Hogs #4:Snake Eaters by Jim DeFelice Page B

— mostly. But Vietnam had turned out to be a damn stupid war. Maybe this one would turn out the same way. It hadn’t started all that smart.
    “Colonel? You want some coffee or something?”
    Knowlington snapped his head up, realizing his face was being scrutinized by the capo.
    It was more than that. The colonel realized he smelled of the Depot, its smoke and its booze.
    He resisted the urge to tell the sergeant he was still sobe r— it would come off phony, making it sound like exactly the opposite was true.
    “ Thanks anyway,” Knowlington said instead. “I’m about to start jittering with all the caffeine I’ve had already. I have a bunch of things to take care of back at the office. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t bitten off any heads today.”
    “None that didn’t need biting.”
    Knowlington nodded.
    “We’re open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week,” said Clyston. “For any reason.”
    “I appreciate that, Allen. I appreciate it a lot,” he told his old friend before walking away.
     

CHAPTER 12
    F ORT APACHE
    26 JANUARY 1991
    1440
     
    Ro sen volunteered to go inside the tanker when it became obvious Coors and his two suits wouldn’t fit through the manhole without vast amounts of butter. Doberman couldn’t object, not really. It was pretty clear they had to find out what the hell was inside the tanker, and she was the only one who could get in and out. Still, he made them tie a rope around her so she could be hauled out in case something happened.
    Alien bugs looked more human than the small tech sergeant, who eased feet first into the black hole with a pair of tiny Special Ops flashlights in each hand. Doberman’s heart pounded harder than it ever had ; harder than when he’d been chased by the SAM, harder than his first solo. This was worse than flying, a hell of a lot worse. Flying, he could do something. When you were driving a Hog, or piloting any plane for that matter, there was a checklist. You did A, then you did B, then you did C. When you hit shit, you just moved through the list faster. But this— all he could do was watch.
    He was seriously hooked on Rosen, he knew that. And the fact that he couldn’t do anything about it up here was almost as hard to take as standing by helplessly as she disappeared inside the tanker.
    The Hog pilots were wearing special ABC underwear beneath their flight suits and theoretically could have gotten by with booties, gloves and headgear, but both Doberman and A-Bomb donned full suits borrowed from the commandos. He couldn’t see all that well through the hood’s small visor. He was tempted to whip it off as Rosen emerged with what looked like an oversized purse.
    Wong, next to her on top of the back of the truck, took it and threw it to the ground. Rosen returned twice more with two more purses.
    Doberman walked around to the back of the truck to look at them. He got about five feet away before Wong jumped in front of him, waving his hands like a flagman waving off traffic. Doberman cursed but stopped, watching as Wong poked the bags with a wand from a small device the commando team had supplied. He poked and prodded for about ten minutes before straightening. He gestured for Rosen to stay near the bags, then walked back to Hawkins.
    “The bags are empty. The seals were never implemented,” said Wong after lifting the hood off his head.
    Wong had to be the only guy in the Air Force who actually looked natural in the chem suit. The bulky gear made his head seem almost normal-sized.
    “What does that mean?” Hawkins asked.
    “These weren’t used. This device is primitive,” he added, holding up the meter in his hands, “but it should be sufficient to detect traces of most toxins the Iraqis might use. It’s clean. But we should wrap the bags according to full protocol. We should also proceed as if the tanker itself was contaminated.”
    “Why?” Doberman asked.
    Wong frowned, as he always did when asked to explain. He held