Hogs #4:Snake Eaters by Jim DeFelice Read Free Book Online Page B

ground, the vulture began a wide turn to the east, then swung back toward the runway where Hawkins sipped his tea. The wind began to pick up; the vulture stuttered over the desert. It was an ugly bird, ungainly and fidgety, all wing and head.
    And then it wasn’t a bird at all . It was an A-10A Warthog landing with a fresh load of fuel. The long straight wings grew as the plane’s segmented ailerons and flaps deployed; the nose-wheel folded out like a clock pendulum stopping mid-swing.
    The plane landed so close Hawkins could feel the heat from the brakes as it screeched past on the mesh his engineers had laid out to cover holes in the concrete strip. The Hog’s dark hull weaved slightly as the plane halted at the edge of the ravine. It was a reminder that he’d failed.
    As good as Hawkins’ team was, the immense wadis at either end of the concrete strip limited the makeshift strip to exactly 1,607 feet. That made it too short for the C-130 supply and gunships they’d hoped to base here in support of Scud hunters. Without them, there was no sense staying. It was too great a risk for too little reward. More than a dozen American and British Scud hunting teams were now operational, each with Satcom gear that could hook them into airborne command and control units. Having Apache’s two helos handy was nice if they got into trouble– but only if the helos had enough gas to operate; which couldn’t happen without those C-130s.
    Besides, the plan called for a full squadron of AH-6s, with AC-130 gunships and four A-10s. That was the sort of firepower that made the risk worthwhile.
    But that wasn’t going to happen. Better to leave Apache before it was discovered. It might come in handy during the ground war, assuming there was a ground war.
    Hawkins sighed and took a long sip from his tea. He expected the order to bug out would come in a few hours. He and his crew would be reassigned, most likely. Hopefully they’d end up doing something more important than playing palace guard for the bigwigs.
    The captain took a last gulp of tea and met Doberman as he came down the ladder of the plane. “Nice landing,” he told him.
    “Yeah,” answered the pilot. “Fucking short runway.”
    Hawkins wasn’t sure exactly how to take that, so he ignored it. “I have two teams about a hundred miles north,” Hawkins told him. “Both have laser designators.”
    “Yeah, well, those are useless as shit,” said Doberman. He came to Hawkins’ chest, but his voice was as deep as if he were six-eight.
    To say nothing of his attitude.
    “What do you mean?” the captain asked.
    “I mean we have nothing to drop on what they point to,” said Doberman. “You can have your fuel back, with a little interest. Where the fuck is A-Bomb?”
    Hawkins cocked his head to one side, his teeth edging against his lips. “He went out with one of my men to set up an observation post.”
    Doberman shook his head. “Fuck it.”
    “You got a problem, Captain?” asked Hawkins.
    The pilot jerked his head up. “In what sense?”
    Hawkins squinted his eyes at the shorter man, trying to figure him out. Doberman seemed to be one of those guys who went through life with a chip on his shoulder — or at least he came across that way.
    He was cocky and more than a bit arrogant.
    While it was true that they were the same rank, Hawkins was in charge of the mission and the Hogs were assigned to work with him — or at least not against him. The pilot ought to at least make a stab at courtesy. But before he could deliver the overdue etiquette lecture, Hawkins spotted a suspicious cloud of dust rising northwest of the base.
    He ran to a sandbagged position a few yards off the concrete, grabbing the binoculars that had been laid at the top of the low wall.
    One of his FAVs. Followed by an Iraqi tanker truck.
    What the hell?
    Hawkins watched as the two vehicles twisted across the scrubby sand toward him. Coors was hanging out the window of the tanker; the FAV was