She was a thing.”
“If you’re including stuff like that,” sniped Jones, “Sergeant Porky’s rear end.”
“You saw Porky’s butt?” asked Smith.
Jones’ response was drowned out by the whiz and explosion of a series of Iraqi shells landing uncomfortably close to their position. It was the third attack of the afternoon, and by far the most accurate. Geysers of dirt burst over their trench, covering their prone backs with grit. The ground shook as the pounding continued, and it quickly became clear that this time, the Iraqis were serious about what they were doing — the rain of explosives started a slow but steady walk toward the privates, the enemy homing in on their position.
“Mayday! Mayday!” screamed Smith, grabbing for the com pack that connected them with HQ. “Shit, incoming. We’re taking serious incoming.”
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” shouted Jones, grabbing his buddy. Just as they rose, a blast pushed them face down in the sand.
“Pray! Pray!” yelped Smith.
As Jones started to carry out his friend’s suggestion, a fresh sound filled the air: a hum that managed to carry over the steady roar of the steadily approaching explosions. The hum became a roar, then a piercing whine and a loud metallic hush, the sound a steel bar might make if it were being beaten back into molten ore. The ground reverberated with the hiss of a thousand volcanoes. The sky flashed with lightning. Both men felt their ears pop.
Then, silence.
Smith and Jones managed to rub the sand out of their faces and look skywards just in time to see their saviors circling above: a pair of U.S. Air Force A-10A Thunderbolt II attack planes, better known as Warthogs, or simply Hogs. The A-10s had flattened the enemy artillery with a strong but simple dose of Maverick AGM-65 air-to-ground missiles. The dark-hulled beasts tipped their ungainly wings back and forth in greeting, then flew off.
“Now that’s fuckin’ ugly,” said Jones.
“Ugly, fuckin’ ugly,” agreed Smith. “How the hell do they fly?”
“Damned if I know. Too ugly to land, I guess.”
“I could kiss ‘em.”
“Me too.”
“Saved my butt,” said Jones.
“Now that’s ugly.”
“Not half as ugly as yours.”
“Not half as ugly as theirs.” Smith thumbed back toward the planes.
“Damn ugly.”
“Most beautiful fuckin’ ugly I ever saw.”
“Damn straight.”
PART ONE
DRIVERS
CHAPTER 1
It briefed damn easy: Head exactly north four miles off the last way marker, dive below the cloud cover, plink the tank.
But in the air, falling through thick clouds at five thousand, just finding the T-54 battle tanks was an accomplishment.
Or would be. Major Horace Gordon Preston, better known as “Hack,” clenched his back teeth and pushed harder on the stick, urging the nose of his A-10A Thunderbolt II “Warthog” downward. The Hog grunted, her angle of attack slicing through forty-five degrees as she finally broth through the thick deck of clouds. Unblemished yellow sand spread out before her, oblivious to the war. The targeting cue in the plane’s heads-up display ghosted white and empty over the dirt as Hack hunted for the vehicles.
They were supposed to be dug into a revetment on the southwestern end of Kill Box Alpha Echo Five. He had the fight place, and it was unlikely that the Iraqis would have moved the tanks this early in the morning. They had to be around here somewhere.
He was going to nail them the second he saw them. A pair of Maverick AGM-65B electro-optical magnification air-to-ground missiles hung on his wings, balanced by four Mark-20 Rockeye II cluster-bombs. The Mavericks would be fired first. He’d then close on whatever was left of the target and pop the Rockeyes.
Assuming he found something to pop them on.
“Yo Devil One, you got our cupcakes yet?”
“One. Negative,” snapped Hack, acknowledging his wingmate, Captain Thomas “A-Bomb” O’Rourke.
“Try nine o’clock, four miles.”
Hack glanced to the northwest. A brown smudge sat in the distance there, too far away for him to make out. Still, it was something; he angled his wings and turned in that direction, leveling out of his dive. The nine-inch television screen at the right side of his cockpit control panel fed video from the optical head in the missile on his port wing; Hack had a perfect gray-scale image of undulating sand.
Preston glued his eyes to the altitude indicator in the middle of the dash, momentarily worrying that he’d lost his sense of where he was. Low and out of position for an attack, he realized he should tell A-Bomb to take the lead. But that would have felt too much like giving up.
I’m only flying a Hog, he reminded himself. I can plink tanks with my eyes closed.
Three or four years ago, that might have been true. He was a high-time A-10 driver then, with tons of experience in Europe. But he hated slogging around in the slow-moving, low-flying planes. Flying them was about as glamorous as going to the prom with your mom’s grandmother, and not half as good for your career. Thankfully, his Washington connections came through with better gigs, transferring him briefly to the Pentagon before finally sliding him into an F-15C wing. He came to the Gulf with the fast movers, flying as a section leader; only a few days ago he’d nailed a MiG in aerial combat over Iraq.
Within twenty-four hours — hell, within four — he was transferred to Devil Squadron, back out of the fast lane, back into Mom’s grandmom’s Model T.
The general who came through with the billet advertised it as a command move, the chance to lead a squadron, admittedly one of Hack’s most cherished goals. He hadn’t told him it was with A-10s until it was too late. Nor was it a real command — he was only the squadron’s director of operations or DO, second in line behind the commander.
The way Hack was flying today, he was lucky someone didn’t bust him back to lieutenant. He needed more altitude to make the attack work. Still not entirely confident that the smudge was anything but a smudge, he began a tight bank, intending to spiral up like a hawk as he proceeded.
The A-10 groaned. Never particularly adept at climbing, the plane labored with a full load tied to her wings.
“Yo, Hack, you got ‘em?” asked A-Bomb.
“One. I’m not sure that’s our target.”
Preston could practically hear A-Bomb snickering through the static. He came through his bank and pushed his wings level, now dead on for the dark brown clumps. Maybe tanks, maybe not — the video screen was a blurry mess.
Could be a pair of T-54s buried in the sand. Then again, it could be an I Love Lucy rerun.
A few stray clouds wisped in to further obstruct his vision. Hack cursed at the gray fingers, flipping back and forth between the two magnification cones offered by the missile gear in a vain hope that it would magically help him find the tanks.