HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) by Jim DeFelice Read Free Book Online Page B
Book: HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) by Jim DeFelice Read Free Book Online
Authors: Jim DeFelice
Hawkins. “Mean bastards.”
“Fucking ugly.”
“Yeah,” said the captain.
“Ugly’s good.”
“The best,” said Hawkins.
CHAPTER 11
APPROACHING IRAQ
28 JANUARY 1991
1730
Hack’s heart picked up its beat as he
neared the border with Iraq. The contrails of a flight of bombers arced across
the top quarter of his windscreen; black clouds of smoke lined the horizon to
his right. To his left, faint flickers of light— maybe reflections, maybe
tracers— glinted in the dust of the desert floor.
It was one thing to haul ass across the border at thirty-thousand
feet in the world’s most advanced fighter jet, when the flick of your wrist
could increase your thrust exponentially and take you to Mach 2 in the blink of
an eye. It was quite another to be coaxing a Maverick-laden Hog through 15,000
feet, hoping a tailwind to boost you to three hundred knots.
Why had he taken this damn A-10 assignment?
Because he had no choice. Because it would get him
where he wanted to go— squadron commander, colonel, general. Beyond.
Why the hell had he volunteered for this mission?
Knowlington had put him up to it. The colonel knew
damn well that if he didn’t volunteer, he’d look like a chickenshit to the rest
of the squadron.
Stinking Knowlington, so full of himself, so
cocksure that he still the hottest stick on the patch. If he was so hot, why
the hell hadn’t he taken the mission himself?
He would have, if Hack hadn’t raised his hand.
Showed him up.
One thing he had to say for Knowlington – the SOB
didn’t seem to be drinking, or at least he was a hell of a lot more careful
about it here than in Washington.
He would sooner or later, though. Then Hack would
take over the squadron, move on with the game plan. Get his own squadron, make
his mark, transfer back to a real plane. A lot of older guys were choking the
path to promotion, but he could cut around them with a good job here.
Which was why he’d volunteered, right? Kick some
butt in a major mission. Somebody would be bound to notice.
It was more than that. Hack was ambitious, no
denying that. Nor could he deny— to himself— that he felt he’d screwed up on
this morning’s mission and wanted to redeem himself.
Not screwed up. Just gotten scared when he didn’t
have to be scared.
But he’d volunteered for the Splash package simply
because he felt like he ought to be in the mix. He belonged on the toughest
assignments. Prestige, ego, redemption, and all that other bullshit were beside
the fact.
Preston tried to push the fatigue away, focusing
his eyes on the navigation gear, checking his way-points, mentally projecting
himself against the sketched lines of his flight plan.
“Two minutes to border,” he told his flight.
The others acknowledged. Once more, he had
O’Rourke as his wingman. Doberman in Devil Three had Gunny on his six. The Hogs
would work in pairs above the target, with Preston and A-Bomb on the east side
on the first run, Glenon and his wingman on the west.
Preston nudged his stick as he came over the
border, then gave his instruments a quick check. His fuel burn seemed a tiny
bit high; it was barely noticeable, but might be a problem later on, stealing valuable
minutes over the target area. He told himself to try to make up for it, if he
could.
Checks completed, he rocked his body back and
forth in the ejection seat, coaxing away the knots and aches. In some ways,
this was the worst part of any mission— the long middle. You could easily be
lulled to inattention. Worse, a tired pilot might fall asleep.
Like nearly every other pilot in the service, Hack
had a stash of pep pills in his flightsuit for emergency use. But he hated to
use them, and in fact had taken an amphetamine only once in his life, and that
was in college cramming for a test. He didn’t even like aspirin or antibiotics.
He’d accepted his anthrax shot before coming to the Gulf only because he figured
he’d be court martialed if he
“Fucking ugly.”
“Yeah,” said the captain.
“Ugly’s good.”
“The best,” said Hawkins.
CHAPTER 11
APPROACHING IRAQ
28 JANUARY 1991
1730
Hack’s heart picked up its beat as he
neared the border with Iraq. The contrails of a flight of bombers arced across
the top quarter of his windscreen; black clouds of smoke lined the horizon to
his right. To his left, faint flickers of light— maybe reflections, maybe
tracers— glinted in the dust of the desert floor.
It was one thing to haul ass across the border at thirty-thousand
feet in the world’s most advanced fighter jet, when the flick of your wrist
could increase your thrust exponentially and take you to Mach 2 in the blink of
an eye. It was quite another to be coaxing a Maverick-laden Hog through 15,000
feet, hoping a tailwind to boost you to three hundred knots.
Why had he taken this damn A-10 assignment?
Because he had no choice. Because it would get him
where he wanted to go— squadron commander, colonel, general. Beyond.
Why the hell had he volunteered for this mission?
Knowlington had put him up to it. The colonel knew
damn well that if he didn’t volunteer, he’d look like a chickenshit to the rest
of the squadron.
Stinking Knowlington, so full of himself, so
cocksure that he still the hottest stick on the patch. If he was so hot, why
the hell hadn’t he taken the mission himself?
He would have, if Hack hadn’t raised his hand.
Showed him up.
One thing he had to say for Knowlington – the SOB
didn’t seem to be drinking, or at least he was a hell of a lot more careful
about it here than in Washington.
He would sooner or later, though. Then Hack would
take over the squadron, move on with the game plan. Get his own squadron, make
his mark, transfer back to a real plane. A lot of older guys were choking the
path to promotion, but he could cut around them with a good job here.
Which was why he’d volunteered, right? Kick some
butt in a major mission. Somebody would be bound to notice.
It was more than that. Hack was ambitious, no
denying that. Nor could he deny— to himself— that he felt he’d screwed up on
this morning’s mission and wanted to redeem himself.
Not screwed up. Just gotten scared when he didn’t
have to be scared.
But he’d volunteered for the Splash package simply
because he felt like he ought to be in the mix. He belonged on the toughest
assignments. Prestige, ego, redemption, and all that other bullshit were beside
the fact.
Preston tried to push the fatigue away, focusing
his eyes on the navigation gear, checking his way-points, mentally projecting
himself against the sketched lines of his flight plan.
“Two minutes to border,” he told his flight.
The others acknowledged. Once more, he had
O’Rourke as his wingman. Doberman in Devil Three had Gunny on his six. The Hogs
would work in pairs above the target, with Preston and A-Bomb on the east side
on the first run, Glenon and his wingman on the west.
Preston nudged his stick as he came over the
border, then gave his instruments a quick check. His fuel burn seemed a tiny
bit high; it was barely noticeable, but might be a problem later on, stealing valuable
minutes over the target area. He told himself to try to make up for it, if he
could.
Checks completed, he rocked his body back and
forth in the ejection seat, coaxing away the knots and aches. In some ways,
this was the worst part of any mission— the long middle. You could easily be
lulled to inattention. Worse, a tired pilot might fall asleep.
Like nearly every other pilot in the service, Hack
had a stash of pep pills in his flightsuit for emergency use. But he hated to
use them, and in fact had taken an amphetamine only once in his life, and that
was in college cramming for a test. He didn’t even like aspirin or antibiotics.
He’d accepted his anthrax shot before coming to the Gulf only because he figured
he’d be court martialed if he