Hogs #3 Fort Apache (22 page)

SUGAR
MOUNTAIN

26
JANUARY 1991

0712

D
ixon
rolled over,
waiting for the Iraqis
to appear. Instead, the truck screeched around in a circle and headed back in
the direction it had come. He couldn’t tell whether it had left the soldiers, and
for the moment didn’t care. Scrambling to his feet, he proceeded as quickly and
as quietly he could up the craggy slope.

The back of the hill could not be seen from the
roadway or most of the quarry, but once he turned the corner to reach the spot
where Winston was hidden, he would be totally exposed for nearly ten yards. He
hesitated, spotting something that looked like the top of a vehicle near the
entrance to the bunker. Finally, unable to wait any longer, he just went for
it, crouching low and using the MP-5 for balance. He reached the rocks and slid
in, just barely missing the prone body of the gravely wounded sergeant as he
rolled onto his knees. He craned his neck up to catch a glimpse of the enemy
below. He saw the turret of a tank at the head of the path, swinging around
into position to guard the access to the cave.

Then he felt the cold barrel of a gun at his neck.

“About fucking time you got back,” rasped Winston
beneath him.

###

The sergeant could move his arms, but little else. He
swore it was just because of the cold. His legs ached as badly as the rest of
his body; Dixon figured that was a good sign.

“I was worried you guys just left me,” Winston told
him. “I heard the trucks but couldn’t see what the fuck was going on.”

“I didn’t leave you,” said Dixon. “I had to get
Leteri.”

“Where the hell is that weasel?”

Dixon explained what had happened. Then, he crawled
back to survey the Iraqi position from the rocks, exposed but just barely.

As Turk had suspected, the Iraqis had positioned the
mines to enhance preplanned defensive positions. Dixon could see part of a tank
—
he guessed T-72
—
on Sugar Mountain’s driveway. It was about fifty
yards away on a diagonal. To see more than just the gun and top of turret,
Dixon had to stand and expose himself fully, which he naturally didn’t want to
do.

He had a better view of a second tank at the far end
of the quarry near the highway, even though it was two hundred yards or so away.
Four or five Iraqi soldiers milled around behind it; he assumed that the group
included the commander, since men kept approaching and then leaving.

He hadn’t seen any antiair defenses. Thirty seconds
worth of Hog action and these bastards would be toast.

But he wasn’t in an A-10. He might just as well
fantasize about being on a beach with supermodel Christie Brinkley.

If the commandos came back for them, could they take
out the tanks? If the Hogs flew cover for them, they could. It’d be a piece of
cake.

Except for him and Winston, who’d be right in the
middle of the action.

Winston would be. Dixon could still get away. Once he
was off the ledge, he could probably get back around the hill. If he trekked
west a ways, he could probably find a spot to cross the road to Leteri without
being seen.

But that meant leaving the sergeant, and that was
unacceptable, especially now.

Dixon sized up the Iraqi defense. How much of it was
blocked from his view? Half? A quarter? Was there another tank or three more?
Mobile SAMs? Self-propelled triple-A?

His fingers were wrapped so tightly around the MP-5
that he had to pry them free with his other hand, then try to shake them back
to flexibility. The fear of being spotted kept pumping adrenaline through his
body, but he was tired as hell and ached everywhere. He couldn’t have eaten if
he tried, but he was thirsty, and though he told himself it was better to
ration sips of water he found his eyes constantly wandering to the canteen at
his belt. Finally he couldn’t stand it and slid back into the shelter next to
Winston to get a drink.

The sergeant’s arm twitched, jerking the pistol to the
side.

“Sergeant? You okay?”

The trooper didn’t answer. His eyes had closed again.
Dixon leaned down; for a moment he thought Winston had died but then he heard
the sergeant’s chest rattle with fluid as he breathed. He reached over to his
forehead, gently placing the back of his hand against it to see if he had a
fever. He didn’t seem to, though Dixon’s fingers were so numb he might not be
able to tell. He rubbed them together and then edged himself hard against the
rocks, trying to find a semi-comfortable spot where he could remain hidden but
see some of the Iraqi soldiers below.

###

A half-hour later, the lieutenant heard the distant
whine of an approaching jet. Several planes had passed far overhead during the
last two hours, but he knew right away this one was different
—
it was low and
it was coming right toward them. The sound increased exponentially, then, even
as the ground started to shake, the jet was overhead and gone, fleeing so
quickly that Dixon got no more than a glimpse of its shadow. He guessed that it
was a recon plane, most likely a British Tornado tasked for BDA or bomb damage
assessment on Sugar Mountain.

