Viper Pilot: A Memoir of Air Combat (27 page)

This one was real.

As the pipper touched the lip of the emplacement, my thumb came down on the pickle button. For a half second, I did nothing till the bomb cleared the wing. Pulling straight up to the horizon, I immediately rolled hard right and shoved the throttle into mil power.

“ELI Three, Rifle SA-3!”

As I came around, heading west to parallel the canal, every gun on the complex opened up. Flipping upside down, I pulled toward the ground and headed north as tracers cut through the sky.

“ELI Four . . . Triple-A over the target . . . don’t overfly it!” I was breathing hard now and looking back over my shoulder for him and for any missiles. “Go north for the rejoin.”

“Four copies . . .”

“LAPEL Three, attacking SA-3.”

“ELI Four . . . ah, secondaries to . . . at the south end!”

Snapping upright, I took a couple of breaths and twitched my tail again. Nothing. I was hauling ass north again at 3,000 feet just on the east side of Highway 2. Immediately zooming up to get above small-arms firing range, I bunted at 5,000 feet and looked back. The southern revets were obscured by dust and smoke. Too much damage from one can of CBU, so I must’ve hit something else—fuel or maybe a few spare missiles. I thumped the canopy rail and grinned.

“LAPEL Three . . . hit the center of the complex. The largest berm in the middle of the empty area . . . has four missile revets on the north side and at least three radars on top. Kill the radars.”

“Three copies . . . main berm and radars on the top.”

“Affirm. Drop both cans in a pair.”

He zippered the mike while I pulled the power back to save some fuel. Tactically, I should’ve hit the radars first and blinded the SAM site, but I didn’t think my one remaining CBU would cover enough area for that. But his two cans, dropped as a pair, would impact about 500 feet apart, completely shred the top of the berm, and send a few more Iraqi gunners to paradise.

“LAPEL Three . . . Triple-A from the target. Defending north.”

I bumped my air-to-air radar out to twenty miles and saw a solitary white square about twelve miles in front of me at 15,000 feet. Locking on him, I listened to LAPEL’s attack.

“LAPEL Three is in for the re-attack . . . Four continue arcing north at ten thousand.”

I nodded. That was smart. He was leaving his wingman up where everyone could see him, then he’d swing around and attack from below. The gamble was that the Iraqis would think both fighters were together and arcing along just out of range. A distraction would help, so I keyed the mike. “ELI Four . . . Slapshot SA-3, target area.”

We weren’t back together yet, but the defenders would plainly see the HARM launch and either duck or search around the smoke. Either way, LAPEL Three had a good chance of getting in unobserved.

“ELI Four, Magnum SA-3 . . . Bull zero-two-one for eight.”

Tilting my head back, I scanned the sky where I thought he should be and was rewarded by a thick line of smoke streaking southeast toward Baghdad.

“ELI Four . . . continue to the rejoin point and hold at twelve thousand. ELI Five . . . One is radar contact on your nose, nine miles at eight thousand.”

“Five is radar contact . . . visual.”

“Fighting wing. ELI One is 5.8.”

Overflying the rejoin point, I began a sweeping left turn and caught a flash of sunlight on metal. Looking up, I saw Klepto float overhead, then invert and pull himself into a loose fighting-wing formation.

“LAPEL Three . . . Rifle, Rifle. Off east. Lapel Four come east of the river at eight K or above.”

“ELI 33, this is LUGER.”

“Stand by.” Perfect timing, as always.

I heard the data-link cricket and looked at my MFD. Both LAPELs were south and east of the target. ELI Five and I were superimposed together northwest of the SAM complex, and ELI Four was directly over the rejoin point. The Tigris disappeared under the wings, and off to the west I could barely make out the pale green smear of Tartar Lake. It was actually Buhayrat ath Tharthar, but Tartar Lake was easier to say. Thirty minutes ago I’d seen it clearly, but it was now vanishing in the haze, suggesting we’d have weather problems to contend with very soon.

“ELI 33, this is LUGER.”

I shook my head and reversed the turn slowly to the left. “Go ahead.”

“ELI . . . ah . . . TOGA 76 is going to RTB early for mechanical problems so we have no one available for your final refueling. Suggest you come south now to catch TOGA 24 before they leave.”

“Why is TOGA 24 leaving?”

