Baghdad or Bust (4 page)

    Today’s celebration would be nothing less than a feast. Neither of us had eaten red meat—other than the stuff in MREs that really didn’t pass for meat though it was—for over two weeks. Hot dogs and soy burgers didn’t count.

    Looking at the seasoned meat in a beer batter, I could have almost eaten it raw. I was tempted to throw it on the grill just so I could hear it sizzling. But that would have defeated the purpose of our long-awaited feast. No, I had waited two weeks too long to taste a well-cooked meal to spoil it.

    Popcorn hadn’t come through for us yesterday, which was just as well. He would have brought back only steaks whereas we were just hungry enough as we walked down the commissary aisles to grab everything in sight that looked appealing—budgets allowing of course.

    I rotated the corncobs and moved them back from the coals. My mouth began watering again. I sipped at the beer in my hand, which no longer had the appeal it had had yesterday or the day before. Happy absently listened to the news announcer’s voice coming from the nearby TV.

    There were a couple of guys sitting in the rec tent, but they weren’t watching the news. They were reading magazines or rather looking at pictures that were in magazines. Smut as I called it. Such magazines had been surfacing in ever-increasing numbers over the past several days. We were, after all, guys.

    Happy snatched up one of the more graphic of the group, and I couldn’t help watching as he flipped through the pages. Sex is one of the most primal of human instincts and admiring pictures of beautiful naked women was as close to having sex as any of us would come for a long time. Except perhaps for Bad Boy who rather proudly admitted that he used his hand.

    I rotated the corncobs again and checked the potatoes. Almost done. I slapped the steaks on and the sizzle broke Happy away from the latest issue of
Juggs
. He slapped on two cans of baked beans.

    I plopped a spoonful of butter onto my colossal potato, painted the cob of corn with more of the same, added salt and pepper judiciously, then I was ready for my feast. Happy did likewise. And for a time as we dined, we thought we’d died and gone to heaven. I’d forgotten just how good steak tasted.

    About halfway through the mound of food, I came up for a breather. “Is this living or what, Happy?”

    Before he could reply, Cowboy lumbered out of his side of the PME. “Well, slap me silly,” he said.

    “The coals’ll still be warm when you get back,” I called out as I shoved in a mouthful. Cowboy knew I meant the commissary was still open. Not saying a word, Happy held up the bag of potatoes then turned back to his plate.

    “There’s corn too,” I added.

    Momentarily Cowboy disappeared into the barracks, then he was off at a gallop like a Texas race horse, wallet in hand and shoe laces untied, to the commissary two blocks up the street.

    I watched him go but didn’t stop eating. Soon there was nothing left but half a can of baked beans. Finishing it, I sat back and rubbed my full belly.

    As Happy scoured his plate again, gnawing the corn cob perfectly clean, eating the remains of his potato, husk and all, and truly leaving only the well-picked steak bone, I leaned back, snatched up the latest copy of Penthouse and turned the pages. I was on top of the world.

I’d been there twenty days. You would think I would’ve stopped counting by then but I hadn’t. It seemed both forever and an instant. Strange.

    I kept Katie’s picture under my pillow and I looked at it again and again so that I could remember her beautiful smile. It seemed that so much had happened; and truly, a lot had.

    The weather was still bad but we were hoping we’d get airborne and not have another endless day. I was still gloating over that steak I had eaten. God, it was good!

    There was a rumor flying around that we’d be moving to new quarters soon. I certainly wouldn’t miss the old smelly sock of a room.

    I went up to ops late the previous night. The big board said today’s flight would be short. I really hoped so. Gentleman Bob kindly reemphasized President Bush’s speech. “We’re here for the long haul,” he told us. I believed it.

    The time between flights passed quickly, and before I knew it we were humming along at fifteen-thousand feet. When the Gray Lady began her gradual climb, I felt the cabin temperature slowly drop until the air was crisp and icy cool. The situation in the cockpit as we neared the “zone” was calm. The weather had cleared just enough so that after only a two-hour delay, we’d gotten airborne. I was glad. I’d much rather be pushing the zone than pushing a chair.

    Today there’d be a time lag before the packages went in-country. Our boys would be coming in fast and low.

    As we set up in our orbit and began to work the environment, one thing became strikingly clear—the Iraqis weren’t expecting anyone to crash their party. The weather was nearly as poor as it had been the day before and they were taking advantage of it. I’d never seen so much enemy activity.

