Dan Hampton - Viper Pilot

“FABLE Two… contact.” He had seen the runway and sounded a bit excited.

But if Storm’n and his Six-Pack had been beating up on the airfield for twenty minutes or so, I figured there wouldn’t be much left. Balad was plain to see. There were two big runways that came together in a “V” with the point facing southeast. We’d taken particular pleasure in knocking the crap out of this place, since it had been a thorn in our sides between the wars. I leaned forward, stared at the once-proud fighter base, and grinned.

Not so proud anymore.

Thin columns of black smoke rose from all over the center section of runway. They looked like pillars with no roof to support. At about eight miles, I zippered the mike and gradually swung around to the north in the standard Weasel arc. Balad lay just west of the Tigris, and the long, gray runways were easy to see against the flood plain. Several of us had been flying with binoculars, so I flipped the autopilot on and stared at the base.

The main area was between the eastern runway and the river. There were lots of buildings, a road network, and housing. I shrugged. Nothing worth sticking my nose down there for. Holding the binoculars with one hand, I reached down and adjusted the autopilot to keep the turn coming. The burned-out fuselages from our last trip here were clearly visible. I smiled. The Iraqi air-defense gunners had been pissed off. I always wondered how the Iraqi fighter pilots felt as they peeked out of their shelters at the Gamblers swirling overhead and strafing the shit out of their base. Probably the same way the 363rd Ops Group commander felt when our returning jets would roar overhead and spill his coffee. Impotent.

There’d been so much Triple-A over the airfield that day it looked like a small thunderstorm. But no SAMs, which was strange. Nor any today, I confirmed with a glance at the RWR. Yet. No, everything of value looked like it had been smacked hard. Planes were burning bright, hot yellow flames with dark-red edges gave way to the thin plumes of black smoke.

Suddenly, a series of rippling flashes caught my eye, and I dropped the binoculars. Anti-aircraft fire from at least three different pits had found us. Judging by the rapid twinkling, I’d guess it was 57-mm and, a few seconds later, I saw the bursts.

“FABLE 33, Triple-A, Balad,” I said calmly. We were about three miles from the base, so I wasn’t concerned. However, where there’s Triple-A there are usually SAMs.

“FA… FABLE Two copies. I see the bursts!” Again, I smiled at his excitement, but it was his first combat mission, and I understood. We were crossing the northern end of both runways looking down the funnel at the point of the “V.”

“Two, heads-up for SAMs. We’ll continue arcing around to the east.”

“FABLE Two copies.” He sounded slightly incredulous. We’d said all this on a clear frequency, because it was easier and maybe some intelligence officer down there would understand. He might then get the gunners and SAM guys to shoot at us. I’d certainly hit the Triple-A pits if nothing else showed up but I’d rather bag some bigger game. Like a SAM or more aircraft.

As we crossed the river heading southeast, the visibility got a little better. There were high broken clouds, and narrow beams of sunlight would poke through like fingers reaching for the ground. It wasn’t great, but then again it never was. I touched the RWR volume to make certain it was up and watched for missiles.

The big lakes west of Baghdad were gray smudges along the horizon. The city itself was due south of me and lay dark and defeated, quiet for the first time since the war began. Yesterday, Baghdad had been declared an open city, and Hussein’s regime was formally over. The Marines famously had pulled down the forty-foot statue in Firdos Square, which had been erected for Saddam’s sixty-fifth birthday. Happy birthday, fucker. I’d still seen flashes and tracer fire as we’d overflown the capital, but no Triple-A or SAMs. I sighed again. It meant we’d have to go farther north to hunt.

Looking southeast, I had an idea and unfolded my big tactical map. Glancing at it, I tugged out the latest SAM chart and compared the two. There was an airfield at Baqubah, about six miles at my left ten o’clock, and, as far as I knew, no one had ever hit it.

“FABLE Two, float west.” I zippered the mike and reversed slowly to the east, putting Balad behind me. A huge, ambiguously named “military complex” was also marked on my map just outside of town.

“Two… look at right two o’clock.” I rolled out headed east. “See the town?”

“Affirm.”

“Call contact on the east-west running hardball road north of the town.”

“Contact.”

“Target is the airfield, north of that road and west of the big river bend.”

“FABLE Two is visual… uh, contact.” He corrected himself. Good enough.

Calling up my air-to-ground-weapons symbology, I checked the CBU settings and eyeballed the airfield. Pulling the fighter around to the northeast put the town of Baqubah three miles off my left wing. White puffy Triple-A immediately blossomed and I angled a bit away to the east.

Bringing the power back to hold 450 knots, we dropped through 10,000 feet, paralleling the runway to the northeast. I remembered a story about an F-86 Sabre pilot during the Korean War, who actually did a low approach on an enemy runway. They were so shocked and offended they forgot to shoot for a few moments. When they did open up, the gunners couldn’t depress the Triple-A muzzles low enough to kill the insane American. I grinned under the mask. The good old days for sure.

Leveling at about 6,000 feet, I began to count in my head and stared over the canopy rail at the airfield.

Two.

Just a typical bunch of buildings clustered around central hangars and—

There! Immediately slewing the diamond over the center of the parking area, I took a mark.

Three.

Cranking up sideways to the ground, I flicked my wing to the left, then rolled out. FABLE Two obediently pulled over across my tail, and I shoved the throttle forward to mil power. As the nose came through the horizon, I shot up about 500 feet to defeat any Triple-A that might be lining up to shoot. It was all performed subconsciously, as I was still padlocked on the concrete parking area between the big hangars.

We passed the runway headed west at 7,000 feet and 450 knots with Highway 2 directly off the nose. I data-linked the mark point, and when the distance read 4.0 miles, I keyed the mike. “FABLE Two… for the attack you’ll take the aircraft and hangars on the south side of the apron and One will take the north. Drop on my call.”

“Two copies.” I zippered the mike, rolled inverted, and sliced back toward the target. Snapping upright at 6,000 feet, I centered the steering and eased the throttle back to hold 450 knots. No. 2 barrel-rolled over me and ended up on my right side about a mile away.

“Triple-A, right two o’clock high,” I called out the 57-mm bursts just beyond the city of Baqubah. This had to be where the military complex was located. I’d remember that for follow-on missions. The mike zippered, but Chucky held firm.

At four miles, I could plainly see the parking area west of the runway, with two big hangars on either side. I squinted at the aircraft that was parked there. It was some sort of transport or trainer aircraft, painted white, and I snorted. I’d rather strafe fighters.

However, it was the only game in town at the moment, so I centered the steering and watched the release cue slip down the big vertical line in my HUD. I refined my aim, putting the little dot at the base of the aircraft and saw 2.5 miles on the distance readout. As the release cut began flashing, indicating the target was within range, I pushed up the throttle, mashed the pickle button, and keyed the mike.