Blinding Fear (2 page)

Chapter 2

Southern Kuwait, January 1991

The four-plane formation of U.S. Air Force A-10 “Warthog” ground-attack aircraft flew through the patchy clouds and intensely blue winter skies 15,000 feet above the trackless sands of Kuwait. Captain Harold Eugene Ramond (call-sign “Herc”), and the three other pilots of Eagle Flight guiding their Hogs in close formation to his, had just completed their “killbox” mission. They thought they could now relax, allowing adrenaline levels to subside to normal and enjoy their return flight home.

For the past half-hour they had, with brutal, ruthless efficiency, attacked an armored column of Iraqi vehicles moving south as they attempted to reinforce their comrades already dug into fortified positions in Kuwait. Ramond’s team of ugly, twin-engined “flying cannons” had swooped down in pass after pass raking the column with cannon rounds, rockets, missiles and bombs with deadly accuracy. They had shredded machines and men so that by the time they were finished there was little left except greasy smoke and shattered remains—both human and machine—spread across the desert floor. The only men left alive were those who had fled in all directions at the first sight and sound of impending, certain death plunging down on them.

Ramond’s estimate had him and his band of airborne brothers destroying 7 tanks, 8 armored cars, 13 miscellaneous other vehicles and killing somewhere close to a hundred unfortunate Iraqi conscripts.

He couldn’t help but pity them.

Saddam Hussein and his sycophant generals had sent them on a suicide mission. To expect semi-literate, poorly trained, poorly motivated Iraqi farmers and shopkeepers to take on the best and brightest of the U.S. Air Force and its highly efficient killing machines was quite literally insane.

As they headed back to their home-away-from-home at Dhahran Air Base in eastern Saudi Arabia, Ramond took stock of his plane’s remaining armaments and fuel. He’d dropped all eight of his general purpose 500-pound “dumb” bombs, used both of his Maverick air-to-ground missiles, about half of his 1,350 rounds of 30-millimeter high-explosive cannon rounds and all of his unguided 2.5 inch rockets. He had a little over half of his fuel remaining to get him back to base an hour away at 300 knots.

One thing all combat pilots hated was returning with unexpended ordinance and fuel. Besides making landing more difficult and hazardous it could also indicate to post-mission debriefers, inefficiency, poor performance or just plain stupidity in the heat of battle; the last thing a newly minted 25 year-old mission commander wanted on his record. This day and this battle he was confident he and his wing-mates could claim that they had performed as efficiently and well as any who had taken to the sky during the conflict.

At that moment one of his pilots interrupted his train of thought.

“Eagle leader, Eagle two.”

“Eagle leader, what’s up Doc?” He added a small chuckle at yet again using the constantly used Bugs Bunny call sign joke for Eagle two.

“Check out the new smoke to the Northeast.”

Ramond turned his head slightly to the left and down and saw four new columns of black smoke rising from what he knew to be one of the many Kuwaiti oil fields seized by Hussein’s occupying forces.

“Intel was right,” Ramond said. “They’ve started blowing up the wells.”

“Gonna make our life a lot more dicey,” Eagle Two replied. “Won’t be able to see crap.”

Ramond heard his other two pilots agree with simple clicks of their microphone buttons.

Without warning a new voice shouted over his radio.

“Eagle flight we have multiple missile launches! SA-2s coming your way!”

He instantly knew the voice was one of his controllers aboard the E-3 AWACS early warning and command aircraft circling 30,000 feet above the region. The man was telling him at least two, highly lethal, Russian-made, surface-to-air missiles had been launched at Mach-3 toward his formation

A split second later he heard his own aircraft’s missile-lock warning alarm shrieking. He knew he and his command had less than seven seconds to take evasive action or face being blown out of the sky.

Without hesitation he yelled out, “Eagle flight, evasive break....now!” He yanked back on his control stick, kicked his rudder pedals and shoved the throttle all the way forward. His commands immediately caused the two General Electric GT-34 engines that had been pushing the Hog along at an easy pace to roar to full military power and launch him into a steep, left-hand climb. At the same moment he used his other hand to begin ejecting “chaff” flares in the hope the heat-seeking function of the SAMs would lock onto one of them and miss the aircraft. He immediately felt the force of gravity times five begin to press him into his seat. He could feel his g-suit begin to inflate, forcing blood back into his brain to prevent blackout. At the same time he strained and panted as if doing an abdominal “crunch.” In spite of the technology and muscle control, his field of vision began to fade at the edges. He prayed that the other three planes were going through their similar, pre-rehearsed, carefully orchestrated maneuvers to avoid the SAMs and each other at the same time.

