Punk's War

by Ward Carroll

  The unexpected maneuver caused Einstein to bang his head against the left side of the canopy, and as he worked to gather his wits, he asked the skipper, “Where are we going?”

  “To kill some MiGs,” the commander shouted. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

  “Where the fuck is he off to?” Spud asked over the intercom.

  Punk checked his mirrors to see which direction Spud was looking and then joined him in watching down their wing line as the skipper’s jet drove away.

  “Skipper, what are you doing?” Punk asked on the discrete frequency. There was no reply. “Iron Two, state your intentions.”

  Commander Campbell sensed his RIO was about to key the mike to answer Punk’s question, so he said over the intercom, “Stay off the radio. Let’s focus on the MiGs.”

  “But skipper,” Einstein explained, “we’re configured as a bomber. We don’t have any long-range missiles on board.”

  “We have a Sparrow and two Sidewinders,” the skipper countered. “They’ll work fine. Now get me a radar picture.”

  You have the stick and throttle; you have the stick and throttle . . . “Skipper, this isn’t our mission. Let’s bring the jet back to the left and rejoin Punk.”

  Again the CO didn’t respond. He pushed the throttles forward and accelerated the jet through mach one. “Titan,” he said on the AWACS frequency, “bogey dope for Iron Two.”

  The request threw the controller off a bit. “Ah . . . standby Iron Two.” He checked the call signs on the Air Tasking Order to verify which symbol on his display was “Iron,” ran his palm across the trackball in front of him for a few seconds, and passed the information. “Lead group currently fifteen miles north of the no-fly zone, in a right-hand turn through zero-two-zero, bearing three-four-five from you at seventy-three miles.”

  “Perfect,” the skipper thought aloud over the intercom. “These guys won’t even know what hit ’em.”

  You have the stick and throttle; you have the stick and throttle . . . “Skipper, again, this is a bad idea. We need to come hard left now and get back with our element.”

  “Einstein,” the skipper said, “The flight controls are in my cockpit. Now shut up and get me a lock so I can shoot something down.”

  As Smoke started to bring the fighter element nose hot to the threat again, he saw the skipper’s jet scream down his right side. “You have got to be shitting me,” he railed over the intercom. “Even the skipper can’t be this out to lunch.”

  “Smoke, are you tally the rogue Tomcat?” Brick asked from one of the Hornets.

  “That’s affirmative,” Smoke replied before keying the other radio. “Iron Two, is that you?” There was no response. “Iron Two, retire to the south-east, now. You’re fouling the lane of fire for the Diamond package.”

  Einstein desperately petitioned the commanding officer. “Skipper, we’re in the way here.”

  The skipper ignored all around him except the AWACS controller. “Titan, continue bogey dope for Iron Two.”

  “Iron Two,” the controller replied, “Showing a single group now, three-five-zero, fifty miles, heading one-seven-zero. Crossing into the no-fly zone at this time.”

  In the Current Operations Cell of JTF-SWA, General Bullock scratched his head and asked the room, “What is Iron Two’s mission?”

  “Interdiction, general. He’s supposed to be escorting the TARPS package,” a captain seated in front of one of the myriad of displays around the room replied.

  “So what is he doing over there?” the general asked, pointing toward the real-time tactical display that dominated the far wall of the cell.

  “Kodak abort!” Smoke ordered over the AWACS freq. “Kodak abort! Iron lead, snap to SAM Site Bravo!”

  The TARPS birds immediately climbed and accelerated south to the exit point as Punk picked up a hard turn toward the northwest with the two Prowlers in tow.

  “Skipper, we just caused the photo mission to abort,” Einstein explained in earnest.

  “We didn’t cause anything,” the skipper shot back at his young RIO. “We are doing the job somebody else failed to do.”

  Einstein jabbed his cursor into one of the symbols on his display and called up the range to it. “We’re going to fly over a SAM site. This could be the SAM trap Holly was talking about.”

  “SAM trap? Bullshit. Do you hear anything? Our warning gear is silent.” The skipper glanced down at his repeat of Einstein’s scope. “Now call that contact.”