The Iraqis behind the far tank threw themselves on the
ground. They got up chattering, but they didn’t seem to be congratulating
themselves on their good fortune. The commander pointed and shouted, and Dixon
saw two of the men run to the parked truck beyond the tank at the edge of the
highway. They took something out and began climbing up the side of the mountain
toward the bomb crater.

They were still in view when he heard something move
on the hillside behind him. He swung around, pulling up the submachine gun,
cursing himself for not keeping a better guard.

He just barely avoided putting half-dozen rounds
through Leteri’s face.

“Thought I’d see how you were making out,” said
Leteri, ducking down to cover.

“That’s twice today I almost shot you,” said Dixon.

“Put me out of my misery.” Leteri unclenched his teeth
and smiled briefly before his expression once more surrendered to the pain of
his wounds. “I’m all right,” he told Dixon. “Took me forever to realize there
was only one guard watching the whole back end of the quarry. I got around him
easy but I was worried about running into someone else. Guess they don’t know
we’re here, huh? How’s Winston?”

“He goes in and out.”

“That plane ours?”

“Yeah. He was checking for damage,” Dixon told him.
“They’ll hit the bunker again. But before they do, we have to remove a slight
impediment.”

“What’s that?” asked Leteri.

“Two of our friends over there just hauled something
up the hill with them. I didn’t get a good look, but my bet is that it was a
shoulder-fired missile, probably an SA-16. Anything comes back, it’s going
down.”

AL
JOUF

26
JANUARY 1991

0730

“Y
ou’re
out of
your gourd, Wong. No way
anybody can guarantee those shots,” said A-Bomb. He shook his head and jerked
his thumb back toward Doberman. “I don’t even think the Dog Man could do it,
and he’s the best Mav gunner in the stinking Air Force. Mr. AGM.

“I attempted to point out the difficulty involved,”
said Wong. “But the colonel. . .”

“I can do it,” said Doberman. “I set up on the way in
and hand off without firing, get both nailed down, dial back, and
bing-bang-bam.

“Two seconds?”

“Precisely 1.8 would be optimum,” said Wong.

And you’re going to get a solid aim point with the
infrared?” said A-Bomb. “Exactly three quarters of the way up?”

“Don’t sweat it,” Doberman said. Part of him knew that
even physically hitting the buttons quickly enough to get the shot off fast
enough was nearly impossible.

Another part of him knew that he was going to do it.
And fuck everybody else. Including and especially Klee.

A-Bomb, for maybe the first time he’d known him, was
temporarily speechless. And Wong . . .

Wong was incapable of such a condition, unfortunately.

“There is a significant error coefficient,” Wong said.
He had a pained expression that made it look like he was about to barf up a
dissertation.

“Tell me about it later,” said Doberman. He turned
toward the Hog pit area. “Let’s go talk to Rosen and make sure the planes get a
last-minute tweak.”

“I’m afraid she won’t be available,” said Wong. “The
sergeant and I are relocating.”

“Where you going?” asked A-Bomb.

“North,” said Wong. “Very far north.”

###

“I am going to do you the biggest favor of your life,
Captain, and forget every fucking word you just told me.” Colonel Klee pushed
his words out in a perfect imitation of the Big Bad Wolf blowing down one of
the pig’s straw houses. “You get your fanny in gear and you do your job. I’ll
worry about who else goes where, why, and how.”

Doberman didn’t bother biting his teeth together, or
taking a breath, or counting to ten, or any of the one million things he’d done
in his life to try and keep his temper under control.

They never worked anyway.

“Squadron personnel are my responsibility,” he said.
“And Rosen. . .”

“I expect that door down before 11oo hours. You got
that?”

“Screw you.”

“What?”

“Screw you.”

Doberman stormed out of the command post so hot his
head probably would have melted metal. A-Bomb, who’d been waiting outside, had
to run to keep up.

“Colonel didn’t appreciate you pointing out to him
that Rosen’s female, huh?” said A-Bomb as Doberman passed him outside.

Doberman didn’t answer.

“Kind of funny if she becomes a war hero, don’t you
think?” A-Bomb began trotting to keep up.