    There was so much activity, in fact, that I punched off Private A so I didn’t have to hear the endless target calls. I only pulled it out when I was going to make a call myself and needed to know if anyone else was passing a signal.

    Both Tennessee Jim and Chris were having a heck of a time keeping the jamming list current.

    For a moment I tuned into the intership radio chatter. “MCC, Nav, thirty mike to first wave ingress. How’s it look back there?”

    “Gypsy reported anything?”

    “Negative, MCC. What you got?”

    “Busier than I’ve ever seen it. There’s definitely something going on under that cloud deck. Maybe it’d be a good idea to give them a heads up. What’s the latest on weather over target?”

    I turned my attention back to the signals filling my screen. Still, I listened in and waited for the response.

    “Patchy, scattered clouds, vis is good for a green light.”

    “Roger.”

    “And I’ll give them that heads up.”

    Tennessee Jim keyed his mike again, “Roger.”

    Tammy was in the rear today and I heard her call the pilot on Interphone. “Pilot, Spotter, AAA, four o’clock distant. Not a factor.”

    AAA already, and we weren’t even jamming?

    I’d sent over at least a dozen signals that were possible AAA communications channels. I glanced right. Chris had the MCC’s jamming coordination list displayed on his screen and was paging through it. Over a hundred signals.

    I tuned up a new signal. Voice. Definitely Arabic. As I listened, I pulled out Private A so I could make the target call.

    I smiled. Definitely Iraqi. I keyed my microphone. “MCC, Six, target.”

    “Go ahead.”

    Just then the Nav spoke over us on another channel. “MCC, Nav, twenty mike.”

    Jim quickly switched over to Interphone, said, “Roger, Nav,” then back to Private A. “Go ahead, Six.”

    I passed the target. “Another AAA net. No threat. You should see it coming across.”

    “I got it, Six.”

    As I punched off A, I heard some chatter on B. Happy was calling Cowboy, but Cowboy apparently wasn’t listening.

    “Seven, Two. Seven, Two. Cowboy, you there?” I nudged Cowboy who was in the seat to my left.

    “Go ahead, Two.”

    “I have something you should look at. I’m sending it over. Sounds like an Iraqi tower controller, but this stuff’s got to be Memorex. There’s no way this is real.”

    I watched as Cowboy tuned up the new signal then turned back to my displays, keying in on my spectrum analyzer. There was so much activity across the spectrum that it was almost impossible to tell which signals on the analyzer were new and which were old.

    “MCC, Seven, imminent threat. Appears to be a very large formation of Iraqi fighter jets preparing to scramble from their bases.”

    “Seven, MCC, define very large.”

    “At least eight. Maybe ten. Sixteen or twenty if they’re in pairs.”

    Jim keyed his mike but said nothing for a moment.

    “If this is a joke, Seven, it’s in poor taste.”

    “Sir, this is no joke.”

    “MCS, MCC.”

    “MCC, I’m already on radios to Gypsy.”

    “Pilot, MCC, threat situation.”

    “Go.”

    “Possible eight Iraqi fighters scrambling as we speak.”

    “Have you advised Gypsy?”

    Before Jim could respond I heard Gypsy’s reply. “Shadow, Gypsy, be advised, we have intermittent contact. Wait. Hold one, Shadow. Appears to be bogies; they’re low, distant, could be helos or clutter. MiG Sweep’s sucking fumes. They’re going to refuel. I’ll send in Paladin-3 and -4 for a closer look.”

    Chris relayed the information to Tennessee Jim.

    “Seven, MCC, update. What do you have?”

    “MCC, Seven, nothing now. I think one pair launched. Must’ve switched freqs.”

    “Crew, MCC, search. We can’t let them get away.”

    I heard Paladin-3 and Paladin-4 acknowledge Gypsy’s call, and now they were headed in-country. No sooner had they sped off, afterburners roaring, than Gypsy called Paladin Leader. Shortly afterward, Paladin Leader and Paladin-2 chased after Paladin-3 and -4. With them went the remainder of our CAP. A two-ship was tied up with Gas Station and it’d be a pair of precious minutes before they’d be ready for action.

    “Crew, MCC, you searching or drinking tea?”

    “MCC, Nav, ten mike to package ingress.”

