Dan Hampton - Viper Pilot

I took a deep breath and swallowed the various remarks that bubbled up to my lips.

“LUGER… pass to TOGA 24 to remain on station to cover TOGA 76’s refuelings. Also ask TITUS 33 if he can remain a bit longer. ELI 33, flight of three, will be off target in ten minutes.”

“ELI, we’ll try to work it out. They’re pretty tight on their times.”

“And I’m pretty busy at the moment,” I replied tersely. I mean, these guys were sitting in a safe orbit over Saudi Arabia—why did I have to think of the plan? “Tell TOGA he can move to DOG South if it makes him feel better and we’ll pick him up on the way out.”

I turned down the radio volume to avoid hearing his verbose reply. On Victor, I zippered the mike, then said, “ELI Three, attacking.” I then sent a data-link so everyone would have the picture.

The fighter surged ahead as the throttle hit the mil power stop, and I once again ran my eyes and fingers over the cockpit. I did a double take at the HUD when I noticed my decoy had been shot away. Deploying another, I checked the chaff and flares and noted about half remaining of each type. It was enough.

“ELI Five, your targets are revetments in the northern section of the complex.” I could see it in my head, but this kid hadn’t been over the area yet. “You’ll need to come north from your TD box about one klick toward the northwest corner. There are four revets grouped together.”

“ELI Five copies.”

I hoped so. Angling left a little, we were skirting Taji to the north, and I fervently hoped there really wasn’t an SA-6 there. But there was no other way to attack in the time and gas we had left. Besides, I’d attacked from the north last time, and Weasels never came in the same way twice if it could be avoided.

Ten miles out, we crossed the Tigris heading southeast toward Highway 2 and Baghdad. Pulling power and nosing over, I put the target in the HUD just as the FUEL warning popped up. I toggled it off and quickly typed in a lower number.

Six miles out and passing 8,000 feet, the first wispy tendrils of low-lying clouds were thickening, and I knew we were running out of time. I also saw dust hanging over the center of the SAM site—LAPEL had done his work.

“ELI Five, call tally on the complex.”

“Five… I… wilco.”

It was time. “Five, you’ve got the tactical lead on the left… ELI Three is floating to cover.”

It would be easier for him to find and drop on the target without having to fly formation off of me. Besides, I didn’t have anything left to shoot except the cannon. He zippered the mike and I smoothly pulled up until he passed me, then I barrel-rolled over to his left side so I’d be looking through him toward the SAM site and Baghdad. If anything bad came off the ground, it would come from there.

Five miles from the target, the other F-16 nosed down and ramped toward the ground. Bright streams of anti-aircraft fire arced over downtown Baghdad but Klepto never flinched. Not until the SAM came off the ground in front of us.

“ELI Five… break right with chaff! SAM at twelve o’clock low, close!”

I caught a quick glimpse of the Viper’s belly before he rolled away to the west. Tiny gray puffs of chaff popped out behind him as he sliced toward the Tigris River. I yanked hard to the left and headed out east with Highway 5 in my face, with missile symbols covering the RWR display.

“LAPEL Four… Magnum SA-3, north Bull eight.”

That was our last HARM, but now was as good a time as any. Cranking up on one wing, I stared back at the SAM site and eyeballed the missile’s smoke trail. It was heading due west, and I saw no curve to indicate it had turned. Still, who really knew?

“ELI Five, come north… check decoy.”

“Five is northbound. Walking the Dog.”

Good man. I pulled the power back and leveled off at 6,000 feet. Glancing at the HUD, I did the math. We’d defended and aborted at about five miles, and LAPEL Four fired his HARM a few seconds later. Assuming he was ten miles away at the shot, the HARM would take about thirty seconds to get to the general area of the SAM complex. According to the clock, it should be impacting about now and—I eyeballed the distance from the target—we were about eight miles away. Less than a minute out to hit the site. Far enough.

“ELI Five… turn in now and re-attack. ELI Three will stay above 6,000 feet.”

“Ah… ELI Five was no-joy on the target.”

No joy. He hadn’t seen it. LAPEL Three had already dropped his bombs, and I didn’t have the gas to wait for another flight of fighters.

“Copy that. Distance?”

“Five is nine miles to the north.”

Instantly beginning a hard left turn, I put the target directly off my left wing at seven miles. “Five, turn in now and call five miles.” As he zippered the mike, I grunted against the Gs and continued to turn until the SAM site was directly before me.

“ELI Three, attacking from the east below three thousand. At your five-mile call, I’ll mark the target with the cannon.”

“Five copies. Will look for smoke.”

Actually dust, but why split hairs? I took a deep breath, dumped the nose, and pushed the power back up. With only 4,500 pounds of gas, this was definitely the last pass, and if we didn’t kill it today, then it was highly likely that no one would. Dropping fast, I pumped out a few chaff bundles and rolled out, heading southwest over the Diyala River.

“LAPEL Three… Magnum SA-3, northwest Baghdad.”

I grinned under the oxygen mask as the airspeed touched 500 knots. God love the boy. He didn’t have any HARMs to shoot, but called it anyway for the benefit of the Iraqis listening to our frequencies. Maybe it helped, maybe not. Made me feel better though.

Punching up the cannon symbology, I watched the circle with the dot in the middle wobble a second, then I stared outside. Another decrepit town that had languished under Saddam’s rule flashed under my wings as I roared southward. Several belated Triple-A bursts shot out of the rooftops, but they were too late. I was flying at better than 900 feet per second, and without radar guidance, I doubted anything would hit me. I was also counting on surprise and being a lot lower than the gunners were accustomed to seeing.

Passing the highway, I immediately racked the jet over about twenty degrees to the left, snapped upright, and began to count.

Two.

“SAM launch… SAM in the air over Baghdad. Two of ’em heading east!” I had no idea who called that but, sure enough, there were missile trails emerging over the downtown skyline and climbing upward, toward the southeast. I hoped ELI Five didn’t abort.

“ELI Five is five miles.” Good man.

“LAPEL Three… Magnum SA-3, northwest Baghdad.” More spoofing.

Three. Slamming the throttle back to mil, I pulled straight up. The ground dropped away beneath me and the horizon rapidly expanded. When the F-16’s nose touched about fifteen degrees above the horizon, I rolled smoothly to the right and sliced back until the steering lined up in my HUD. As I flipped upright, one glance took it all in. I was 1.9 miles from the SAM complex at 470 knots, passing 3,200 feet on my way down.

If the target was the center of a clock face, I would be at three o’clock pointing inward, and ELI Five would be at twelve o’clock heading toward the six position. The big green canal was plain to see, and there wasn’t any smoke remaining from the previous attacks, but I quickly found the center berms.

Twenty-five hundred feet now and almost 500 knots. Too fast. Tugging the power back, I fanned the boards a moment to slow down.

There! A shark-tooth protrusion in the perimeter fence and, a bit farther west, was the northern corner of the compound. Squinting through the HUD, I called up the cannon symbology again and put the pipper just inside the fence.