“Going that far north for two SAS guys who probably aren’t there isn’t risky?” demanded Hack. “You’re telling me that’s not fucking risky?”
“I’m telling you that if there’s a plane on the ground that’s being refueled, we have to rethink the whole goddamn mission,” said Hawkins.
“Don’t chicken out on me now,” said Preston.
“Hey, screw yourself, Major.”
“Okay, kids!” Knowlington’s voice was sharp. “Let’s take a big breath and think about this. What if the plane is damaged, Hack? Or you can’t get the fuel into it?”
“Then I jump back on the helicopter and go home. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
“What about gear”
“I use the Iraqis’.” Hack remembered the cumbersome helmet he’d used in Russia. The flight suit, however, had been a little lighter than Western gear, and in some ways easier to use. “I take my gear as a backup, get someone to work up the connections, and hell, I just fly low and slow enough that I don’t need oxygen and don’t worry about pulling big-time g’s. Piece of cake, Colonel.”
“It’s not a piece of cake,” said Knowlington coldly. “Wong?”
“From an Intelligence point of view,” said Wong, “possession of an operational MiG would be valuable. Very valuable. I myself would prefer acquiring it. As I began to mention to you earlier, Colonel, I considered requesting an MH-130 and a team of men to dismantle the plane at the base, returning with it.”
“Much too hazardous,” said the British general in charge. “Given the proximity of other Iraqi units, no more than sixty minutes can be allotted to a ground operation.”
“Potty,” said another of the Brits.
“Granted, stealing the plane would require a considerable coefficient of luck,” said Wong. “Nonetheless, its possession would be desirable. And the fallback situation would still result in considerable benefit: the expertise of a pilot’s firsthand review of the systems would be beneficial.”
“So let’s get it then,” said Hack. He glanced at the donut in his hand — he’d squeezed it so hard that its filling had burst from the sides.
“You think the Iraqis are just going to let us take it?” said Hawkins, as sarcastic as ever.
“If Wong can get close enough to look at it, I can get close enough to steal it,” said Preston, putting the donut down. “Let’s do it.”
“This isn’t a game,” snapped the Delta commander. “It’s not rah-rah go-for-it.”
“Major, how familiar are you with the MiG-29?” asked the British general.
“Very,” said Preston, staring at the cream on his fingers. “I was on the team that reviewed the Zuyev MiG in Turkey. I flew one at Kubinka in the Soviet Union last year. It was a very limited program, General. Admittedly, I would have liked more time at the stick, but I can do this. I’ve flown F-15s, F-16s, and a dozen other fast-movers,” he added. “I’m not just an A-10 driver. Pilot.”
“Was the MiG a one- or two-seater?” asked Wong.
“A two-seater,” admitted Hack.
He glanced at A-Bomb, who was not only uncharacteristically reticent, but had stopped sipping his coffee. His wingman had a frown so serious on his face, it made Hack look away, focusing his attention momentarily on his cream-laden fingers. He considered licking them clean, but reached for a napkin instead.
“I saw the Zuyev plane myself,” Wong was said. “It does supply a baseline.”
Russian pilot Alexander Zuyev had defected to Turkey in a Soviet MiG-29 in May 1989. His Fulcrum was thoroughly studied; so had other examples over the past year and a half, notably those possessed by Germany and India. A great deal of intelligence had been gathered on the various export variants. But there was something about possessing an actual example. Stealing a plane from out of the pocket of the Iraqi air force — that was irresistible.
It was an exploit that would make anyone involved instantly famous, instantly important, even if it failed.
A quick ticket to squadron commander, and not of A-10s.
“I believe purloining the aircraft would not be worth the risk,” said Paddington. “A plane too far, as it were.”
“Major Preston’s familiarity with the aircraft would be an asset in examining it, even on the ground,” said Wong. “His expertise would indeed be valuable. Mine extends to the weapons systems only, and of course I am not a pilot.”
“If — when we get it,” said Hack, “we’ll compromise everything the Iraqis do.”
“That would be an overstatement,” said Wong.
“Kevin, what do you think?” Knowlington cut in, addressing the Delta Force captain.
“With all due respect, I think stealing the plane is a long shot, Colonel. It’s a short field, and where are we going to find a mechanical crew and a helicopter to put them in?”
“We don’t need a mechanical crew,” said Hack. “Not if the Iraqis are already planning to fly the plane. They’ll have done it all. There’s auxiliary power. I go through the sequence, bring on the right engine — I can take off on just one engine, start the other in the air.”
“It does have that capacity,” concurred Wong.
“Long shot,” said Hawkins.
“What’s the worst case scenario?” said Hack. “I take a look, maybe some pictures, then you blow up the plane.”
“The worst case scenario is you get killed,” said Hawkins.
“I’ll take the risk.”
“Who’s taking the risk for everyone else?”
“Our commandos remain the priority for this mission,” said the British general. “Nonetheless, I agree with the major. There is a certain élan to taking the aircraft. We can supply some additional men from the squadron for the operation. We may also be able to find a mechanic with some expertise, though it is short notice.” The general paused, perhaps consulting with one of his aides for a moment before returning to the line. “It is, as you say, a long shot, Captain, but one perhaps worth taking as a subset to the main objective.”
“You sure you can get it in the air, Hack?” asked Knowlington. His voice sounded soft; this time it didn’t remind him of his father’s at all.
“Piece of cake,” said Hack, as forcefully as he could. In truth, he wasn’t familiar with the precise procedure for using the auxiliary power. But that was the sort of thing you could figure out on the fly.
Wasn’t it?
“We’ll have to replace Hack in the support package,” added Knowlington. “That’s a problem in and of itself.”
Preston suddenly felt a twinge of doubt. What if he was with the Delta team and the MiG took off before they got there? Then he’d look like a first-class boob, twiddling his thumbs on an operation that came back with nada. Or worse — the helicopters would be easy pickings, even for an Iraqi pilot.
Instead of being a hero, he’d look like a fool.
But you had to take risks; you had to push it. He’d been wrong to hesitate last night. He should have pushed in, not held back. War was about risks.
To steal an Iraqi plane — hell, he had to take the chance, no matter what the odds were. The payoff was just too immense, too beautiful.
Hack Preston, the man who stole Saddam’s MiG. Shit, what a set of balls that guy must have.
Made general before he was thirty.
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. President.
President?
“That’s not Disneyland you’d be going into,” Knowlington was saying. “It’s not Kubinka either. They’re going to shooting real bullets at you.”
“If the Delta people can do it, I can,” said Preston.
“Yeah, right,” said Hawkins.