pilots were
heavily superstitious, he knew, but you had to draw the line somewhere.
Luck. Luck was some magic BB with his name on it
sailing out from Iraq a zillion miles away and managing to nail him. Luck was
something flaky happening with the engine in level flight, which in his
experience was almost as likely as the magic BB shot.
He thought that, he frowned, and in the next second
the right engine stopped winding its turbine. He saw the indicator zeroing out
of the corner of his eye as he tightened his grip on the stick, body jumping to
work the plane and compensate for the loss of power. Something unconscious took
over, something that felt rather than thought.
His mind whipped through his contingencies; it would
be best if he could make it back to the Home Drome but he had plenty of divert
fields closer if he couldn’t. His heart pounded and he could feel something in
his scalp tingling, as if his brain had gotten a quick shot of adrenaline.
He also felt himself suddenly out of kilter in the
cockpit.
But not because the Hog had slumped from losing the
engine. His body was compensating for something that hadn’t happened.
The engines were humming perfectly. There hadn’t been
a malfunction. In fact, everything was at operating manual specification.
Son of a bitch.
Doberman twisted backwards in the seat, craning his
neck to look out the cockpit glass. He couldn’t actually see the GE turbofans
mounted on either side of the fuselage in front of the Hog’s double-tail. But
he had to look anyway.
Just as he had to tap each one of the engine
instruments when he turned back.
Maybe they had flaked out for a second.
No. Everything was fine. It was all this thinking
about superstition and luck and that crap that was putting him over the edge.
“Devil Two this is One,” he said, calling A-Bomb. His
wingman was flying about a quarter mile back, off his wing in a trail. “How’s
our six?”
“Clean,” said A-Bomb. “You ducking flies?”
“Negative. Just staying awake.”
“Ought to drink more coffee.”
Air speed, attitude, rpms, fuel — everything at
spec. No way his engine had even burped.
It was just that he was tired. Damn royal straight
stinking flush had cost him a good night’s sleep.
“Something up?” A-Bomb asked.
If he didn’t know better, Doberman would swear this
was something A-Bomb and the capo had rigged up to teach him a lesson.
But which lesson would that be?
“Just wanted to make sure you were with me,” Doberman
told his wingmate. He glanced at his watch and did some quick math. “We have
ten minutes, twenty seconds to the Emerald City.”
“Yeah, I’m unwrapping my last pocket-pie now.”
CHAPTER 12
FORT
APACHE
25
JANUARY 1991
1157
A dried-out but very deep wadi formed a semi-circle around the abandoned runway. Hawkins,
kicking at the erosion at the southeastern end of the runway, theorized that
the Iraqis had found the tributary too rough to deal with, the seasonal rains
eating at the ground they needed to stay solid under the long expanse of
concrete and asphalt. Why they wouldn’t have realized that before laying out
several hundred feet of concrete, though, he had no idea.
It was nice of them to tear up the road leading out to
the highway, though. That made sneaking up on Fort Apache a little more
difficult.
Hawkins’ men had set out a good defensive perimeter
and studded it with a variety of weapons; still, a concentrated armor attack
could easily overrun them until they got their AH-6G gunships in. With luck, they
would get them in tonight.
Hawkins turned and began walking carefully down the
center of the cement. Except for minor crumbling around the expansion joints,
the concrete was smooth and seemingly solid. He could certainly land his helos.
He wanted a lot more. Like an MC-130, loaded for bear.
But to get the big four-engine gunship in and back up in the air again, they
needed two thousand feet.
Six of the twelve men who’d
heavily superstitious, he knew, but you had to draw the line somewhere.
Luck. Luck was some magic BB with his name on it
sailing out from Iraq a zillion miles away and managing to nail him. Luck was
something flaky happening with the engine in level flight, which in his
experience was almost as likely as the magic BB shot.
He thought that, he frowned, and in the next second
the right engine stopped winding its turbine. He saw the indicator zeroing out
of the corner of his eye as he tightened his grip on the stick, body jumping to
work the plane and compensate for the loss of power. Something unconscious took
over, something that felt rather than thought.
His mind whipped through his contingencies; it would
be best if he could make it back to the Home Drome but he had plenty of divert
fields closer if he couldn’t. His heart pounded and he could feel something in
his scalp tingling, as if his brain had gotten a quick shot of adrenaline.
He also felt himself suddenly out of kilter in the
cockpit.
But not because the Hog had slumped from losing the
engine. His body was compensating for something that hadn’t happened.
The engines were humming perfectly. There hadn’t been
a malfunction. In fact, everything was at operating manual specification.
Son of a bitch.
Doberman twisted backwards in the seat, craning his
neck to look out the cockpit glass. He couldn’t actually see the GE turbofans
mounted on either side of the fuselage in front of the Hog’s double-tail. But
he had to look anyway.
Just as he had to tap each one of the engine
instruments when he turned back.
Maybe they had flaked out for a second.
No. Everything was fine. It was all this thinking
about superstition and luck and that crap that was putting him over the edge.
“Devil Two this is One,” he said, calling A-Bomb. His
wingman was flying about a quarter mile back, off his wing in a trail. “How’s
our six?”
“Clean,” said A-Bomb. “You ducking flies?”
“Negative. Just staying awake.”
“Ought to drink more coffee.”
Air speed, attitude, rpms, fuel — everything at
spec. No way his engine had even burped.
It was just that he was tired. Damn royal straight
stinking flush had cost him a good night’s sleep.
“Something up?” A-Bomb asked.
If he didn’t know better, Doberman would swear this
was something A-Bomb and the capo had rigged up to teach him a lesson.
But which lesson would that be?
“Just wanted to make sure you were with me,” Doberman
told his wingmate. He glanced at his watch and did some quick math. “We have
ten minutes, twenty seconds to the Emerald City.”
“Yeah, I’m unwrapping my last pocket-pie now.”
CHAPTER 12
FORT
APACHE
25
JANUARY 1991
1157
A dried-out but very deep wadi formed a semi-circle around the abandoned runway. Hawkins,
kicking at the erosion at the southeastern end of the runway, theorized that
the Iraqis had found the tributary too rough to deal with, the seasonal rains
eating at the ground they needed to stay solid under the long expanse of
concrete and asphalt. Why they wouldn’t have realized that before laying out
several hundred feet of concrete, though, he had no idea.
It was nice of them to tear up the road leading out to
the highway, though. That made sneaking up on Fort Apache a little more
difficult.
Hawkins’ men had set out a good defensive perimeter
and studded it with a variety of weapons; still, a concentrated armor attack
could easily overrun them until they got their AH-6G gunships in. With luck, they
would get them in tonight.
Hawkins turned and began walking carefully down the
center of the cement. Except for minor crumbling around the expansion joints,
the concrete was smooth and seemingly solid. He could certainly land his helos.
He wanted a lot more. Like an MC-130, loaded for bear.
But to get the big four-engine gunship in and back up in the air again, they
needed two thousand feet.
Six of the twelve men who’d
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