Snake Eaters

CHAPTER 56

Doberman’s legs began shaking as he lifted himself over the side of the Hog. He was cold, tired, hungry, barely alive— but the thing that got to him was Becky Rosen standing on the access ramp, waiting to congratulate him. About a dozen people, including A-Bomb and Tinman and a parcel of Delta troopers, stood behind her, but all he saw was her. Somehow, he got down the ladder without falling.

“Hey,” he said, finally getting his feet firmly on the ground.

She jumped on him and he fell back against the ladder. She kissed him on the cheek and his face flushed. The others swarmed in, pumping him on the back, shoulder, and head, whatever they could touch.

As far as anyone knew, Captain John “Doberman” Glenon was the first Hog pilot to score the first ever shoot down of a MiG in the slow and lumbering A-10A.

“It’s what I’m talking about!” A-Bomb declared, more or less summarizing everyone’s sentiments.

Everything hit Doberman at once— the long day and night of missions they’d endured before the forced landing at Apache, the retank, Al Kajuk, the dogfight. Doberman squeezed Rosen hard, then laughed and found A-Bomb in the press of people right in front of him.

“You saved my life,” he told him. He threw his arms around his wingman— not an easy task. “You saved my goddamned life. That MiG almost nailed me.”

“Ah, you would have gotten away from him sooner or later,” A-Bomb said. “Sorry it took me so long to get off the ground here. I wasn’t even across the border when the AWACS told me you’d just sent the Pave Hawk home. I figured you’d head over to Apache.”

“I don’t know how I ended up there,” admitted Doberman. “I was ducking a SAM site and some MiGs. I swear to God, I just looked down and there was Apache. No shit. I thought I was about fifty miles closer to the border.”

“Lucky for us you got lost,” said Rosen. “You saved us.”

“Damn straight,” yelled Hawkins, the Spec Ops captain from Fort Apache. Everybody started yelling and touching him for good luck again.

Later, when Doberman managed to slide free, he walked over to the end of the wing. He stood there, gazing at the double-rail of Sidewinders— now with only a single AIM-9L.

“I got it,” he said, suddenly overwhelmed by what he had achieved. “Shit. I got it.”

Several hours later, a grim-faced Air Force officer wearing a fairly crisp uniform and the gold oak leaf of a major found Doberman sitting alone against a set of sandbags, not far from the A-10A service area Rosen and her team of techies had dubbed Oz West.

Doberman had slipped away from the others, intending at first to go to sleep, but he was too pumped for that. He’d ended up sitting and staring at the plane in the dark. At first he thought about the mission. Then he started thinking about Dixon, the Hog driver who’d died up north working as a spotter with the Delta team. Kid reminded him a lot of his little brother.

“Captain Glenon?” asked the major, who’d flown in from Riyadh. “I’d like to speak to you.”

Doberman lifted his eyes slowly, struggling to focus on the man in the dim light reflected from the work area. The major was probably here to debrief him. He’d already spoken to two intel officers, though admittedly their interviews had barely covered the bones of what had happened. There was much more information to be gleaned; Black Hole and the Central Command would be especially interested in the Scuds and the mosque.

But Doberman felt too drained for it all.

“Do you mind if we do this in the morning?” Doberman asked him. “I’m a little tired.”

“This isn’t something that can wait,” said the major stiffly. “And I’m afraid you’re not going to like it.”

Doberman listened as the officer told him, succinctly, without emotion or diversion, that he would not be given credit for the air-to-air kill. Fort Apache and the rest of the Delta missions north had to remain a closely guarded secret. That included the airplanes that had assisted them, and their missions.

“Officially, you’re still at King Fahd,” the lieutenant major told him. “You never shot down a MiG; the kill will be credited to another unit. I’m sorry, I know it must feel like a punch in the gut, but it’s to save other people’s lives. I know that’s important to you, Captain.”

Doberman pulled himself to his feet.

“Captain? Are you all right?”

Doberman shrugged. He honestly didn’t care about getting credit.

Poor Dixon. The kid had been a great stick and rudder man, a real talent— raw and inexperienced, naive, but damn good. On the ground, though, he was just so much fodder.

Central Command probably had him listed as being back at King Fahd, too.

“Captain?” asked the man from Riyadh.

“I’m just a little tired right now,” Doberman told him, finally feeling like he could fall asleep. “Whatever you guys want to do, that’s fine with me.”

