Read Hogs #4:Snake Eaters for Free Online

holed up in the rocks a few yards from the tanker truck. The man seemed to have an endless supply of bullets and didn’t mind spraying them around, though fortunately he was firing toward the hill, not A-Bomb. The Iraqi was so interested in Coors— or whatever else he thought he was shooting at— that he hadn’t bothered to even glance in A-Bomb’s direction.
    The pilot was no more than a hundred yards from the Iraqi, but no matter what you did to a .45 it was still a .45; a hundred yards with a pistol on a target range was a guess -your-weight shot, and this was hardly a target range. A-Bomb waited for the Iraqi to begin firing again; as soon as he did, A-Bomb threw himself forward, collapsing as the final round stopped echoing against the low hills. That brought him nearly ten yards closer.
    At this rate, Saddam would be on work-release from a federal pen before A-Bomb got close enough to nail the bastard.
    The funny thing was, Coors hadn’t fired, at least not that A-Bomb had heard. That could mean that the Iraqi was just dinking shadows in the hills while the Delta trooper flanked him.
    It could also mean he was lying on the slope bleeding to death.
    A-Bomb waited for the Iraqi to fire again. The burst was shorter this time; the pilot managed only five yards before his belly flop.
    T his much up and down was going to wear his flightsuit out. Then he’d be forced into Spec Ops jammies. Okay up here maybe, but what would they say back in Devil Squadron’s readyroom? They’d haul him right over to the Depot and make him buy everybody in the squadron a round of drinks.
    While he waited for the Iraqi to fire again, A-Bomb decided the liability to his ego, let alone wallet, didn’t permit any more fooling around. As soon as the soldier started shooting, he got up and began walking toward him, this time not bothering to stop or even crouch as the last round of Russian-made ammo echoed against the shallow hills.
    He got maybe forty yards before he heard the muffled, not quite delicate sound of the sergeant’s modified MP-5. The Iraqi immediately rose from the rocks and returned fire.
    Clear shot. Too far, but clear.
    A-Bomb squeezed off a round, cursing as he did. He was fifty yards away.
    The Iraqi jerked around, then fell back, struck in the side.
    “I knew I was going to miss,” the pilot grumbled.
    Winged, the Iraqi scrambled for his gun. A-Bomb waited until the soldier squared his rifle toward him before firing again. This time he nailed him in the middle of the forehead.
    “I thought I told you to stay back,” Coors screamed as he scrambled down the rocks. He’d been tucked into a crevice near the top and apparently escaped harm.
    “Yeah, you’re welcome.”
    “Fuck you,” said the sergeant.
    “Not today,” said A-Bomb. He scanned the area quickly, making sure there were no other Iraqis. The dead man’s position was in the shadow of the truck and hills, which had probably made him hard for Coors to see as he came down.
    “Yeah, well, thanks,” muttered the trooper as A-Bomb slipped his gun back into his holster. “I didn’t see him when I checked out the area from the ridge and then I got sloppy. Raghead must’ve heard a rock or dirt I kicked. He couldn’t get me, but he had me pinned down. I owe ya one.”
    “I’ll collect,” said A-Bomb. He snatched up the soldier’s AK-47 and started back toward the truck. “Lucky there wasn’t any traffic, huh?”
    Coors shrugged. “They mostly drive at night.”
    “Yeah.” A-Bomb laughed. “What do you figure the odds that he’s carrying jet fuel?”
    “Prohibitive,” said Coors.
    A-Bomb disagreed. Leaving a tanker full of Hog juice at their door would be just the sort of neighborly gesture Saddam might use to entice Devil Squadron to go home.
    It wouldn’t work, of course, but it was nice to be appreciated.
    “I think it’s water,” said Coors after clambering up the tanker to peer through the manhole at the top. “It ain’t gas or oil. .