“Because there’s plenty of time to check this out in the meantime,” said Hawkins. “We’re not leaving until nightfall. This is a potential Scud site with chemical warheads.”
“So is every damn town in Iraq, by your criteria,” said Doberman. “You just want to play Rambo.”
“You’re out of line, Captain!” roared Hawkins.
“Hey Dog Man, time for a walk,” said A-Bomb, grabbing Doberman by the arm before he could respond with a roar of his own. His wingman picked him up by the arms and carried him fifty yards into the desert before finally letting go.
“Damn it, A-Bomb. Let the hell go of me.”
“You’re out of line, Dog. Way out of line. Those guys saved our butts.”
A-Bomb’s voice had a tone to it so rare that Doberman felt as if he’d been slapped across the face. He felt his throat thicken as he lowered his voice, managing to calm his tone if not all his anger.
“That doesn’t mean we can let them go off and get themselves greased on a wild goose chase,” said Doberman.
“Wong thinks it’s worth taking a look.”
“Wong.”
“Braniac’s an expert, Dog Man. Besides, what the hell do you think these Delta guys were sent up here for? They’re in the wild-goose-chasing business, don’t you think? That’s half the fun of Spec Ops.”
“Yeah, fun. This isn’t a game, A-Bomb. We lost a squadron mate today.”
“I know that.” A-Bomb gave him a disapproving frown. “But we’ve got a job to do. I agree with you, we go where they go. But we have to play it their way.”
“I hate it when you get serious, A-Bomb,” Doberman said. “You’re a lot more fun joking around.”
“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
“Yeah. All right. Shit.” Doberman stamped his feet against the ground. “We ought to be the ones to check out the village.”
“If we do that, we’re going to have to get real close and personal, which’ll definitely tip them off. Think about it,” said A-Bomb. “We can’t stand back with Mavericks and play push-button bye-bye. No sir. If we only have the cannons to take them out, it’d be better to know what we were shooting at before we went in. I mean, I like dodging flak as much as anybody, but it sure helps to know where you’re going when you’re duckin’.”
A-Bomb’s voice had gradually resumed its normal bounce, and now the desert practically shook with his overstated enthusiasm. “What we ought to do is have the Delta boys go in there, scout the area, then call us in once they have a target. This way we’re just in and out, no fooling around. That’s what I’m talking about. No muss, lots of fuss.”
“Yeah,” said Doberman. “But that fucker was holding out on us with the fuel. I could have been killed.”
“Nah. He’s just blowing his reserves now because they’re leaving,” said A-Bomb. “Besides, you’re too damn lucky to get killed.”
“Right.”
“It’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
Doberman still wasn’t convinced, but there was nothing to do about it now. “You think Rosen’s fix on the hydraulic line’ll hold?” he asked.
“Ah, there’s two different lines, for cryin’ out loud. Hey, I can fly the Hog without hydraulics. Jeez, plane and me been flying together so long I can steer her on thought power if I have to. Now what I’m worried about is finding some decent coffee. Have you tasted the stuff they’re trying to pass off as joe up here? My aunt brews better stuff for her cat. And she hates her cat.” A-Bomb shook his head sadly. “Was a time being a Delta operator meant you were skilled in basic survival skills. Standards are going right down the poop chute. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
CHAPTER 13
Finally lashed into his F-15C Eagle cockpit, seat restraints cinched, Major Horace “Hack” Preston gave his crew chief a thumbs-up. The sergeant nodded, then reached over and removed the last safety pin from the ejector seat before disappearing down the boarding ladder. Hack said his customary prayer and turned his eyes to his kneepad. He’d already memorized nearly all of the details of his mission— he’d been blessed with a nearly photographic memory— but repeating each bit of flight data aloud had become an important part of the preflight ritual. He’d have sooner left his waterproof underwear back in the barn than takeoff without flipping through the neat rows of carefully lettered notes. Navigation points, frequencies, tanker tracks, even some weather notes filled the small pages on the pad. He worked through quickly but methodically, thumbing his way to the board at the bottom.
The thin piece of wood had flown with him now for nearly five years. The top half contained two sayings. Hack dutifully read and recited both to himself:
“Wisdom excelleth folly, as far as light excelleth darkness.”
“Do your best.”
The first saying was from Ecclesiastes. The second one he had heard from his father nearly every day until leaving for the Air Force Academy.
Beneath the words was a Gary Larson cartoon. It showed an entomologist in a bug fetal position above the caption, “How entomologists pass away.”
There was no reason, really, for the cartoon, except that it had once struck him as hilarious. He looked at it, smiled, and flicked the paper back in place, completing his routine.
The cartoon was the only frivolous thing in the gleaming Eagle, unarguably the most potent operational interceptor in the world. To Hack and his squadron mates, it was certainly the star of the Gulf War.
Ready for his mission, Hack waited while the huffer— a diesel-powered device on a large mobile cart used by the ground crew to start the plane’s engine— kicked the fighter’s F100-PW-200 turbofans to life. Hack allowed himself a moment to soak in the rumble, then proceeded through his pre-takeoff checklist, slowly but surely making sure the plane was ready to go.
While the interceptor could be quickly scrambled into action, under normal circumstances the preflight briefings and prep work stretched past two hours; sometimes twice as long as the “working” portion of the mission. This was normal for Hack, who was notorious for demanding a high level of preparation before any Eagle under his command took to the sky. Better to take care of a problem on the ground, he figured, than at thirty thousand feet.
Piranha Flight’s four interceptors were slated to patrol a wide swatch of western Iraq this afternoon, working in pairs as roving marshals on the Wild Western frontier. Their missions had become progressively more aggressive and free-wheeling as the air war proceeded. While other Eagles and Coalition fighters might be part of large packages of planes with specific flights to escort, the Piranhas had been tasked today as roving interceptors. Working with a controller in an AWACS E-3 Sentry, Hack and his flight would Fly a long loop or racetrack high over enemy territory. At the first sign of activity, they would be vectored in for a kill.
While the other Piranhas had flown several such missions already, they had yet to fire in anger. Today, however, promised to be different. For the first time, their track would take them near a large enemy air base. It housed at least a dozen MiGs and its runway had survived numerous bombings by the British RAF. The intelligence specialists at Black Hole reported that the Iraqis were getting anxious; a U-2 spy plane had caught support vehicles moving around the ground. Word was, the Iraqi planes were going to try and make a run for it, maybe to Iran.
Which pleased Hack no end. His mission— his job and his life— was dedicated to splashing MiGs. He hoped and had even prayed last night to get his chance to do that today.