CHAPTER 57

Final credit would have to wait for an exhaustive review of the tapes and AWACS data, but the rest of Piranha squadron welcomed Major Horace Preston as a conquering hero. They’d already gotten verbal confirmation from the AWACS controller that both of his Sparrows had nailed their targets.

He’d also come close to downing the first A-10 of the war, a fact he made clear as he and Johnny debriefed the mission. If the Warthogs were going to go so far north, they sure as hell better have their IFFs working properly. It had been just a freak thing that he got the ID before firing the Sidewinder.

“AWACS tried calling you,” Johnny told him when they were alone. “They had the A-10 ID’d.”

Hack bristled. He’d been surprised to find all four radar missiles on his wing mate’s wings when he returned. He had shrugged noncommittally at the captain’s explanation that he couldn’t lock up his targets; it was certainly possible that there had been some sort of mechanical screwup. But he planned on checking on it himself in the morning.

“The A-10 was still pretty lucky,” said Hack.

“Definitely. Still, guy must be a pretty good pilot,” said Johnny. “To nail a MiG with a Sidewinder.”

“Yeah,” said Hack grudgingly. Undoubtedly the shoot down had been due to luck, not skill. But he was too tired now to argue.

The Warthogs didn’t belong north of the border without heavy escort; he’d make that clear to the general when he talked to him tomorrow.

On the other hand, maybe he shouldn’t bring that up. The way his luck was running, he’d get stuck baby-sitting them.

A few hours later, Hack was woken from a fitful sleep by a sergeant who told him he had an important phone call. The sergeant claimed not to know who it was, which led Hack to guess it was an Air Force public relations liaison. He’d seen other guys interviewed after successful dogfights; now it was his turn.

He pulled on his boots and dressed quickly, shaking his head to wake up. The brass in D.C. would undoubtedly be listening in. This was definitely a career builder, a chance that wouldn’t come again.

The squadron commander met him at the door to his office.

“Come on, Hack. Don’t want to keep the general waiting too long.”

“General on the phone? Who?”

The squadron leader smiled, as if that were answer enough. Hack slipped down into his boss’s well-padded leather chair and held the receiver to his ear.

“Hack? This is Bobby Sherman. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, General. Thank you very much,” he said. Sherman, a two-star general with the Tactical Air Command back in the States, was one of several people who had helped mentor him through the ranks. It was flattering that he had called— still, it was a bit of a letdown. Hack had been hoping he would be on the Today Show, or at least CNN.

“It wasn’t that much, really,” Hack added. “It happened so fast.”

“So fast? What are you talking about?” the general asked.

Hack straightened in the chair. “The shoot down, sir? The two MiGs.”

“Hack, you son of a bitch— you splashed two MiGs?”

“They’re uh, not confirmed yet, sir.” He was confused. Why had the general called?

“That’s fantastic. Well listen, I have news for you. You’re now DO of the 535th Tactical Fighter Squadron. Which actually sets you up very nicely to become its new commander, especially with those MiGs to your credit.”

“Excuse me, General?”

“The papers are on their way. You’re to report ASAP. I knew you’d want to know. This is the big one, Hack. The 535th is technically a wing— you’ll be a wing commander as soon as it’s brought up to strength. I would expect things to fall in place very, very quickly.”

DO wasn’t exactly what he had in mind. At best, the director of operations was the second in command— the guy with all the crap work to do. And the 535th? Whose unit was that?

“Hack?”

“The 535th is an F-16 squadron?” he asked.

“No. A-10s. The word is, the CO’s on the way out. He’s a washed up old alchy past due for retirement. He’s got a few friends here and there, but they won’t be able to cover his ass much longer.”

Hack tried to think of a way to gracefully refuse the assignment. No position with an A-10 squadron, not even commander, was acceptable.

Warthogs! Shit.

“I didn’t realize you had so many hours in the Warthog cockpit until I went through your file,” added Sherman. “That made it simple. I could have done this last year if I’d known. Hack, you with me?”

“I, uh, I.” There was no way to be diplomatic about it. “I’d like to stay with F-15s,” he blurted.

“This is your career we’re talking about,” snapped the general. Hack could practically feel the fire.

