Kevin Miller - Raven One

Despite the ever-present haze, it was a nice day over central Iraq. Wilson slid back and looked below at a town hard along the Tigris River. The town consisted of packed brown rectangular structures set within a crosshatched street pattern amid larger streets that funneled out from a central square near the river. The whole scene resembled a huge spider web. Wilson checked his digital moving map — Az Zubaydiyah. From this altitude everything appeared as an earth tone: the buildings, the streets, the surrounding fields, even the river. Though he was rather familiar with the topography and the landmarks of Iraq, this town was one he had never worked.

Five minutes later Smoke was complete and joined Wilson on his right wing. Once Smoke was stabilized, Wilson waved to the still fascinated copilot, whom Wilson surmised had not seen many Navy fighters. As they took a gentle cut away and opened distance from the tanker, Wilson activated his radar and was careful to keep his head on a swivel to watch for nearby tanker traffic.

After they exchanged their new fuel states by hand signal, Wilson tapped his helmet and showed Smoke one then two fingers with his right hand. Smoke nodded.

Wilson switched up Button 12 on his radio, waited a few seconds, and then transmitted. “ Falcon, Nail four-one and flight off Exxon five-five at Padres with you as fragged.”

After a long pause, Falcon replied, “ Nail four-one, roger. Proceed to eighty-nine ALPHA, ten to thirteen K. Keypads eight and nine hot all altitudes. Switch Bowstring on Indigo five.”

“ Nail four-one, roger. Proceed to eighty-nine ALPHA, ten to thirteen K. Eight and nine hot. Switching Bowstring on Indigo five. Nails go!”

“Two,” Smoke said into his mask.

The airspace over Iraq was crowded with aircraft of all types. While the controlling agencies provided traffic calls as best they could, pilots were wise to look outside the cockpit. Wilson descended them down under 20,000 feet, sweeping in front of his flight path, as well as across the horizon, for other aircraft. The previous week, north of Baghdad, he and a Predator UAV had had a close call, close enough for Wilson to see the Hellfire missile it was carrying under its left wing.

He was pleased they were currently heading to a position in Diyala, where Shakey and Dutch had dropped their JDAM the day before. Leaving the Tigris behind, they glided north in a lazy descent, Smoke following on his wing. Both pilots moved their heads from side to side, pausing for a second on one “piece” of sky at a time and focusing their eyes for movement at range, scanning more for traffic than ground threats.

Wilson examined the surface below, a mixture of desert wasteland and anemic-looking irrigated fields in small slapdash rectangle shapes, canals feeding what meager water was available to them and the occasional village. Under 15,000 feet and able to see better through the desert haze, Wilson began to pick up color in the fields, an olive drab green. He spotted a lone vehicle, a sedan, moving on a road at a normal speed toward a village, resumed his scan, and keyed the mike to contact Bowstring , the terminal area controller.

“ Bowstring, Nail four-one flight checking in mission one-three-one, one Mk 38 JDAM and one GBU-12 each plus twenty mike-mike, ATFLIR. Playtime zero plus four-five. Sitrep.”

“Roger, Nail , proceed to eighty-nine ALPHA, cleared to roam north and south. Quiet now.”

“ Nail four-one, roger.”

The two Ravens cruised at a max endurance fuel setting in an area 75 miles northeast of Baghdad, which was obscured from their view by the haze. Wilson edged to the western border of their assigned area, which paralleled the north/south road from Baghdad to Mosul, a notorious insurgent corridor that included the town of Tikrit. As Bowstring had said, it was quiet, or so it seemed from altitude. The minutes ticked off one at a time, and he shifted uncomfortably in the seat he had strapped himself into three hours ago.

They flew in a 30-mile racetrack up and down, as Wilson scanned for puffs of dust on the surface or palls of smoke. He was reminded of a pilot’s axiom: Flying is hours and hours of boredom interrupted by moments of sheer terror . Nothing was going on down there, and Wilson, hoping to hit something today, was ashamed to realize that the satisfaction he derived from releasing a weapon was to a great extent dependent on American kids first getting ambushed by the enemy.

Wilson called to Smoke on his aux radio. “Lead’s seven-point-oh.”

“Two’s six-point-seven.”

Heading south and initiating an easy climb, Wilson informed Bowstring that they were departing for Padres and more fuel. Bowstring answered, “ Nail four-one, standby. We’ve got a mission for you. Contact Bowser on Yellow Fourteen.”

Wilson bunted the nose, pulled a handful of power, and turned away from Smoke as he rogered a response. With the Exxon refueling track some 80 miles away, Wilson figured they could squeeze 15 minutes before departing for a drink. He looked up the UHF radio frequency for Yellow 14 on his kneeboard package and entered it into the radio keypad.

“ Nail check.”

“Two,” Smoke replied.

“ Bowser, Nail four-one flight checking in mission one-three-one as fragged with two Mk 38 JDAM, two GBU-12 and twenty mike-mike. Standing by for nine-line.”

Bowser was the call sign of a Joint Terminal Attack Controller, a young soldier on the ground who needed help. By the sound of his voice, Wilson guessed he was a southern kid in his early 20s, and anxious.

“Rog’ that Nail , copy all. We’re in Balad Ruz on Highway 82. Got a sit’ation here, where y’all at?”

Wilson checked his sector chart and made a calculation. Bowser was 25 miles to the east. Smoke was to his right in combat spread. To get them moving east, Wilson keyed the mike and said, “Tac right — go,” as he rolled the aircraft on its right side and pulled across the horizon toward Smoke.

“Two,” his wingman replied. Wilson went back to Bowser on his primary radio.

“Be there in about four minutes Bowser , and we’ll have about ten minutes on-station for you. Need us sooner?”

“Ahh… yeah… need you NOW, Nails, for a show o’ force. Lemme know when you have the town.”

Wilson keyed aux and said, “Gate,” as he shoved the throttles to burner and unloaded for knots. Out of the turn Smoke matched him as their indicated airspeed increased rapidly, still in spread but now to Wilson’s left.

“Roger, Bowser , be there in 2.5 minutes for a show of force, wilco.”

Wilson wondered what lay in store for them in Balad Ruz. Was Bowser and his squad facing some angry townspeople, or did they get hit by a roadside bomb? Through the haze, he followed Highway 82 toward the town, located about 50 miles from the Iranian border. The town was in the middle of an agricultural area characterized by small, rectangular fields and ditches, some partially flooded by recent winter storms.

In the air-to-ground mode, Wilson selected “GUN” to ready his 20 mm cannon. He called “Tapes on… armstrong ” to Smoke on aux, then lifted his own Master Arm switch to ARM and energized the video tape recorder.

“ Nails, need you to thump this town, low and loud.”

Sensing the rising tension in Bowser’s voice, Wilson nevertheless asked for more details. “ Bowser , what heading do you want us on?”