Dan Hampton - Viper Pilot

It was actually an SA-2, but he was trying to be helpful. “Posit?”

“AGNEW, call contact on the pond east of town.”

“Contact.”

“Go one pond length due west to the city.”

“Continue.”

“Intersection of a north-south hard ball road and an east-west road with a curve in it. Movers and trucks.”

“Contact. Thanks,” I added.

As KARMA cleared everyone out of our way, we dropped smoothly down to 10,000 feet and headed south over Tartar Lake. On Victor, I said, “Two… FENCE, green it up, check AGM power.”

I glanced out at the big Mavericks under my wings. These were H-model missiles, newly arrived and perfect for this sort of Weaseling. Eight feet long, about half of its 700-pound weight was the warhead. This variant used electro-optical guidance (think television camera) and was improved specifically for use in the desert. The picture was so good that we used it like a targeting pod. Although still in testing when the war began, Kanga Rew had moved heaven and earth to get a limited number of them here.

I checked my fuel and looked over at my wingman. “AGNEW One is 8.7.”

“AGNEW Two is 9.5. Power on.”

I saw a gray puff beneath his left wing as the Maverick’s dome-shaped cover blew off. This was a thin, fragile coating that protected the seeker head and was generally left in place until the missile was ready to fire. Sunlight glinted off metal, and I looked up. Four F-16s passed overhead several thousand feet above me, and the leader rocked his wings. Returning the greeting, I pushed the nose down farther, tugged back the throttle, and we glided down over the gunmetal-gray lake water.

Leveling at 5,000 feet, I held 400 knots and stared past the left wing. The Tigris snaked southward like a dirty green ribbon before disappearing into the Baghdad suburbs. I zippered the mike, pulled the F-16 around, and headed for the river.

“MUSKET One… this is AGNEW. Any friendlies down there?”

“Ah… negative on that, AGNEW. No friendlies.”

I’d trust battlefield intel from an A-10 pilot. He’d have the latest and greatest information. “Copy that. We’re in from the south. Two minutes.”

I pylon-turned over the river and looked down at a town on the east bank. “Two… see that walled compound on the northern edge of the city off the left wing?”

“AGNEW Two… uh… contact.”

“That’s our rejoin point. Evens and odds below fifteen K.”

“Two copies.”

“Evens and odds” meant he’d always go to an even-numbered altitude, like six or ten thousand feet. Plain to see through the Maverick’s seeker was a huge building shaped like a crescent roll. Beyond it, stretching back to the rivers, were miles of ruins. As it vanished beneath my wingtip, I realized that this place was ancient Samarra and the big structure was the Great Mosque.

Leaning forward, I peered through the HUD at the tiny diamond that designated my mark point. Close enough to start with, I thought, and data-linked it.

“AGNEW Two, capture,” my wingman replied immediately, meaning he’d received the data-link. He was hanging off my right wing two miles away and slightly high. Juice, as we called him, was one of the quiet guys who never stuck out for any reason in peacetime. Good kid, just low-key. Juice, however, became an icy little killer in combat—proving, once again, that you never really know about a guy till he sees the Elephant.

“AGNEW Two, call contact on the pond in the river bend.”

We were directly over the Tigris, heading north with Tikrit off the nose. Smoke columns from Highway 1 still rose off to our right and Tartar Lake shimmered along the western horizon.

“Contact.”

“Go one pond length west along a light-colored road to the intersection of the north-south hardball road.”

“Does the lighter road have a curve in it?”

“Affirm.”

“Contact on both.”

“One of the launch sites is at that intersection. My target. You’ll remain above five K and arc east to north. Heads-up for a second launch site along the pond and for Triple-A.”

“AGNEW Two copies.”

I let the nose drop a few degrees and focused on the Maverick video in my right MFD. Being heads-down was the one big drawback to using this missile. But I scanned, looked up and around, then scanned again.

“One is Walking the Dog.” I thumbed out a decoy, turned my RWR volume up, and stared down at the intersection.

“AGNEW Two, same.”

Juice peeled away to my right as I dropped farther toward the city. The Maverick video was amazingly clear, and I shook my head. What I wouldn’t have given for one of these things a few weeks ago. A weird-shaped ravine came off the pond to the west. Like a dancing pig with a long snout. Following the curved road, I walked the missile-seeker head along toward the intersection, and there it was!

“SA-2 site a hundred meters east of the intersection on the south side of the road.”

“AGNEW 21, KARMA… say again?”

Ignoring AWACS, I glanced outside again. Juice was watching as well, but I’d lived too long doing this to get assholed by the SAM I didn’t see. A long, dirty strip of concrete ran along the west side of the river south of town. Tikrit South airfield had been one of Saddam’s military fields, and I seemed to recall he had a few palaces here.

At four miles, I could plainly see two launchers with missiles up and ready to fire. There were no revetments, just some military barracks a quarter-mile south across an open field. It looked as if they’d just parked by the road and set up shop. Several transport vehicles, called transloaders, were stopped up by the road, but I couldn’t see the FANSONG radar. No matter. If we killed the missiles, the radar was useless.

“AGNEW… this is KARMA. Status.”

Jackass.

When I had something to say, I’d say it. “KARMA this is MUSKET. AGNEW is inbound for the attack so stand by !”

I chuckled. Hog drivers were all right. I zippered the mike for him. At three miles I was passing 2,000 feet, and I walked the throttle back a bit to hold 450 knots. Making tiny corrections with the stick, I aimed the jet and the missile. As the pointing cross settled on the middle launcher, I “designated” the target with my right thumb and released the switch. The Maverick locked on the target, and I moved my thumb to the pickle button. Men were sitting around the missiles smoking cigarettes, and several were squatting against the launcher. I smiled grimly. They had no idea that paradise was thirty seconds away.

“BEEP… BEEP… BEEP!”

Instantly my eyes swiveled to the RWR and the flashing “2” symbols. Right side, close! There… the huge, unmistakable rolling white cloud of an SA-2 launch. Southbound, parallel to my inbound flight path and climbing slowly. I took a mental snapshot of the location and snapped back to the Maverick video. The missile was still locked and the Iraqi shooters were all standing now.

“AGNEW One… there’s a launch in your vicinity… just west of the pond!” At least my wingman was watching. I kept the jet steady, watched the SAM from the corner of my left eye, and mashed the pickle button. There was an instant, hard kick as the Maverick lunged off the rail and nosed over. I immediately went to mil power, pulled hard left into the airborne SA-2, and punched the chaff button.

“AGNEW One… Rifle SA-2, Tikrit.”

Shoving forward, I floated off the seat and watched the SAM. My own missile was on its own, a true “fire and forget” weapon. Fortunately, the SA-2 was a relatively slow starter and not particularly maneuverable. I could never have hesitated against an SA-6 or a ROLAND.

“AGNEW… this is KARMA say again?”

I slapped a few more chaff bundles out, popped the jet upright directly over the Tigris, and stared back at the target area. “AGNEW One, defending… northeast over the river bend. Two, posit?”