“I, uh…”

“I woke you up, didn’t I?” said the general, sliding back into his good ol’ boy voice.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well go back to bed. Relax. You’ll be heading that wing in no time. Commander’s a guy named Michael Knowlington. You know him?”

“Oh shit,” said Hack, every muscle in his body sagging.

“Hack?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Stay on his butt and you’ll be commander and full colonel in a month.”

Hack slid the phone back onto the cradle without saying anything else.

CHAPTER 58

Colonel Knowlington had already talked to Rosen as well as the Special Operations command, so he had a pretty good handle on the official line— which, as he could easily have guessed, was that Fort Apache didn’t exist. Therefore, the airdrop of an unauthorized female tech sergeant behind enemy lines had never taken place. Still, he felt some trepidation when he stepped into his office to take the call from his commanding general. He would not lie, but he would also not volunteer information, at least until he had a good feel for what the general knew— and more importantly, felt— about the matter.

That would take several phone calls, all of which would have to wait for morning. He steeled himself to answer direct questions directly as he picked up the receiver and leaned back in his austere office chair.

But the general hadn’t called to talk about Rosen.

“Mikey, I have news for you that will stick in your craw, but you’re going to have to deal with it,” declared the general.

“What’s that?” Skull said. Few people had earned the right to call him Mikey; the general, with whom he’d never flown, wasn’t one of them.

“A new DO has been assigned to your squadron.”

He drew a breath. Bringing another officer into the squadron command structure was hardly unheard of, and given that Devil Squadron currently had no pilot above captain’s rank on its rolls, Skull had thought the matter might be broached. But this had a very dangerous smell to it.

“I had been led to believe that I was to choose from my own men,” he told the general. “I have several candidates. And if I can go outside the squadron…”

“No, Mikey, this isn’t a debate thing. Major Preston will join you in the morning.”

“Preston?”

“Horace Preston. I can’t go into the politics; it’s just happening.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” said Skull. He put the receiver down.

The colonel knew Major Horace Gordon Preston well. During his last stint at the Pentagon, Preston had tried to get him canned for incompetence and alcoholism.

Skull sat at the desk for nearly an hour. He didn’t replay old missions or recite a Twelve Step mantra. He didn’t think about the young pilot he’d lost, or the other men, or the friends. He didn’t think about the dark cloud that sank around your head when things moved too fast and you lost yourself in the furball; the way your stomach disappeared when gravity pushed too hard; how your whole body squeezed into a narrow heartbeat when the enemy had you fat in his targeting screen.

He didn’t think about the hopelessness of watching a friend get nailed, or the sick, hollow sound in your head when you heard a man you’d sent up wasn’t coming back. He tried not to think about the burning sensation on your tongue the followed the first sip of whiskey, or the electricity in your throat.

He stared at the blank wall. He stared until finally there was a knock on the door.

“Come,” he said, his eyes still pasted on the wall.

“Colonel Knowlington,” said Captain Bristol Wong, pushing open the door. “Sir, I need a word.”

Knowlington turned and signaled with his hand that he should come in and sit down. Wong closed the door with one of his slow-handed gestures, shuffling his feet more than normal.

“You’re up late,” Skull told the captain.

Wong nodded. “I have to make a report,” he said. “I expect that portions, when officially prepared, will be code-worded.”

Knowlington waited. It was almost impossible to tell when Wong was being serious and when he was making some sort of sly, obscure joke.

He seemed to be doing both.

“I assume that by now you know that I was sent into Iraq,” continued Wong. “I assure you that I was ordered to accompany Technical Sergeant Rosen against my wishes, and only after fully reminding the commanding officer of the implications of his order. Nonetheless, given the extreme circumstances, I judged it a lawful order and therefore…”

“Don’t worry about it, Wong. Officially, it never happened.”

The captain nodded. “I expected as much. While in Iraq, I obtained information that appeared to indicate the presence of chemical warhead material associated with known Scud capabilities. I accompanied a fire team to assess the situation. The SS-1s were apparently destroyed, though at present we lack information regarding the content of the warheads. Regardless of what those warheads contained, we cannot rule out the possession of them at the mosque apparently used as a depot.”

Knowlington nodded. He’d heard about the mosque from the Delta commander.

“I will suggest that further investigation be undertaken,” said Wong.

“I’m sure Black Hole’s on it,” said Knowlington.

“U-2 and satellite surveillance will be insufficient.”

