Viper Pilot: A Memoir of Air Combat (22 page)

I keyed the Victor radio. “ROMAN Two . . . say gas.”

“7.1. Tanks dry.” I had 10,500 pounds, so fuel wasn’t the issue. Still—go where the gas is.

“LUGER . . . call TENDON 31 and see if we can RTB with him to al-Udeid.”

This was a big tanker-and-logistics base in Qatar on the southern end of the peninsula. I called up the steerpoint and came around, heading southeast.

“ROMAN . . . this is LUGER. TENDON 31 has no further gas available.”

I looked at the steering information: 355 miles. With all this fuel, that would be no problem. But the good news kept coming.

“Ah . . . ROMAN, be advised that al-Udeid is now reporting a half-mile and blowing dust. TENDON is diverting to Diego.”

Diego? I blinked. That was the tiny island of Diego Garcia in the
Indian Ocean
. Oh yeah, this was just getting better and better. I zippered the mike to wake up my wingman and began a slow left turn back to the north. There was only one choice, since Iran didn’t count.

“LUGER . . . get me the current weather for Kuwait.”

I pulled my Smart Pack off my leg and found the correct page. Flipping up the goggles, I turned on the white eyebrow light beneath the glare shield and squinted at the Divert card diagram. This was a depiction of the entire theater of operations, showing all suitable emergency airfields, their various frequencies, and other basic information. This annoying situation had just become an emergency, since the entire Middle East was vanishing beneath the dust. Al-Jaber would be my top pick. A-10 Warthogs and F-16s were based there. The food was okay, too.

I tapped the chart, then reached into the G-suit ankle pocket for my approach plate-book. This is a compilation of all the airfields in a given region and the instrument approaches available at each one. Instrument approaches are precise procedures that use specialized equipment on the ground and in the aircraft. The pilot then flies off his instruments through the weather down to a predetermined vertical and horizontal point. He either sees the runway or he doesn’t and executes a missed approach. Military pilots were rated to a half-mile visibility with 200-foot ceilings under normal conditions; this isn’t much when you’re landing at 150–175 knots.

“ROMAN . . . Al-Jaber reports a quarter-mile vis, intermittent to zero-zero.”

Swell.

Before I could ask, he added helpfully, “Kuwait International is closed. Say intentions.”

Say intentions? How about London or Madrid?

“ROMAN 75 is diverting to Ali al-Salem.” Apparently, the only place to land in friendly territory on this side of the planet.

“Roger that . . . Salem weather is three-quarters of a mile, blowing dust, wind is two-four-zero at twenty knots gusting to thirty.”

“ROMAN copies all.” I switched steerpoints and checked us a little right. Ali was about 110 miles from my present position, so I eased the throttle back to slow down while I studied the approach.

Approach? What approach? I thumbed through the book again. Nothing. Checking the four-letter airfield identifier, I looked again.

Nothing.

So, there was no published instrument-approach to the only field in this hemisphere where I could land. If the weather was better, day or night, we could simply fly in and land using eyes instead of instruments. But the weather sucked.

My luck was holding.

Nor could we divert anywhere the weather was better, because that meant Iran. In any event, all this crap was moving that way anyway. Three-quarters of a mile. I figured we had less than an hour before Ali went down, too.

“ROMAN Two, go to two-mile trail and call tied. Descent check.”

I scribbled down the Ali tower frequency from the Divert card and ran my fingers quickly over the switches. Since my wingman and I both had enough fuel, there was only one option. I’d fly us down to the end of the runway using GPS guidance and take a MARK point, a precise latitude and longitude for whatever piece of ground I chose. It could then be coupled with the aircraft’s Instrument Landing System and would generate horizontal and vertical steering to that point on the ground.

There were problems with this. Each jet’s system accuracy was a little different, so when I passed the point to my wingman, it would vary to a small degree. Normally, this was acceptable, but
normally
we weren’t a few hundred feet above the ground, at night, in a sandstorm, trying to land from the information. Real instrument approaches use highly tuned, ground-based systems and painstakingly certified procedures. But aside from ejecting, we didn’t have a choice.

“ROMAN Two is tied.”

I saw the F-16 spike on my Radar Warning Display signifying that my wingman had fallen back several miles and locked me with his radar. This was the safest and most accurate way to bring a wingman down through the weather. His radar would tell him my heading, altitude, airspeed, and lots of other things. He just matched my airspeed, kept the radar locked, and maintained whatever distance I wanted all the way down. Piece of cake, as they say.

