Free HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) by Jim DeFelice

Devil One,” squawked one of the
British helicopter pilots, though he didn’t identify himself. “What is this
situation? We need a sit rep. Repeat, sit rep.”
    “Devil One. British craft, identify yourself.”
    Static.
    As he transmitted again, Preston checked his fuel.
They had between thirty and forty minutes of linger time left before nudging
reserves. The dash to the target area would eat up nearly ten of that.
    A new voice came back from the RAF Chinook – Hawkins.
    “Devil Leader this is Splash Commander. What do we
have?”
    “Sister Sadie is down; we’re attempting to
establish contact,” he told Hawkins.
    “What’s the sit at Splashdown?”
    “I’m still working on that,” said Preston. “Sadie
was hit before he could tell us.”
    “We need to know now.”
    “No shit, captain,” he said, anger finally
spiking. He hated the Delta assholes— he was tempted, sorely tempted, to tell
them to go and fly right into the frickin’ SAMs.
    “What?”
    Hack hated everyone and everything connected with
this stinking operation, the RAF crew for getting shot down, Knowlington for
making him take the mission.
    He hated himself. He was blowing it big time.
    “I’ll get to you when I know something,” he told
Hawkins, abruptly flipping back to the squadron frequency and hailing Doberman.
    “Are you in contact with Sadie?”
    “Affirmative.”
    “Nice of you to tell me.”
    “I’ve been trying to raise you,” said Doberman.
    “Does Coyote know?” he asked, referring to the
AWACS controller, who would alert SAR assets.
    “Can’t raise him either,” said Doberman.
    The whole damn mission was going to hell.
    “Hold on. I’ll take care of it,” said Preston.
    “Shit, we have company,” said Doberman.
    “Repeat Three.”
    “Vehicles, three vehicles. Must be homing in on
our boy’s transmission. Shit.”
    “Smoke ‘em,” cut in A-Bomb.
    “Yeah, no shit,” responded Doberman. “Gunny, on my
back.”
    “Covered.”
    Preston went back to Hawkins. “Give me your
position.”
    “We’re in the same fucking position we were in ten
minutes ago. What is the situation at Splashdown? Repeat. What is the situation.
. .”
    Hack pushed the transmit button before Hawkins
finished. The mission was finished now—there was no sense sending the assault
team to rescue men who might or might not be there, when there were two downed
fliers who needed help ASAP.
    “Splash One, stand by for coordinates to pick up
Sister Sadie’s crew.”
    “Fuck you,” sputtered Hawkins.
    “Fuck yourself,” said Hack. “Stand by for
coordinates. Iraqi vehicles en route. We’re on them.”
    He could see Doberman starting to dive to the north,
and worked out a vector and distance for the Chinook.
    “Tell the helicopter pilot to look for the burning
trucks ten miles to your north,” he added. “Go!”
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 18
    IRAQ
    28 JANUARY 1991
    1820
     
    In life, Tornado GR.Mk 1A ZA981 SS Sister
Sadie had worn a speckled brown coat, the latest fashion in desert dress. In
death, she wore a very appropriate black, her twisted frame wrenched across
about a quarter of a mile of shadowy desert. Her arms had been shorn off and her
tail scattered into several pieces, but Conrad was interested specifically in
her fuselage— and even more specifically in the mission tapes, which would show
what her sensors had recorded. Always an agreeable girl, Sadie had had the good
sense to wedge herself into the dirt at only a slight angle, making it
comparatively easy for Conrad to pick his way through the mangled metal and
retrieve the video.
    Except that the cartridge refused to budge.
    “Haven’t all day, Sadie,” Conrad complained, but
the stricken plane refused to give up her prize. The pilot stepped back,
unholstered his personal pistol— a German Glock, as it happened— and fired a
salvo at the locking mechanism guarding the access panel.
    Sadie groaned, but the foreign bullet glanced
harmlessly away. Conrad tried