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

important feature of the plane. The Gatling-style cannon spat
a mixture of incendiary and uranium-tipped slugs custom-designed to unzip heavy
armor— and not incidentally obliterate everything else.
    Airborne,
gear stowed, Doberman walked his eyes across the wall of gauges in front of
him, checking his sense of the plane against the cold data of the indicators. A
small TV screen used to target Maverick air-to-ground missiles sat in the upper
right-hand corner of the dash; without any AGMs aboard, it would remain blank
the entire flight. Below the screen were two sets of gauges monitoring the
General Electric turbofans that hung in front of the tail. Relatively quiet as
well as efficient, the TF-34s hummed at spec, propelling the A-10A toward its
387-nautical-miles-per-hour cruising speed, which Doberman would achieve at
five thousand feet, give or take an inch.
    “Devil
One, this is Two. I have your six,” said A-Bomb, drawing his plane into trail
position behind Doberman.
    “One,”
acknowledged Doberman over the short-range Fox Mike or FM radio.
    “Kick
butt sun,” said A-Bomb.
    Doberman
grunted at the scenery and checked his INS guidance system. Preprogrammed way-points
helped the pilots make sure they were on course as they flew. Hog drivers also
carried old-fashioned paper maps, though by now Doberman and A-Bomb had so much
experience flying over northern Saudi Arabia and Iraq that they could almost
tell where they were by looking at the dunes.
    Almost.
    “So
Dog Man, what’s the first thing you’re going to do as squadron DO?”
    “Who
says I’m going to be squadron DO? I’m only a captain.”
    “You’re
a high-time Hog driver, the squadron’s longest in service pilot, and all-around
peachy-keen guy,” answered A-Bomb. “Besides, Skull loves your ass.”
    “They’ll
probably bring somebody in from the outside.”
    “Nah.
You da man.”
    “I
don’t want the headaches.” Doberman snapped off the mike button and rechecked
his instruments. DO stood for Director of Operations. Traditionally, the DO
rated as the number-two man behind the squadron commander. Devil Squadron
wasn’t particularly traditional— it had been thrown together from a bunch of
discarded planes, its pilots shanghaied and “volunteered” from other units. It
had an extremely bare support structure, with a short chain of command and a
relatively thin roster of fliers. But it also had an amazingly high sortie rate
and had already dropped more than one million pounds of bombs, missiles, and
curses on the enemy. A lot of bang for the buck, as A-Bomb would put it.
    All
of which meant Devil Squadron’s DO worked twice as hard as he would in another
unit. The last DO, Major James “Mongoose” Johnson, had been sent home after
being shot down, injured, and rescued. Doberman had never gotten along with
him; from his point of view, Johnson tended to be a bit of a prig and was
always on his butt for little bullshit things. It wasn’t just Doberman, either.
He seemed to think he had to be everywhere, looking over everything. He rode
the maintenance people especially hard; Glenon couldn’t go near the hangars
without hearing somebody bitch about him. But Mongoose hadn’t been the worst DO
Glenon had ever served with, and Doberman could have put up with the jerk for
as long as necessary, especially if it meant he didn’t get tagged with the gig.
    “Ah,
you’re bullshitting me,” said A-Bomb. “Once you’re DO, you’re on your way.
Stepping stone to general. Shit, with that shootdown, you’ll be wearing stars
next week. Just remember me when you’re in the Pentagon. Score some tickets for
a RedSkins game, okay?”
    “ Seeing stars, maybe.”
    “General
Dog Face. Probably have your own box at RFK, right?”
    “Who
the hell said I ever, ever wanted to be a general?” blustered Doberman. “And I
thought we were flying silent com.”
    “Silent
com? Can you do that in a Hog?”
    A
call from the AWACS controller monitoring their