Hogs #3 Fort Apache (20 page)

King
Fahd

26
January, 1991

0530

S
kull
wasn’t terribly
surprised to find
Mongoose in Cineplex, even though it was relatively early. Even though there
was no one else in the squadron room, he decided to talk to him down the hall
in his office. Mongoose’s grin practically lit the way.

“So?” asked the major as Skull closed the door.

“Sit down and relax.”

“Colonel –”

“I wanted to ask you something first.”

Mongoose’s expression quickly changed. He was once
more the solid-faced, on-guard DO who had done so much of Knowlington’s work
during the first weeks of the squadron’s creation and deployment.

“What’s your wife think of you staying here?” Skull
asked him.

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

“She thinks it’s great.”

“You haven’t told her, have you?”

“She’ll go along with what I think is right.”

Skull pushed his fingers along his left ear, then
around to his neck. He still hadn’t made up his mind. It was going to take a
lot to keep the major with the squadron, though he had no doubt he could pull
the strings.

What he doubted was whether it was the right thing to
do. And he felt awkward about asking; he’d never been good at the personal
questions, even when it was his job to ask them.

“Why don’t you want to go back?” he asked. “Are you
afraid?”

“I can’t really explain it,” said Mongoose.

“Don’t you love your kid? I’m not trying to insult
you, ‘Goose. But what you’re asking
—
it’s unusual.”

“I love my wife and my son. Shit, he was just born. Of
course I love him. And I want to see him, too. But not yet. Not until this is
over.”

There was pain on the major’s face; Knowlington saw
that he hadn’t quite figured it out either.

“I can’t explain it,” said Mongoose. “They’re all I’ve
thought about since I’ve been here. But to go to them now, it feels wrong. It
feels like I’m running away when I have a hell of a lot more to do.”

“It’s not your fault you got shot down. I’m serious.”

“I know. Look, I ought to stay until this thing is
over. How long can it last?”

Under other circumstances, Knowlington would have
laughed for quite a while. Instead, he only said, “We thought that about
Vietnam, too.”

“This isn’t then.”

“I know. Thank God.”

It wasn’t Vietnam, truly. Knowlington couldn’t think
of anything else to say, and Mongoose had obviously told him as much as he
would
—
and maybe as much as he could.

“What about it?” the major asked finally.

“If you want to stay with the squadron, here, doing
what you can, I don’t see that I can really deny that request,” said
Knowlington slowly. “In a lot of ways, I owe it to you. But I’m going to have a
lot of explaining to do, and not a little string pulling. And you can expect
half-a-million people to show up on your doorstep with questions.”

“I can handle them.”

Skull scratched his chin. “I have to be honest with
you, ‘Goose, I’m not exactly sure I’m making the right decision here.”

“You are,” said the major. And with that, he got up
and practically ran from the office, as happy as Knowlington had ever seen him.

FORT
APACHE

26
JANUARY 1991

0605

T
he
commandos owned
the night, but the
day belonged to the Iraqis. Any of a thousand things might give them away
—
a passing Bedouin,
a flyover by an Iraqi plane. They had lookouts covering the approaches and the
highway under surveillance for nearly twenty miles, but the general plan for
dealing with the day was to lay low, hiding and sleeping as much as possible.

But Hawkins wasn’t about to sleep. Nor did he think
about the danger they were in, or his injuries. He was determined to get back the
helicopter and the men he’d left behind. He started working out a plan as soon
as his AH-6G, now officially dubbed Apache One, touched down on the weathered
concrete.

Apache One had been hit in several places, including
its fuel tank; while they were lucky that the bullet or shrapnel hadn’t ignited
the fuel, the damage itself was minimal and easily repaired. More serious were
the hits the electronics and rear rotor assembly had taken. His men could patch
a fuel tank and bang out damaged metal under the direction of their injured
mechanic, but they didn’t know very much about electronics or propulsion
systems. The mechanic’s splints made it tough for him to inspect, let alone
repair, the damage. He was a gamer, but he didn’t look in particularly good
shape, clearly exhausted after only a half hour’s work.

It would be a bitch for him to get the downed chopper
working if there was a serious problem with it. And if something went wrong
with Apache One on the way, they would be truly fucked.

The colonel had promised at least two more
technicians; Hawkins decided to open the line to Al Jouf and find out if they
were coming. He gave Colonel Klee the good news first
—
the Blue and
Green teams had reported in; two Scud erectors and missiles had been smashed
overnight.

“So how are we getting our helo back?” said the
colonel.

“We’ll get it,” said Hawkins. “Am I getting those
mechanics?”

“You have a runway yet?”

“In two hours, I’ll have fifteen hundred feet.”

“Too short.”

“Can you send a Pave Low?”

“Not this morning, no way. Maybe tonight or tomorrow
night, if then.”

