Hogs #4:Snake Eaters by Jim DeFelice Page B

two gooks?”
    Wong smiled at the racial slur, but didn’t answer. Golden was white, but obviously of mixed ancestry; no one ethnic group could have produced a face quite so ugly. Wong  himself was fifth generation Chinese-American born in Hong Kong to a Scottish mother — not quite classic “gook,” but undoubtedly close enough for the sergeant.
    “We may be doing some killing here,” said Golden. “I know you Pentagon boys don’t like to get your hands dirty.”
    “I would not be surprised to find mine are dirtier than yours,” Wong said, starting up the hill ahead of him.
     

CHAPTER 16
    O VER IRAQ
    26 JANUARY 1991
    1555
     
    D oberman eyeballed the paper map on his kneeboard as A-Bomb gave his wayward engine another shot at relighting itself. He had already decided he was sending his wingmate home, no matter what, but he realized the news wasn’t going to go over very well.
    “Damn, Dog Breath, she won’t catch for me no way, no how,” cursed A-Bomb. “Son of a bitch.”
    “Yeah, okay, you think you can make Al-Jouf?”
    “You sending me home without supper?”
    “You want me to come with you, no sweat.”
    “Shit. Shit.”
    “You have to go back, A-Bomb.”
    “Yeah, I know, I know. Damn. You ever, ever heard of one of these engines giving out? Ever?”
    There was only one acceptable response. “No. Must be a fluke,” said Doberman. “All right, let’s go.”
    “I don’t need you holding my hand,” answered A-Bomb.
    “The most important thing is that you get back in one piece.”
    For some reason, that unleashed a fresh stream of curses loud enough to nearly shatter Doberman’s shatterproof helmet.
    Flying solo with one engine — frankly, even with two— over hostile territory was not exactly risk free, but A-Bomb pointed out that Doberman had a job to do. There were plenty of Coalition aircraft to call on if needed. Besides, there were worse things, especially as far as he was concerned.
    “See now, this is the kind of thing that really pisses me off,” said A-Bomb, his tirade fading down. “This Spec Ops coffee tastes like green tea.”
    Doberman nudged his stick, widening the circle he was drawing over the Iraqi scrubland. Al Kajuk lay ten miles to the northeast. Iraqi air defenses were thin but still potent . The village could easily be hiding flak guns and mobile missiles. He was at eight thousand feet, circling high enough so he couldn’t be heard, but the sky was clear and anyone with a good set of eyes, not to mention binoculars, ought to be able to spot him from the ground. And if a radar was turned on— well, that was show business.
    “If you think you can make it. . .” Doberman started to say.
    “It’s what I’m talking about.” Hell. Unless you don’t think you can handle things.”
    “Screw you,” snapped Doberman.
    “Anytime.”
    “ Yeah, all right. Sorry about the coffee,” Doberman told his wingmate.
    “ Coffee’s the only reason I’m going to Al Jouf,” said A-Bomb. “You want anything?”
    “Taco with beans,” Doberman answered.
    “I’ll see what I can do,” said A-Bomb. “Devil Two, gone. You’re solo.”
    A-Bomb had a million personal call signs, signoffs, nicknames, curses, and slang sayings, but that was one Doberman had never heard before.
    “Yeah,” was all he could reply.
    ****
    The Warthog’s top speed was supposedly 439 miles an hour, though there was considerable debate and not a little bragging among Hog drivers about the “real” speed. It was a kind of inverse of bragging — pilots liked to say how slow the A-10A really flew, even going downhill with the wind at her back.
    Normal cruising speed was less than four hundred miles an hour, so slow that a World War II era propeller-driven fighter could easily keep up. Cutting his circles around the Iraqi desert south of his target area, Doberman’s indicated air speed was exactly 385 nautical miles an hour.
    Vital flight data was projected in front of his eyes via a HUD or