Knowlington sighed. “If you’re looking for me to lobby somebody for Delta Force, I have to tell you— I helped plan the Apache mission only under orders. I was against sending Hogs that far north, let alone basing them there. What’s with you, Wong? You told me the other day that going after the Scuds was a waste of manpower.”

“There are two additional factors, sir.” Wong’s head bobbed up and down like a dashboard Buddha. “While I was north, I had some extended interaction with a special unit of Iraqis.”

“What do you mean, interaction? Use English.”

“I was captured and held for a brief period of time by a small unit of non-Muslim Iraqis. They were obviously not part of the security unit guarding the Scuds and had access to considerable firepower.”

“You were captured?”

“It is irrelevant,” said Wong. “Except that it allowed me to obtain this.”

The captain unfolded two sheets of notebook paper. One page was completely blank; the other had what seemed to be some decorative scrollwork work along the top.

“This Arabic?” Knowlington asked.

“It is actually a code in Arabic,” said Wong. “It says, Strawman noon, January 27.”

“You know, the problem here Captain is that I can never tell when you’re fooling around.”

Wong drew himself upright in the chair, his cheeks puffing and then deflating as he drew a long breath.

“I assure you, Colonel,” he said. “I am not fooling around. The unit that detained me was obviously a special forces group, exactly the type employed as presidential bodyguards. I believe that the Strawman is Saddam, and that he will visit Al Kajuk in twenty-four hours — one and a half, if my watch is operating properly.”

“Saddam?”

Wong said nothing else. Knowlington pushed his fingers together, resting them on his taut stomach. It seemed a wild supposition, and coming from anyone else, Skull would never have believed it. Wong, though— that was something else.

“This isn’t one of your jokes?”

“Sir, I have never been so serious about something in my life.”

The colonel nodded. “I assume this will be in your reports.”

“Of course.”

“Well, it’s out of our hands then,” he told him, standing. “Fort Apache’s shut down, and our squadron’s going back to tank plinking near the border. Which, I don’t mind saying, is where our planes belong.”

Wong remained seated. “There’s one additional item you will want to hear, and which won’t appear in any of the reports,” he said. “I believe that Lieutenant Dixon is alive, or at least he was this afternoon.”

“What?” Skull leaned forward intently.

“Someone fired an AK-47 at the Iraqis,” Wong explained. “It was not a member of the Delta fire team, and could not have been an Iraqi. But there was definitely some other player involved, and he almost surely saved my life.”

“Another player meaning who?”

“As far as I have been able to ascertain, no coalition team, American or British SAS, was within twenty miles of Al Kajuk at the time. But the quarry where Lieutenant Dixon was last seen lies within an easy hike.”

“Dixon’s dead, Captain,” Skull reminded him. “He was seen lying on the ground in the quarry right before it was hit.”

“Perhaps,” said Wong. “But I believe he’s alive. It is the only explanation that makes sense to me. I truly believe it was him.”

For a long moment, Skull pictured Dixon as he had seen him last. “If you’re right,” he finally said, “we’re going to have to go back and get him.”

“I’m sure I’m right, sir.”

“Then you better go get some sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a very long day.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

While I hope I’ve told this tale in a way that allows new readers to join right in, Snake Eaters picks up where Hogs 3:Fort Apache left off. If you haven’t read it, I hope you’ll go back and read it when you get a chance.

While based on actual events and missions in the First Gulf War, this is a work of fiction and should be treated as such. Some things are more fictional than others. Technical Sergeant Rosen, for example, would never have been sent north of the border back in 1991. That would have been totally against regulations and procedure at the time. Even so, there were a few circumstances where women did get into combat during that war. Among them was Major Rhonda Cornum, who recounts her experience of being captured in The Rhonda Cornum Story, published by Presidio Press. You might want to check it out.

Times have changed. Women have played an increasingly important role in the military since the First Gulf War, and have recently been authorized to formally join combat units. I think there's plenty of evidence to show that gender has no bearing on how brave a person may be.

One other thing: When I first wrote this book in 2001, American A-10As and F-15s were once more in action over Europe and in the Gulf. In some minor instances, I thought it prudent to gloss over or omit some technical details of operations and equipment. In no case did that affect the story, although I have to admit I was tempted to give Doberman’s Hog uprated engines toward the end.

— Jim DeFelice