Hogs #3 Fort Apache (21 page)

AL
JOUF

26 JANUARY
1991

0650

D
oberman
tried to
work off his frustration by
taking a walk around the base, but that was about as effective as using
gasoline to douse a fire. When he realized he was starting to rant at an F-16
that was landing with battle damage for no other reason than the fact that it
was a pointy-nose fast-jet, he decided to take a different tack and went over
to the Special Ops mess area.

Masters of the fine art of combat supply, the troopers
had laid out an extensive breakfast spread that included fresh eggs and what at
least smelled like fresh ham. Doberman helped himself to a bagel and pineapple
jelly and then sat at a small table. He had managed only a single bite when the
gaunt figure of Tinman appeared before him, wagging a finger.

“A caul isk signk,” said the crewman. His lips were
bluish and his cheeks caved in; his white hair flared up as if an invisible
wind blew through it. He looked like a portrait of the Ancient Mariner, tied to
a lost ship’s bowsprit.

Make that, the Ancient Mechanic.

“A caul isk signk,” he repeated.

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Doberman.

“He’s telling you you were born with a caul,” said a
Special Forces sergeant, coming over with a tray. The man, not quite as tall as
Tinman but nearly as lean, smiled and said something to the Air Force
technician. Tinman’s eyes widened and the two began a conversation that Doberman
swore was encrypted with a 64-byte key.

“So what the hell are you two talking about?” Doberman
finally asked.

The sergeant gave him an apologetic smile. “Like I
said, he says you were born with a caul.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, for one thing, it means you fight demons. Well,
you know.”

Tinman nodded approvingly.

“No, I don’t know,” said Doberman. “What the hell
language are you talking with him?”

“It’s not really a language. Kind of a patois. Name’s
Joe Kidrey. I’m from Louisiana. Bayou country. Backwoods, though, even for
there.” The sergeant sat down across from Doberman.

“Is that where you’re from, Tinman?”

Doberman’s question drew an indecipherable response.

“He says not exactly. Apparently it’s a long story,”
Kidrey said. “I assume you don’t want to hear it.”

“No. But what’s this caul all about?”

Kidrey scratched his eyebrow and gave Doberman an
embarrassed smile. “It’s this birth membrane thing, comes out sometimes on a
baby’s face when he’s born. My mom’s a midwife. I guess you see it every so
often.”

“And I had one?”

The sergeant nodded.

“How the hell would he know?”

“Oh, the old-timers know.”

“What about you?”

Kidrey gave a half-shrug. “Sometimes there’s a birth
mark.”

“I don’t have a birthmark.”

The sergeant did the shrug again. “Anyway, the old-timers,
I guess the thing is in the old days it was rare to survive that, you know, at
least without problems, so these myths built up. You ever hear of Santeria?”

“What are we talking about here, voodoo?”

Kidrey shook his head quickly, but not fast enough to
keep the Tinman from launching into what even Doberman understood as an
agitated denunciation.

“I’m sorry, relax, relax,” Doberman told him. “You’re
going to have a heart attack. Shit.”

Kidrey said something and Tinman calmed down. The
Special Forces sergeant gave the pilot a half wink, then turned back to the
Ancient Mechanic and asked him a few more questions. Words flew back and forth,
punctuated by nods and deep gestures. Doberman felt like he had stepped into a
carnival sideshow.

“Now I’m not saying I believe any of this, you
understand,” said Kidrey, turning back to Doberman. “But, did, uh, the sergeant
here give you a cross or something?”

“Well, he gave it to my wingmate. I don’t believe in
that superstitious crap.”

“Oh.”

Doberman didn’t like his tone, but before he could say
anything Kidrey turned back to Tinman and resumed their coded conversation. It
was amazing to him that someone as skilled as the Tinman
—
whose
mechanical genius was obviously the only reason off-the-wall fuel drop worked
—
could believe
in witchcraft.

Or whatever the hell they were “patoising” about.

Kidrey finally turned back to Doberman with an
apologetic smile. “Thing is Captain, and like I say, I don’t necessarily
believe this, okay? Some of the old-timers, they see the world as kind of two
parts. There’s us, and then there’s this whole other thing, spirits you’d call
it. A few people can go back and forth.”

“Back and forth, what?”

Kidrey shrugged. “It’s hard to explain, especially if,
you know, you’re not one of them.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

“Well.” Kidrey laughed. “I’m not saying it does.”

“But Tinman does.”

“See, the old-timers believe people with cauls are
kind of special. They got the power. Like karma or something?”

Doberman nearly choked. “You’re talking about luck?”

“That’s not it,” said Kidrey, shaking his hand
quickly. Tinman looked as if he was going to stoke up again, but the sergeant
leaned back and laid his hand on Tinman’s arm, calming him. ”They think it’s
power. Not luck. Definitely not luck.”

“And I got it?” Doberman asked incredulously.

“Oh, yeah, big time. See, stuff like that cross he
gave you is supposed to focus it. The whole thing comes from Europe or Africa
or somewhere. I haven’t a clue. The word my mom used means ‘nightwalker’ in
kind of pig-French.” He lowered his voice. “Don’t use that other word.”

“What word?”

“The one you were going to use. The one that starts
with a W.”

Doberman had, in fact, been going to ask if Kidrey’s
mother was a witch. Instead, he glanced over at Tinman, then leaned across the
table and lowered his voice. “I don’t want to get Tinman all twisted up again,
but you don’t believe in this bullshit, do you?”

“Well,” whispered the sergeant back, “I would say it’s
kind of in the category of stuff that couldn’t hurt. You know, like throwing
salt over your shoulder, lucky pennies, that kind of stuff. If you know what I
mean.”

Doberman leaned back. The Tinman was nodding, a very
satisfied look on his face.