“Too long,” said Hawkins. “If you have the mechanics,
parachute them in.”

“In daylight?”

“I’ll take the risk,” said Hawkins. “I’m not sure
about getting the helo fixed without them.”

“It’s not yours to take. I’m also not crazy about
breaking someone else’s leg.”

“Do a tandem if they’re not jump-qualified.”

“Easier said than done.”

“But you do have the mechanics?”

“I said I’m working on it.”

Hawkins frowned but said nothing. The colonel clearly
didn’t have anyone.

“We should have a BDA report on the mountain bunker in
an hour or. I’ll get back to you. Sit tight until I do.”

NEAR
SUGAR MOUNTAIN

26
JANUARY 1991

0643

D
ixon
carried Leteri
a few hundred yards until
they were sure they weren’t being followed. Leteri managed to do fairly well
the rest of the way on his own, though they had to stop a dozen times. The last
time Dixon didn’t think he’d be able to get going again; it was the wounded Leteri
who actually pulled him to his feet and gave him a push to help him along.

Dixon told Leteri about the bombing raid. Leteri told
him about the action at the Cornfield. An explosion, probably a mortar shell,
had knocked the sergeant unconscious. He had a hazy memory of the Hogs
attacking and the second chopper appearing, but he had blacked out again in
there somewhere. When he finally regained his senses he was near the downed
Little Bird. He had no idea how he’d managed to drag himself there, since it
was quite some distance from where he’d been hit. When he heard the Iraqis
fiddling with the truck, he went and hid in the creek. He had heard Dixon
challenge the Iraqi soldier.

“I didn’t challenge him,” Dixon said. “Hell, I almost
shook his hand, thinking he was you.”

“Then you killed him.”

“Yeah.”

Leteri paused. “First time?”

For a moment Dixon didn’t answer. “Well, I got that
helicopter when the air war started. Those guys probably died, too. Except, you
know, I didn’t think about it. I was flying. I never really saw them. Not as
people.”

“First time for me today, too,” said Leteri quietly.

Dixon thought about the look in the man’s face for
only a second, then banished it, concentrating on keeping his momentum up. He
felt as if a fire had started in the back of his head; it burned there to keep
him going. His hunger was gone and he was beyond feeling numb or tired. His gut
had grown raw with the will of survival.

“How are we going to take that bunker out if the bombs
didn’t?” Leteri asked as they got closer.

“I don’t know that we are.”

“We have to somehow.”

“Yeah.” Dixon walked silently. They were about a
quarter of a mile from the road, on the opposite side from Sugar Mountain. He
was more worried about traffic finding them than doing anything about the
shelter. There was plenty of light and they had little cover on this side of
the road.

“What do you think?” Leteri asked. “The grenade
launcher?”

“Grenade’s not going through that door. Turk said the
C-4 wouldn’t even take it out. Besides, we got other problems.”

“Captain’ll come for us, if that’s what you’re
thinking. I know Hawkins. He won’t give up. And neither will our colonel. He’s
a prick, but he’s a good prick.”

About a half mile from the quarry, they rested at a
small group of rocks a few yards from the highway. Dixon paused for only a
second, rocking his body back and forth.

“I’m going to go scout the quarry,” he told Leteri.
“There’s a back way up to the sergeant a few yards ahead. I’ll make sure it’s
clear.”

“I’m gonna come,” said Leteri. “My side doesn’t hurt
as much as it did.”

“Better to hang here,” Dixon told him. “There’s a hell
of a lot of climbing this way, and if you go the other way, you’ll be in full
view of anything that comes down the road.”

“I’ll be all right.”

Dixon examined the H&K. The fire in his head was
burning steadily now; his eyes had narrowed their focus the way they did in the
last few seconds on a bomb run in a Hog. “You stay here,” he said. “I’ll be
back. Take the morphine if the pain gets too much.”

Without waiting for Leteri to answer, Dixon began
trotting toward the highway, clutching the small submachine gun close to his
side. The sun had started to warm the air. For a second, he felt as if he were
running along the beach at his town lake, trotting for an ice cream or maybe
back to the car for the stereo.

Then he heard the rattle of a truck. He dashed across
the highway and headed for the back of the hill where he’d left Sergeant
Winston. As he did, a small pickup truck crowded with soldiers appeared from
the direction of Sugar Mountain, kicking up dust and skidding to a stop across
the middle of the road. Dixon threw himself face first behind the rocks, his
heart lost somewhere in the dirt as the soldiers jumped out and took up
positions all along the highway, less than ten yards away.

AL
JOUF

26
JANUARY 1991

0650

E
ven
though the
tent was empty, it was
hardly private; anyone could walk in at any time. And yet she couldn’t control
herself. For her entire military service, Rebecca A. Rosen she had steeled
herself against exactly this open vulnerability and nakedness. But she was
helpless now, sitting on the edge of the cot and shaking like a windup toy.

