It didn’t make sense — he was flying on one engine and ought to be using a lot less fuel than normal, which meant the camel’s hump ought to be at least half full.
Unless, of course, some of those Iraqi gunners had managed to nick his fuel tanks just right. He had no warning lights. The plane seemed to be flying just fine. But there was no arguing with the fuel gauge; A-Bomb had to tank, and soon.
A pair of MH-130s had been tasked with refueling the helicopters. A Pave Low with a buddy pack was also part of the package as an emergency backup. Unfortunately, the drogue-and-basket system they used was incompatible with the boomer receptacle the Hog had in its nose. But as he glanced at his notes for the nearest tanker track, A-Bomb wondered if there might be some way to make the system work.
If the A-10 had only had an auto-pilot, he might have set it, then popped the canopy and crawled on the nose, stuffed the hose inside the open fuel door and told them to pump away.
Fortunately, Coyote, the AWACS controller monitoring the area, had a better idea.
“We have a KC-135 on an intercept to you,” said the controller. “Call sign is Budweiser.”
“What I am talking about,” said A-Bomb, though Budweiser’s position left him somewhat less enthusiastic — he’d have to climb ten thousand feet and jog sixty miles west to catch the straw. He turned onto the course, hoping for the best — and ignoring the math, which showed that even if he did manage the climb on one engine, he’d run out of fuel about the time the KC-135 came into sight.
Budweiser, fortunately, was a typical member of the tanker community, those unsung but well-hung fraternity of guys who never wanted anyone to go home thirsty. The crew had already touched the throttle to accelerate toward the stricken Hog, passing over enemy territory.
“Devil One, we understand you have a fuel emergency,” the pilot radioed as soon as A-Bomb dialed in the frequency. “State your situation.”
“Pretty much bone dry,” replied O’Rourke. “Got a problem with one of my sumps, it looks like. I think I’m leakin’ like a water bucket without a bottom. Worst thing is, I’m down to my last bag of Twizzlers.”
“This A-Bomb? Shit. I’m always bailing you out.”
“I was countin’ on it, Bobby,” A-Bomb told the pilot. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have let Saddam shoot-up the tanks.”
“Thought those Hogs were impenetrable.”
“What I’m talkin’ about,” answered A-Bomb. “But that don’t mean they don’t leak a little.”
“Stay on your course and altitude, we’ll come down to you,” said the pilot.
“Just what I like — a beer guy who delivers,” said A-Bomb. “And hey, you still owe me ten bucks from that poker game.”
“Watch it, or I’ll tell my boomer to miss on his first try,” joked the pilot, referring to the crewman who handled the refueling gear.
“Won’t work,” said A-Bomb. “I owe him fifty.”
CHAPTER 53
Skull lowered his head, giving himself a moment to gather himself under the guise of checking his map.
He was remembering a mission, flying a Phantom F-4E out of Alaska, where he’d intercepted a Tupolev Tu-95 Bear — standard Cold War show, part of an ongoing project at the time where each side tried to out-chicken the other. Except this one was different. The Bear was very low, under five thousand feet, and flying erratically. It failed to answer a hail, and as it approached American territory, Skull’s flight leader fired a warning shot over the nose — except he hit the plane.
The Bear abruptly banked and headed back to Russia.
Skull had thought the Russian pilot wanted to defect, not bomb LA or even Anchorage. He had mentioned the possibility to his flight leader as they closed on the lumbering bomber. There was certainly no pressing need to fire on the plane, much less to hit it, even if the damage was probably minimal.
But his boss got a promotion out of the incident, bumped directly to general and fast-tracked at the Pentagon after that. He retired as a three-star muckety-muck with serious industry connections, and now worked, if you could call it that, as a consultant and lobbyist.
Hack reminded him of the Phantom commander. In some ways, the comparison wasn’t fair — Preston’s record showed he was a much better pilot, and undoubtedly wouldn’t hit something he wanted to miss. But he had a knack for finding himself in the right place at the right time, and for making recklessness look good.
Recklessness? Was it reckless to try and pull off a major intelligence coup? Was the whole mission reckless?
It came down to your perspective. The strike at Son Tay, the POW camp in North Vietnam, had been bold, even though it came too late to actually rescue anyone. Eagles’ Claw, the aborted attempt to rescue the Iranian hostages under Carter, was scored by most people idiotic, solely because of the accident at Desert 1 that doomed the mission.
And Splash?
Knowlington tapped his map, then sat back upright. He was four miles south of the airstrip. He checked the position of the helicopters carefully as he pushed northward, making damn sure to stay out their way. The last Apache, its fuel reserves pushed to the max, flittered over the ruins of the smoldering hangar and headed south. Two Chinooks followed, leaving three others and the Pave Hawks hovering in various spots over the base perimeter.
Then there was the wrecked Chinook on the ground, sitting in front of the buildings the SAS commandos had raided. Her nose slanted into the cement, her cabin crushed; smoke wicked from the side.
The Fulcrum stood astride the ramp maybe a hundred yards from the head of the runway. The wrecked Chinook was situated in such a way that the plane might not be able to squeeze past. Even if it did, the runway didn’t look incredibly long; the downed chopper might make it impossible for Hack to get off.
No prisoners, no airplane. Downed helicopter, God knew how many casualties. Total wash.
Preston would come out of it okay. He had that air about him. Pentagon would want to know what the MiG looked like: he’d end up serving as some NATO liaison or something. Get his squadron command a few months after that.
He was getting that as soon as Skull got back to Home Drome.
They had given Hack a radio frequency to use to communicate with Allied planes, including Devil Flight, but it was clear when Skull snapped onto it. That wasn’t surprising — Preston was going to have his hands full just figuring out the flight controls, let alone the radio.
“Devil Leader to Splash Delta. What’s your situation?” he said, switching to the D team’s com frequency.
“Devil Leader, this is Hawkins. We’re about to leave with the package.”
“Acknowledged. Captain, can he get around the helicopter?”
“Not sure. He’s fueled. No radio, they’re saying. You need details?”
“No. Okay.”
As Knowlington banked south in a loose orbit parallel to the western perimeter of the base, he saw two more Chinooks take off south. Splash Controller came on to ask about his fuel situation.
“Within parameters,” Knowlington responded blandly. He was actually at bingo, but had plenty of reserves to play with. Besides, it was obvious from the other traffic that he was the last available allied air asset — several fighters were now being scrambled to chase an Iraqi making a dash to Iran further north, and a group of Tornados had just been diverted to raid a suspected Scud site. If Preston couldn’t take off, he had to smash the MiG.
He tried Hack again but got nothing. His RWR flickered with a warning. Either a GCI station far to the southeast had turned on briefly, or the equipment was just getting jittery from being north so long. In any event, the threat seemed nonexistent.