Hogs #2: Hog Down Read Online Free

they were to
look for their target, another artillery park. Mongoose edged his eyes in that
direction, his anticipation starting to build as he let the Hog nose ever so
slightly into a very shallow dive. He aimed to arrive over their target at
about fifteen thousand feet. The plane, happy to be on track for thicker air
and sensing that she’d soon get a chance to do some snorting, gave him a happy
growl, picking up speed.
    Devil
One and Two were each carrying a pair of Maverick B air-to-ground missiles and
four Mk 20 Rockeye II cluster bombs. The Maverick B models were relatively
primitive versions of the tank-busting weapon; a video camera in the nose
displayed its target in a small television screen or TVM on the right side of
the Hog’s control panel. Once a target was designated and locked, the pilot
could launch the missile and move on; the Maverick’s own guidance system took
over, flying its 125-pound shaped-charge warhead to the crosshairs. Newer
models featured better seekers with infrared targeting and a heavier payload,
but the B was still a deadly piece of meat, and only cost the air force about
$22,000, a relative bargain— especially when compared to what it blew up.
    The
Mk 20 Rockeye II weapons were unguided but devastating; their bomblets spread
out when dropped, a deadly hailstorm particularly suited for “softer” targets.
The bombs were preset for this mission to be dropped from ten thousand feet;
their need to be calibrated before taking off removed some of their flexibility,
which was their only real drawback.
    When
the Hogs were about five minutes from their target, Mongoose did one more check
of his paper map and coordinates. He was just rechecking their egress route
back to base when their airborne controller, Red Dog, squawked out his call
sign.
    “Stand
by for new tasking,” said the controller after running through the
acknowledgment codes.
    That
meant: We got something juicy for you, so get your pen and paper handy.
    Or
in this case, your Perspex; Mongoose scrawled the heading and way markers
directly onto the canopy glass with a grease pen. The nine-line brief began
with an IP— an “initial point” to fly to that acted as the marker for most of
the rest of the instructions.
    The
numbers on the glass were sending them about sixty miles further in Iraq, and
well to the west, up in the direction of the Euphrates River and the better
sections of the Iraqi air defense system. It was a hell of a long way to send
the Warthogs, and Mongoose immediately guessed why.
    He
asked anyway. “What are we looking for, Red Eyes?”
    “Scud
launchers. F-111 crew saw them on the way out. Two, possibly more. Some
auxiliaries.”
    “Copy,”
said Mongoose, immediately bringing his plane to the new heading.
    The
Iraqis had started launching the ground-to-ground missiles shortly after the
start of the air war. Because of their range and ability to carry chemical and
biological agents, Scuds had top priority as targets. So far, none had actually
done much damage— but the allies’ luck couldn’t hold for very long.
    The controller
added that a Phantom Wild Weasel was being vectored into the area and would
suppress any surface-to-air nasties. Like all the Weasels in the theater, the
F-4 had a “beer” call sign: Rheingold One.
    “The
one Weasel to call when you’re slamming more than one,” sang A-Bomb in Devil Two.
“I hope this Scud launcher is the son of a bitch who woke me up last night.
Man, he pissed me off. I was in the middle of a wet dream.”
    The
rest of his transmission was covered by another flight. In theory, the squadron
frequency should have been reserved just for them, but the large number of
allied sorties and the fog of war had a way of mangling theories.
    Mongoose
wasn’t a particular fan of chitchat anyway, especially in this situation. If
his map and memory were right, the suspected launch site was pretty close to
several Iraqi SAM sites. The missiles had been hit at the