“Ah . . . ROMAN 75 this is LUGER.”

I couldn’t wait to hear this. “Go ahead.”

“ROMAN . . . we’ve got several other flights of fighters holding in the air-refueling tracks who also need to divert.”

I had thought I was the last flight out of Iraq, but apparently not. “ROMAN copies . . . how many?”

“Ah . . . four two-ships.”

“Shit,” I muttered yet again. Eight other fighters that needed to get down, and I just got elected.

“ROMAN you were the Alpha mission commander this morning so you’re the senior pilot airborne.”

Perfect. Well, this is where all that experience was supposed to pay off. I took a deep breath and looked at the Situational Awareness display, getting a handle on everyone’s relative position.

“ROMAN copies. Have all strays contact me on Victor 130.225.”

“ROMAN that’s a clear frequency.”

I really hated AWACS sometimes.

This guy was really worried that some Iraqi might hear us talking about diverting to Kuwait. “Just pass it,” I somehow managed
not
to bark at him. Slowing down to 250 knots, I adjusted my internal cockpit lights for the NVGs. I also turned up my exterior NVG lights to full bright. Only someone looking through goggles could see them—in any event, the Iraqis on the other side of the border weren’t a concern at this point.

I was about forty miles south of Customs House when the first flight checked in.

“ROMAN 75 this is HEIST 36.”

“ROMAN reads you . . . say numbers, low man’s fuel, and posit from Customs House.”

“HEIST is a flight of two. 6.7 in Twitch south.”

I jotted it down. “Copy. Stand by HEIST. Any other flights on this Victor, check in with ROMAN and say fuel.”

Turned out, there was also a DERBY, a MONTY, and a WARDOG—all F-16 two-ships led by junior flight leads. They were each part of the afternoon strike package that had fallen apart due to weather. By the time I reached Customs House, I’d figured it out. MONTY was lowest on fuel, followed by HEIST, WARDOG, and DERBY. I jotted it all down on my kneeboard by flight, fuel, and position. The flight low on fuel would be the lowest in the stack and first in to land after my two-ship. I planned to drop off my wingman on short final and low approach to come back around for any stragglers.

“MONTY flight, you are now ROMAN Three and Four . . . HEIST is Five and Six. WARDOG you are ROMAN Seven and Eight and DERBY you’re Nine and Ten. Acknowledge.”

They all checked in with their new call signs. It was easier to keep things straight this way, and established one flight lead—me.

“ROMAN Three flight proceed to Customs House and hold at 21,000. ROMAN Five hold at 22,000, ROMAN Seven at 23K, and ROMAN Nine at 24,000. All ROMANS depart your current positions at assigned altitudes, standard east-west holding pattern at 250 knots.”

They all acknowledged. Holding in line with the wind would simplify things, and all the flights now had different altitude, so they wouldn’t be a conflict to each other. I’d also stacked them up from the bottom, low flight with the lowest fuel, in the order they’d descend to the base. This way, they’d just peel off like layers from an onion and not fly through each other’s altitude blocks.

“ROMAN Two you’re cleared to hold at 20K . . . One is dropping down to get the mark point for our approach. All ROMANs stand by.”

T
HE IMMEDIATE PROBLEM WAS TO DESCEND THROUGH THIS
shit and get an accurate mark without killing myself. I pulled the power, popped open the speed brakes, and slid down into the dark brown mess below me. Holding 250 knots, I dimmed the lights and started a gentle right turn. With the steerpoint for Ali al-Salem set in the HUD, I planned to align myself to the runway ten miles out and fly in to take the mark.

The jet began to buffet when I passed 10,000 feet, as the winds near the surface increased and shifted. Eyeballing my displays, I played the stick, throttle, and speed brakes to roll out on a ten-mile final at 3,000 feet. Instrument approaches “stepped down” an aircraft in altitudes based on terrain and obstructions like towers. There was also a Minimum Safe Altitude (MSA) that would keep you clear of all dangers within twenty-five miles of the field. Since Ali had no approach, I was using the 3,000-foot MSA for Kuwait International. Hope it worked. I switched the UHF radio to Ali Tower and turned up the cockpit heat. Slowing to 200 knots, I lowered the gear handle.

