Kevin Miller - Raven One

As the catapult fired, Wilson saw Smoke’s body compress, due to the sudden forward motion. It then seemed to bounce in the cockpit as the 44,000 pound aircraft was slung down the track by the shuttle attached to the nose gear. The aircraft accelerated from zero to 180 knots with an instantaneous 3 g-force that drove him further into his seat and caused the stabilators to deflect down to lift the aircraft up on the climb out. Wilson saw the burner cans stage open with yellow fire halfway down the track as Smoke selected afterburner. In a fraction of a second, the aircraft departed the ship, accompanied by a sharp Boom as the catapult shuttle crashed into the water brake at the end of the stroke. Two seconds from the first motion, Smoke’s bomb-laden Hornet was airborne 60 feet above the peaceful waters of the Gulf, accelerating as the pilot gently picked up the nose and turned right, away from the ship, while raising the gear and flaps, then reversing his turn to the left to parallel the ship’s course.

A Prowler roared past on Wilson’s left off Cat 3. The pilot banked left, cleaning up and climbing into a mirror image of Smoke’s flight path. As both aircraft receded from view off the bow, Wilson grew impatient to launch. He wanted to minimize the distance building each second between him and his wingman.

The catapult crew now focused their attention on him, and at the instant the yellow shirt gave him the “take tension” signal, Wilson brought the throttles to military as the engines thundered to life behind him. On signal he lifted the launch bar switch to “UP.” In rote sequence, he extended the flight control stick to full travel in a deliberate motion forward… back… left… right…. Simultaneously, he pushed the rudder pedals to their limits with each leg and kept his eyes on the engine instruments.

Satisfied, Wilson turned to the catapult officer, made eye contact, and popped a jaunty salute before he, too, placed his head back in the head rest and braced for launch. Off to his right he saw the catapult officer return his salute and make his final checks of the aircraft and the cat track. Leaning into the 25-knot wind, he then looked forward, touched the deck with his hand, and pointed to the bow on one knee. Remaining motionless but taut, with his left arm locked and pushing the throttles forward to ensure they didn’t come back to idle during the stroke, Wilson’s eyes shifted left. He saw the green-shirted crewman with arms raised look up and down the track, then lower his arms.

Unseen and instantaneous force pinned Wilson’s shoulders back into the seat. His oxygen mask pushed tight against his face and caused his eyes to squint behind the helmet visor. The FA-18 seemed to bounce down the deck as it accelerated to flying speed, and like Smoke moments earlier, Wilson shoved the throttles past the military stop into burner. He heard the shuttle increase speed and saw the bow rush up to meet him. The 3 g’s against his body felt good as he hurtled down the track, and the airspeed box in the HUD rapidly scrolled above three figures. With an abrupt lurch forward, the g-force disappeared and a deafening boom sounded below as the shuttle slammed into the water brake beneath him.

At that, Wilson was also thrown into the sky above the glassy blue-green Persian Gulf. His right hand dropped to take the stick and command his own gentle climb and turn to the right. His left slapped up the gear and the flaps in a practiced motion. Still in burner, he rolled back left to parallel the course and bunted the nose to level at 500 feet. With the radar on, he pushed the weapon select switch forward to sweep for contacts, as an instructor had taught him years ago: G et the radar searching ASAP, like you are going to kill something.

Wilson’s radar detected something about five miles ahead, and he bumped the castle switch to lock it. An aircraft heading northwest at angels five closing at 150 knots. Must be Smoke , he thought. Minutes later, as he closed on the left bearing line, the bright afternoon sun illuminated the black Raven insignia on the vertical stab and confirmed his assumption.

Earlier, they had briefed to join northwest of the ship, but Smoke knew Wilson was next off the bow and had slowed his acceleration to allow his flight lead to catch up. Smoke had, thereby, expedited the join-up and had minimized the time needed to get to the tanker south of Baghdad. None of this was discussed on the radio. After two years of turnaround training and combat flying together in VFA-64, Wilson and his favorite JO wingman were at the point they could anticipate each other’s thoughts.

Wilson crept up to Smoke in a shallow climb. He inspected 410 ’s left side and, in a graceful maneuver, slid under to repeat the procedure on the right. He then pushed up next to Smoke, who had been looking over his shoulder, waiting for him. Using hand signals Wilson took the lead, led them through a frequency change, and checked the drop tank fuel transfer. Then, with an open-palm hand signal, he pushed Smoke out into a more comfortable formation for the long flight north.

Wilson prepared them to test their decoy expendables. “Stand by for confetti checks… from lead.”

Wilson’s left thumb rocked forward and back on the chaff/flare switch, expending one bundle of chaff and one flare. His headset clicked as they were released, and even in the bright sunlight, he could see the flash from the flare reflected off his left drop tank. He looked over at Smoke 400 feet away, and soon saw the metallic fibers of the chaff bundle blooming, followed by the dazzling yellow flare as it ejected from below his aircraft, and rapidly fell behind.

“Good checks,” Wilson said. Satisfied the go/no-go criteria from their brief were met, he added, “Lead’s fenced, eleven-eight.”

“Two’s fenced, eleven-four,” Smoke replied.

With both aircraft now combat ready, there was no need for Dutch. He had launched a few minutes after Wilson and was there to serve as the airborne spare if one of the two primary Ravens was not fully mission capable for the assigned combat mission. Dutch was now free to go on an alternate mission for the ship, such as sea surface search around the strike group ships. He would look for contacts of interest like dhows or unusual watercraft and would recover on the next recovery.

Wilson called to him on squadron tactical. “Dutch, we’re fenced and outbound.”

“Roger that. Have fun,” he replied.

Wilson clicked his mike twice in acknowledgement as they continued north and into combat.

The “Surge,” which had begun in earnest earlier in the year, was paying big dividends for the Commander, Multi-National Force Iraq. The strategy of trying to limit the Iraqi footprint of the Multi-National Force — by garrisoning the troops in fire base enclaves, making only high-speed patrols through towns, and by treating IEDs as a law enforcement problem — had failed in 2005 and 2006. The Iraqi people, fed up with the violence but unsure of the American commitment, withheld their allegiance until they could be confident of U.S. resolve. They did not want to back the loser in the struggle with the Al-Qaeda insurgents.

The surge strategy — enter a town, clear it of insurgents, stay to ensure the personal security of the inhabitants, and support the fledgling government and Iraqi security forces — involved heavy firepower up front. If people were observed digging alongside a highway in the wee hours, they were taken out immediately. If mortar fire was observed from an urban dwelling, it was obliterated with a 500-pound bomb.

Nowhere were the results more striking then in al-Anbar province, known for years as “the Wild, Wild West” to the Marines responsible for that area. Through the coalition’s aggressive destruction of insurgents and the engagement of the tribal sheiks by mid-grade officers, the formerly restive region came to trust and to communicate intelligence to the Americans. The officers were schooled in classic counter-insurgency tactics which suggested that by working with the coalition Anbar could have a better future than that which al-Qaeda offered.