Hogs #3 Fort Apache (2 page)

KING
FAHD AIRBASE, SAUDI ARABIA

24
JANUARY 1991

2200

Colonel Michael “Skull”
Knowlington had just decided the time had come to
write letters to his sisters; he’d promised them both he would do so at least
once a week but hadn’t since coming to the Gulf. But a tall soldier in desert
camouflage fatigues knocked at the open door of his office in Hog Heaven.

“General wanted to know if you were available, sir,”
said the soldier. Ramrod straight, every pore of his body sweated respect,
though Knowlington never knew quite how to take the Delta Force soldiers. He
knew this sergeant vaguely; he was part of the general’s retinue at the Bat
Cave, the unofficial name of the Special Operations command center at King
Fahd. Since Knowlington had spent a considerable time with the general over the
past few days, and since there had been some ballyhoo over Skull’s recent
mission to rescue one of his men north of the border, it was likely that the
sergeant’s respectful tone was sincere. Still, Knowlington knew the Delta Force
troopers held all officers in suspicion. Those from other commands, let alone
services, were usually considered one notch above the enemy, when considered at
all.

The general who headed the joint services mission had
himself been Air Force, but the operative word there was “had.” Besides, the
general had flown Puff the Magic Dragon gunships in Vietnam and lost enough
blood in combat to impress even the hard-ass non-coms who filled his ranks.

Knowlington struggled to remember the sergeant’s first
name as they crossed the air base to the Special Ops center in what had once
been a parking garage. It was Jake or James or Jack, but taking a guess wasn’t
going to cut it. So he merely grunted in appreciation as the trooper faded
behind him at the entrance to the general’s suite.

Suite was a bit of an overstatement. It consisted of a
roped off area studded with guards. Behind them were walls made of supply
boxes. Knowlington found the general inside his situation room.

“Mikey, great,” said the general as Knowlington walked
over to the stack of boxes that marked the wall. “We’re go. Apache’s underway.”

For weeks, the Special Ops command had been lobbying
for a more active role in the conflict. They wanted to infiltrate Iraq and help
destroy the enemy’s supply and command structure, as well as take out Saddam’s
only long
–
range strategic threat, Scud missiles. But General Schwarzkopf had
steadfastly refused
—
until Scuds started falling on Israel.

Delta troopers and other allied Special Ops teams had
begun infiltrating Iraq some days before. “Apache” was even more ambitious
—
it called for
establishing a base more than a hundred miles inside Iraq to support the
commando teams. A-10As would help
—
specifically, Colonel Knowlington’s A-10As.

The base would be called “Fort Apache.” Deep in the
heart of Injun country.

While Colonel Knowlington had helped prepare the plan,
he remained slightly skeptical of it and surprised that it had been approved so
quickly. “When did this happen?” he asked, sliding over one of the folding
chairs that passed for office furniture.

“We got the go this afternoon. We went.”

“I’ll have your planes at Al Jouf tomorrow afternoon,”
said Knowlington.

“I’m counting on it,” said the general. “But I was
hoping to have them in the morning.”

“The morning?”

“There a problem?”

The squadron had a full frag set for the morning, and
nearly everyone who could fly was already assigned. A “frag” was the portion or
fragment of the Air Tasking Order that pertained to a specific unit, in this
case the 535
^th
Attack Squadron (Provisional), which made up its own
wing and was under Colonel Knowlington’s command. The unit had been thrown
together from planes headed for the scrap heap and hustled to the Gulf. So far,
it had done a hell of a job bashing Saddam.

But finding some planes to fly more than a hundred
miles into Iraq on less than twelve hours’ notice?

Not easy.

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Knowlington. “We were
originally talking about twenty-four hours.”

“Things change,” said the general. “I’m getting your
best guys?”

“We agreed on volunteers.”

The general smiled. The agreement was that Knowlington
would ask his best men first, and both officers knew or at least suspected they
would volunteer. They were, after all, Hog drivers.

“I’d like to get a special maintenance team at Al
Jouf,” added the general.

“Wait a second,” said Knowlington. “There are some
good people there already. Plenty, from what I hear. We’re running full sorties
out of there.”

