The AIM-9’s proximity fuse circuitry got so confused that it decided it had missed its target and therefore ought to detonate anyway.
Had they been close enough, the fragments would have done serious damage to a typical, unarmored air frame. In this case, however, they were just so much more shrapnel littering the air as Dixon recovered from his swooping roll and swung for the chopper. The Hind splashed out some bullets in his direction, then cranked back toward the Pave Lows, guns blazing.
Throttle to the firewall, the Hog moved nearly twice as fast as the Hind; the pilot was nearly in front of the helicopter before realizing where the hell he was. He pulled hard left, knocking the Iraqi off his course but taking a wing’s worth of 12.7 mm shells for his persistence.
Orbiting quickly, Dixon took as slow a breath as he dared, steadying his hand on the stick, glancing at the weapons panel though he knew the cannon was ready. This time he didn’t need Knowlington’s advice — he felt the stick in his grip, felt the plane around him, saw the Hind flashing to the right and knew that it would fall into the Hog’s crosshairs in a half second.
There is no precise formula for becoming a combat pilot, no clear line to be crossed. A green newbie passes a series of initiations that guarantee nothing and yet are more critical than oxygen. It happens in various ways at various times, sometimes noticeably, most often not.
For Lieutenant William James “BJ” Dixon, it happened the second he pressed his finger on the red trigger, lighting the A-lOA’s GAU-8/A Avenger cannon, and watched as the stream of 30 millimeter slugs tore the helicopter in front of him to pieces.
CHAPTER 58
Captain Hawkins shoved the British pilot to the ground as the fireball erupted less than a hundred yards from them. Oil, metal and blood rained through the air, the Hind spewing its guts as it tumbled into the desert, the biggest chunk of the wreck just clearing the second Pave Low, squatting on the ground thirty yards beyond Hawkins’ craft.
“Go, let’s go,” he screamed, spitting sand from his mouth. He clawed the back of the pilot’s flight suit, lifting and dragging him to the door of the waiting chopper. A crewman helped him pitch the major in, head-first.
Sergeant Winston and one of the other squad members crawled over him. The inside of the giant chopper echoed with shouts. Hawkins felt the floor move beneath his stomach. He rolled, smacking his arm against something very hard as the MH-53 lifted off.
“Rhodes, you okay?” he asked the British pilot as he got to his knees.
“Bloody hell,” said the pilot, looking up from the floor. “I do believe I’ve lost my lucky pen.”
The Special Forces squad and nearby crew members exploded with laughter. Hawkins was practically blinking away tears as he scanned the compartment, making sure everyone had gotten back safely.
“We’re all here, sir,” smirked Winston. “Cut it a bit close, though. Good thing the Iraqi was off with that first round of missiles or we’d be walking.”
While RAF Major Rhodes searched his various pockets for the pen, Hawkins patted his own uniform down — he wasn’t entirely convinced he’d made it back intact.
He had. Along with the rest of his team.
“Kind of close, huh Captain?” Winston asked, smirking. “Our friends took their time,” he added, jerking his finger toward the window. The two A-lOAs were disappearing in the distance.
“Were those Thunderbolts?” Rhodes asked.
“Warthogs,” said Winston. “Nasty mothers.”
“Quite,” said the Brit approvingly. “But bloody ugly.”
“I don’t know,” said Hawkins. “They looked kind of pretty to me. Welcome aboard, Major. You want some tea? It’ll be cold by now, but it is Earl Gray.”
PART FOUR
NO PLACE LIKE HOME ’DROME
CHAPTER 59
Even though congratulations were still crackling across the radio, the euphoria of the battle faded as Mongoose took stock of their fuel situation. He unfolded his map across his lap, plotting how far they could nurse the fumes they had left. It wasn’t pretty — even flying directly south, on minimal power and at dangerously low altitude, they would miss the border by a good five miles.
“Cougar, this is Devil One. Have to advise you of a fuel emergency,” he told the AWACS, unsure of how precise to be — there was always a possibility the Iraqis could be listening, and decide to send a welcome committee.
“Affirmative,” said the E-3 controller. “We’re aware of your situation. We need you to fly to new coordinates. Hold on just a second while we fix the math. My buddy here can’t count higher than ten.”
The joke sounded more than a bit hollow. Before Mongoose could ask what was going on, the controller shot them a heading that took them nearly as far east as south, further inside Iraq.
“Dixon, did you copy that?” Mongoose asked.
“Yeah, I don’t get it either,” said the kid.
Mongoose could feel a bubble of anger starting to rise in his chest. He told himself to calm down — the last thing he needed was to go ballistic right now. But it was a hell of a time for a screw-up.
“Cougar, this is Devil One. Please recheck your numbers.”
“Our math’s fine,” snapped the controller. “Just proceed.”
“You’re sending me to a tanker?”
“That’s affirmative.”
“You’re aware where that takes me?”
“Better than you.”
He got Dixon on the squadron’s private — or semi-private, as experience had shown — frequency, and asked his opinion.
“You got me, Major,” said the pilot. “They repeated the numbers twice.”
“Okay. Let’s give it a shot. If we dump the Mavericks we’ll give ourselves a bit more leeway.”
“You read my mind.”
Mongoose half-believed they had stumbled into an elaborate Iraqi plot until a dozen planes — all friendlies — appeared in the sky directly in front of them. A motley assortment of allied craft, including a flight of F-15 interceptors, at least three F-16 Vipers, a British Tornado and a Phantom Wild Weasel, had been rounded up to provide a posse for a KC-135, lumbering deep into Iraqi territory for the emergency refueling. There was a high CAP and a low CAP and a mid CAP, a pair of close escorts and a chase plane and an AH-130 Spectre gunship tagging along for good measure.
“Hey, you the guys that crashed the choppers?” asked one of the Eagle pilots.
“My partner got the kill,” said Mongoose. As the words came out of his mouth, he realized he felt a bit like a proud papa. “I think mine got away.”
“Shit, you’re gonna put us out of work,” guffawed the F-15 pilot.
“You sure you shot him down, or did you just scare the hell out of him with that plane?” joked another.
“Devil One, this is your milk cow speaking. How bad is your fuel situation?”
Mongoose glanced at the fuel gauge. “I got seven minutes. Devil Four’s got eleven and a half. That right, BJ?”
“Make it twelve.”
Mongoose could almost hear the tanker pilot whistling to himself. The lumbering jet — outwardly similar to a civilian 707 — swung into an orbit toward them, still struggling to get low and slow. The pilots quickly decided Mongoose would grab a few pounds of fuel, then back off and let the kid tank before topping off.