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

Hack’s neck, growing colder as they went, freezing the tips of his ears. His
lungs filled with snow, ballooning, prying his ribs outward against the cells
of his pressure suit. Hack jigged and jagged, throwing the plane back and forth
as he tried desperately to avoid the SAMs.
    The sharp maneuvers sent gravity crushing against
his body. Even as his g suit worked furiously to ward off the pressure, Hack’s
world narrowed to a pinprick of brown and blue, surrounded by a circle of
black. He heard nothing. He felt nothing. He knew his fingers were curled hard
around the stick, but only because he saw them there.
    The plane was going where he didn’t want it to.
    He pulled back on the stick, struggling to clear
his head and keep himself airborne. The black circle began to retreat. The
wings lifted suddenly, air pushing the plane upward. Something rumbled against
the rudders.
    I’m hit.
    Damn, I’m going in.
    His lungs had a thousand sharp points, digging
into the soft tissue around them.
    Do your best.
    The plane’s shudder ceased. He caught his arm,
easing back, leveling off.
    He was free. The missile that had been chasing him
had given up, exploding a few yards behind as it reached the end of its range.
    Or maybe he’d just imagined it all in his panic. Maybe
the g’s rushing against his body had temporarily knocked him senseless; made
him hallucinate. In any event, he was free, alive and unscathed, or at least
not seriously wounded.
    As deliberately as he could manage, Hack took
stock of himself and his position. He was about three miles south of the target
area, now clearly marked by black smoke. Open desert lay below and directly
south. He was at five thousand feet, climbing very slightly, moving at just
over 350 knots— a fair clip for a Hog.
    Fuel was low, but not desperate.
    Where the hell was A-Bomb?
    “Devil Two,” he said over the squadron frequency.
“Lost Airman. A-Bomb?”
    “Yo,” responded his wingmate.
    “Where the hell are you?”
    “I’m just north of Saddam’s used parking lot, helping
them put up the going out of business sign.”
    “Where the hell are you?” Hack repeated.
    “Relax Devil leader,” said O’Rourke. “I got you.
Hold your horses and I’ll be on your butt. We’re clean.”
    “What do you mean, we’re clean?”
    “I mean the only thing we have to worry about is
running into some of those pointy-nose types on their way to mop up.”
    “What are you screwing around for? Check your
fuel. Come on. Didn’t you get a bingo?”
    A-Bomb didn’t answer, which was just fine with
Hack. He turned southwards to intersect the original course back to King
Khalid, where they would refuel before heading back to the Home Drome at King
Fahd.
    Dark curls of black wool filled the eastern
horizon. Saddam had set the Kuwait oil fields on fire and released thousands,
maybe millions of gallons of oil into the Gulf, doing to the environment what
he had done to Kuwait.
    “Got your back,” said A-Bomb, announcing that he
had caught up and was now in combat trail, roughly a mile offset behind Hack’s
tail. “How ‘bout we find a tanker instead of going into Khalid? Their coffee
sucks.”
    “Can it.”
    “Man, you’re being bitchy. What happened? That
SA-7 get your underwear dirty?”
    This time, Hack was the one who didn’t reply.
     
     
     

CHAPTER 6
    HOG HEAVEN, KING FAHD
AIRBASE, SAUDI ARABIA
    28 JANUARY 1991
    1200
     
    Lieutenant Colonel Michael “Skull”
Knowlington lowered his head toward the desktop, stretching his neck and
shoulder muscles until he could feel the strain in the middle of his back. Then
he rolled his head around slowly, trying to keep his shoulders relaxed as he
completed each revolution, counterclockwise, moving his head as slowly as he
could manage. Six more times and he put his chin on his chest, covering his
face with his hands, fingers massaging his temples. Then he dropped his arms
and sat upright in the chair, breathing slowly.
    Though dissipated, his