Imminent Threat (5 page)

    The back of my head felt cold as wintry air from the overhead cooling and heating shafts hit me. This was especially so due to the lack of hair from my new crew cut. “AMT, Six, when you got a minute, could you turn up the heat?” I called out on Private.

    “Yeah, give me a minute,” he responded dryly. He was still having a hard time getting the system up and running.

    “Thanks,” I clicked in afterward.

    I cracked open a can of ready-to-eat soup, which would have been more appropriately titled ready-to-heat soup. I ate it cold from the can despite the fact that the plane had an oven heated by hot air generated from the engines—the same hot air that could have been blowing out of the overhead ducts right now but wasn’t.

    I could always tell when we were nearing the mountains because the plane gradually grew colder and colder until the interior was thoroughly icy.

    “System’s yours, MCC,” Crow finally called out.

    Right afterward, Bill called out his orbit warning, “Ten mike to orbit.”

    “Crew, MCC, cleared to log onto the system.” Happy on Four cut the music off as Jim finished up, “Clear to work after call in. Let’s give them hell.”

    Phantom wasn’t up at the moment, so we were on our own. Somewhere behind us, Gypsy was settling into her own orbit.

    A few minutes later, we were all logged in and busily working. Radios were particularly cluttered. I vaguely heard the check-in with Gypsy. A two-ship of Eagles had just finished refueling with Gas Station. Another pair was inbound to gas up.

    We were on stations for a long while before the packages ingressed. A change of tactics, which were forever changing and never constant.

    There was a better sense of unity among the crew today; and while I wasn’t sure if it was due to our new hairstyle or not, I was sure that it was there. All we had to do now was to convince Sparrow and Tammy to get their hair cut similarly. Happy was already working on it.

    “MCS, One, I got something odd here,” Tammy called out on Private B.

    “One, MCS, pass it to Seven.”

    Tammy passed the signal to Cowboy. Since he was to my left, I saw his face light up. “When are we going into jam?” Cowboy asked almost immediately.

    Chris was just about to reply when Tennessee Jim cut in, “Is it hot?”

    “Smokin’,” Cowboy replied.

    “MCS, MCC, Gypsy reported anything lately?”

    “Not that I’ve heard.”

    I heard Jim sigh into his headset; it filtered quite loudly over Private. “Not that I’ve heard either. Get on the horn to Gypsy pronto.”

    Chris began calling Gypsy. On her other channel I already heard her squawking. She’d spotted a possible three-ship coming up. “Gypsy’s got bogies climbing, possibly as many as three,” I voiced.

    “I don’t think this shit’s going to wait,” Cowboy urged over Private.

    “Pilot, MCC, we got a situation back here. We need jam clearance prior to package ingress!” Tennessee Jim rolled out, rapid-fire.

    “Gypsy’s just identified them as bandits!” I warned. Chris was still trying to raise Gypsy on radios.

    Sammy’s response was quick, “Call Gypsy.”

    “Gypsy’s tracking three Bandits. The radios are crowded. I don’t think we have time to piss around!”

    “Then jam!”

    “Seven, MCC, you still got them?”

    “You bet your ass.”

    “MCC, Six, Gypsy says Eagles are in chase. At least one bandit is on its way in.”

    “Crew, we’re jammin’,” Tennessee Jim screamed out. “Way to roll with it, crew. Let’s hope they knock them out of the sky!”

    Radios were getting hammered now, but we could still hear what was transpiring. A pair of Eagles was giving chase to a three-ship of Soviet-made MiG-23s. The fray was tangled and close in. We tried to keep our minds on our tasks, but it was hard knowing someone out there was about to die. We just hoped it wouldn’t be us or one of the Eagle pilots.

    “MCC, Six, threat. They just switched freqs. I’m passing the signal.”

    “I see it. It’s on the list.” Painful static filled my ears. I winced and quickly punched off the channel.

    “MCC, Seven. I caught a bit of their conversation. One of the MiGs is engaging and firing!”

    I turned up the volume on the Eagle’s squawk. “This is Eagle Leader, I got a MiG.” I heard the hiss of oxygen pouring into his mask. “He’s engaging, firing. Shit! Shit! Shit! I’m breaking off! I’m breaking off! Coming round! Coming round hard! Eagle-2, you there?”

    “I’m here, Eagle Leader. He broke off right.”