“We want to keep the Apache force separate. Security.”

“Aw come on. That’s just bullshit.”

Knowlington would have made the same response even if
he and the general hadn’t been through some butt-wrenching times together over
the years
—
one of the reasons Knowlington was still only a colonel. The general
gave him a just a hint of a disapproving stare, then folded his hands outward
as if he had no choice.

Which Knowlington knew was complete bullshit.

“We don’t need your entire squadron,” said the
general. “But I want people we can count on. Right now we’re screwed on the
helicopter maintenance side. I have one person to keep two helos in the air.
That’s an accident waiting to happen, don’t you think?”

Of course it was, and Knowlington couldn’t argue. But
it wasn’t necessarily relevant. There were plenty of A-10 specialists from
other Warthog squadrons out at Al Jouf, which was on the other side of Saudi
Arabia much closer to the border. As a matter of fact, a crew of them had
patched one of his planes together just the other day.

“I don’t want one of my pilots flying in a plane
that’s not one hundred percent,” added the general.

“Those are my pilots,” said Knowlington.

“Our pilots,” said the general, about as
diplomatically as he ever managed.

That was a bad sign, thought Knowlington, realizing he
was going to have to concede. “What do you need?”

“Well, we can pick up the survival shop out there.”

The survival specialists were in charge of, among
other things, making sure the pilots had working parachutes.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Work with me, Tommy. I just want to make sure the
planes are ready to go.”

“I have the same problem here,” said Knowlington.

“Ah, your guy Clyston’s put together a Super Bowl
team. Come on. I’m not asking for everybody, just a few key guys.”

“I’ll see who we can spare.”

The general gave him a look that implied he better
spare at least a few of his best technical wizards, but said nothing more.

“You have up-to-date intelligence on that strip you
want to use?” Knowlington asked, changing the subject as a tactful surrender.

“The last satellite picture shows it there, with no
guards, no nothing. Improving it to the point where we can put in C-130’s still
a long shot. Now if we had gotten the J’s though congress...”

“I wasn’t part of that,” said Knowlington, who had
heard the pointed lament at least twice in the past three days. He was fudging
a bit. Knowlington’s most recent Pentagon assignment had included “briefing” Congressmen.
He had been asked unofficially to help lobby for the special-edition cargo
planes, which could land fully loaded on even shorter strips than the normal
models; 1,500 feet was the supposed spec. But Knowlington’s boss was opposed to
the program because of other funding priorities. The issue was one of the few
where the colonel had strictly obeyed orders.

“I better get going,” said Knowlington when the
general didn’t respond. “I have to get your volunteers.”

“Thanks for your help.” The general got up and walked
with him to the boxes that marked the sit-room door. “And thanks for Dixon,
too.”

“What do you mean, Dixon?”

“Lieutenant Dixon. The assignment you cleared.”

“I didn’t clear any assignment. You mean the trip with
the helicopter crew that picked up Mongoose? I’m still pissed at that.”

“No,” said the general. “The ground FAC assignment.
You didn’t clear it?”

“I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking
about.”

The general stifled a laugh. “Typical Hog pilot.” he
shook his head. “You didn’t tell Lieutenant Dixon to see Jeff Marg in Riyadh?”

Marg was one of the colonels in charge of the
infiltration teams.

“No way,” said Knowlington. “I sent him over to Black
Hole to cool his heels for a week or two, but I want him back eventually. If
only to spank his behind. He got hooked up in that rescue mission on his own.”

“Jeez, go easy on the kid. Marg told me he shot down a
helicopter. And a whole platoon of Iraqis surrendered to him.”

“They surrendered to me and my wingman,” said
Knowlington. “I’m not saying the kid’s not a good pilot,” he added. “Or that
he’s not brave. Or stupid. But he’s still green. Shit, Dixon’s barely old
enough to have a beer.”

“Ah. You were young once.”

“Not naive, though. Where the hell is he?”

“Parachuting into Iraq.”

“Parachuting? Into Iraq? Dixon is parachuting?”

“Well, yeah. We needed someone who could talk to
pilots and he volunteered. Marg thought you cleared it. Dixon’s not a
skydiver?”

