Hogs #3 Fort Apache (25 page)

Sugar
Mountain

26
January, 1991

1031

D
ixon
scrambled to
his feet as the bombs
separated from the Hog, aimed squarely at the top of the tank stationed to the
east of the mountain. By the time they exploded, he was throwing himself
forward over the edge of the crater, and in the same motion spraying the figure
standing below him with bullets.

Wounded, the man staggered backwards, away from the
SAM pack; Dixon pushed himself to his feet, felt the ground exploding and
remembered the guard. He lost his footing and fell, tumbling in the dirt
against the jagged rocks, bullets flying around him. He tried to aim his gun
but lost his grip. He saw the guard, and fumbled to get his finger back on the
trigger. Someone yanked at his leg as he fired.

He missed the Iraqi guard, but made him duck for
cover.

The other man he’d shot clung to Dixon’s leg, clawing
at him and reaching for his pistol. Dixon smashed him with the side of the
submachine gun, crushing his own finger against the man’s skull. Dixon yelped
in pain, then pushed back as the man grabbed again for his pistol, sending
three slugs into the Iraqi’s skull.

Dixon spun and threw himself in the direction of the
missile pack on the ground, letting off a long burst from the MP-5 back in the
direction of the ridge. The Iraqi guard there fired back. Dixon pumped his gun
until the clip emptied. Finally, the Iraqi soldier disappeared
—
whether hit or
simply reloading, Dixon didn’t care.

A heavy machine gun began peppering the ridge as Dixon
grabbed the SA-16 missile launcher from the dirt. He ducked, fumbling with the
controls. When the machine gun stopped, he rose, propped the launcher on his
shoulder and aimed it toward the Iraqis.

Nothing happened when he pressed the trigger. He had
to duck down as the Iraqi machine gunner chewed up the rocks in front of him.
Examining the launcher, Dixon realized there were two triggers, one a primer
and one the actual trigger. As soon as the machine-gun stopped, Dixon jumped up
and fired the heat-seeking missile downward in the direction of his enemies.

OVER
IRAQ

26 JANUARY
1991

1034

A-
Bomb
cursed
as the SAM launched toward
him. He kicked out more flares and wagged his butt around, jinking crazier than
a topless dancer working for tips, before realizing the rocket had been aimed downwards.
It flew straight into the hillside, bouncing off a rock before exploding. A sixth
sense told him Dixon had grabbed the SAM, the kid deciding to try playing
wingman without a plane.

Just then, the CD skipped four tracks. “Born to Run”
slammed into his ears.

Talk about
karma.
At exactly the same moment,
the helo pilot hit the radio and said he was coming in and could somebody do
something about the machine guns? A-Bomb lit the Gatling, aiming to ice the
enemy nests near the roadway.

He hoped Dixon, if that really was Dixon, had seen the
helicopter and got his butt into the damn whirly sardine can. Playing Rambo in
the rocks was all well and good, but it was time for him to call it a day.

SUGAR
MOUNTAIN

26
JANUARY 1991

1034

M
etal and
pulverized
stone hung thick in the
air as Apache One raced toward the position Turk had given them. Hawkins
started to warn the pilot about an APC with machine guns in their path, but he
was already greasing his rockets and veering right. They flew directly over
another gun position before spotting the hideout, well hidden on the hill next
to Sugar Mountain.

Hawkins caught himself against the frame and thought
they’d been hit, cordite and God knew what else blowing around his head. But
the pilot was only trying to get down onto the hill as quickly as possible. The
Iraqis were firing everything they had as the helicopter’s skids neared the
rocks.

 A grenade or something equally obnoxious exploded
near enough to send dirt ripping through the helo rotors. The pilot shouted
something but Hawkins was out of the craft by then.

He saw Dixon squatting and shooting a few yards from
the position; a grenade shot off in the direction of the Iraqi trucks.

Sergeant Winston was lying behind rocks in a shallow
trench, right in front of Hawkins. As slowly and calmly as he could, the
captain bent down over him, waiting as Stone brought the backboard and
stretcher.

“Take your time, take your time,” Hawkins said, as
much to himself as to Stone. Despite a fresh hail of bullets and screaming
explosions all around them, the captain did his best to make sure Winston’s
neck was secure as they lifted him out.

He felt himself slip on the rocks, caught his knee
against something hard, and felt his gut wrench. His head suddenly felt light
and he knew he’d been hit. He bent forward and managed somehow to get to his
feet, guided by the stretcher. Soon, they were strapping Winston stiff to the
skids. The pilot was screaming in his face. They got aboard, Dixon scrambling
and jumping. The helicopter rose into the air, the cabin shaking as it was
laced with gunfire. One of the Hogs streaked in front of them, inches away it
looked like, smoke and fury pouring from its mouth as it nailed the Iraqis who
were trying to kill them.

“Tell them to do it. Take out the bunker,” Hawkins
hear himself say twice, three times, and he turned around to congratulate
Dixon, make him an honorary member of the Death Riders because goddamn he
deserved it.

Except it wasn’t Dixon. And though he was sure as shit
pleased to see his man back alive, what the hell had happened to his Air Force
lieutenant?

OVER
IRAQ

26
JANUARY 1991

1034

T
here was
so
much goddamn smoke it was screwing
up the IR targeting head in the Maverick. Doberman cursed as the helicopter
stayed on the ground, taking fire as the Special Ops people ran to retrieve
their men. If they didn’t move quickly he was going to have to bank away and
reposition himself to make sure he had a clear shot.

He was so low he could hop out and run alongside the
damn airplane. These bastards were going to figure out where he was eventually
and start firing at him.

And son of a bitch
—
he was bingo fuel.