“Ah . . . ELI, they’re leaving at the end of their fragged station time.”

I took a deep breath and swallowed the various remarks that bubbled up to my lips.

“LUGER . . . pass to TOGA 24 to remain on station to cover TOGA 76’s refuelings. Also ask TITUS 33 if he can remain a bit longer. ELI 33, flight of three, will be off target in ten minutes.”

“ELI, we’ll try to work it out. They’re pretty tight on their times.”

“And I’m pretty busy at the moment,” I replied tersely. I mean, these guys were sitting in a safe orbit over Saudi Arabia—why did
I
have to think of the plan? “Tell TOGA he can move to DOG South if it makes him feel better and we’ll pick him up on the way out.”

I turned down the radio volume to avoid hearing his verbose reply. On Victor, I zippered the mike, then said, “ELI Three, attacking.” I then sent a data-link so everyone would have the picture.

The fighter surged ahead as the throttle hit the mil power stop, and I once again ran my eyes and fingers over the cockpit. I did a double take at the HUD when I noticed my decoy had been shot away. Deploying another, I checked the chaff and flares and noted about half remaining of each type. It was enough.

“ELI Five, your targets are revetments in the northern section of the complex.” I could see it in my head, but this kid hadn’t been over the area yet. “You’ll need to come north from your TD box about one klick toward the northwest corner. There are four revets grouped together.”

“ELI Five copies.”

I hoped so. Angling left a little, we were skirting Taji to the north, and I fervently hoped there really wasn’t an SA-6 there. But there was no other way to attack in the time and gas we had left. Besides, I’d attacked from the north last time, and Weasels
never
came in the same way twice if it could be avoided.

Ten miles out, we crossed the Tigris heading southeast toward Highway 2 and Baghdad. Pulling power and nosing over, I put the target in the HUD just as the
FUEL
warning popped up. I toggled it off and quickly typed in a lower number.

Six miles out and passing 8,000 feet, the first wispy tendrils of low-lying clouds were thickening, and I knew we were running out of time. I also saw dust hanging over the center of the SAM site—LAPEL had done his work.

“ELI Five, call tally on the complex.”

“Five . . . I . . . wilco.”

It was time. “Five, you’ve got the tactical lead on the left . . . ELI Three is floating to cover.”

It would be easier for him to find and drop on the target without having to fly formation off of me. Besides, I didn’t have anything left to shoot except the cannon. He zippered the mike and I smoothly pulled up until he passed me, then I barrel-rolled over to his left side so I’d be looking through him toward the SAM site and Baghdad. If anything bad came off the ground, it would come from there.

Five miles from the target, the other F-16 nosed down and ramped toward the ground. Bright streams of anti-aircraft fire arced over downtown Baghdad but Klepto never flinched. Not until the SAM came off the ground in front of us.

“ELI Five . . . break right with chaff! SAM at twelve o’clock low, close!”

I caught a quick glimpse of the Viper’s belly before he rolled away to the west. Tiny gray puffs of chaff popped out behind him as he sliced toward the Tigris River. I yanked hard to the left and headed out east with Highway 5 in my face, with missile symbols covering the RWR display.

“LAPEL Four . . . Magnum SA-3, north Bull eight.”

That was our last HARM, but now was as good a time as any. Cranking up on one wing, I stared back at the SAM site and eyeballed the missile’s smoke trail. It was heading due west, and I saw no curve to indicate it had turned. Still, who really knew?

“ELI Five, come north . . . check decoy.”

“Five is northbound. Walking the Dog.”

Good man. I pulled the power back and leveled off at 6,000 feet. Glancing at the HUD, I did the math. We’d defended and aborted at about five miles, and LAPEL Four fired his HARM a few seconds later. Assuming he was ten miles away at the shot, the HARM would take about thirty seconds to get to the general area of the SAM complex. According to the clock, it should be impacting about now and—I eyeballed the distance from the target—we were about eight miles away. Less than a minute out to hit the site. Far enough.

“ELI Five . . . turn in now and re-attack. ELI Three will stay above 6,000 feet.”

“Ah . . . ELI Five was no-joy on the target.”

No joy. He hadn’t seen it. LAPEL Three had already dropped his bombs, and I didn’t have the gas to wait for another flight of fighters.

“Copy that. Distance?”

“Five is nine miles to the north.”