    “I got him. I got him. Go for the other two. Come on, just a little more. Come on. Lock on. Fire one. Fire two.” A moment later, I heard Eagle Leader say, “Splash!”

    “Splash one confirmed, Eagle Leader!”

    I screamed out an uncontrolled, “Yes!” Just about everyone else on the crew did likewise.

    The first MiG had fallen. Two others remained. Fortunately, only that one had seemed hell-bent on an aerial dogfight. The other two were speeding away, no doubt bound for Iranian airspace, which meant sanctuary.

    The pair of Eagles was in hot pursuit, afterburners screaming. I couldn’t help but key into the radios and pray for our guys. I matched a visual image to the voices in my ears as I tried to stay on top of the search for new targets.

    Eagle Leader had his sites locked on the second MiG and was preparing to launch as the MiG made a hard banking turn. Eagle-2 was trying hard to get a fix on the final MiG. There was no doubt we had the enemy pilot’s comms jammed. They were running scared. Gypsy was directing more fighters to intercept.

    Eagle Leader launched then broke off left, turning a wide loop. An instant later an explosion rocked the sky. “Splash two! Sweet Jesus, splash two!”

    Eagle Leader was still turning around when Eagle-2 locked and launched. The AIM missed as the MiG evaded. The MiG pilot was still running, thanking Allah for his good fortune.

    Eagle Leader whipped around just as the MiG did an evasive maneuver. Eagle-2 launched again. “Fire two,” his voice hissed. The improperly seated AIM dropped from the sky like a rock.

    “Fire three!” Eagle-2 screamed, his voice filled with emotion as the MiG turned back to face him.

    Eagle Leader was just leveling out of his turn. Eagle-2 had one AIM left. He was eye to eye with a fully capable MiG-23. While he was nearly within cannon range, he was going to make this one last missile count.

    The MiG opened up with its two 23mm cannons; Eagle-2 countered, prayed, and then fired. “Fire four!”

    We all knew it was Eagle-2’s last AIM. It was this one or the MiG would surely get a piece of him. The lull that followed was no more than a single heartbeat, but it seemed an eternity. Blood was rushing in my ears. I gripped my armrests as tightly as I could and waited.

    “Splash three! Splash three!” Eagle-2 screamed; the ensuing explosion rocked him as he broke off.

    “Confirm splash. Confirm splash.” Beautiful, just beautiful. “Gypsy, this is Eagle Leader. Splash three. Nothing more on radar. Is the area clear?”

    “You’re clear, Eagle Leader. Come on home!”

    “Roger.”

    “Crew, we’re coming out of jam,” Tennessee Jim said as calmly as you please. “Get ready for package ingress in four mike.”

     My hands were still gripped to the armrests of the flight chair. For an instant, in my mind’s eye, I saw a burst of red-orange flames, a smoldering hulk of mangled MiG crash into the desert below. I went back to work knowing the Gray Lady would eventually get three MiGs painted onto her side beneath the flags that would represent combat and combat-support missions.

The flight went well. Cowboy was wearing a red bandanna on his head to keep warm. He started a new tradition.

    We were airborne three hours after midnight. Eleven hours later, tired and worn thin, I was crawling into my cot. It was a miraculously short day and I was very thankful.

    Another newbie came in early this afternoon; I know this because I awoke to a cot jabbing me in the head. Well, at least I was awake and would have time to go to the commissary before it closed. There were just too many people crowded into this tiny room. I stank like a pair of moldy socks.

    The new guy’s name was John. We called him Little John—as opposed to Big John the AMT. He’d been home in the states on emergency leave when we’d deployed. His mother was terminally ill. Since he was back, I assumed that that meant the funeral had already been conducted. Despite that, he seemed rather optimistic. He’d been bragging about his C-12 ride in some VIP’s jet, and we let him.

    I saw on the news that war protesters marched to the White House—an estimated 75,000. I had known about the protesters before, but this time it hit me hard, especially with all that had happened in the previous few days. Despite the hurt, I was somewhat relieved they made it clear that they supported the troops. I didn’t want to go home to a Vietnam-style reception.