“As far as I know, he’s as much a skydiver as I’m a
skateboarder.”

“Well I sure as shit hope you’re world class,” said
the general.

THE
DEPOT, SAUDI ARABIA

24
JANUARY 1991

2200

D
oberman
took another
swig from the soda can
and squirreled his eyes into something he hoped would look like a perplexed
squint.

“Hey Dog Man, you betting those threes or what?” asked
A-Bomb, who was sitting across from him at the poker table.

Captain Thomas “A-Bomb” O’Rourke was Captain John “Doberman”
Glenon’s wingman in Devil Squadron, a Hog driver with considerable experience
in the cockpit and even more playing cards.

“Yeah, I’m in.” Doberman kicked in a chip to meet the
bet. He was showing a pair of threes, separated by a king and a ten. It looked
like a dumb move and, truth was, it wasn’t a percentage play at all.

The thing was, though, both the king and the ten were
spades. And his first two cards, dealt face down in this game of seven-card
stud, were also spades.

An ace and a queen, as a matter of fact. Ordinarily
Doberman would run the odds through his mental computer and reject any possibility
of winning with a flush or a straight, let alone a royal flush. But
he was so far ahead tonight, he could afford to play a
wild long shot. In fact, he’d been doing that all night, a complete reversal of
his usual poker
operandi,
which had brought completely unexpected
results: He was winning.

The pilots were playing in a back room of the Depot,
an off-base club located in what seemed to have been an old bomb shelter
literally yards from the King Fahd runway. Who ran it, let alone who had built
it, was unknown. Some guys said it sprung whole from the desert after too many
GIs had too many wet dreams; you didn’t have to take more than a step into the
hazy interior to believe that was true. The uniforms the waitresses wore
covered less than the average postage stamp. There was a floor show, a cage
show, and a ceiling extravaganza – not to mention several rooms that even A-Bomb
advised weren’t to be entered.

The official attitude toward the club was difficult to
gauge. On the one hand, it was the epitome of everything prohibited in Saudi
Arabia. On the other hand, at least one two-star general was known to be among
the frequent “guests.” The Devil Squadron Commander, Colonel Knowlington,
didn’t approve but didn’t censure, either. The other squadron commanders were
equally ambiguous.

“I’ll see Wong’s raise, and go five more,” snapped the
player to Doberman’s left, Kevin Sullivan. Captain Sullivan had three fours on
the table. Normally, his cherubic expression could be counted on to give his
hold cards away. But he had worn a consistent scowl from the very first hand,
and for the past hour had growled nearly as sharply as the plane he piloted, an
AC-130 mean-ass gunship armed with a variety of cannons and a very nasty
temper. Sullivan was a particularly poor loser, and like everyone else at the
table except Captain Bristol Wong, was down heavily to Doberman.

Who had been advertised as the night’s pigeon.

“You guys are too rich for me,” said A-Bomb, folding.
Richie Stevens did the same. Wong, who was showing two pair, aces high, pushed
forward five chips. The intelligence officer,
on loan from the Pentagon G2 staff, had been advertised as the night’s
pigeon. He’d proven anything but: only Doberman’s incredible string of luck had
held him in check.

Not that Doberman thought it was luck exactly.

“Out,” said Hernandez, throwing down his cards.

The bet was back to Doberman. Statistically speaking,
his best hope was to land another three, and that wouldn’t even beat what
Sullivan was showing. The way he read the table, Sullivan and Wong were both
riding full houses; all he was doing was making the pot fatter for them,
something he’d been doing all night.

And yet, if he pulled a jack of spades, how sweet that
would be. The odds on getting a royal flush were astronomical: well into the
millions. On the other hand, having been dealt the four cards to start with,
the odds really weren’t that ridiculous. In fact, they were no worse than 1 out
of 32, since Doberman already knew the card he needed wasn’t lying face up on
the table.

Still a long shot. But he’d never had a night like
this before.

“Call,” he said, pushing forward a five-dollar chip.

“Feeling lucky?” mocked A-Bomb. “Oh, I forgot, you
don’t believe in luck. So how come you’re in?”

“Just deal the cards,” Doberman told him.

