Dan Hampton - Viper Pilot

“LAPEL copies… ready.” He sounded eager.

“ELI Five, stay put here. We’ll pick you up for the next attack.”

“Five copies.”

“ELI Three… attacking SA-3, Bull’s-eye zero-two-two for eight. Check switches.”

Looking left, I cranked over in a five-G turn and put the SAM site on the nose. Following my own advice, I ran my fingers and eyes over the countermeasures and weapons display.

Paralleling the Tigris River, we were pointing southeast directly at Baghdad. My wingman was on the east side, about two miles away and slightly high. The cloud cover had settled in, but it stayed up around 20,000 feet and didn’t affect us yet. Dark gray smudges from large-caliber Triple-A also hung over the city. More appeared, popping open like grotesque red and orange mushrooms, as the Iraqis fought back against the American jets.

Several streams of white anti-aircraft fire hosed off in our direction as we passed the little airfield. I couldn’t see anything on the runways or taxiways, and the Triple-A looked to be small-caliber stuff that couldn’t hit us unless we were stupid.

At eight miles, I nosed over slightly and watched the TD box settle on the SAM complex. There were two sprawling neighborhoods just south of the canal, separated by a triangular swath of ground that looked like a trash dump. The SAM site was just north of the canal and the dump. I was going to hit the southern edge of the complex where I’d seen the other revetments. The wind behind me would blow the smoke over Baghdad and leave the target area clear for the others. Even as I watched, I saw the familiar rolling cloud of a missile launch; lucky for me, it came from the south corner of the site.

“ELI Three, missile in the air, Bull zero-two-two for seven.”

My wingman jumped on it. “ELI Four, attacking… SA-3!”

“Negative.” I looked over at him. “Negative. LAPEL Four… Slapshot SA-3, target area.” Five miles from the target area, the last thing I wanted was a huge ball of HARM smoke showing our position. Might as well hang a big neon SHOOT ME sign overhead.

“LAPEL Four, Magnum SA-3!”

My hands were light on the stick and throttle, ready to slam sideways and get the fuck out if the SAM showed any signs of having been corrected in my direction. But it didn’t. The missile headed west in a slight climb, leaving a wobbly gray trail across the skyline. It also left an excellent visual cue for me—again, I followed the smoke to its launch point. The revetments were a bit farther west than I remembered, but there was an algae-covered irrigation ditch pointed directly at the SAM cluster. It looked like a nasty green finger.

Pulling the power back, I passed through 7,000 feet. That weird, bright-red section of canal caught the corner of my left eye while Triple-A sparkled off to the right toward Taji. Leaning forward, I hung in space for a moment and took in the target area. There were four big revetments and several smaller ones. The one where the smoke had come up from was next to a road, and I could see the familiar pencil-shaped missiles sticking up from the earth. The other revetments had missiles, too, but the Iraqis were big believers in decoys.

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.”