Jim DeFelice - Going Deep

In theory. Reality was never as neat as the carefully calculated clouds showing optimum radar detection envelopes.

Doberman held his breath. His INS said it was past time to cut back, but once more Mongoose was lagging.

Jesus, he thought, a tiny mistake here is going to take me right over the stinking god damn site. Let’s go.

Hell, maybe the missiles are destined to hit me. Maybe my card’s overdue.

The pilot saw the SAMs in his mind’s eye, wheeling around on their truck. Their noses swung upward, hit the stop, came back.

Something creaked in the cockpit. It was nothing — a strap on his seat, maybe, shifting with his weight. But Doberman jumped, nearly bringing the stick with him. If he hadn’t been belted in, he might have gone through the glass.

Mongoose was gone. Doberman yanked his stick hard, taking the turn, correcting to bring it back to the proper heading. His heart became a race car, surging in his chest.

Settle down, he told it, settle down.

He checked the INS. They weren’t where they were supposed to be, but now he wasn’t sure about the coordinates. Was the difference the same as when Dixon made the first turn?

There was only blank sky in front of him. Blank darkness, and a trio of missiles waiting dead ahead.

A-Bomb reached to his chest and poked the CD player. Springsteen’s “Candy’s Room” kicked back to the beginning.

“Driving deep into the night” he sang, echoing the Boss.

He glanced at the compass and INS. If the instruments were to be believed, they were tracking a bit north, flying closer to the missile site and its radar than planned.

What the hell; stinking Iraqis couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn.

Besides, he was flying behind the luckiest SOB in the Air Force. Some amount of that luck had to wash off on him.

Time for a Tootsie Roll, thought the pilot, slipping his fingers into his vest. They were hell to chew with the mask on but worth every sticky moment.

Sweat funneled behind Doberman’s ears and down his neck, tingling as it ran across his shoulders. He saw the missiles clearly now, saw the cluster of them turning on their rail as the radar waited for the optimum moment to fire.

The RWR was clear. But their ECMs were worthless against such advanced missiles.

The AWACS would warn them if the radar came on. But by then, it would probably be too late.

Relax, Doberman told himself. There’s a good cushion around the site. And hell, the damn SAMs were probably moved during the night.

You’re running scared. Not like yesterday. Luck wasn’t involved — you are a kick ass pilot. Nothing is going to touch you. Nothing.

But his heart kept pounding despite the pep talk. He couldn’t see Mongoose. His eyes flailed through the sky.

Nowhere.

This close to the missile site, he didn’t dare use the radio. He was completely on his own, not just now but for the rest of the flight. He couldn’t even be sure A-Bomb was where he was supposed to be.

Doberman squinted at the compass heading. The bearing was right. By his watch, he had another thirty seconds on this course.

But the navigational system disagreed. It was telling him to stay on course ten seconds beyond that. He ran the equations back and forth through his head. That translated into about a tenth of a mile which would be compounded by the angle of the turn into roughly a fifteen-to-forty-eight second error, south or north or God knew what of the target.

What will it feel like to die?

God damn hell, he shouted at himself. Screw the math, screw the numbers. Forty-five seconds isn’t going to make one bit of stink ass difference.

See the raise and get on with the game.

Doberman took the Hog in toward the SA-6 site the extra ten seconds to prove to himself that, despite the water pouring down his back and chest, he wasn’t scared. Even so, he gulped air as he yanked onto the new course.

And then he saw the soft blue glow of Mongoose’s rear end dead ahead, right where it was supposed to be.

The helicopter’s heavy whomp rattled Captain Hawkins’ teeth as it took off, making it difficult for the Special Forces officer to sip from the canteen of tea. Fortunately, the Earl Gray had cooled somewhat; it didn’t burn as it sloshed around his mouth and dribbled onto his chin. You could say a lot of things about the MH-53J Pave Low IIIE helicopter, but smooth wasn’t one of them.

Not that he necessarily wanted it to be. The craft’s hulking presence was somehow reassuring. Though officially an Air Force helicopter, the special forces troops considered that a mere technicality, and looked on the nimble linebacker as a flying version of the Bradley fighting vehicle.

Only not quite as pretty.

The captain capped the canteen and glanced over the gunner’s shoulder into the dark morning, low clouds mixing with a dusty haze. The basic reality here was desert, unending and unrelenting.

Approximately ninety miles ahead, a downed RAF pilot was staring up at the sky, freezing his butt off, waiting for this helicopter to materialize and pick him up.

Assuming no one had found him during the night.

“Iraqi border coming up in two,” said Sergeant Winston, a wiry young non-com from the South Bronx. Looking at Winston, you wouldn’t think he was Special Forces material, but he was pound for pound one of the toughest soldiers Hawkins had ever come across. Yesterday, Hawkins had seen him pick up a 250-pound Special Forces corporal — not exactly a wimp himself — and lug him back to the helicopter after he’d been hit and knocked unconscious.

“What do you think? They hit those guns yet or not?”

Hawkins shrugged. “Not supposed to for a half hour yet.”

“Going to cut it close.”

The captain nodded. If the site wasn’t taken out, the mission would be difficult. Their helicopter and the one following right behind as a backup would be sitting ducks not only for the guns, but for anybody the Iraqis scrambled into the area. The British major had had the bad luck to go down not only near Iraqi air defenses but an air field and army barracks as well.

Hawkins had the option of turning back if the base hadn’t been hit at five minutes past six.

He didn’t plan on doing that. But he didn’t plan on getting shot down either.

The captain opened the canteen for another swig of the Earl Gray. “From what I hear, those A-10 pilots like to play it close to the vest,” he told Winston. “Otherwise they don’t look like heroes.”

The sergeant scoffed. “As long as they show up.”

“Oh, they’ll show up. Planes that ugly can’t afford to miss a date.”

The clouds were incredible. Dixon stared down at them from fifteen thousand feet. They seemed as thick as an overloaded chocolate shake. The lieutenant leaned against his shoulder harness, urging the Hog forward. They had a little less than two minutes worth of flying time before their stubby wings and dolphin noses would kick off the ground radars.

A little less than two minutes before the most important part of their job, and the most dangerous, was done.

The radar warning system would alert him that the radar had snapped on and the guns had found him. Then he ’d be able to breathe again.

He couldn’t breathe now. Dixon felt his throat tightening, pulling back into his chest. Don’t wimp, he told himself, pushing the plane through the cloud over.

Eighty seconds. Maybe less. But the radar detector still hadn’t tripped off.

Come on, come on. Wake up down there. Just shot at us already.