“I’m going to cover for that helo,” said A-Bomb,
slashing overhead.

“You check your fuel?”

“Can’t see the gauge from here.

“Don’t get in my fucking way,” said Doberman. He
cursed and kicked the Hog into a turn to reposition himself, not really mad but
stoking his emotions anyway, building the adrenaline as he spurred himself into
the fight. He got a strong whiff of kerosene or something in his nose, imagining
that his fuel tanks had sprung a leak. He started to laugh because that was
just ridiculous. The oxygen was as pure as heaven, and he had a good view in
the screen as he came back into his attack pattern. He was lined up and loose;
feeling like he did the first time he ever fired a Maverick on a practice run
— he’d
nailed
that sucker and nailed everyone dead-on since.

The helo skittered away. A-Bomb cleared.

It was his turn.

The Iraqis seemed to have a thousand guys down there, every
one of them armed with a machine-gun, every one of them blasting away at him.

Good fucking luck hitting me. And I mean that
sincerely.

Doberman put his head nearly onto the Mav screen,
leaning as close to it as his restraints would allow, big fat cursor nailed
two-thirds of the way up the door.

Next and nailed. He let it go, squeezed, and kept
going, up and on
—
go, go, go. He pickled again
—
no thumb
thing, no luck, no ritual, no bullshit, just squeezed the son of a bitch faster
than anybody ever thought possible, faster than any engineer would calculate.

He kept going, watching the first missile slam in, the
second missile flying right behind it.

Doberman banked through the hail of nasty, small
machine-gun bullets. It was all up to the missiles now, all luck if it happened
the way Wong said it should.

Luck.

What the fuck.

Sugar
Mountain

26
January, 1991

1034

D
ixon threw
the
missile launcher away, rolling
himself to the ground and scooping up the MP-5. He slammed a fresh clip into
the gun and aimed it back in the direction of top of the crater, but no one was
there. He slid out to the side of the ledge, leaned his gun over, then pushed
his head down.

Nothing.

He scrambled ahead, the end of the submachine gun
trained on the rocks. He reached the corner of the rock face without seeing anyone
and ran across the ledge. Still no one appeared. He began picking his way down
the boulders that had forced him onto the rock face earlier.

The helicopter’s loud whine reverberated through the
quarry. Dixon lost his balance, slamming his chin into the rocks but scrambling
up immediately. He took two steps, then felt himself going down again, only
half conscious that he was doing it on purpose. Someone was shooting at him
from the edge of the crevice leading back to Winston’s hiding place.

He pushed himself into the smallest space possible,
waiting for the shooting to let up. When it did, he reached up and let off a
quick burst from his MP-5. When he raised his head to see where his enemy was,
he spotted the barrel of the AK-47 emerging from behind two large boulders.
Dixon ducked as a fresh round salvoed behind him.

It was only a single shot, poorly aimed. Dixon ripped
a quick burst from his own gun. It was answered by another single round.

The Iraqi must be preserving ammo. Didn’t matter now. Dixon
decided he would fire again, wait for the round, then leap up and run forward.
The two shots had flailed well to the left; he would hug the opposite wall.

The helicopter engine revved on the other side of the
hill.

Dixon squeezed the trigger, waited for the Iraqi to shoot.
He began running. He saw the gun barrel and a figure; he fired, squeezing the
trigger as hard as he could, the gun’s smooth burp pushing the metal stock
against his rib.

But only for a second.

Then nothing.

The H&K had jammed. Dixon squeezed twice as the
Iraqi rose. He threw the gun and himself forward to the ground as his enemy
fired a single shot. The bullet wailed harmless overhead. As Dixon hit the dirt,
he saw the man take aim again.

Dixon rolled over and grabbed for his pistol. He fired,
saw the bullet hit.

Then he heard a sound like a steam locomotive
whooshing from a tunnel. There was a loud bang, followed by a rattling, muffled
explosion and a second loud whoosh.

The mountain across from him erupted in every
direction with a tremendous rumble. Dixon stumbled forward, off guard and
unable to protect himself. Something hit his head and he slid into a warm bed,
every muscle relaxing, every ache and pain evaporating
—
as if a
down-filled comforter had slid over his body and his head had nestled softly
into a deep, deep pillow.

OVER
IRAQ

26
JANUARY 1991

1042

T
he first
missile
nailed the door precisely
two-thirds of the way up. Its warhead burst a hole through the thick steel as
easily a screwdriver piercing a can of tuna.

The second missile wavered momentarily, just far
enough behind the first to survive the initial explosion, but now confused,
unsure where to go.

Electrons danced in its control module, feinting left,
right, trying to compute whether the interference was a mere diversionary
tactic, or if the world really had turned upside down.

Unsure, they took the course that seemed most logical
to them, directing the Thikol rocket motor to keep on trucking, riding the
straight and narrow.

Precisely 1.8 second later, the missile flew through
the hole the first Maverick had created. As it did, it flew into a shower of
light debris.

Close enough, decided the electrons, and the warhead
exploded, precisely on target.

###

A-Bomb had managed to get his plane stable and ready
to take the backup shot as the first Maverick hit. Staring at his small TVM
screen, he saw the shadow of the second missile enter the cloud where the door
of the bunker had been.

The explosion that followed rippled through a massive
fissure in the rocks, a fault line planted a million years before by the
churning of tectonic plates, aggravated by years of quarrying and amplified by the
F-111 strike a few hours before. Sugar Mountain collapsed inward, hundreds of
thousands of tons of rock and dirt burying the deadly toxins Saddam had counted
on as his ultimate vengeance weapon.

“Looking ugly!” screamed A-Bomb as he whacked the
stick and jostled the Maverick, hoping to unleash it on one of the few
remaining targets.