There were no tears at least, or hardly any. But the
shaking was nearly as bad. It wasn’t as if there was anything between her and
Lieutenant Dixon, anything more than a few kisses stolen at random moments. He
might not even remember who she was.

That was nonsense. Of course he did. But he wouldn’t
think anything of it, or at least he would be surprised, maybe shocked, to see
her like this.

And yet she couldn’t stop.

I’m a useless blob, she told herself. She pulled her
arms across her chest Stop. This wasn’t helping him. It wasn’t helping anyone.

But she kept shaking until she managed to think about
the capo di capo.

That brought her back to center. Sergeant Clyston was
the closest thing to a father she’d ever had. He was closer to her than her
mother, even.

Rosen saw Clyston’s face now in the tent, the way he
would cock his head at her and push his lower lip tight against the top. “F-ing
hell,” he’d say. “Rosen, get your butt in gear and see what needs to be done,”
he say.

“Yes, Sergeant. Right away, Sergeant,” she’d say.

And so she did. She pushed her arms down to her side
and took a huge breath, ending the shaking for good. Then she took out a small
makeup mirror and checked her eyes and face.

She took another breath and got off the cot.

The two Devil Squadron Hogs
—
her Hogs
—
were ready to
go. But there would be something else for her and her men to do, plenty. And in
the meantime, she’d try to come up with something to wring more time on station
for the Hogs. Tinman might have something; he was always good for something
that had worked in the Dark Ages before screwdrivers were invented.

Actually, there was an even simpler solution: The
A-10As had three hard-points plumed for external fuel tanks. While the idea of
using them to extend range had been rejected for several reasons at different
points, it might be worth reconsidering, assuming they could get a few tanks
out here. Rosen decided to check with Sergeant Clyston about it before going to
Doberman. No use making a pitch for something she couldn’t do. She headed for
the command bunker, hoping that one of the colonel’s men could set something up
for her.

She found the colonel himself, frowning at an Army captain.
Even though the two men were still talking, the colonel motioned her forward.

“Sergeant?” he said.

“Sir, begging your pardon, I was wondering if we could
arrange a landline back to my chief. I, we, I’m sorry to bother you with this
but I was hoping to squeeze more time on station out of the Hogs and wanted to
get his ideas, sir. He had mentioned a modification that conceivably could do
the trick, sir, and I’d like to spec it out with him.”

Rosen had thrown more than the mandatory number of
“sirs” in the air, and the colonel seemed at least partly amused.

“You have to run down Major Mosely,” he told her.
“He’ll set you up. Sergeant, let me ask you something
—
any of your
crew know anything about helicopter electronics?”

“What electronics?”

The Army captain gave the colonel a look Rosen knew
all too well – it meant,
see what happens when you ask a girl a serious
question?

She stifled her urge to forearm the bastard. “Sir,
I’ve worked on the Pave Low systems, if that’s what you have in mind,” Rosen
said, her eyes fixed on the idiot captain. “I’ve served as an instructor.”

“What do you know about AH-6Gs?” asked the colonel.

“Based on the McDonnell Douglas 500M, they’re powered
by Alison gas turbines. The electronics suite is contemporary.”

“Contemporary?” said the captain.

“It will do. It’s Army,” she shrugged. “You can’t
expect perfection. The power plant’s actually a nice piece of machinery,
though.”

The captain started to say something that would
undoubtedly have not been very pleasant, but the colonel stopped him. She could
tell that he was the sort of officer who didn’t smile much; nonetheless, he had
the beginnings of a grin on his face.

“You know a lot about that aircraft?” the colonel
asked.

“A fair amount, sir. It’s not my specialty.”

“You think you could help get one of those things in
the air?” the colonel asked her.

“Sir, I’ll bust my butt doing anything you want.”

“That’s not the question, Sergeant. Can you fix
helicopters?”

“If there’s a problem with the electronics I can take
a shot at it. I don’t know much about the weapons suite at all. That’s army,
and I’m not meaning that disrespectfully. As far as the rest, I helped overhaul
Kawasaki license-built models in Japan. I can fix the engine, that’s nothing.
Engines were where I started, and like I say, that’s a nice piece of work, that
one.”

The colonel nodded.

“So where is it?” Rosen asked.

“Two hundred and fifty miles north of here,” said the
captain with a snide grin. “In Iraq.”

“All right
—
Apache,” she said, making a fist and swinging it in the
air. “Let’s go!”

The captain had undoubtedly expected her to faint if
not burst into tears. But even the colonel was surprised by her reaction.

“Sergeant, did you understand what the captain just
said?” he asked.

“Oh, he’s just an asshole who thinks women don’t
belong in the service,” she said. “Don’t worry about him. He probably couldn’t
fix a flat tire. When am I leaving?”