HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) Read Online Free Page B

he
did.
    “Saddam’s taking a poundin’,” said Clyston
finally.
    “Hope so,” agreed the colonel.
    “How much longer, you figure?”
    “That’s a hard game to play,” said Knowlington. He
thought of all the times before he’d played it— ‘Nam, mostly, ancient history,
but he’d also had a squadron during Grenada and one that just missed a mission
in Panama. Then there were the alerts, probably a thousand of them.
    They were silent a moment longer.
    “You sure nothing’s bothering you, Chief?”
    “Gettin’ old, is all,” said Clyston. He smiled,
but it wasn’t his usual smile; Allen definitely wanted to say something, his
eyes hunting the office. But before they could settle on anything, there was
another knock on the door.
    Skull glanced at Clyston, then said, “Come.”
    Captain Bristol Wong, an intel and covert ops
specialist Knowlington had “borrowed” from the Pentagon, pushed open the door.
    “Colonel, Captain Hawkins and Sir Peter Paddington
would like a word,” announced Wong. His voice seemed more high-strung than
usual, possibly because of the thick bandage wrapped around his chest beneath
his uniform. A dark patch of skin on his face covered a fractured cheekbone,
and there were several burns along his hairline, all souvenirs from his recent
trip north to save Dixon. He’d also dislocated his shoulder, though it had been
placed back in its socket by a burly Para rescuer on the ride home.
    Wong shrugged off the injuries, claiming he’d been
hurt worse trying to grab the last seat on the shuttle between Boston and D.C.
    “Tell them to come in.”
    “With all due respect, sir,” said Wong nodding at
Clyston, “this would be a code-word classified discussion, strictly
need-to-know.”
    “I doubt you could fart on this base without The
Chief catching a whiff,” said Skull.
    The welt on Wong’s cheekbone turned dark purple.
    Clyston got up. “I was just leaving,” he said.
“Appreciate it if you can get us those doodads, Colonel. Let me know.”
    Knowlington pushed his chair back against the
desk, making room for the other men. Hawkins was a Delta Force captain who had
worked with Devil Squadron before and helped rescue Dixon. Paddington’s exact
status wasn’t clear. He apparently served with a British MI-6 agency and worked
for one of the British commands. He was an expert on Saddam Hussein and the
Iraqi command structure, and seemed to fill a role as a liaison with the
British Special Air Service. The SAS commandos were working north of the border
spotting Scuds, scouting troop locations and sabotaging enemy installations.
Sir Peter had been involved in a failed plot to assassinate Saddam that the
Hogs were in on, helping set the time and place. He flitted freely around Saudi
Arabia, but his rank and role in the Allied war effort were far from obvious.
    What was obvious was the stench of gin emanating
from his breath, so strong that it threatened to turn Knowlington’s stomach.
    “Captain Hawkins, good to see you again,” said
Knowlington. He’d first met Hawkins two months before, planning a clandestine
operation known as Fort Apache.
    “Thanks.” Hawkins flexed his shoulders, a
linebacker waiting to blitz. “We appreciated your help on that bug-out.”
    “My men did that on their own,” Skull said. “Right
place, right time.”
    “Yes, sir.” Hawkins sat down in the chair.
    “Paddington.” Skull frowned in the British agent’s
direction, then looked at Wong. “So?”
    “The British command desires our assistance,” said
Wong.
    “Not precisely, Bristol,” said Paddington. He
twisted the cuff of his blue wool blazer, as if adjusting a watch.
    “Well, what is precise?” Knowlington said to the
Brit, trying hard not to spit the words.
    “To be precise, Colonel, SAS finds itself
short-handed for an important mission. Delta had been enlisted and air support
is desired. You have worked with Captain Hawkins before, so naturally your unit
was mentioned. The