“Ali Tower, ROMAN 75.”

No reply. Of course.

Feeling the welcome thumps, I saw three green lights indicating the wheels were down and locked. “First good news tonight . . .” Like all single-seat pilots, I talked to myself a lot. “Ali Tower, ROMAN 75.”

It didn’t matter if he answered, because we were coming in anyway. But it would be nice to talk to someone and maybe confirm the runway wasn’t full of holes or covered with Iraqis.

At five miles, I leveled off at a thousand feet and checked my fuel. 6.4 and my wing tanks were dry. Thank God for that tanker pilot, I thought. Hope he made it to Diego Garcia.

“Calling Ali Tower . . . say call sign.”

A voice. A wonderful, flat, unemotional American voice. I squeezed my eyes shut a moment and replied, “Ali . . . this is ROMAN 75, four miles, gear down, low approach . . . runway three-zero right.”

“ROMAN . . . the right runway is closed due to cratering. Three-zero left is open but no runway lights are available. Be advised, current visibility is a half-mile and blowing dust.”

And the hits keep on coming. I slowed down to a bare 160 knots and said, “Tower, do you have approach lights on the left?”

“Affirmative . . . but no edge lights and only a few centerline lights.” Edge lights outlined a runway and the centerline lights were a useful guide to keep big jets oriented in the middle of the concrete. We’d make do.

“ROMAN copies the weather. Lights to full bright on three-zero left, please, and say winds.”

“Ali winds are two-eight-zero degrees, twenty gusting to thirty-five.”

I ran my eyes around the cockpit one last time, then called up the
MARK
symbology as I passed two miles and 500 feet. Turning on the landing light, I got a face full of brown, blowing crap, and quickly switched it off. I peered through the goggles at the fuzzy wasteland off the nose. It was like a tan snowstorm.

There! Off to the right, I saw a whitish glow from some lights from the ground. Tilting my head back to see under the goggles, I saw the faint yellow blob of the air base. Adding a little rudder, I crabbed the jet to the left to stay aligned and stared to where the runway had to be.

“ROMAN . . . call runway in sight. You’re cleared the option.” Meaning I could land or low-approach.

“75 copies . . . I’ve got nine other fighters to bring back so this’ll be a low approach.”

Assuming I can find the runway, that is.

“Tower copies, standing by. Good luck,” he added.

And there it was.

The flashing sequencer lights came pulsing out of the darkness at one mile. I instantly slewed the little diamond symbol in my HUD to the point where the lights ended. At a half-mile, through the goggles, I could make out the runway threshold and one or two centerline lights farther down. Good enough. I put the diamond about a thousand feet down the runway and stabbed forward with my right thumb. The F-16’s computer did its magic, and a little block of green numbers appeared, telling me the latitude, longitude, and elevation of the diamond.

Adding power, I pulled the nose up slightly and closed the speed brakes. As the fighter accelerated, I slapped up the gear handle and keyed the mike.

“ROMAN 75 is on the go. Ali, I’ll stay up your freq and please let your TOC know that we’re inbound with ten fighters.”

“Ali copies all. Wilco.”

Wilco meant “will comply.” It was always nice to deal with professionals. Passing 5,000 feet, I ran out the air-to-air radar and keyed the VHF radio.

“All ROMANS, stand by to copy.”

Normally, the mark point could be data-linked, but I just read out the coordinates as I climbed, and they all acknowledged.

Locking onto my wingman, I angled in toward Customs House from the Iraqi side of the border and hoped our Patriot missile batteries knew I was a friendly. Breaking into the clear at 19,000 feet, I squinted through the NVGs at the greenish-white outline of the other jet. Searching left and right across the sky, I saw several others orbiting above in different places.

“All ROMANS, Christmas tree . . . Christmas tree.”

“Christmas tree” meant to light up like one, and I caught the twinkling and flashing of F-16 exterior lights as they came on against the black night sky. I should’ve thought of that sooner, but over here, it was just habit to fly without lights.

“All ROMANS . . . we’ll penetrate in flight order from Customs House. Two minutes between flights and two miles between aircraft. Outbound heading is zero-eight-zero at 250 knots. Hold this until the final approach fix at ten miles and 3,000 feet for runway three-zero left.”

I paused and let them scribble that down. “At ten miles slow to 180 knots with the gear and intercept the glide slope inbound.”