Skull edged the stick ever so slightly as he got ready to launch his second missile. The plane was right there, right with him, as tight to his body as anything, even his old Thud. Better than that, really, and truer, without having to worry so much about your muscles giving out. He was well into his dive, coming steep as if he were dropping unguided munitions— old-school habits— but this wasn’t a problem. He had the number three truck dead-on. The pilot punched out the Maverick, then turned his attention back to his windscreen. His cannon was loaded and ready to chew. An armored personnel carrier rumbled into his aim and he pushed the button on his stick. The force of the seven-barrel Gatling’s ten-thousand pound recoil seemed to hit him in the face, slamming his head back away from his eyes. His eyes didn’t move because they were fixed on the HUD and windscreen, guiding the steady stream of metallic death into the metal. He still had altitude and a good angle as he found another APC toward the end of the line and squeezed the trigger for three short bursts. The bullets sliced through the front and then the top of the lightly armored personnel carrier as easily as if it were made of tin.
Skull let go of the trigger and the plane bucked so sharply he thought he had flamed the engines. His stomach kicked some familiar juices up toward his chest and he recovered, knew where he was, realized the plane was fine. He lit the gun again, this time for a much quicker burst, lining up on a truck at the very end of the column, but missing it. He was by it and pulling off, his rhythm back, his heart pounding. Damn! It had been twenty-something years since this feeling of weightlessness and heartburn and adrenaline had wrecked his stomach. Twenty-something years since the rubbery plastic in his nose turned nauseous, and the straps pushed against his chest like the restraints on an electric chair. He’d missed it badly; missed the smell of sulfur that somehow whipped into his nostrils, and the suggestion of brimstone and Judgment Day he felt when dealing death to the enemy.
“We got flak coming up on your right wing,” said Bear in his ear. “Coming off a second column. You see them?”
It wasn’t Bear, it was A-Bomb. And he was telling Knowlington that one of the tracked vehicles off to the flank of the main column was a self-propelled anti-aircraft gun, the Zsu-23-4. But Skull’s brain blurred, put him in his Phantom, put him back to the last time he was trying to protect a downed squadron mate. He saw the flash of the gun out of the corner of his eye, and remembered the ridge in Laos.
The acid had burned through his stomach into his lungs that day. A whole ridge of fire came at them, unguided; a whole wall of lead. There was no way around it— just get the pedal to the metal because he was out of energy. As he nosed past, the plane seemed to be in slow motion. He heard Bear gasping for air through the open mike, trying to tell him something. His own mask was sucked up tight to his face. He was yanking the Phantom’s stick. For one of the few times since learning how to land, he was praying, realizing he actually might eat shit today.
An entire division’s worth of anti-aircraft guns. All set into the ridge. Shells were whizzing past unexploded, big shells, huge things, 57mm suckers that looked like streamlined piranha coming at him. Some moved fast and some moved slowly; all ran straight at him and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to get away from them except hang on tight.
It had taken maybe three seconds to clear the wall of lead, and no more than five seconds beyond that to push the airplane into a completely safe space. But the time passed like weeks, slower than the dark spot of a fur ball, the moment in a dogfight when the opponent is unsighted and quite probably behind you.
Bingo fuel, Bear was saying.
Bingo fuel. They’d been low on fuel even before the anti-air lit up.
The evasive maneuvers had only made things worse. By the time he recovered, there was barely enough in the tanks to get home.
So no matter what he’d done, he would have had to leave.
He was still to blame for mismanaging his fuel.
Truth was, you could always blame yourself, because you were never perfect. And you were always afraid, somewhere, somehow. Fear was always in your stomach; it was a question of whether you let it control you.
It had that day. And every time he went for the bottle after that.
No more.
No, that wasn’t true. He couldn’t say that. What he could say was that he wasn’t going to win today.
He could also say that he would come back, no matter what. He’d get back in the cockpit and head north again, feel the acid in his gut. And the next time the choice came between the prudent thing and the right thing, he would choose the right thing. Or try to.
Truth was, there were VC all over the place where Crush went down. The ridge was just the worst example. The flash Little Bear saw had more likely come from one of them than the Phantom’s crew.
His real mistake wasn’t the fuel, or even leaving his friend. His real mistake was letting fear win that night, and every night. That was his fuck up. It was something he knew, after all, but something he had to keep relearning.
“Repeat?”
It was A-Bomb.
“Repeat what?” he said, barely remembering to key the mike.
“Did you say you’re bingo fuel?”
He quick glanced at his gauges— he had enough gas to get up to Baghdad and back.
Well, almost.
“Negative.” Skull pushed through his orbit, climbing back for another run at the line of trucks. He’d flown out nearly five miles. Reorienting himself he saw some good, distinct column of smoke rising from the highway. He could see no more flak.
“Waxed the anti-air, but I think there’s another truck or two at the end of the column,” said A-Bomb. “Bastards all look the same to me.”
Skull saw A-Bomb’s A-10 above him. His wings were clean, except for the Sidewinders and ECM pod. It was all cannon-play from here on out.
“Let’s dust these guys,” Skull told him. “I don’t want anything moving.”
“My feeling exactly.”
“You got your stereo on?”
“It’s turned down.”
“Well crank it up,” said Skull, pushing into his attack.
CHAPTER 58
A-Bomb leaned back and looked at the remains of the convoy, scattered in disarray on and along the road. No way those suckers were bothering anybody for a long, long time. He pushed the Hog to continue its climb into what was now a crowded sky— a pair of F-15s had screamed overhead, chasing the MiGs off far to the north, while a four-ship of F-16s had pulled into the neighborhood to see if they could join in the fun. Behind them two big, dark-colored grasshoppers— big ol’ MH-53J Pave Lows— were skimming toward the spot where they’d located Mongoose. Alongside them came an A-10A from another squadron, one of the SAR team’s guardian angels.
Fuckin’ Goose. He’d laid out half the stinking Iraqi army and was just hanging out having a smoke, right? Or just about. Because damn straight the guy waving down there was Mongoose, no way it was anybody else. Maybe A-Bomb was at a thousand feet and moving over three hundred knots, but his eyes were still sharp as hell. There was no way, absolutely no way, he could mistake his ol’ section leader. There was a guy standing alone down there— well, kneeling maybe— and it had to be Mongoose. Could only be.
Son of a bitch probably be flying tomorrow. Plus, A-Bomb was going to have to stand him a whole slew of drinks for letting him get waxed.
Only fair.
Probably have to throw in some Micky D bags, too.