    “Roger.”

    There was obvious tension among the mission crew. We worked the environment and waited, hoping for the best. I focused my attention on my displays and CRT, while Gypsy directed the two formations of fighters. And, of course, I listened in to the off-ship radios.

    “Gypsy, this is Paladin-3. There’s nothing out here. You still have them on scope?”

    “That’s a negative, Paladin-3. What’s Paladin Leader finding?”

    “Gypsy, this is Paladin Leader, I’ve got empty air. What do you want me to do?”

    “Paladin-3 and -4, assist Rebel’s pair. Paladin Leader, come back in for cover.”

    “Roger, Gypsy,” Paladin Leader paused, but left his mike keyed, “Paladin-3, you copy that?”

    “I’m afterburners; wish us happy hunting.”

    “First wave of the package inbound in five mike,” said Ice.

    “MCC, Four, target.”

    “Go ahead, Four. Is it air?”

    “You know it.”

    Bad Boy passed the target. As Tennessee Jim put the signal onto the jam list, he called Chris. “MCS, MCC, get us jam clearance. Pronto.”

    “MCC, MCS, Paladin Leader was just pulled back because they didn’t find anything.”

    “Seven, MCC, you listening to this activity?”

    Cowboy keyed his mike once. This meant yes. He was too busy to respond.

    “This live?”

    Cowboy keyed yes.

    “MCS, MCC, they just aren’t looking hard enough. Get jam clearance!”

    We got clearance immediately and the MCC called out “Crew, MCC, we’re jamming.”

    For a few terrible minutes as we keyed in to off-ship channels and continued to hunt down the ever-changing Iraqi channels, we were sure this was it. This was finally the big air confrontation we had been expecting.

    Package ingress was less than five minutes away. Gypsy had just confirmed that a formation of Iraqi fighter jets was scrambling from two key Iraqi airfields. We had their comms channels targeted and were jamming them.

    Right after we went into jam, Gypsy spotted additional fighters. I imagined a hornet’s nest stirring up.

    “Rebel-1, they’re headed for Iranian airspace!” warned Gypsy. “Knock ‘em out of the sky!”

    “Pilot, Spotter, traffic low, headed inbound,” said Tammy.

    “Nav, MCC, you got that? Spotter’s got inbound.”

    “Roger that, MCC, they’re right on time.”

    “Pilot, MCC, we need more altitude to gain coverage.”

    We turned our corners sharp, trying to stay wings level and facing target as much as possible. Our thoughts went out to the guys chasing down the enemy fighters. We searched through the signal environment as fast as we could, trying to stay on top of new and changing signals.

    I hugged my position close as the Captain, Sammy, brought the Lady through another sharp, swift turn—sweat was already dripping along the contours of my face. I worked through the turn, fighting gravity.

    Rebel-1 and Rebel-2 had just caught up with the group of fighters attempting to flee to Iran. Paladin-3 and -4 were only seconds behind.

    Rebel-1 keyed weapons.

    “Locked on target,” he said. I heard oxygen flowing through his mask. “Fire one!”

    An explosion erupted as he broke off.

    Rebel-2 was in hot pursuit while Paladin-3 and -4 engaged separate targets. All four American fighters were getting hazardously close to Iranian airspace. Gypsy advised that they should be prepared to break off, but they were so close.

    An instant later Paladin-4 exclaimed, “Splash two!” He broke off hard left to avoid the debris.

    “Splash two confirmed!”

    “Rebel, be advised,” Gypsy said, “you’re approaching Iranian airspace!”

    Rebel-2 was still in hot pursuit of his quarry and he wasn’t about to break off just yet. Rebel-1 and Paladin’s pair faithfully followed him.

    He launched. “Fire one.” Missed.

    “Fire two!” he screamed.

    The second missile clipped the enemy fighter’s wing but didn’t destroy it.

    Gypsy called out a distance warning again but Rebel-2 didn’t want to break off just yet. Rebel-1 was screaming, “Gypsy, position? Gypsy, position? What’s that, you’re breaking up?”

    He wanted Rebel-2 to splash the Iraqi MiG and nothing else was going to satisfy him.

    “Ten nautical miles inside Iraqi airspace.”

    “I got the bandit in my sights; he’s mine.” responded Rebel-2.

    “Rebel-2. Rebel-2, this is Gypsy, turn back now!”