His pulse hadn’t picked up yet. He figured it would, eventually. The adrenaline would start pushing into his stomach. There’d be a quick shock of fear, a motivator, not a paralyzer.
He could deal with fear. He’d been afraid before, plenty of times. Being afraid was familiar.
You took that whale breath, blew it out, let the muscle spasms pass through your system. You went through the wall and on the other side there was perfect clarity.
Usually.
Way point reached. Skull pushed the Hog gently, easing her left wing toward the earth as he brought her onto the prearranged course for the crash site. The plane slipped into the long, shallow glide as smoothly as a canoe edging onto a quiet lake.
The A-10A had two personalities. One was balls-out mud-fighting bitching, in Saddam’s face, screaming. The other, a surprise to Knowlington, was actually gentle. Partly it was her responsiveness to the controls, her tendency to go where you told her. Partly, too, it might have been her lack of top-end. But there was something else there, as if the plane were as human as he was. Maybe it too was trying to monitor the emergency frequency, listening for the piercing squeak of the rescue beacon or, better, Mongoose’s familiar voice.
Nothing but static.
Knowlington worked his controls carefully, putting his eyes around the cockpit and going through his paces, getting ready for the adrenaline. This was a marathon race, and they hadn’t even gotten to the start line yet.
There were sparkles far, far off in the distance. Somebody was taking flak.
Or more likely, an Iraqi gunner was spooked.
If the Hog’s navigational systems were working, they were now about two miles from the spot Mongoose and A-Bomb had been attacking when the plane went down. The colonel eased the Hog’s throttle off further; they were making two hundred and five knots and crossing seven thousand feet. The planes could not be heard above five thousand, and in the dark with their blackish green camo they were essentially invisible to anyone without radar. They’d trace out the attack route as closely as possible at this altitude, then gradually bring it down.
Skull definitely wanted to bring it down; while they were still in bad guy country and ought not push their luck too far, he figured the Hog sound would be instantly recognizable to Mongoose. If anything would provoke a flare, the hum of two Hogs would.
The seeker head in the Maverick found the wrecked overpass still hot from its pounding late yesterday; it was a fuzzy collection of wrecked debris in the small television monitor on the right side of the dash. Knowlington kept it on what passed for wide magnification, easing the Hog toward it with the fascination of a diver approaching an ancient wreck.
“How are we looking?” asked A-Bomb over the squadron’s common frequency as they pushed over the wreckage.
“I have the dummy missiles or what’s left of them,” said Skull. “Bunch of roadway. Maybe the two carriers, I think. A couple of trucks. There’s the Roland launcher. Broke it in half. Good shooting.”
“Wish I’d gotten it sooner.”
“You hear anything on Guard?” Skull asked.
“Nah. You?”
“No. Keep listening.”
“You, too.”
“I’m turning,” said Knowlington, moving to follow the path they believed Mongoose had taken when he was hit. He felt the prick of adrenaline in his stomach as the Maverick screen traced the ground into blankness.
CHAPTER 39
A-Bomb wanted a flare. A little Mark 79 pencil flare, shooting up to six hundred feet, sparkling for four or five seconds before dying out. A big Mark 13 would be even better. Those suckers lasted forever and you could see them from Washington, D.C.
Hell, he’d even settle for a strobe.
But the darkness gave him nothing back. The pilot gripped his stick tighter, following the colonel around the shoot-down area about three-quarters of a mile for another circuit. Scanning the ground with the TVM was slow work, a bit like panning for gold.
A shitload of guys had already been over this but they weren’t Hog drivers. Not that they lacked motivation or expertise or anything like that; they just weren’t part of the Hog brotherhood. Brothers felt stuff other relatives didn’t, simple as that. If he hadn’t been able to find him before, that was just because Mongoose was busy, maybe evading the enemy or something.
So give me a stinking flare, Goose boy.
“Let’s get low enough for him to hear us,” said the colonel, tilting the Hog’s nose downward as he spoke.
“Exactly what I was thinking,” said A-Bomb. He glanced at the radio controls, gave it more volume. The emergency band stayed silent; no chirp, no voice, no nothing.
Hot damn, Goose. Get your butt out of that pup tent and flag us down. My Big Mac’s getting cold, bro.
He ran his eyes around the ground. He’d have preferred having one of the Mavericks himself. Knowlington told him switching them around would have cost them too much time, and even laughed when A-Bomb told him he could set it up himself.
Which he could have, no sweat.
A-Bomb willed his eyes into full-blown owl mode as he stared from the cockpit. Maybe from now on he’d carry some carrots with him, get that extra night-light boost.
Hell, if only he had found an Apache pilot and made that trade. It was top priority when he got back.
Better yet, go mail order and buy himself a pair of starlight goggles. There’d be complications with the instrument glow but hell, Clyston or one of his guys could figure that out.
Maybe they could take whatever the gizmo was that worked the damn thing and expand it to fit the glass of the canopy. So you could have an entire panel of night vision.
That was what he was talking about.
Give me a flare, Mongoose. One lousy, stinking flare. That’s all I’m sayin’.
CHAPTER 40
By the time the Huey landed, Dixon had realized he wasn’t being clandestinely ferried back to the Home Drome, machinations or not. They had flown northwest, and at top speed; by his calculations Iraq was about half a stone’s throw away. He decided that clearance for the Special Ops Scud mission must have come through. His reward— or maybe punishment— was to be granted observer status on the first mission.
Not that he was objecting, but…
The Huey hulked in close to the dark hulk of a fat MH-53J. Originally drawn up as a heavy-lifter, the long-distance helicopter was bigger than a diesel locomotive and a couple of times more powerful. Something like fifty-five troops could crowd into the back, along with the three-man crew. Her real asset, however, were the powerful, long-range electronics and sensors that provided the “Pave Low” designation.
He wasn’t sure it was the right helicopter or even if he really, truly, should be here. But since he didn’t see any other helicopters nearby, Dixon jumped out and ran for it. He kept his head down though there was plenty of clearance.
“Hey, you Dixon?” said the sergeant at the door.
“Yeah?”
“Well come on, Lieutenant. We’ve been waiting for you.”
The sergeant grabbed hold of his arm and yanked him not only into the Pave Low, but practically through to the other side. At the last second, he managed to change his momentum and found himself stumbling toward the front of the big warbird. Just as he was about to steady himself on a bar near the cockpit, the big bird lifted off. Dixon bounced to his left then flew back to the right as the helo’s massive rotors beat the air. He slipped and rolled onto something hard.