HOGS #5: TARGET SADDAM (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Read Online Free

sentimental of you, Bristol.
Uncharacteristic. Hmmm. Happens in a war zone, I suppose.”
    “If
the opportunity presents itself, I will look for him,” said Wong. “But that
would not be the focus of the mission.”
    Paddington
shook his head and concentrated on his martini. This time he merely passed the
glass in front of the vermouth bottle.
    “Will
you participate in a planning session with CentCom?” asked Wong.
    “Surely
I don’t owe you that, do I?”
    “There
was Rumania.”
    Paddington
sighed. “If my commander orders it.”
    “He
already has,” said Wong.
    “As
I feared.” He eyed his freshly poured drink, then took a sip.  “Pity,” he said,
addressing the glass. “I seem to have put in a touch too much vermouth.”
    “Happens
in a war zone,” said Wong.
    “Quite.”
     

CHAPTER 3
    AL JOUF, SAUDI ARABIA
    27 JANUARY 1991
    0500
     
    Captain
John “Doberman” Glenon
stepped back from the nose of his A-10A Thunderbolt II fighter-bomber,
preparing to administer a preflight up-and-at-‘em good luck slap to the
business end of its 30 mm Avenger Gatling gun. Before he could do so, however,
he was thrown off balance by a blow to his shoulder blades so severe it could
only have come from a concussion grenade.
    Or
his wingmate and best friend, Captain Thomas “A-Bomb” O’Rourke.
    “Yo,
Dog Man, you ready to kick this dump or what?” demanded A-Bomb, grinning behind
a steaming cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.
    And
it definitely was Dunkin’ Donuts, since it was in an oversized Big Gulp cup.
    “Don’t
sneak up on me like that, especially this early in the morning,” said Doberman,
shaking off A-Bomb’s chuck.
    “Touchy,”
said A-Bomb, gurgling his coffee. “Gotchya good luck charm, I see,” he added
nodding at the small silver cross Doberman had pinned to the chest of his
flightsuit.
    Doberman
felt his face flush. Until a few days ago, he wouldn’t have been caught dead
believing in good luck charms, let alone pinning one to his chest. But the last
few days had taught him not to spit Fate— or superstition— in the eye.
    Still,
he didn’t like to admit that he might actually believe in luck or good fortune,
not even to A-Bomb.
    “Ain’t
nothing,” he said.
    “Shit,
Tinman says its voodoo. Or whatever the hell he says in that accent of his. His
own personal language.”
    “Yeah,
well, maybe it’s good luck and maybe it’s not,” said Doberman. “I’m not taking
any chances.”
    “What
I’m talkin’ about,” said A-Bomb.
    “Looks
good to go, yes sirs?” said Tech Sergeant Rebecca Rosen, ducking out from under
the wing on the other side of the plane.
    Sergeant
Rosen, a technical wizard and crew chief of considerable standing, posed the
question as a stated and accepted matter of fact. Indeed, though Rosen was
operating with a minimal support team— and even less sleep— she had thoroughly
examined the aircraft prior to the pilot’s arrival at the maintenance pit,
which amounted to a small piece of tarmac nudged against the sand at the
forward operating area in northwestern Saudi Arabia. “We’re going to schedule
that right engine for a complete overhaul when you get back to the Home Drome,”
she added. “But it’s fine for now, assuming you don’t do something stupid like
suck some sand through it. You won’t, will you?”
    Coming
from the mouth of any other sergeant in the Air Force, the words would have
seemed like an insult to Doberman, whose temper was even shorter than his
five-four frame. But the captain was hopelessly in love with this sergeant,
though he hadn’t been able to tell her yet. And in fact, he was increasingly tongue-tied
around her— which explained why all he could do was stare into her eyes.
    “I’ll
set up the maintenance on it myself,” added Rosen. “I’m supposed to be catching
a flight back to Home Drome in a few hours. Assuming I can’t talk the Capo out
of it.”
    “Capo”
was Chief Master Sergeant Allen Clyston, capo di tutti