  With some reluctance, Einstein keyed the radio. “Iron Two, contact, single group, three-four-zero for thirty-one miles.”

  “That’s your bogeys,” the AWACS replied.

  “I have Sparrow selected,” the skipper methodically passed over the intercom, as much thinking aloud as coordinating with his backseater. “I’ll take the shot as soon as he gets inside of max range.”

  Einstein both watched the range readout on his scope and scanned the ground for SAM launches. He heard the skipper call “Fox One,” and then felt the missile leave the airplane accompanied by a quick roar from the weapon’s rocket motor. This just might work, he thought as he monitored his tactical display.

  But then the closure between the would-be foes decreased. With growing concern, Einstein watched the numbers on his readout count down through the four hundreds. He crosschecked the evidence with the symbol on his tactical display and confirmed the bogey was in a hard right-hand turn. “They’re beaming us,” he shouted at the skipper. The Tomcat’s radar broke its Doppler lock as the two jets ceased to close, and the Sparrow lost its guidance information and flew benignly over Iraq.

  “All right . . .” the skipper concluded, “we’ll just have to use our Sidewinders.”

  “Iron Two get out of there,” an anonymous voice called over the AWACS frequency.

  “Titan shows group passing through west toward north,” the AWACS controller passed, confirming Einstein’s analysis. “Recommend dropping them, Iron Two. They’ll be north of the no-fly zone in five miles.”

  “Skipper, get out of there.”

  And then the trap was sprung. Iron Two’s radar warning gear tittered a few times and the corresponding display on the right side of the instrument console in each cockpit blinked with an inconclusive indication. Moments later, the blare in their helmets was almost unbearable, and both aviators watched their displays saturate solid red with input.

  The skipper reefed the jet into a series of opposing hard turns while Einstein instinctively began dispensing chaff from the buckets near the base of the tail hook by tweaking the coolie hats above the rear cockpit glare shield as he desperately searched the ground under them for a SAM launch—although he wasn’t really sure what one looked like.

  Ten miles in trail, Smoke was the first to see the series of plumes form on the desert below. “SAMs in the air,” he cried over the AWACS freq. “SAMs in the air.”

  Both Prowlers turned their jammers on and ripple fired their complement of HARM missiles at the guilty site from sixty miles away, but they provided no sanctuary for the skipper and Einstein now. The aviators in Iron Two were alone in their fight against the salvo of SAMs streaking toward them.

  Einstein caught sight of the launches just after Smoke called them over the air. “Tally launch, three o’clock low,” the young RIO shot over the intercom. “Do you see it?”

  “Negative, negative!” the skipper returned between nervous huffs into his mask as he continued to twist the jet in an attempt to shake the track the Iraqis had on them. “Keep the calls coming.”

  “I see two now,” Einstein reported. “First one is definitely tracking on us. Roll right and pull hard!”

  The skipper complied with Einstein’s commands, and as the nose fell through the horizon and toward the desert, he looked through his right quarter panel and saw the streaks across the sky snaking toward them. “I’ve got ’em,” the skipper said over the intercom. “Keep the chaff coming.”

  “It’s coming,” Einstein returned. “It’
s coming.”

  The skipper held the first missile down his wing line until he couldn’t stand it anymore, and then he pulled back on the stick for all he was worth. The missile swung wide and streaked by them without exploding. “That’s one down . . .” the CO declared as their jet passed through the missile’s smoke trail. The skipper kept his eyes out of the cockpit and focused on the second missile. Speed is life, speed is life. The stick felt soft and unresponsive as he worked to beat the next SAM as effectively as he had the first. “What’s our airspeed?” he demanded from Einstein.

  Einstein had to force himself to look away from the smooth white arc etching across the blue sky and come inside to his gauges. “Eighty knots.”

  The skipper tried to dump the nose and regain some energy, but as he watched the missile make its final ghastly angular correction and scribe the curve of the grim reaper’s scythe toward them, he knew he didn’t have time for that luxury. He commanded the last-ditch pull, but the jet had nothing to offer.

