couldn’t counterbalance those dark five minutes on that
sortie.
He
never talked about it with Little Bear. In fact, he started avoiding his
backseater, worried that he might want to talk about the mission, about his
chickening out. The weapons officer would have known the throttle sticking was
a bunch of bull. He would have felt the second of indecision. He would have
known they should have toughed it out despite the gunfire— prudence be damned.
* * *
“Devil
Twelve, Devil Twelve, this is Fahd control. Colonel, how are you reading me?”
“Twelve.
Go ahead, Control.”
“Sir,
we need to move you around a bit.”
Snapped
back to the present, Knowlington did a quick check of his instruments before
responding. The plane was flying at spec and had passed all her tests; no need
to keep it up any longer than necessary. Tightening his grip on the stick, the
colonel pushed a long breath of air out of his lungs into his face mask,
reminding himself to stay in the present, to work on just today. He told the controller
that what he’d really like to do was land.
“Ah,
Miller time, is it?”
“Something
like that,” he told the kid.
Spinning
back to take his slot in the landing pattern, Skull admired the way the Hog
picked her tail up and put her nose right where he wanted, He tried hard not to
think of anything else.
CHAPTER 11
OVER IRAQ
JANUARY 21 1991
1800
M ongoose heard A-Bomb. He had his bearing, but
still couldn’t see him. He continued climbing, spotting the highway they’d been
flying along earlier, still without his wingman in view. Finally he caught the
plane in the distance, much lower than he thought it would be.
He
keyed the mike and asked A-Bomb if he was all right.
“Yeah,
I told you I’m fine. Iraqis couldn’t hit a zeppelin.”
Damned
if A-Bomb didn’t sound like he was munching on something. And did he have his
music cranked?
“Can
you see me?” Mongoose asked.
“Yeah.
Gonna take me a minute.”
“We’ll
come east and follow that highway again. You see it?”
Their
little adventure in advanced jinking and jiving had taken them a good distance
from the road and the bunkers they’d been aiming to inspect, before the SAMs
interrupted. Mongoose kicked the throttle open and slipped the A-10A into a
straight tack north, calculating a new plan of attack as he went. The brown ribbon
that marked the highway gradually grew wider. He decided they would cross it,
then slide down out of the northwest.
A-Bomb
caught up to him as they reached the road. They angled northwestward, making
just over 380 knots.
Combat
did weird things to time. The actual encounter with the surface to air missiles
hadn’t lasted more than two or three minutes, yet it seemed to fill several
hours. Everything immediately before it felt like it had happened days ago.
Everything now felt like slow motion.
And
yet, sitting on the strip at King Khalid while waiting for clearance, that
seemed to have just happened. Mongoose glanced at his pocket where the letter
was, then reached his hand over and patted it, as if for luck.
He’d
left his wife and baby in the living room. He’d kissed her, kissed him, kissed
her again. He walked backwards to the door. A leather and fabric duffel bag sat
there, worn from a thousand hellos and good-byes. Through the screen door he
could see his ride waiting impatiently by the curb.
He
lingered, watching her feed their baby, Robby. The infant’s eyes were closed.
The deep frown of worry on his wife’s face gradually faded as she stared at her
child.
“Hey,
are those your bunkers at two o’clock?” asked A-Bomb. “Shit, look at that.
Goddamn Saddam’s got a used car lot down there. And I’m in the market for a
flamed-out APC.”
Mongoose’s
head nearly hit the canopy as he snapped back to the present. He tacked south a
second, aiming to come back and orbit the site from above. A-Bomb, following
off his right wing in a loose trail, actually had a closer
sortie.
He
never talked about it with Little Bear. In fact, he started avoiding his
backseater, worried that he might want to talk about the mission, about his
chickening out. The weapons officer would have known the throttle sticking was
a bunch of bull. He would have felt the second of indecision. He would have
known they should have toughed it out despite the gunfire— prudence be damned.
* * *
“Devil
Twelve, Devil Twelve, this is Fahd control. Colonel, how are you reading me?”
“Twelve.
Go ahead, Control.”
“Sir,
we need to move you around a bit.”
Snapped
back to the present, Knowlington did a quick check of his instruments before
responding. The plane was flying at spec and had passed all her tests; no need
to keep it up any longer than necessary. Tightening his grip on the stick, the
colonel pushed a long breath of air out of his lungs into his face mask,
reminding himself to stay in the present, to work on just today. He told the controller
that what he’d really like to do was land.
“Ah,
Miller time, is it?”
“Something
like that,” he told the kid.
Spinning
back to take his slot in the landing pattern, Skull admired the way the Hog
picked her tail up and put her nose right where he wanted, He tried hard not to
think of anything else.
CHAPTER 11
OVER IRAQ
JANUARY 21 1991
1800
M ongoose heard A-Bomb. He had his bearing, but
still couldn’t see him. He continued climbing, spotting the highway they’d been
flying along earlier, still without his wingman in view. Finally he caught the
plane in the distance, much lower than he thought it would be.
He
keyed the mike and asked A-Bomb if he was all right.
“Yeah,
I told you I’m fine. Iraqis couldn’t hit a zeppelin.”
Damned
if A-Bomb didn’t sound like he was munching on something. And did he have his
music cranked?
“Can
you see me?” Mongoose asked.
“Yeah.
Gonna take me a minute.”
“We’ll
come east and follow that highway again. You see it?”
Their
little adventure in advanced jinking and jiving had taken them a good distance
from the road and the bunkers they’d been aiming to inspect, before the SAMs
interrupted. Mongoose kicked the throttle open and slipped the A-10A into a
straight tack north, calculating a new plan of attack as he went. The brown ribbon
that marked the highway gradually grew wider. He decided they would cross it,
then slide down out of the northwest.
A-Bomb
caught up to him as they reached the road. They angled northwestward, making
just over 380 knots.
Combat
did weird things to time. The actual encounter with the surface to air missiles
hadn’t lasted more than two or three minutes, yet it seemed to fill several
hours. Everything immediately before it felt like it had happened days ago.
Everything now felt like slow motion.
And
yet, sitting on the strip at King Khalid while waiting for clearance, that
seemed to have just happened. Mongoose glanced at his pocket where the letter
was, then reached his hand over and patted it, as if for luck.
He’d
left his wife and baby in the living room. He’d kissed her, kissed him, kissed
her again. He walked backwards to the door. A leather and fabric duffel bag sat
there, worn from a thousand hellos and good-byes. Through the screen door he
could see his ride waiting impatiently by the curb.
He
lingered, watching her feed their baby, Robby. The infant’s eyes were closed.
The deep frown of worry on his wife’s face gradually faded as she stared at her
child.
“Hey,
are those your bunkers at two o’clock?” asked A-Bomb. “Shit, look at that.
Goddamn Saddam’s got a used car lot down there. And I’m in the market for a
flamed-out APC.”
Mongoose’s
head nearly hit the canopy as he snapped back to the present. He tacked south a
second, aiming to come back and orbit the site from above. A-Bomb, following
off his right wing in a loose trail, actually had a closer
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