Hogs #3 Fort Apache Read Free

guys.”
    “I’ll see who we can spare.”
    The general gave him a look that implied he better
spare at least a few of his best technical wizards, but said nothing more.
    “You have up-to-date intelligence on that strip you
want to use?” Knowlington asked, changing the subject as a tactful surrender.
    “The last satellite picture shows it there, with no
guards, no nothing. Improving it to the point where we can put in C-130’s still
a long shot. Now if we had gotten the J’s though congress...”
    “I wasn’t part of that,” said Knowlington, who had
heard the pointed lament at least twice in the past three days. He was fudging
a bit. Knowlington’s most recent Pentagon assignment had included “briefing” Congressmen.
He had been asked unofficially to help lobby for the special-edition cargo
planes, which could land fully loaded on even shorter strips than the normal
models; 1,500 feet was the supposed spec. But Knowlington’s boss was opposed to
the program because of other funding priorities. The issue was one of the few
where the colonel had strictly obeyed orders.
    “I better get going,” said Knowlington when the
general didn’t respond. “I have to get your volunteers.”
    “Thanks for your help.” The general got up and walked
with him to the boxes that marked the sit-room door. “And thanks for Dixon,
too.”
    “What do you mean, Dixon?”
    “Lieutenant Dixon. The assignment you cleared.”
    “I didn’t clear any assignment. You mean the trip with
the helicopter crew that picked up Mongoose? I’m still pissed at that.”
    “No,” said the general. “The ground FAC assignment.
You didn’t clear it?”
    “I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking
about.”
    The general stifled a laugh. “Typical Hog pilot.” he
shook his head. “You didn’t tell Lieutenant Dixon to see Jeff Marg in Riyadh?”
    Marg was one of the colonels in charge of the
infiltration teams.
    “No way,” said Knowlington. “I sent him over to Black
Hole to cool his heels for a week or two, but I want him back eventually. If
only to spank his behind. He got hooked up in that rescue mission on his own.”
    “Jeez, go easy on the kid. Marg told me he shot down a
helicopter. And a whole platoon of Iraqis surrendered to him.”
    “They surrendered to me and my wingman,” said
Knowlington. “I’m not saying the kid’s not a good pilot,” he added. “Or that
he’s not brave. Or stupid. But he’s still green. Shit, Dixon’s barely old
enough to have a beer.”
    “Ah. You were young once.”
    “Not naive, though. Where the hell is he?”
    “Parachuting into Iraq.”
    “Parachuting? Into Iraq? Dixon is parachuting?”
    “Well, yeah. We needed someone who could talk to
pilots and he volunteered. Marg thought you cleared it. Dixon’s not a
skydiver?”
    “As far as I know, he’s as much a skydiver as I’m a
skateboarder.”
    “Well I sure as shit hope you’re world class,” said
the general.
     

CHAPTER 3
     
    THE
DEPOT, SAUDI ARABIA
    24
JANUARY 1991
    2200
     
     
    D oberman
took another swig from the soda can
and squirreled his eyes into something he hoped would look like a perplexed
squint.
    “Hey Dog Man, you betting those threes or what?” asked
A-Bomb, who was sitting across from him at the poker table.
    Captain Thomas “A-Bomb” O’Rourke was Captain John “Doberman”
Glenon’s wingman in Devil Squadron, a Hog driver with considerable experience
in the cockpit and even more playing cards.
    “Yeah, I’m in.” Doberman kicked in a chip to meet the
bet. He was showing a pair of threes, separated by a king and a ten. It looked
like a dumb move and, truth was, it wasn’t a percentage play at all.
    The thing was, though, both the king and the ten were
spades. And his first two cards, dealt face down in this game of seven-card
stud, were also spades.
    An ace and a queen, as a matter of fact. Ordinarily
Doberman would run the odds through his mental computer and reject any