“Well, what is precise?” Knowlington said to the Brit, trying hard not to spit the words.
“To be precise, Colonel, SAS finds itself short-handed for an important mission. Delta had been enlisted and air support is desired. You have worked with Captain Hawkins before, so naturally your unit was mentioned. The target is somewhat south of As-Samawah.”
“ ‘Somewhat south’ meaning how far, exactly?”
“Not that far,” answered Hawkins. The Delta Force captain clearly had little use for Paddington, and even less tolerance for BS or Padding’s circuitous route to the point. “It’s damn close to the Euphrates. No bullshit, Colonel. Serious Indian country. That’s why we need Hogs with us. Delta’s going to lead the mission,” added Hawkins. He put up his hand to keep Paddington from interrupting. “At least this assault. According to the latest intelligence, the target has a few Zeus guns for air defenses and nothing else. But we’re thinking that may change. Old airstrip, couple of buildings; it was used briefly during the Iran-Iraq war, hit by Iranian missiles, and then abandoned. Some troops there now, but no planes. The Brits want to check it out. Sir Peter’s here to give us the layout and report back to the general, if it’s a go.”
Paddington cleared his throat ostentatiously.
“You’re looking for Scuds?” asked Knowlington.
“No,” said Hawkins. “SAS lost two commandos. There’s a chance they’re being held there.”
“A small chance,” said Paddington. “Nonetheless, it cannot be dismissed.” He touched his hand to the side of his sport coat. It occurred to Skull that he must keep a flask there.
If the bastard took out the flask, Skull would throttle him.
Why did Paddington’s drinking bother him? The man was just a drunk, like him.
“Two other operations are planned at higher-probability sites,” said Wong. “SAS is conducting them itself, with RAF support. Captain Hawkins will lead a small team of Delta and SAS men on this operation. The A-10s would strike a total of six ZSU-23-4s at the target, then remain for any necessary support during the duration of the operation.”
Paddington’s nose seemed to float above the room. “The operation must be surgical, precise, and brief.”
“No shit,” muttered Hawkins.
Skull smiled at the Delta captain. “
“Two at a minimum. They clear out the antiaircraft guns, then mop up if necessary. We’re in and out in an hour, no more.”
“Four planes would be better,” said Wong, “since there is a possibility of additional defenses being moved into position. There has been considerable radio traffic, and several Iraqi units are in the general vicinity.”
Knowlington reached to his desk and opened the single drawer, removing a large Michelin paper map of Iraq that he’d gotten in the States before deploying. As-Samawah was about midway between Baghdad and Kuwait, right on the Euphrates. If the scale at the bottom of the map was to be believed, it lay about 175 miles north of the Saudi border.
A long ride over nasty real estate.
“Can you sketch out the defenses for me, Wong?” asked Skull.
The intel officer leaned over the map.
“From memory,” said Wong, “there would be a triple-A all along this approach that must be avoided. The Republican Guard facilities closer to the border have been mostly neutralized, but even so must be respected. An SA-6 battery is believed to lie somewhere north of the base, but has not been definitively located; its radar has never been activated so far as is known. Additionally, Humint sources have rumored several Roland batteries in this general vicinity, but again, no radars or other hard indications have been recorded. Even if they do exist, the most serious obstacle would be an SA-2 site here, twelve miles south of the base. Its radar covers nearly the entire approach. It has operated intermittently, for only a few moments at a time, undoubtedly to avoid targeting from HARM-equipped SAM killer. Perhaps it is working with human spotters. There is also a possibility that it is not actually functional, as the intercepts have never been strong or of long duration. Nonetheless, it can be avoided if the A-10s travel a very precise path, breaking sharply parallel to the radar, and then jogging back.
Wong straightened.
“How would the assault team get in if the SA-2 is there?” Skull asked.
He looked at Hawkins for the answer, but it was Wong who spoke, explaining that the helicopters would have two options — either the same corridor the Hogs took, or a slightly more direct route that took advantage of the terrain and anomalies in the SA-2’s radar net. This path, which Wong preferred, would have the helicopters fly at roughly four feet above the ground for a about five miles.
While in theory the Hogs could do that as well, Wong’s first route would allow them to use less fuel. It was also less stressful.
Not that a half hour’s drive near serious antiaircraft radars and just out of reach of several flak guns wouldn’t get the heart pumping.
“So what’s at the base?” Skull asked.
“As of yesterday afternoon, just the six ZSU-23-4s. No missiles, no armor, and no discernible troops for that matter,” said Wong. “This is the configuration, organized for attacks from the south and west, though the only other directions could be covered as well. Beyond that, I have not had an opportunity to consult the latest information.”
The ZSUs were mobile four-barreled antiaircraft artillery units. Ubiquitous and deadly, but the Hogs were used to dealing with them.
“When?” asked Skull.
“Dusk,” said Hawkins. “We want to hit it just after seventeen hundred hours. We’ll have a company’s worth of men, no more, Apaches and you guys, and whatever other air support RAF can through our way.”
“A company?”
“We don’t think there are a lot of people there.” Hawkins shifted uneasily; as if he was trying to convince himself. “There are two buildings. My guys are rehearsing it right now with a squad of SAS men. They’ve taken buildings before.”
Knowlington did a mental inventory of his squadron. He had four planes available; the question was which pilots to assign. His best guys had spent an enormous amount of time in the air lately.
He could fill one of the seats himself.
No. Not anymore.
Why not? It wasn’t like he was going to drink in the cockpit. That might be the one place he could trust himself.
“Bristol assured me that your people could be ready at short notice,” said Paddington.
“With all due respect to Captain Wong, he’s not in charge of getting the airplanes ready. Or drawing up the duty roster, or even assessing the risks.” Knowlington touched the top of his temple, rubbing his fingers deep into the well behind the skull bone.
“Colonel, if you don’t think you can do this, that’s okay,” said Hawkins.
“Don’t worry, Captain. We’re in.” Knowlington stood. “I just need to figure out who’s had the most sleep.”
CHAPTER 7
Lieutenant William “B.J.” Dixon stood on the concrete apron a few yards from the start of the runway, watching a bomb-laden Hog take off. It seemed like months since he’d seen such a sight, and years since he’d sat in a cockpit himself.
It had only been a few days. But those days were each a separate lifetime.
Dixon had parachuted into Iraq with a covert Delta Force team looking for Scuds. On his second night in-country, he’d called in a strike on a probable nuclear biological-chemical weapons bunker less than a hundred yards from his position.
Then time had blurred.
He’d hauled a sergeant nearly twice his age and double his weight out from under the noses of a dozen Iraqi soldiers.