  Smoke watched the explosion in front of him with detached disbelief until the scream of his own warning gear snapped him back to reality. The Iraqis weren’t out of SAMs yet. As he started a turn back toward the southeast, he noticed two parachutes above the flaming fighter falling to the arid land below. “Mayday. Mayday,” he shouted on the radio. “Titan, Iron Two is hit. Diamond lead sees two good chutes.”

  “Roger, Titan copies. Zeus do you copy?”

  “Zeus copies,” the general at JTF-SWA replied stoically. “We’re launching the Sandy package now.”

  Spud had locked the SAM site with the LANTIRN pod following the first launch, and as he watched the view to see if any more missiles were being loosed, he saw the HARMs hit in a series of four explosions. “Good hits on the site,” he passed over the frequency. “Good hits on the site.”

  With Spud’s call, the electronic countermeasures officers in the twin backseats of each Prowler turned off the jamming pods slung under the wings and listened to the airwaves for a time. The silence that greeted them seconded Spud’s motion.

  “Iron Lead is assuming rescue mission coordinator,” Punk called over the AWACS frequency. “Cover us, Smoke.”

  “Roger that,” Smoke replied as he rolled his flight out headed one-six-zero and worked away from the thirty-third parallel to get some fighting room. “Call your posit.”

  “We’re fifteen miles southeast of SAM site Bravo,” Punk said. “I’ve got both chutes in sight. We’ll follow them down and establish an orbit overhead.” He keyed the other radio to talk with the lead Prowler on his wing. “Bambi, do either of you have any more HARMs?”

  “That’s a negative, Punk,” Bambi replied. “We can stick around and keep jamming down the threat axis for a while. That’ll keep the SAM operators guessing.”

  “Appreciate it,” Punk returned. “Iron flight switch secondary radios to primary distress frequency.”

  The controller’s voice came over the AWACS frequency: “Titan shows bogey group headed south back across the line.”

  “Bogey dope for Diamond,” Gucci requested.

  “Diamond, bogeys now three-four-three, thirty-six miles, angels two-five. Appear to be hot for you.”

  “The MiG drivers probably think we’re confused,” Smoke commented to Gucci. “They’re trying to cherry pick us for a quick kill or two.” The pilot stoked his fighter’s afterburners, snapped the jet into a 90-degree right angle of bank, and pulled into a seven-G turn. “Fight’s on . . . gentlemen,” he grunted over the discrete frequency to the Tomcat and two Hornets on his wing. “Fight’s . . . on.”

  Just as the admiral and CAG sat down to an executive lunch in the flag mess, one of the staff commanders, a surface warfare officer who was currently standing the duty as battle watch captain, came storming in with a disturbing bit of news: “Admiral, one of our jets has been shot down over Iraq.”

  Both admiral and CAG rose out of their chairs. “Shot down?” the admiral parroted. “Oh, my God . . . How?”

  “We think it was a surface-to-air missile,” the battle watch captain answered. “We’re getting the information secondhand.”

  “Who was it?” CAG asked.

  “We don’t know, sir.”

  “What type of airplane?”

  “We don’t know that either, CAG. As I said, we’re getting our information secondhand.”

  “Were there any survivors?” the Admiral queried.

  “We think so,” the commander answered. “JTF-SWA just called and said they were launching the search and rescue package, including the helicopter out of Camp Doha in Kuwait. They wouldn’t do that without an indication of survivors.”

  “Good,” CAG said.

  “Well, it may not be good,” the commander replied.

  “Why not?”

  “They’re using one of our helicopters.”

  “So?” CAG asked. “Two of our HH-60s are under the tactical control of JTF-SWA.” The air wing commander turned to the Admiral and explained, “They do a two-helo detachment to Camp Doha every two weeks for four days. It’s a multi-service rotation. You may remember you were briefed on this contingency as soon as we arrived in the Gulf.”

  The battle watch captain walked around CAG and faced the admiral directly. “Sir, this is a very important asset to the battle group. We can’t afford to lose it.”

  “Lose it?” the admiral echoed.

  “A search and rescue mission into Iraq can be very risky,” the commander opined.

  “It is risky,” CAG said from behind the commander. “That’s what those guys do.”