The entire fucking world had gone nuts.

“Thing is, I
have
seen some stuff I can’t
explain,” added Kidrey. “So you never know.”

The Tinman pointed his crooked finger at Doberman. His
eyes grew large and his cheeks began to inflate. Undoubtedly a huge
pronouncement was on the way. That or the geezer was going to have a heart
attack, which would really screw them big-time.

“All right, all right, I’ll take the goddamn cross,”
said Doberman. “Shit.”

The Tinman’s smile could have lit an airfield.

AL
JOUF

26
JANUARY 1991

0705

A
s Wong
had
suspected, the bombs had not been
sufficient to penetrate the bunker. He was annoyed though not surprised that
his advice hadn’t been solicited on targeting; it had been his experience at
Black Hole that no one there appreciated his abilities.

Be that as it may, he had a relatively straightforward
solution
—
take out the doors, which he calculated could be done with as little
as 130 kg of high explosive.

It was beyond the doors that things got complicated.

His experience with Russian sites that featured these
door types told him that it led directly to a concrete-reinforced hallway
precisely three meters long. At the end of the hallway
— which were generally adapted from an existing mine
shaft—
there would be a stairwell at an
exact ninety-degree angle. It would general contain twenty steps downward to
the storage area in the direction of the passive ventilation pipe. From there
any of three different configurations could be used. The result was the same,
however
—
an isolated storage area.

He now tentatively identified the materials being
placed there as biological, thanks to an admittedly third-hand description of a
truck and single courier that had appeared at the facility. He hesitated
drawing other conclusions from the absence of protective gear; the Iraqis had
uniformly proven idiotic. Indeed, the incident could be viewed as a Rorschach.

“Which means what, exactly?” asked Colonel Klee, who
had sat through the briefing with uncharacteristic patience.

“Which means that it means whatever the interpreter
wants it to mean,” said Wong. “It’s open to many possibilities.”

“Like what?”

Wong sighed. It was always such a chore briefing
people outside their area of specialty.

“It could be that they assume we would notice a large
force and they want to remain inconspicuous. It could mean that they were
delivering lunch or paperwork or perhaps orders to someone inside, though I
assure you this is an unmanned facility. It could and most likely means that
they are simply stupid.”

“There are definitely weapons there?”

“I didn’t say that. I said there is a strong
possibility. There are only indications and inferences. If they respond to the
bombing, that would be another strong indication.”

“You’re talking like a goddamn intelligence officer
again, Wong. I don’t like it.”

“With all due respect, you asked for my opinion. As
far as being an intelligence officers, let me remind you that I am attached to
Admiral. . .”

“All right, I don’t want your goddamn Pentagon job
classification again. How are we going to blow this thing up?”

“If we merely block the stairway with enough rocks we
will accomplish the same thing,” said Wong. “And we can do so quite simply,
though admittedly there will be a high coefficient of variables beyond skill
involved.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I think he’s trying to say it’ll take some luck,”
said Major Wilson.

It was the first time Wong had heard him say anything
intelligent since they met, and he nodded before describing his plan. Wong’s
preferred solution called for an F-117A Nighthawk flying a pair of Paveways through
the doors. The difficulty for the Paveways was in the first shot; if it was off
target, it could trigger a landslide which would effectively protect the interior
from the second explosion. Unlike a crushing blow inside, exterior damage could
be removed easily and would present only a nuisance. The warhead of the
Paveways was actually a bit bigger than optimum, and not optimally shaped for
this penetration, but the F-117s had a very limited choice of weapons if their
stealth profile was to be maintained.

“What’s your less preferred way?” asked the colonel.

“A Maverick model G could pierce the door, if it hit
precisely three-fourths of the way up,” said Wong. “There is an advantage in
that weapon since it is unlikely to trigger a shock wave of sufficient size to
block the entrance. But the second missile has to follow on within two seconds
to take advantage of the initial shock, and avoid the likely rockfall. While
this could theoretically be accomplished. . .”

“Spare me the specifics,” said the colonel. “You check
this with the A-10 pilots?”

“It was not my preferred option,” said Wong. “Although
the A-10As are equipped to fire Mavericks, without the addition of a LANTIRN
targeting system. . .”

“Can it be done?”

“Of course, but . . .”

“Well make it happen,” said the colonel. His tone
suddenly changed, becoming almost charming.

Almost.

“But before you do, tell me something
—
you parachuted
into North Korea with that Gregory Team, didn’t you?”

Wong shuddered at the memory. He hadn’t been able to
find anything to eat but fish the whole two weeks in country.

“Yes, sir.”

“As a matter of fact, you have a class D skydiver’s
license and a jumpmaster’s ticket, don’t you?”

“I have done some skydiving, yes, sir.”

“Oh, that’s more than some,” said the colonel. “That’s
more than most of my men. You’re current?”

“I believe I am.”

“You’re too modest Wong.” The colonel shook his head,
as if that were something he had never expected to hear himself say. “That
Korean jump was a tandem jump, as a matter of fact, wasn’t it?

“As it happened.”

“I like you, Wong. I really do. I want you to find
Sergeant Hillup after you brief the pilots. I have another mission for you. Not
quite as exciting as Afghanistan or Korea, I’ll bet, let alone your Vietnam
foray last year, but it ought to raise your bp.”

“With all due respect. . .”

“This is right up your alley, Wong. Turns out you’re
the only person in my command qualified for a tandem jump that I can actually
spare to make one. We lost our last mechanic on a static-line solo jump because
he didn’t know how to steer and hit the ground too hard. I can’t take any more
chances. We need someone who can do a tandem jump and set her down gently.”

“Her who?” managed Wong.

“Sergeant Rosen.” The colonel grinned. “You’re going
to deliver her to Fort Apache.”