Death Wish

PROLOGUE

Standing watch one morning in their trench a few yards from the Iraqi border, Private Smith and Private Jones began discussing aesthetics.

Or more particularly, how shit-fully ugly the desert in front of them was.

The conversation soon turned to a comparison of the ugliest things they had ever seen.

“The back end of a seventies’ Buick,” said Jones.

“Mary Broward’s face,” said Smith.

“Things, things,” said Jones, trying to rein in the discussion.

“She was a thing.”

“If you’re including stuff like that,” sniped Jones, “Sergeant Porky’s rear end.”

“You saw Porky’s butt?” asked Smith.

Jones’ response was drowned out by the whiz and explosion of a series of Iraqi shells landing uncomfortably close to their position. It was the third attack of the afternoon, and by far the most accurate. Geysers of dirt burst over their trench, covering their prone backs with grit. The ground shook as the pounding continued, and it quickly became clear that this time, the Iraqis were serious about what they were doing — the rain of explosives started a slow but steady walk toward the privates, the enemy homing in on their position.

“Mayday! Mayday!” screamed Smith, grabbing for the com pack that connected them with HQ. “Shit, incoming. We’re taking serious incoming.”

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” shouted Jones, grabbing his buddy. Just as they rose, a blast pushed them face down in the sand.

“Pray! Pray!” yelped Smith.

As Jones started to carry out his friend’s suggestion, a fresh sound filled the air: a hum that managed to carry over the steady roar of the steadily approaching explosions. The hum became a roar, then a piercing whine and a loud metallic hush, the sound a steel bar might make if it were being beaten back into molten ore. The ground reverberated with the hiss of a thousand volcanoes. The sky flashed with lightning. Both men felt their ears pop.

Then, silence.

Smith and Jones managed to rub the sand out of their faces and look skywards just in time to see their saviors circling above: a pair of U.S. Air Force A-10A Thunderbolt II attack planes, better known as Warthogs, or simply Hogs. The A-10s had flattened the enemy artillery with a strong but simple dose of Maverick AGM-65 air-to-ground missiles. The dark-hulled beasts tipped their ungainly wings back and forth in greeting, then flew off.

“Now that’s fuckin’ ugly,” said Jones.

“Ugly, fuckin’ ugly,” agreed Smith. “How the hell do they fly?”

“Damned if I know. Too ugly to land, I guess.”

“I could kiss ‘em.”

“Me too.”

“Saved my butt,” said Jones.

“Now that’s ugly.”

“Not half as ugly as yours.”

“Not half as ugly as theirs.” Smith thumbed back toward the planes.

“Damn ugly.”

“Most beautiful fuckin’ ugly I ever saw.”

“Damn straight.”