Hawkins’ attention drifted. An RAF reconnaissance Tornado would zoom over the small base roughly ten minutes before the Chinooks were to land. It would check the defenses one last time. The A-10s would pound anything that had materialized and then clear the assault teams and the supporting Apaches in.
Standard house-clearing tactics — flash-bang grenades, A-Bombs, MP-5s, in and out.
Though they came from different armies, the troopers and the commandos were equipped roughly the same. The SAS men carried American M-16 Armalites with grenade launchers, just as some of the D boys did; they referred to the guns as 203s after the M203 designation for the launcher. They also had two Minimis on their team. Three of Hawkins’ men carried silenced MP5s, very light and nasty submachine-guns that the commandos were also familiar with; two others had Mossberg A-Bombs. Between them, the commandos and troopers carried a large number of grenades, the nastiest of which was arguably the white phosphorous or “phos” to the SAS men; the ingredients could burn through unprotected skin and eat a man’s body. Among their other tasty treats were 66mm man-launched anti-armor rockets, modern-day disposable bazookas that could take out most modern tanks.
“Hit at last light,” said Burns.
“Yeah,” said Hawkins, barely paying attention.
“I’ve heard your A-10s are slower than bloody helicopters,” said the sergeant. “Will they be of use?”
“I wouldn’t worry about the Hogs,” Hawkins told him.
“You’ve worked with them before?”
“Oh yeah,” said Hawkins. “Mean bastards.”
“Fucking ugly.”
“Yeah,” said the captain.
“Ugly’s good.”
“The best,” said Hawkins.
CHAPTER 11
Hack’s heart picked up its beat as he neared the border with Iraq. The contrails of a flight of bombers arced across the top quarter of his windscreen; black clouds of smoke lined the horizon to his right. To his left, faint flickers of light — maybe reflections, maybe tracers — glinted in the dust of the desert floor.
It was one thing to haul ass across the border at thirty-thousand feet in the world’s most advanced fighter jet, when the flick of your wrist could increase your thrust exponentially and take you to Mach 2 in the blink of an eye. It was quite another to be coaxing a Maverick-laden Hog through 15,000 feet, hoping a tailwind to boost you to three hundred knots.
Why had he taken this damn A-10 assignment?
Because he had no choice. Because it would get him where he wanted to go — squadron commander, colonel, general. Beyond.
Why the hell had he volunteered for this mission?
Knowlington had put him up to it. The colonel knew damn well that if he didn’t volunteer, he’d look like a chickenshit to the rest of the squadron.
Stinking Knowlington, so full of himself, so cocksure that he still the hottest stick on the patch. If he was so hot, why the hell hadn’t he taken the mission himself?
He would have, if Hack hadn’t raised his hand. Showed him up.
One thing he had to say for Knowlington — the SOB didn’t seem to be drinking, or at least he was a hell of a lot more careful about it here than in Washington.
He would sooner or later, though. Then Hack would take over the squadron, move on with the game plan. Get his own squadron, make his mark, transfer back to a real plane. A lot of older guys were choking the path to promotion, but he could cut around them with a good job here.
Which was why he’d volunteered, right? Kick some butt in a major mission. Somebody would be bound to notice.
It was more than that. Hack was ambitious, no denying that. Nor could he deny — to himself — that he felt he’d screwed up on this morning’s mission and wanted to redeem himself.
Not screwed up. Just gotten scared when he didn’t have to be scared.
But he’d volunteered for the Splash package simply because he felt like he ought to be in the mix. He belonged on the toughest assignments. Prestige, ego, redemption, and all that other bullshit were beside the fact.
Preston tried to push the fatigue away, focusing his eyes on the navigation gear, checking his way-points, mentally projecting himself against the sketched lines of his flight plan.
“Two minutes to border,” he told his flight.
The others acknowledged. Once more, he had O’Rourke as his wingman. Doberman in Devil Three had Gunny on his six. The Hogs would work in pairs above the target, with Preston and A-Bomb on the east side on the first run, Glenon and his wingman on the west.
Preston nudged his stick as he came over the border, then gave his instruments a quick check. His fuel burn seemed a tiny bit high; it was barely noticeable, but might be a problem later on, stealing valuable minutes over the target area. He told himself to try to make up for it, if he could.
Checks completed, he rocked his body back and forth in the ejection seat, coaxing away the knots and aches. In some ways, this was the worst part of any mission — the long middle. You could easily be lulled to inattention. Worse, a tired pilot might fall asleep.
Like nearly every other pilot in the service, Hack had a stash of pep pills in his flightsuit for emergency use. But he hated to use them, and in fact had taken an amphetamine only once in his life, and that was in college cramming for a test. He didn’t even like aspirin or antibiotics. He’d accepted his anthrax shot before coming to the Gulf only because he figured he’d be court martialed if he refused.
He hit his way-marker, nudging ten more degrees east as they prepared to leg around the SA-2 coverage area south of Splash
The missile complex had been hit earlier in the war. Hack suspected that its gear had been so damaged by early Allied raids, that all it could manage was a baneful bleep, the ratted of an empty scabbard. But there’d be no way to tell until it launched a few flying telephone poles.
If it did that, a Weasel would nail it. A Phantom was flying patrol circuits in the area, ready for the SA-2 and anything else that might pose a threat.
Hack checked his watch — they were right on schedule.
In exactly 120 seconds, an RAF Tornado would fall out of the sky near the river ahead and blaze over the abandoned Iraqi base. The Tornado’s high-tech cameras would take one last look at the base before the ground teams went in. If they spotted any antiaircraft guns or SAMs, the Hogs would hit them just before the RAF Chinooks came in range.
“Devil flight, this Splash One,” said a voice with a British upper-crust accent as they hit the next-to-last way-marker before arriving at the target. “Position, please.”
As Hack clicked to acknowledge, the RWR went off — an Iraqi ground intercept radar had just come up ahead.
Several voices clogged the circuit. Somewhere in the middle of the static, Hack hoped, was the voice of the F-4 Wild Weasel pilot.
Hack waited for the cacophony to clear, then calmly acknowledged Splash One, giving his position and asking how far the helos were from setting down.
Before the Splash pilot could respond, an AWACS controller further south barked out a warning: Break ninety. A short ranged but potent Roland missile battery north of the target area had turned itself on.
The controller called for the Hogs to make a hard turn, taking them out of harm’s way. But because of the proximity of the SA-2 site and defenses to the east, it would mean the Hogs would have to backtrack around to pick up the proper vector into the target. That would screw up their timing and eat into their fuel reserves.
Weasel would nail the Roland, which couldn’t hit them from where it was anyway. Screw ‘em.