“For somebody that doesn’t believe in luck, he’s sure
riding high,” said Sullivan.

“I got the luck of Job,” said Doberman.

“Anybody want a beer?” Hernandez asked.

“I’ll take one,” said A-Bomb. “See if you can get some
of those scorcher wings. I showed Manny or whatever his name is in the back how
to pep them up with that hot sauce I got the other day.”

“When did you have time to do that?” asked Hernandez.
Like A-Bomb and Doberman, he was a Devil Squadron Hog driver. “Don’t you
sleep?”

“Shit, I sleep all the time,” said A-Bomb. “Hell,
we’re flying and things are slow, I take a nap in the cockpit. Right, Dog Man?”

“The snores are unreal,” said Doberman. “Now deal the fuckin’
 cards.”

“You want a beer, Wong?” asked Hernandez.

“He ought to pay for a round,” suggested Sullivan.
”He’s the new guy.”

“I am not drinking beer,” said Wong. “And I will not
contribute to your dereliction by purchasing any. It is against the custom and
law of the country.”

“Shit, Wong, are you for real?” asked Hernandez.

“He’s busting your chops. Go ahead, it’s on him,” A-Bomb
said. “He’s got a tab.”

“Why does everyone on this base think I’m making jokes?”
Wong asked. “And since when do I have a tab here?”

“I set it up,” said A-Bomb. “You can thank me later.”

“Hey, are we playing cards or what?” demanded
Doberman.

“You’re pretty antsy for somebody who’s got butkus,”
said Sullivan. “Or do you suddenly believe in luck?”

“Fuck you.”

“Dogman ain’t lucky at planes or cards,” said A-Bomb.

“Shit, yeah, he is,” said Sullivan. “Nobody in the world
could take so many bullets and keep flying.”

“Hell, that ain’t luck. Hog loves to take bullets,”
said A-Bomb. “Holes in the wing make it fly faster.”

“Just because I know what I’m doing and you don’t,
doesn’t mean I’m lucky,” said Doberman.

“Yeah, right,” Sullivan said.

“You ever fly your crate home without hydraulics?”

“Last card down,” said A-Bomb, dishing Wong’s card to
begin the final round.

The plastic beads walling off the room parted,
revealing Lieutenant Jack “Happy Face” Gladstone
,
who, contrary to his nickname,
perpetually frowned.

“Colonel needs to see you right away, Captain,” he
told Doberman. “Wants you, too, sir,” he told Wong.

Wong immediately pushed his chair back and rose.

“Whoa! Wait a second. We got a hand to finish here,”
said Sullivan.

“Guess I might as well come, too,” said A-Bomb,
putting the deck down and standing. “What’s going on, Smile Boy?”

“Hey come on, let’s finish the hand,” said Doberman.
“Where the hell are you guys going? Wong, get back here. A-Bomb.”

“Colonel’s pissed about something,” said Gladstone.
“The capo told me he was over in the Bat Cave a little while ago. That’s all I
know.”

“Uh-oh,” said A-Bomb. The “capo” was the wing’s top
sergeant, Chief Master Sergeant Allen Clyston, a man wise in all things and
with more sources than the CIA. A-Bomb scooped up the pot.

“Hey,” said Sullivan. “We can finish the hand.”

“Colonel wouldn’t be asking to see us this time of
night unless it was real important,” said A-Bomb. “I’ll cash out everybody on
the way over to Hog Heaven.”

“Shit, he doesn’t want all of us,” said Doberman. He
had already decided this must be an administrative thing; the squadron DO was
due to be shipped home, and Doberman was among those in line for the job.

Not that he wanted it.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere without your wingman watching
your butt,” said A-Bomb. “I’m trusting you guys to remember what you bet that
last round,” he added, stalking away.

Sullivan cursed and tossed his cards down. Doberman
took a deep breath and rose, the last one in the room.

His next card was lying face down on the top of the
pile.

He hesitated for a second.

More than likely, it was a five or a seven or even
another king or queen, something in diamonds or hearts.

More than likely, Gladstone had just saved him a
bundle.

He started to walk out the room, got as far as the
beads, turned back. Doberman reached down and flipped over the card.

Jack of spades.