Dan Hampton - Viper Pilot

The 3rd Infantry Division had attacked and taken Baghdad International Airport on April 4, during some of the toughest fighting of the war. On April 6, the Army had initiated Operation Thunder Run from the suburbs toward the airport, and that section of the city was essentially safe. But the center of Baghdad, plainly, was not; the place was a mess. Lines of frightened civilians tried to escape to the north and west, while the military threw up defensive positions downtown to counter the American advance.

Iraqi armor moved through the northern outskirts of town, and fierce street fights broke out everywhere. Tanks are hard to distinguish anyway, and without the targeting pods that we’d pushed so hard to add to the CeeJay, it was nearly impossible for a pilot to tell friend from foe. So we’d decided to leave inner-city tank-busting to the A-10s and F/A-18s. We were trolling for any SAMs, particularly the remaining Rolands and SA-8s, which would kill helicopters and Warthogs.

ARCING AROUND THE CITY FROM THE WEST, I DROPPED DOWN to about 10,000 feet to stay well beneath the increasing cloud cover. The city was a kaleidoscope of grays—gray earth, darker gray concrete, and gunmetal-gray roads. Shafts of sunlight lanced through the clouds and softened the hard background in mottled dove-gray patches. Lines of black smoke rose straight up from countless bright red fires. Orange and yellow tracers occasionally shot upward and exploded beneath the clouds.

I rolled up again and flicked a wing hard to the right. Obediently, my wingman floated to the outside, my left, as we continued around the city. This put me between him and any threats, but still allowed him to fly formation off of me and observe Baghdad. I heard the crinkling sound of a data-link in my headset and glanced at the MFD. He’d data-linked me a Flap Wheel radar and an SA-3. The Flap Wheel was a fire-control system, and that meant Triple-A guided by radar—much tougher than the stuff they shot visually. I angled away from the location and looked again at the SA-3. It was about fifteen miles north of us, just off Highway 1. There was a big MiG base up that road, called Balad, so no doubt the SAMs were there to protect it from people like us.

I grinned. Fat fucking chance.

Arcing about eight miles from downtown, we crossed Highway 1 on the northern outskirts of Baghdad, heading east at 450 knots. I methodically scanned the ground ahead on both sides of the jet’s nose. The RWR was turned full-up, the jamming pod was on auto, and we’d both streamed decoys. I also was bobbing and changing my altitude randomly every five or six seconds. We were in full-up Wild Weasel mode.

Passing over Highway 2, I glanced back over my left shoulder to check on the wingman. He was right where he should be, and I exhaled. Everything was okay and—

“BEEP… BEEP… BEEP… BEEP!”

My eyes riveted back to the RWR, even as I instinctively rolled away from the flashing “3” on the display. Pumping chaff with my left fist, I keyed the mike and yanked the fighter upright, heading due north.

“ELI Three, defending SA-3, north Bull’s-eye eight…”

Shoving the stick forward, I floated off the seat and slapped the chaff button again as a voice yelled, “ELI Four… missile! Ah… ELI Four, missile in the air!”

Where??

Snapping my head around to the right, I kept the power up and pulled sideways to hold the city in sight. Nothing. Opening my mouth to ask him, I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye.

There!

Almost directly off my nose, at twelve o’clock. The billowing gray smoke was hard to see against the nearly universal gray background, but the flaming trail of the missile was plain enough.

“ELI Three… tally missile launch, SA-3, right two o’clock, close.” I began a level, six-G turn away from the smoke to put the missile off my right wing. Lifting above the Baghdad skyline, the long plume was now visible against the clouds. But where had the first one gone?

“ELI Two… posit of the first SAM?”

“Two… uh… No joy on the SAM.” He couldn’t see it.

Rolling out, I bunted forward again as the RWR continued shrieking at me. There’s never just one threat, so I kept rapidly scanning the ground as we passed over the ramshackle neighborhoods and canals that spiderwebbed across northern Baghdad. Triple-A bursts were noticeable over downtown, and I saw the telltale fingers of other SAM launches farther south. The missile I had originally seen disappeared into the cloud deck, but its Low Blow radar was still locked to me.

Yanking the fighter around, I pointed directly at the patch of ground where the SAM site must be. Calling up the mark function, I nosed over again and slewed the little diamond over the general area. Luckily, there wasn’t much wind, so the smoke trail was still hanging in the air over what looked like a junkyard. The coordinates popped onto the HUD, and I pulled away hard to the left. Being belly-up to a threat that can shoot you isn’t a great idea for long, so I rolled out, checked for bad stuff coming at me, then rolled and pulled again.

Northbound now, with the SAM battery directly behind me at six o’clock, I saw my wingman float overhead to a wide loose-deuce position. Vapor streamed from his wingtips as he dropped into formation.

“ELI Four… stand by data.” And I zapped him a data-link with the SAM coordinates as we headed due north along the Tigris River. Zippering the mike, I brought us around the right, heading northeast. This would keep us well clear of Highways 1 and 2, which were full of retreating Iraqi military units. We’d also skirt south of Baqubah, a good-size and undefeated town north of Baghdad. The terrain was better out here, too—there was much more room to maneuver. The ground was low and wet, with fewer roads, so there’d be less of a mobile SAM or Triple-A threat.

LAPEL 77 was the other four-ship with us that morning, so I changed to his Victor freq. “LAPEL One, this is ELI Three.”

“Go.”

“ELI Three flight is engaging an SA-3, Bull’s-eye zero-two-zero for nine. Posit?”

“LAPEL One and Two are southeast Bull at twenty-five thousand, headed for the tanker. LAPEL Three flight is coming off the tanker in DOG South.”

I zapped him the SAM coordinates. “LAPEL One, have LAPEL Three ingress from the south and stay west of the river until we sort this out.”

“Wilco.”

My two-ship was on a twelve-mile arc due east of Baghdad. We were now heading north at 8,000 feet and directly abeam the SAM site. It was a good position. Operating on the fringe like this made us a tantalizing target, something you can almost reach. So they’d be watching and waiting. If the tracking radar got nervous or tried to lock on us, then our own systems were in the best place to locate it exactly.

The LAPEL flight would also be in area, so if I was attacked and wriggling around, he could find the SAM and put a bomb through it. Or vice versa, if he got targeted. The biggest problem with Weaseling were unknown threats, and this was a graphic example of that point. We really didn’t know what was down there. It could be a more deadly SAM, or a Triple-A nest, or an entire battery.

Turned out, it was all of that.

“ELI Three’s 6.4.”

Sixty-four hundred pounds of gas and no reply from my wingman meant he was within five hundred pounds himself. I touched the RWR volume, countermeasure panel, and tightened my harness a bit. Glancing outside, I saw the two snub-nosed cylinders beneath my wings and called up the weapons display. Today, in addition to the normal cannon and air-to-air missiles, I had two CBU-103 canisters—cluster bombs. These things are terrific Weasel weapons, because they can be used for area targets and are easy to use under fire. It’s like using a shotgun instead of a sniper rifle.