Dan Hampton: Viper Pilot

“Sonofabitch…”

I was staring at my display, seeing what the Maverick saw, and it was crap. Completely washed out, like a TV station that had gone off the air in a cloud of brown static.

Four thousand feet… and five miles to the target. Not much time.

I quickly switched to the other missile. Same thing. “Bastard…”

The blowing sand wasn’t helping, but it wouldn’t do this much damage, and I thumped the glare shield in frustration. I’d been so busy that I’d forgotten that the sun was going down. IR missiles worked fine at night, because they basically tracked contrasts, not a visual picture. But for a few hours on either side of sunset or sunrise, everything was the same temperature unless it was heated internally. Called diurnal crossover, it was unavoidable, and it nearly always destroyed the infrared picture. This was exactly why we used other weapons during those times. But the only other tool I had was my cannon. That meant getting very low and very close.

But men were dying. Our men.

I strained forward against the ejection-seat harness and continued down.

Three thousand feet. Four hundred eighty knots and descending. I was riveted to my radar altimeter, which gave me a digital readout of my actual height above the ground. A lifesaver at night or in bad weather. Like now.

Maybe the dust will thin out lower down . I took a breath and ignored my thumping heart. It truly was hammering against my chest. No kidding.

“ROMAN… ROMAN… the Rags have crossed the road… they’re… they’re… stand by! ”

“Rags” was politically incorrect shorthand for raghead . Meaning the Iraqi Army, in this case. I tried to lick my lips again but gave up. Pulling the throttle farther back, I fanned my speed brakes to slow the F-16 down as it passed 2,000 feet.

There!

I blinked several times to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. Darker brown. Rocks and the ugly, stunted green bushes that dotted Iraq. Ground!

Immediately staring forward through the HUD, I centered the steering cues toward the only position I’d been given.

3.3 miles.

I quickly glanced at the Radar Warning Receiver. Happily, it was empty of any signals from radar-guided missiles or antiaircraft artillery. Of course, it wouldn’t pick up infrared missiles or the few hundred AK-47s down there, but I’d take what good news I could find.

Leveling the fighter at a thousand feet, I closed the speed brakes and pushed the throttle enough to hold 400 knots. This gave me speed to maneuver without sucking down what little gas remained.

“ROMAN… they… position… between the road and the hill…” The transmission was garbled and riddled with static.

Hill? What hill?

His radio was breaking up badly. Something else to blame on the approaching sandstorm.

“…anything on the road… repeat… kill anything on the road!”

“ROMAN 75 copies.” So, nothing friendly was on the road, and I had a license to kill.

And there it was.

A winding gray ribbon running north to south. The edges were irregular and dust swirled over most of it as I angled in from the southeast. Cranking the jet over, I lined up the steering line on the target. Staring down at the display above my left knee, I was seeing what the Maverick missile saw.

Nothing. Not a fucking thing.

As I raised my eyes, the Iraqi column suddenly appeared out of the muck. Instantly flicking the dogfight switch, I called up my cannon symbology and shoved the nose forward.

But it was too late.

I saw enemy vehicles, several armored personnel carriers, and lots of running figures as I flashed overhead. What I looked like to them I couldn’t imagine, but the whole area disappeared behind me in about three seconds.

Jabbing the MARK button on the keyboard beneath my HUD, I banked up hard to the west.

“CHIEFTAIN… CHIEFTAIN… ROMAN 75 is off west… re-attack in ninety seconds… from the north.”

He didn’t answer.

Swearing slowly and fluently, I put the target directly behind me and headed due west. The visibility sucked, but I thought I saw a rounded bit of higher ground and some movement. It must be the Marines.

Hang on, guys …

The MARK point was just that. When I hit the button, the F-16’s computer wizardry marked the point on the earth I was flying over, like a pin on a map. It generated a latitude and longitude with steering and distance to the exact position I’d overflown. That particular function had been created for just this type of situation. I now knew precisely where the Iraqis were—and how to attack them.

At four miles from the target, I pulled up to 2,000 feet and swept north. I’d fly an arc until I found the road and then attack the rear of the convoy with my cannon. They’d never see me coming out of the dust.

“ROMAN Two… One on Victor.” I pulled the throttle back and looked at my dwindling fuel readout.

“Go ahead One.” My wingman was still up there somewhere, thankfully.

“Call LUGER and have him bring a tanker as far north as possible. You meet the tanker and stay with him.” LUGER was the orbiting AWACS. Theoretically, he knew where all the fighters and tankers were operating at any given time. Theoretically.

“Two copies.” Good man. No questions or chatter. All he added was, “It’s getting a little shitty up here.”

“One copies… I need to re-attack. Get the tanker. You’re cleared off.”

I was now truly on my own. But my wingman was carrying anti-radiation missiles, utterly useless in this situation, so he might as well go get gas. I didn’t expect the tanker to cross into Iraq, but it was worth a try. Unhooking my sweaty mask so it dangled against my cheek, I glanced outside. What I wouldn’t give for a drink of water.

“ROMAN… ROMAN this is CHIEFTAIN…” The radios exploded to life again. “…moving… vehicles… the road. APCs and trucks… battalion strength…”

He was breathless, and as he broke off, I could hear the clanging of a heavy weapon firing. One of ours, I hoped.

4.2 miles.

The target was now back over my left shoulder and completely obscured by dust. I was also getting bounced around a bit by the turbulent winds on the front edge of the storm. Oh, and the ground had disappeared again.

Fucking terrific.

But I couldn’t wait any longer. Racking the fighter up, I pulled a hard, quick five-G turn and came around heading southeast. I knew I’d be angling in over the road, but maybe if the Iraqis saw me, they’d leave the Marines alone for a few minutes.

Rolling out, I called up the gun symbology and rehooked the oxygen mask.

“CHIEFTAIN… ROMAN is in from the north… thirty seconds.”

“ROMAN… God’s… hurr…”

And he broke off again . For God’s sake hurry.

I’m coming buddy… hang on.

Anger lanced through me and my fatigue vanished. There were American Marines down there fighting for their lives. Guys like me from towns like mine. Men with mothers and girlfriends and kids of their own.

Fuck it.

I shoved the throttle and the nose forward.

At a thousand feet I still couldn’t see the ground, since the weather continued to deteriorate. Nudging the jet slightly left, I dropped down to 500 feet and slowed to 400 knots. Brown crud whipped past the cockpit and sand was caking into any part of the jet that wasn’t slick. Like ice. Brown, dry ice. What a weird place.

In 2.7 miles, I nudged the fighter down to 200 feet, praying there were no towers or cables to hit. The gun was up and I… there it was!

The road.

Holding rock-steady, I craned my neck sideways to see around the HUD and lined up on the road.

“ROMAN… ROMAN… more trucks… from the north… we… overrun.” The Marine sounded like he was right next to me. He sounded scared.