Doberman wasn’t quite sure where he was going to go.
He wanted to hop into the Hog and take it straight north to Baghdad and give
Saddam a Maverick enema.

Then he’d come back and do the same for Klee, the
shithead.

“You sure you want to take both shots? I mean, I know
you can make them, that’s not what I’m talking about,” said A-Bomb. “Hey, for a
little guy, you sure walk fast.”

“Who says I’m little?”

“I do.”

“Screw yourself,” said Doberman, picking up his pace.

“You got to play cards with me tonight,” said A-Bomb,
trotting behind him. “I figure we can win enough for a couple of nightscopes. These
guys think Baseball’s something you do with a bat.”

Doberman had known A-Bomb for a long time, and there
was no one he would rather fly with. O’Rourke was the best wingman in the Air
Force, period. But there were times when he was just too much to take. He was
always making a joke about something, or finding some way to bend the rules in his
favor, or just ignoring them. Not only did he flout convention, he thought the
laws of physics were optional.

“Screw you, A-Bomb,” Doberman said, his legs cranking
faster. “We got to get in the air, right now, and I don’t want any more of your
bullshit.”

“Hey Dog Man, hold up,” said A-Bomb, trotting beside
him. “Yo man, you got to calm down a bit.”

“I am calm.”

“Listen, Dog.” A-Bomb’s fingers grabbed his biceps
like a vice. Doberman swung around, ready to slug his friend away for joking
around.

But the look on his face stopped him. A-Bomb’s words
were flat and calm and cold, as direct as the arc of a bomb on a ninety-degree
drop.

“Your job now is to stay level,” said Captain O’Rourke.
“You’re going to be the squadron Director of Operations when we get back to the
Home Drome. You and I both know it. Everybody’s going to depend on you. You
can’t let your anger go like you used to. Shit, Dixon and these Special Ops
guys are depending on you. Me, too.” A-Bomb’s fingers tightened. “I got your
six. No matter what. But you level off.”

Doberman nodded. “Yeah, I know.” He pulled his arm
free. “Damn. I’m pissed.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” said A-Bomb.

“You’re looking at me like you got a question.”

“Yeah, I got a question. You sure you can make those
shots?”

“In my sleep,” said Doberman.

A-Bomb nodded deeply. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Doberman started walking again. It was hard for him to
stay pissed at A-Bomb. It was hard for him to stay pissed at anyone. Except
Saddam and Klee.

He could do the shots. It was physically impossible,
but who the hell cared? Line ‘em up and spin the bottle. One-two,
bing-bang-bam.

He’d have to lose the thumb thing, though. Bad habit
anyway. Just a tic. Where had it come from, anyway? It was a superstition
— bullshit.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Doberman told A-Bomb
as they walked. “We get the Hogs gassed and we support the helos at their cow
field or whatever the damn pickup is.

“Cornfield.”

“Yeah, good. We load up for bear, help them get their
helo, and make sure Dixon’s okay. Then we nail the motherfucker door.”

“You sure we have the fuel to do all that?” A-Bomb
asked.

“No problem.”

“We don’t get Sugar Mountain, the colonel’s going to
be mad, no?”

“You want to hit it while Dixon’s still there?”

“No way.”

“Then we better make sure he gets out, right?”

“That’s what I’m talking about.”

Walking made Doberman feel better. So did having a
plan. So did knowing he was going to get Dixon the hell out of that shit.

“Hey, listen, I’m sorry,” he told A-Bomb.

“Yeah, my ass you’re sorry.”

“I got the shots,” Doberman told him. “No offense, but
you know I’m better than you.”

“I ain’t offended, Dog Man. You’re Mr. AGM.”

“You got that cross thing Tinman gave you?”

“Um, well, kinda,” A-Bomb said.

“Kinda?”

“The little doohickey spring that connects to the
batteries in my CD player snapped. I thought it was the batteries, but it was
just the little spring.”

“You used the cross to make the connection?”

“Hey, it’s silver. Best conductor in the world. But
listen, I can probably find something else.”

It was just a goddamn superstition, Doberman thought.
“Don’t worry about it.” He took a step and stopped, reached down and yanked off
his boot”

“Whoa
— what the
hell are you doing?” yelped
A-Bomb.

Doberman held the small penny he’d found on the tarmac
the first day of the air war. Luck? Power? Spirit world? Nightwalkers?

All bullshit.

He flung the coin into the desert.