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

the emergency lights
weren’t admitting it. All systems were in the green.
    “Saved the best for last,” said Gunny. “You nailed
a tank. T-54, looks like.”
    “Three,” said Doberman. He’d flailed back at the
target so fast he hadn’t even known what he was hitting.
    “Thanks, Yanks!” shouted a voice over the
emergency rescue band. It was Sister Sadie’s pilot.
    “Devil Three to Sadie. What the hell? I had you a
mile further north.”
    “Quite,” responded the pilot. “Nav’s still there.
I had to retrieve a souvenir.”
    God damn Brits were worse than Hog drivers.
    “Stay put, would you?” Doberman told him. “We have
to smoke the rest of the Iraqis so the helicopters can come in..”
    “It’s a starlit night and I feel all right,” sang
the voice, laughing as if it were karaoke night. “But I’ve got company.”
    “What the fuck are you saying?”
    “More lorries down here,” said the Brit, his voice
only marginally more serious.
    “Yeah, whatever. Stay out of the cross fire, okay?”
    Lorries? Did he mean trucks?
    Goddamn Brits couldn’t even speak English.
     
     
     

CHAPTER 20
    OVER IRAQ
    28 JANUARY 1991
    1840
     
    Hawkins tried to control his anger as he
unfolded the paper map over the hump of controls between the two pilots at the
front of the Chinook. The SAS sergeant slapped his small flashlight twice
without getting the light to work.
    “Figures,” muttered the sergeant.
    Hawkins reached into his pocket and got his own.
    “We’re here,” he said, pointing. “Sadie’s crew is
about here.”
    “Further south, and they’re busy,” said the pilot,
pointing to the side glass. Flashes lit the horizon.
    If they were going to hit the base, they had to get
moving. The Apaches were well into their fuel stores, and even with the planned
behind-the-lines refuel, they’d be pushing things. The Hogs, too, must be
nearing their limit.
    On the other hand, he couldn’t take the risk of
flying the helicopters anywhere near serious antiair defenses.
    Which, basically, was what Preston was concerned
about, even if the shithead hadn’t spelled it out.
    He didn’t even know Preston, but he had worked
with two of the pilots in the support group, Doberman and A-Bomb. If those guys
thought there was a problem, there must really be a problem.
    One way or another, they’d probably lost the
element of surprise.
    Better to fail than never to try.
    Unless failure meant twenty dead men.
    “Our chaps,” said Sergeant Burns.
    “They’re all our chaps,” said Hawkins. “We’re
going to have to scrub.”
    “I agree,” said the pilot.
    Burns didn’t say anything. Hawkins bent his head
slightly, studying the SAS sergeant’s face in the wash from the dimmed cockpit
lights.
    “Best thing,” said the commando finally.
    “Let’s go grab the Tornado crew,” Hawkins told the
pilot.
    “Wait!” The co-pilot put out his hand, touching
Hawkins as he listened to a transmission over the headphones. “The A-10s say
there’s a second wave of vehicles approaching. They may light a flare. Looks
like quite a snit.”
    “Get me the Apaches, and then Devil One,” said
Hawkins. “Plot that course but hold until it’s clear.”
     
     
     

CHAPTER 21
    OVER IRAQ
    28 JANUARY 1991
    1845
     
    Doberman swung back to the south, climbing
steadily. Devil Four completed the far end of a figure-eight about a half-mile
ahead, still flying at six thousand feet.
    “Three pickups that I see,” Gunny told him over
the squadron frequency. “Moving toward the wreckage. I can nail them with the
Mavericks.”
    “Hold off,” Doberman told him.
    Using Mavericks on relatively soft targets like
pickups was a bit of an overkill. Had A-Bomb been his wingman, the response
would have been along the lines of, “Going for the best bang for the buck,” or
“Spoken like a real taxpayer.” But Gunny simply acknowledged.
    “Devil Three, this is Devil One,” said Preston.
“What’s your status?”
    “Circling over the