Four seconds after he began his upward turn he slammed the stick over and cartwheeled the plane over on its left wing and began a near-vertical dive. An instant later out of the corner of one eye he saw one of the 35-foot long SAMs flash past his canopy not more than 50 feet away. He could also see two of his flight-mates wildly maneuvering through the sky in similar, desperate, life-or-death aerial ballets. A split-second later, two bright-as-the-sun fireballs erupted several hundred feet apart as the missiles’ proximity fuses detected their nearest approach to an aircraft. Ramond’s Warthog shuddered violently, staggering from the concussions. He could feel and hear shrapnel impacting his plane. Somehow it stayed in the air and he could see from his instruments that all systems were in the normal range although the engines were straining from the demands he had placed on them.

He backed off the throttles, leveled off, tried to calm himself and then called out to his team.

“Eagle leader to Eagle flight. Form up and give me status!”

He watched as two planes came in behind him left and right.

“Two’s okay.”

“Three took a beating but I’ll make it.”

Ramond waited a second for Eagle Four to respond but got nothing. He scanned the sky finally seeing the fourth A-10 below and in front of him sinking toward the desert, its left engine spewing smoke, some sort of fluid streaming out, other damage clearly visible on the left side of the fuselage.

“Spud! What’s your status?”

Silence.

Eagle four was piloted by Ted “Spud” Wannamaker, an Idaho potato farmer’s son—hence the call-sign.

“Spud! Talk to me!”

A moment later, Ramond heard a croaked reply.

“It’s bad, Herc. Left engine is toast. Hydraulics got zero pressure. Fuel’s leaking fast. Think I’m going to have to get out.”

“Are you hurt!?”

“Yeah. Took something to my left leg. Not too bad, I hope. Think I can feel it bleeding into my boot, though.”

At that moment Ramond saw the crippled A-10 dip sharply to the left and head down in steep, slow spiral.

“Spud! Get out! Eject, eject, eject!!”

The other two pilots screamed the same in unison, begging for their friend to get out of the plane before it became his coffin.

Suddenly they saw the canopy explode off the fuselage and a second later the ejection seat, with Spud in it, blasted out, literally rocketing up several hundred feet, before the motor cut out and he floated free from the seat. A moment later his parachute opened and he began a slow descent. Ramond could see that his friend looked lifeless, probably knocked unconscious by the violence of the ejection. He’d known other uninjured pilots who’d ejected out of crippled planes and afterward said it was the most physically traumatic event they’d ever experienced. Ramond started to slow and descended trying to keep Spud in sight by circling with the wounded pilot in the center. The other pilots did the same. He knew, though, they needed immediate help. He toggled his radio.

“Eagle leader to Cent Comm.”

“Go ahead Eagle leader.”

“Eagle four is down. Pilot’s in silk but wounded. We need immediate Para-rescue launch. Probable landing point for pilot is Iraqi-held territory. Likely capture within minutes. Rest of Eagle team will orbit to assist but we’re near bingo on fuel and ammo.” Ramond gave the approximate longitude and latitude.

“Understood Eagle leader. Rescue team scramble underway now. ETA should be two hours for Jolly Green. Fast movers for additional cover and support in 20 minutes.”

“Jolly Green” was a Sikorsky CH-53 Sea Stallion helicopter, the heavy-lift pilot extractor of the Air Force’s fleet in Saudi Arabia. Ramond knew it’s relatively slow speed was what caused the two hour window. The “fast movers” were probably four, heavily armed F-16 fighter-bombers, lifting off shortly with authorization for highest possible speed. For a moment Ramond considered demanding additional “assets” but quickly realized they were in the middle of a shooting war. Those assets were almost certainly very busy elsewhere. Consequently, he knew that he and the rest of Eagle flight were all that stood between their friend and likely capture by Iraqi soldiers. They had all seen what capture meant. The horrific photos of the bruised, swollen and grotesquely distorted faces of other pilots shot down by Hussein’s troops—and beaten to a pulp afterward—provided additional incentive for the swift dispatch of all available aid.

