II
His eyes were red, his mouth tasted like old fish and bug-juice, and now this. Someone, somewhere in Washington, had gotten a bug up his ass and wanted a bunch of Iraqi Migs hit before they could, conceivably, get airborne -- and thereby be instantly shot down by some U.S. Air Force pukes loitering above Ali Air Base. There remained an outside chance, however small, that these Migs could break out and go after one of the carriers in the Gulf, and that just would not do.
The problem, as he saw it, was that his squadron had just bombed the living daylights out of just that airfield, including bombs that had cratered the runway beyond any further possible use. The other problem? Someone in the NRO had just gone over the latest satellite imagery and one runway was, somehow and against all odds, operational. And then, under cover of darkness and against all odds, the Migs had arrived.
No, that would just not do...not one little bit.
Ali Air Base was the closest operational base to Kuwait City, and, therefore, to the Gulf, and had been, literally, plastered two days before, when Operation Desert Shield rolled over into Desert Storm. And, he had flown at least six sorties there over the last two days. His Intruder had taken several hits from small arms fire this morning, driving home the point that, as hapless as the Iraqis seemed to be, a 'Gomer' with a flintlock could always get off a lucky shot off -- and thereby ruin your whole day.
The squad XO had rousted him from a nice, warm dream less than a half hour ago, given him enough time to grab a shower and drop by the air wing's dining room for a bologna sandwich and some bug-juice, otherwise known as Kool-Aid, as he walked to the briefing room; he began to regret the sandwich as soon as he finished it -- and wished he'd tossed down two more Dixie-cups of the red stuff -- on top of the four he'd tossed down -- but already his bladder was aching...and that just wouldn't do...
The Wing's intel weenies had set up an overhead projector in the little compartment, but as only three Intruders were being detailed to this strike the room had kind of an intimate, less formal feel going down just then, until the CO walked in and that vibe disappeared -- in an instant. Commander Dan Green walked up the lectern and looked at his team, then shook his head.
"No use going over the how or the why," Green began, "but Gomer has moved some assets on the ground at Ali that weren't there four hours ago, and that can only mean one thing. Somehow, someway, we didn't get the runways as good as we thought. Also, there are eight Mig-23s on the ground there, and ten Frogfoots just landed, maybe an hour ago. They're loaded with ordnance, or so I'm told, and we got Marines on the beach, if you get my drift...
"Jim, you're taking 5-0-9."
"5-0-9, sir?"
"We've apparently got two of those new AGM-84E missiles onboard, and 5-0-9 is the only bird we've got that can handle them. You're also the only man in the squad with any training on the dash-84, and someone on the E-ring wants it used -- tonight. Here's your attack profile," Green added, handing over a hastily mimeographed piece of paper -- full of charts and graphs. "You'll launch and arc in from the west. The missiles' tracks are programmed to hit the fuel bladders, again, and the OPS building, which we, somehow, missed today. Satellite imagery has their pilots in-barracks right now, but they're fueling the Migs as we speak, so odds are they'll try to take-off before the sun comes up. With that many aircraft up, the thinking is one or two might get through, and we're not going to let that happen."
"So, I launch, shoot and boogie back?" he asked.
"Not quite. Your load-out includes two cluster bombs. Look on page three. You launch, impact should be within two minutes. The XO and I will come in from the south and east a minute later, then you come in from the west about a minute after that, drop on anything that moves."
"Okay."
"One other thing. See the note page five...you'll meet up with a Raven at those coordinates. He'll lead the strike, jamming for the most part, but he'll be carrying anti-radiation heads, too. He launches first, then you. Got it?"
He looked over the attack profile and shook his head. "Why so low over the border?" he asked. "I thought their radar were down across the board?"
"A Saudi E-3 is picking up emissions in the area."
"Oh, swell."
"Yeah. Good news all over. Word is someone picked up Buk transmissions late last night, and some Air Force A-10s picked up some SA-7 fire when they tried to hit a road about ten clicks north of there..."
"You're full of good news, aren't you?"
"Yeah, well, if it was easy..."
"Yeah, yeah...I hear you, skipper."
"5-0-9 is gonna shoot from cat one, and she's on the elevator right now, ready to go. Cartwright ought to have the coordinates loaded by now, all but the rendezvous with that EF-111. Try not to bust 300 AGL inbound, okay?"
"Yup."
"Seeya."
"Yup. Good hunting, skip."
"You too. Better get a move on."
He picked up the rest of his gear and made it to the flight deck as the Roosevelt turned into the wind, and he did a quick walk-around the Intruder as an S-3 applied full power next to his catapult, checking his ordnance was racked correctly and all pins removed. He climbed up into his cockpit just as the Viking launched, and the cockpit filled with JP-9 fumes.
His BN, Jerry Cartwright, was still entering waypoints into DIANe when he clambered into the left seat, then his crew chief helped hook up an O2 line to his face-mask; they both straightened out his harness before the chief pulled the safeties on the ejection seat, showing him the pins before he disappeared into the darkness below. He took a deep breath and looked around -- but all he saw outside the Intruder was pure black...not even a flicker of moonlight on the sea...
He applied power and taxied from the elevator, watched the deck come alive as he lined up on the rail, then he closed the canopy and ran up power, waiting for the wand. A minor swarm walked away from the Intruder a moment later, all the last minute checks complete, and he then 'Pri-fly' came over the net right on cue.
"Tiger 5-0-9, clear."
"5-0-9."
"You got her spun up? We ready to roll?" he asked Cartwright as he checked power and rechecked the wing.
"I'm nominal."
"Okay. Let's go do this shit." He turned to the wands down in the dark and adjusted his head a little, pushing his body back in the seat a little more, then he turned his head a little and saluted into the night...
...And the Intruder roared down the deck...slamming him into the seat...
In the enveloping darkness the transition to flight was subtle...just the slightest dip as 5-0-9's wings bit into the thick air as she cleared the deck...and, as was his habit, he shook his head and worked his jaw as he raised the gear and cleaned the wing, keeping one eye on the altimeter, the other on his airspeed, scanning the engine tapes until he was at 1500AGL and everything was still working the way it was supposed to.
"Come left to three one zero," Cartwright said. "You got the Raven's coordinates?"
"Entered."
"Okay...why don't you do some of that pilot shit and wake me when we get back."
"Yup, you take a nap. Just remember to wake me somewhere over Kansas, okay?"
"Yup."
"Tiger 5-0-9, Big Stick."
"Five by five, Stick."
"Tiger Lead is airborne. Start your hack in five, four, three, two, one -- mark."
"Got it," he said as he reset the chronometer and punched the go button.
"509, contact Turnout on 244.3, and good hunting."
"Forty-four three, and thanks."
He trimmed the Intruder into a shallow dive and slipped the HUD into terrain mode, looked at the sea's surface one more time before he turned all his attention to his cockpit instruments. He would for the rest of this first segment, anyway.
"5-0-9, Turnout," he heard a few minutes later.
"5-0-9, go."
"Come to 3-2-0, get down in the weeds now."
