CHAPTER 36
Doberman swung back to the north, hunting through the blur of shadows for the highway and culvert. It was his second orbit south of the target area, but he still had trouble getting his bearings, let alone finding what he wanted to hit. Between his altitude— he was a nudge over 12,000 feet— and the twilight, most of what he saw looked like light chocolate and dark mud.
Ten more minutes and he’d only dark mud. The infra-red seeker in his Maverick could be used as a primitive night-vision device, but the small angle on the viewer made it at least helpful to narrow the general area down before trying to find the target. Doberman’s normally excellent eyes weren’t cooperating; between the shadows and his fatigue he wasn’t even sure he had the highway. What he thought was the highway jagged to the right, which didn’t seem right. He angled the Hog, nearing the northernmost edge of the circle he was drawing before he happened to glance to the left and saw a tiny brown brick at the left corner of his windscreen. He lost it as he began to turn, but he realized it must be the mobile SAM launcher.
Banking, Doberman quickly reoriented himself. And now the shadows had meaning— there was the village, there was the hill. He had the highway, knew now where the SA-9s would be. He mapped out a long wide loop that would give him an easy approach toward the culvert.
Be nice to hear from Wong about now. He’d tried twice already without getting an answer.
“Devil One to Snake Eaters,” he said, pushing his mike button in. “Yo, Wong, what’s the story? Come on! You up or what?”
Doberman took his eyes off the windscreen to double-check the frequency and repeat the call.
Nada.
Dark Snake, the Blackhawk that was supposed to be rendezvousing with the team, didn’t answer his hail either.
He came around at the southern end of his orbit, swinging into the approach. He was at nine thousand feet, roughly ten miles south of the culvert, lined up for a direct shot in. At twelve thousand feet, the Mavericks were accurate to roughly ten miles; the closer he got, the better his odds of hitting the target. The SA-9s protecting the Iraqi launcher had a range of about five miles at that altitude; that left him with a perfectly safe firing envelope of just under a minute, plenty of time to take two shots under ordinary circumstances.
But that would mean attacking the SAMs with the cluster bombs. Tricky in the dark.
Better to fire the Maverick, circle back, make sure he hit. Then he could dial up one of the SA-9s on the TV screen, blow it to smithereens. He’d then have the option of using the cluster bombs on the last launcher, or letting the F-16s worry about it.
Be nice to hear from Wong about now.
Gravity tickled his side as he righted the Hog and slotted into the attack run. Doberman saw a flash of light on the ground off his left wing; knew that meant the fire team was in trouble. But it was too late now— he pushed his head down into the Maverick monitor, easing the cursor toward the big shadow at the very corner of his screen. He waited for the shadow to move toward him— it was Zen, these final seconds, or maybe yin and yang, the target moving and the cursor moving, coming toward each other. It could be described by a mathematical formula: A x B = boom.
He had the dark spot under the highway, the cursor was there. His thumb moved over the trigger.
“Bing-bang-boom,” he said calmly, pushing the Maverick off from beneath his wing. The thick cylinder slipped downwards, its blunt nose locked on the target. For a moment it stood in the air, propelled only by forward momentum, still part of the airplane. Then the Thiokol solid-fuel rocket caught with a throaty roar; the missile flashed away, bobbing upwards briefly before setting her teeth to the job at hand.
Doberman pulled off, heart-pumping. He saw another flash in the shadow of the hill— something big was firing down there.
He had to make sure the erector was down. That was his priority.
There were more trucks, something moving of the road.
Too much.
He took a hard breath, focusing his attention as he snapped the jet back into the attack path. He pushed his whole body down to the right, as if he wanted to ram the video screen with his head. He slipped the Maverick’s aim point down and saw smoke lingering from the first missile hit.
Nailed the sucker. The culvert had been replaced by an immense crater.
He began hunting for another target, preferably the SAM at the close end of the highway. He found it, lost it, then pulled off, realizing he was at the edge of his safety margin.
He banked south, intending to turn to the east and come at the SA-9 from the other direction. He was just straightening out when he saw a long thick shadow several hundred yards south of the highway, in a cleared area to his left.
The Scud erector had been moved.
CHAPTER 37
Wong repeated his message into the communications handset as the Iraqi tanks began firing. Behind him, two of the Delta team members peppered the slope with automatic fire and grenades.
“Devil One this is Apache Fire Team Snake Eaters,” Wong said. “Do you have your ears on?”
“Ears on? What the hell, Wong, you think you’re talking into a god damn CB set?” responded Doberman. “Shit.”
“I selected a vernacular sure to attract your attention,” he replied. “You did not answer my first two calls.”
“What calls? I’ve tried hailing you three or four times over the past ten minutes.”
A fresh salvo of grenades exploded down the hill. The Iraqi tanks had so far aimed very high, their shells sailing far over the hillside. Wong had no illusion, however, that that would continue indefinitely. Golden ran back and began tugging his sleeve— they had to move out.
“There are three Scud carriers en route to the erector site,” Wong told Doberman quickly. “Do you copy?”
“I don’t see the carriers but I have the erector. It’s moved from the culvert. Are you under attack?”
“Immaterial,” said Wong. “The Scuds are your priority.”
“No shit. I’m going to vector in help. I see three tanks. Are you on the hill?”
“The SA-9s have a lethal envelope slightly beyond the published specifications that you may be aware of,” said Wong calmly. “Recent alterations to the infra-red seeker heads as well as some improvements in the rocket motor have increased their kill potential by a factor of one-point-five.”
The hillside reverberated as the T-62s fired their 100 mm guns nearly simultaneously. Their charges slammed into the hillside below the American position. Golden lost his balance, grabbing Wong as he fell.
“We have to go,” he said.
“Wong, there’s a helo on its way,” Doberman shouted. “Call sign…”
The rest of the transmission was swallowed by static.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to relocate,” he told Doberman as the ground shook again. The Iraqis had once more missed, but their margin was much closer. Dirt and debris showered around him; Wong lost his balance and the headset, rolling against the rocks.
“Now!” shouted Golden, managing to get to his feet. He told his men to cover the retreat with smoke grenades and move out. “Smoke! Smoke! Come on, Wong!”
Wong scooped up the satellite antenna and began dragging the Satcom rucksack down the hillside. He’d only taken two steps when he remembered that he hadn’t searched the Iraqi commander. He threw down the dish and turned back.