    There was a lot of speculation as to why Saddam Hussein hadn’t unleashed the full power of his air force. Personally I thought he was more afraid of losing mega-million-dollar machinery than losing human life. I also knew that our missions had been very effective in driving a hammer into the heart of his air force. You can’t fly planes without parts, guidance, and weaponry. The ones that did fly, we saw fit to blow out of the sky. The war he was waging was very political and wrought with propaganda. I was sickened by the way the Iraqis were showing off allied POWs on TV.

    We were hearing that the ground war was only a week away. I hoped not; I felt that it was too early.

    It was almost 16:00, and I was waiting for Happy and Cowboy. They had awakened a few minutes ago, and we were going to make another run to the commissary if it were open. Yes, more beanies and weenies.

    Gentleman Bob promised to scrounge up a barbecue grill. I was hoping that he would come through. The hair cut felt weird.

    Later, standing by the picnic table, I heard the sound of CNN in the rec tent as I impatiently waited for the outhouse door to open. “You done in their yet, Cowboy?”

    “Give me a minute.”

    “Hey, Happy, you know what time the commissary closes?”

    Happy looked up from the TV just long enough to voice a “Nope.”

    Big John came out of the PME decked out in his Sunday best. “Civvies!” I exclaimed, looking down at the flight suit I’d been wearing for three days straight. “Where’d you get civvies?”

    “Brought them with me,” Big John replied, taking a seat beside Happy.

    “Where you headed?” asked Happy.

    “PBJ, Allen, and I are going to church. You guys want to come?”

    Just then I noticed the scripture book in John’s hand—John was a Mormon. “This late?”

    “Special service the base chapel set up.”

    “We’ll go that way with you guys. We’re going to get some eats. If Cowboy ever gets out of the head.”

    PBJ and Allen joined us a few minutes later clad in fresh flight suits. It struck me just then that PBJ was Catholic and that Allen was a Protestant. Only in a war zone could you find a Mormon, a Catholic, and a Protestant bound for the same Sunday service.

    Cowboy stepped out of the head finally about five minutes later, a relieved look on his face. “My first shit since I been here; feels good!” he announced to the world while parading around for a moment like a proud peacock. “So you guys ready to go or what?”

    “Just waiting for you,” we responded.

    We started off at a slow walk, PBJ, Allen, Big John, Cowboy, Happy and I. It was a fairly short walk up the street, about three blocks to the commissary. We arrived to find it closed. We were just about to head up base, when Happy spotted one of our crew vans. He flagged it down and good-natured Ziggy stopped. She had just alerted one of the other crews. The six of us piled into the back of the van.

    “Can you stop by the base chapel?” Big John asked. Ziggy didn’t know where it was, so he gave her directions.

    I asked, “Ziggy, I thought you were working the evening shift?”

    “No, days. Six to six.” Ziggy replied glumly.

    “Six to six!” Allen exclaimed, “I wish.”

    “Hey, did you guys know a C-5 came in from Sembach today?” Ziggy began, pausing momentarily as she turned a corner and prepared to stop in front of the base chapel. “They brought in a mail pouch; it’s in ops.”

    “Mail? No, didn’t know. Can you drop us back at the PME afterward?”

    “Sure,” Ziggy agreed.

    Just before Big John got out, he turned to me and asked if I could check to see if he had any mail. “Sure. I’ll check for all you guys.” After all, it wouldn’t hurt me to do a good deed.

    When we arrived at base ops, we found that it was fairly empty for the middle of the day. The second line was airborne and the third line wouldn’t come in for another hour. Expectantly, we hurried into the ops center. One of the ground support crew, Harmony, was in the process of separating the mail.

    I glanced at the big board as I always did, noticed the newly formed fourth crew had a new name added to it. Little John’s name was freshly marked in red. I didn’t see Chubby’s name and wondered if he knew he wasn’t going to fly yet.

    My office chief from Sembach was standing to Harmony’s right; I hadn’t seen Ray since arrival. He was roomed in ops, and at the present he wasn’t flying either. At the same time, we shouted, “Hey what’s up? Long time no see. How’s everything going?”

    He was a good PR man—public relations—and he had a tone of voice that was always warming. He meant the things he said. “You get a letter, Ray?” I asked.

    “I’m still waiting to see, but I did see your name in there.”

    “You mind if I look through that stack?” I asked Harmony. She shrugged her shoulders. I snatched up the pile.

    “Old Jimmie got ahold of most of the wives and gave them the address for down here right after we left,” added Ray. “Chief’s a good man.”