  Unmoved, the battle watch captain continued his counsel: “Sir, we’re talking about one of the platforms we use to get you to the other ships in the battle group . . .”

  “What are you suggesting, commander?” CAG asked acerbically, “that we attempt to stop the helicopter from launching out of Kuwait?”

  “CAG,” the commander patronizingly intoned over his shoulder, “I’m trying to unemotionally advise the admiral on all of his options here.”

  “We may have American aviators on the ground in Iraq,” CAG railed. “This is an emotional situation.” For once, the spirit behind the instructions that outlined his responsibilities was revealed to him as his first response. This gut impulse surprised him as much as those around him, but he embraced the resolve he suddenly felt. “Yes,” he repeated more calmly, “this is an emotional situation. There are no options here, Commander. This is why we have contingency plans.”

  “There’s a big difference between having a plan and actually executing it,” the commander countered. “Whoever thought somebody would actually get shot down? We have to—”

  The admiral silenced his battle watch captain with a gesture and then pointed him toward the door. The commander looked as if he wanted to say something, but took the hint and hurried out of the mess.

  “Let’s get our shipmates back,” the battle group commander declared to the rest of the officers in the room.

  Einstein came to at eight thousand feet over the Iraqi desert. Knocked unconscious by the SAM’s explosion, he wasn’t sure how he’d come to be floating gently through the air, but his first impulse was to look above him and make sure he had a good parachute.

  He scanned the sky above and Earth below. He felt the wind through his hair and realized he’d lost his helmet at some point during the ejection. He could hear the jets flying around him. He saw another parachute, certainly the skipper’s, a good distance away, and he tried waving to see if he could get a response, but there was none.

  The scene seemed surreal, even peaceful, until he remembered that he was coming down over hostile territory. He was suddenly gripped with fear. What would they do to him? Where would he be taken? The young RIO thought about something he’d read, a revelation that had gone through Medal of Honor winner James B. Stockdale’s mind as he descended into North Vietnam where he was a POW for seven years: “I am leaving the world of technology and entering the world of Epictetu
s.”

  He again looked down at the ground and tried to assess whether one area was less inhabited than another, remembering what the SEALs had said during their combat search and rescue brief a few months ago: “Go west and south.” He grabbed the risers and did his best to steer toward lighter patches of desert, away from rivers and buildings. He wasn’t sure of the wind direction, but he seemed to be drifting west.

  Einstein thought about something else the SEALs had said: “Your survival radio is your lifeline. Without it we won’t find you.” He let go of the risers and carefully unzipped the right front pocket of his survival vest. He found the thin nylon cord that ran between the radio and the vest and ensured it was attached at both ends. Then he pulled the radio out of its pouch, turned it on, selected the frequency option labeled “243.0 MHz,” and attempted to talk to the skipper. “Iron Two Pilot, this is Iron Two RIO; do you read me?” He put the small speaker to his ear and waited for a response. “Iron Two Pilot, this is Iron Two RIO; how do you read, over?” Nothing. His despair grew as he was now certain he would fall into Iraqi hands.

  “Iron Two RIO, this is Iron One. How do you read?”

  Spud’s voice. “Iron One, Iron Two RIO has you loud and clear. How me?”

  “Einstein, we have you weak but readable. Hang in there. We’ll be covering you until the CSAR package gets here.”

  “Roger, Spud. Any suggestions on what I should do?”

  “Well, it looks like you’re floating away from civilization, which is good. Keep going the way you’re headed. When you hit the ground, quickly find a place to hide.”

  “Roger . . .”

  “I’m going to stay off the radio now, and I recommend you do the same until you get situated in a safe place. The Iraqis may be monitoring this freq. Stick with CSAR procedures and you should be out of there within the hour.”

  “Copy that,” Einstein replied with poorly concealed trepidation. “Hope I see you soon.”

  “You will, buddy.”

  As the four jets came nose-on to the bogeys, Turtle was the first aviator with an accurate radar picture. “Diamond Two showing single group, three-four-two for thirty-four miles, angels twenty-five. I’m breaking out four of them.”