Read Online Hogs #4:Snake Eaters by Jim DeFelice - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jim DeFelice
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around. That’s what I’m talking about. No muss, lots of fuss.”
“Yeah,” said Doberman. “But that fucker was holding out on us with the fuel. I could have been killed.”
“ Nah. He’s just blowing his reserves now because they’re leaving,” said A-Bomb. “Besides, you’re too damn lucky to get killed.”
“Right.”
“It’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
Doberman still wasn’t convinced, but there was nothing to do about it now. “ You think Rosen’s fix on the hydraulic line’ll hold?” he asked.
“Ah, there’s two different lines, for cryin’ out loud. Hey, I can fly the Hog without hydraulics. Jeez, plane and me been flying together so long I can steer her on thought power if I have to. Now what I’m worried about is finding some decent coffee. Have you tasted the stuff they’re trying to pass off as joe up here? My aunt brews better stuff for her cat. And she hates her cat.” A-Bomb shook his head sadly. “Was a time being a Delta operator meant you were skilled in basic survival skills. Standards are going right down the poop chute. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
CHAPTER 13
T ABUK AIR BASE
WESTERN SAUDI ARABIA
2 6 JANUARY, 1991
1540
Fi nally lashed into his F-15C Eagle cockpit, seat restraints cinched, Major Horace “Hack” Preston gave his crew chief a thumbs-up. The sergeant nodded, then reached over and removed the last safety pin from the ejector seat before disappearing down the boarding ladder. Hack said his customary prayer and turned his eyes to his kneepad. He’d already memorized nearly all of the details of his mission— he’d been blessed with a nearly photographic memory— but repeating each bit of flight data aloud had become an important part of the preflight ritual. He’d have sooner left his waterproof underwear back in the barn than takeoff without flipping through the neat rows of carefully lettered notes. Navigation points, frequencies, tanker tracks, even some weather notes filled the small pages on the pad. He worked through quickly but methodically, thumbing his way to the board at the bottom.
The thin piece of wood had flown with him now for nearly five years. The top half contained two sayings. Hack dutifully read and recited both to himself:
“Wisdom excelleth folly, as far as light excelleth darkness.”
“Do your best .”
The first saying was from Ecclesiastes. The second one he had heard from his father nearly every day until leaving for the Air Force Academy.
Beneath the words was a Gary Larson cartoon. It showed an entomologist in a bug fetal position above the caption, “How entomologists pass away.”
There was no reason, really, for the cartoon, except that it had once struck him as hilarious. He looked at it, smiled, and flicked the paper back in place, completing his routine.
The cartoon was the only frivolous thing in the gleaming Eagle, unarguably the most potent operational interceptor in the world . To Hack and his squadron mates, it was certainly the star of the Gulf War.
Ready for his mission , Hack waited while the huffer— a diesel-powered device on a large mobile cart used by the ground crew to start the plane’s engine— kicked the fighter’s F100-PW-200 turbofans to life. Hack allowed himself a moment to soak in the rumble, then proceeded through his pre-takeoff checklist, slowly but surely making sure the plane was ready to go.
While the interceptor could be quickly scrambled into action, under normal circumstances the preflight briefings and prep work stretched past two hours; sometimes twice as long as the “working” portion of the mission. This was normal for Hack, who was notorious for demanding a high level of preparation before any Eagle under his command took to the sky. Better to take care of a problem on the ground, he figured, than at thirty thousand feet.
Piranha Flight’s four interceptors were slated to patrol a wide swatch of western Iraq this afternoon, working in
“Yeah,” said Doberman. “But that fucker was holding out on us with the fuel. I could have been killed.”
“ Nah. He’s just blowing his reserves now because they’re leaving,” said A-Bomb. “Besides, you’re too damn lucky to get killed.”
“Right.”
“It’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
Doberman still wasn’t convinced, but there was nothing to do about it now. “ You think Rosen’s fix on the hydraulic line’ll hold?” he asked.
“Ah, there’s two different lines, for cryin’ out loud. Hey, I can fly the Hog without hydraulics. Jeez, plane and me been flying together so long I can steer her on thought power if I have to. Now what I’m worried about is finding some decent coffee. Have you tasted the stuff they’re trying to pass off as joe up here? My aunt brews better stuff for her cat. And she hates her cat.” A-Bomb shook his head sadly. “Was a time being a Delta operator meant you were skilled in basic survival skills. Standards are going right down the poop chute. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
CHAPTER 13
T ABUK AIR BASE
WESTERN SAUDI ARABIA
2 6 JANUARY, 1991
1540
Fi nally lashed into his F-15C Eagle cockpit, seat restraints cinched, Major Horace “Hack” Preston gave his crew chief a thumbs-up. The sergeant nodded, then reached over and removed the last safety pin from the ejector seat before disappearing down the boarding ladder. Hack said his customary prayer and turned his eyes to his kneepad. He’d already memorized nearly all of the details of his mission— he’d been blessed with a nearly photographic memory— but repeating each bit of flight data aloud had become an important part of the preflight ritual. He’d have sooner left his waterproof underwear back in the barn than takeoff without flipping through the neat rows of carefully lettered notes. Navigation points, frequencies, tanker tracks, even some weather notes filled the small pages on the pad. He worked through quickly but methodically, thumbing his way to the board at the bottom.
The thin piece of wood had flown with him now for nearly five years. The top half contained two sayings. Hack dutifully read and recited both to himself:
“Wisdom excelleth folly, as far as light excelleth darkness.”
“Do your best .”
The first saying was from Ecclesiastes. The second one he had heard from his father nearly every day until leaving for the Air Force Academy.
Beneath the words was a Gary Larson cartoon. It showed an entomologist in a bug fetal position above the caption, “How entomologists pass away.”
There was no reason, really, for the cartoon, except that it had once struck him as hilarious. He looked at it, smiled, and flicked the paper back in place, completing his routine.
The cartoon was the only frivolous thing in the gleaming Eagle, unarguably the most potent operational interceptor in the world . To Hack and his squadron mates, it was certainly the star of the Gulf War.
Ready for his mission , Hack waited while the huffer— a diesel-powered device on a large mobile cart used by the ground crew to start the plane’s engine— kicked the fighter’s F100-PW-200 turbofans to life. Hack allowed himself a moment to soak in the rumble, then proceeded through his pre-takeoff checklist, slowly but surely making sure the plane was ready to go.
While the interceptor could be quickly scrambled into action, under normal circumstances the preflight briefings and prep work stretched past two hours; sometimes twice as long as the “working” portion of the mission. This was normal for Hack, who was notorious for demanding a high level of preparation before any Eagle under his command took to the sky. Better to take care of a problem on the ground, he figured, than at thirty thousand feet.
Piranha Flight’s four interceptors were slated to patrol a wide swatch of western Iraq this afternoon, working in
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