Ramond descended further, circled for a few minutes and finally found where Spud had landed. With relief he could see the man had gotten out of his parachute harness and although not moving fast was trying to get away from his landing zone, knowing Iraqi soldiers would be quickly moving in to search for him.

Ramond considered their options for a few moments then decided on a strategy and called out to his team.

“Eagle leader to Eagle flight. Fuel and ordinance status.”

“Two. Near bingo on fuel. Got a few rounds of 30 but that’s it.”

“Three. Same and same.”

“Okay. It’s time for you boys to head for the barn. That’s an order. I know you want to help but we can’t risk losing any more Hog pilots and their hardware. I’ll stay as long as I can.”

There was a few seconds of silence then flat voices responded.

“Two copy.”

“Three copy.”

Ramond looked up and saw the other two A-10s stop circling, then begin climbing, heading east.

A second later he heard Spud’s voice. “Eagle four to leader.”

Ramond was relieved that Spud’s emergency radio had survived the ejection and he was strong enough to use it. “Go ahead four. What’s your status?”

“Little shaken. Ejection itself nearly did me in. Leg hurts a lot but I can still walk. Got a visual on any Iraqi units?”

He tilted over on one wing and did a quick scan of the surrounding desert. Sure enough, a couple of miles or so away he could see a large dust cloud that could only be a harbinger of bad news for both of them. Through the cloud he could just make out a small convoy of armored cars, armored personnel carriers and what appeared to be light tanks moving fast in Spud’s direction. He knew Saddam Hussein had promised a substantial bounty, along with medals, promotions and other honors to any Iraqi soldier who shot down a coalition aircraft or captured its pilot.

“We’ve got company. Small armored column headed your way. Get your head down.”

“Copy. Digging in now.”

Ramond accelerated and rolled in toward the advancing Iraqis, quickly developing a plan of engagement. With no ordinance left except for about 300 rounds of 30-millimeter, he had few options. The GAU-8 rotary cannon blasted out 65 rounds per second so he probably had just a couple of two-second strafing runs left. After that he had no idea what he could do to help.

Before he could begin his attack he was interrupted.

“Eagle leader, Cent Comm.”

For a split second he almost answered but hesitated knowing what the call might be about. He remained quiet. He knew if he was right and given how close the Iraqis were to Spud, he was the only person who might be able to stop his friends capture.

“Eagle leader, Cent Comm. Respond.”

Ramond continued his approach to the Iraqi column choosing to ignore central command.

“Eagle leader. Return to base. Acknowledge.”

Ramond decided to parallel the column but going in the opposite direction and then come in from behind for his strafing run.

“Eagle leader. Let rescue teams handle this one, Herc.”

Ramond switched off his radio, deciding he didn’t want any distractions from the coming engagement. Moments later he began a steep, banking turn toward the Iraqi forces coming in behind and 5,000 feet above the last vehicle in the convoy. He nosed over and accelerated to 400 knots lining up for his run. He could now see many of the soldiers scattering to either side of the column, sprinting into the desert, knowing that howling death was descending on them. At 300 feet in altitude and 500 feet behind the end of the column he pressed the gun trigger for two seconds. The A-10 shuddered violently as the 16,000 pound cannon began spitting out 9-inch long, high-explosive shells at a blinding rate. It almost felt as if the plane hesitated in flight from the recoil. He watched with unsmiling satisfaction as the shells began tearing into the rear vehicles—a light tank, two trucks and an armored personnel carrier. All four were instantly torn to pieces as if by a giant chain saw and burst into flame. The Warthog screamed over the column at just over 100 feet. Ramond yanked the plane into a violent, high-g climb and turn to again get above and behind the enemy for his second run. As he did he could feel what he was certain were AK-47 rifle rounds impacting the bottom of his Hog. He knew the bullets would probably have little affect on the plane. But he also knew that if one “magic” bullet hit in just the right place he and his plane would end up in pieces scattered across the desert sands.