Instantly beginning a hard left turn, I put the target directly off my left wing at seven miles. “Five, turn in now and call five miles.” As he zippered the mike, I grunted against the Gs and continued to turn until the SAM site was directly before me.

“ELI Three, attacking from the east below three thousand. At your five-mile call, I’ll mark the target with the cannon.”

“Five copies. Will look for smoke.”

Actually dust, but why split hairs? I took a deep breath, dumped the nose, and pushed the power back up. With only 4,500 pounds of gas, this was definitely the last pass, and if we didn’t kill it today, then it was highly likely that no one would. Dropping fast, I pumped out a few chaff bundles and rolled out, heading southwest over the Diyala River.

“LAPEL Three . . . Magnum SA-3, northwest Baghdad.”

I grinned under the oxygen mask as the airspeed touched 500 knots. God love the boy. He didn’t have any HARMs to shoot, but called it anyway for the benefit of the Iraqis listening to our frequencies. Maybe it helped, maybe not. Made me feel better though.

Punching up the cannon symbology, I watched the circle with the dot in the middle wobble a second, then I stared outside. Another decrepit town that had languished under Saddam’s rule flashed under my wings as I roared southward. Several belated Triple-A bursts shot out of the rooftops, but they were too late. I was flying at better than 900 feet per second, and without radar guidance, I doubted anything would hit me. I was also counting on surprise and being a lot lower than the gunners were accustomed to seeing.

Passing the highway, I immediately racked the jet over about twenty degrees to the left, snapped upright, and began to count.

Two.

“SAM launch . . . SAM in the air over Baghdad. Two of ’em heading east!” I had no idea who called that but, sure enough, there were missile trails emerging over the downtown skyline and climbing upward, toward the southeast. I hoped ELI Five didn’t abort.

“ELI Five is five miles.” Good man.

“LAPEL Three . . . Magnum SA-3, northwest Baghdad.” More spoofing.

Three.
Slamming the throttle back to mil, I pulled straight up. The ground dropped away beneath me and the horizon rapidly expanded. When the F-16’s nose touched about fifteen degrees above the horizon, I rolled smoothly to the right and sliced back until the steering lined up in my HUD. As I flipped upright, one glance took it all in. I was 1.9 miles from the SAM complex at 470 knots, passing 3,200 feet on my way down.

If the target was the center of a clock face, I would be at three o’clock pointing inward, and ELI Five would be at twelve o’clock heading toward the six position. The big green canal was plain to see, and there wasn’t any smoke remaining from the previous attacks, but I quickly found the center berms.

Twenty-five hundred feet now and almost 500 knots. Too fast. Tugging the power back, I fanned the boards a moment to slow down.

There! A shark-tooth protrusion in the perimeter fence and, a bit farther west, was the northern corner of the compound. Squinting through the HUD, I called up the cannon symbology again and put the pipper just inside the fence.

Fifteen hundred feet and about a mile away at 440 knots. If my timing was right, then ELI Five would be around four miles from the target. I came over the outer fence at a thousand feet and saw tiny figures of men scurrying over the berms. There were three revetments in the north cluster, with equipment and people in two of them. Kicking the rudder, the F-16 slipped sideways and lined up on the center of the three emplacements.

“Stand by, Five.” This would be close.

“ELI Five is four miles . . . TD box is on the north corner.”

I slid through 500 feet and let the green pipper settle on the base of the revetment. Pointed missiles were plain to see, and there were men running back and forth. Flashes suddenly caught the corner of my left eye, and I knew we’d missed some of the Triple-A pits around the complex. But it was too late to worry about now, so I held the pipper rock-steady and squeezed the trigger.

“BURRPP.”

The fighter shuddered as the cannon spat shells at the revetment. I let up for a half-second to let the symbology settle out, bunted over, aimed again at the missile launcher, and squeezed the trigger again.

“BURRRPPPP.”

The picture froze in my mind for another half-second when I stopped firing. The first burst of a hundred cannon shells hit a bit short and chewed up the entrance into the berm. Men were scattering left and right as the second burst hit the dirt inside the revetment that held the missile launcher. Everyone around it disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Rolling violently away from the emplacement, I shoved the nose back down in a wild-porpoise maneuver. This banged my head against the canopy but got me clear of any frag and spoiled the aim of anyone stupid enough to have his head up.