Firebreak

by Richard Herman

  A sharp-eyed observer outside the perimeter fence scanned the F-15s with high-powered binoculars and noted that each of the jets was loaded with two GBU-24s, one on each wing pylon, four Sidewinder missiles on the shoulder stations above the GBUs, and four AMRAAMs slung under the conformal fuel tanks. The observer also noted that well-armed security teams were hidden in the shadows.

  At 0215 hours local, one of the side doors of the middle hangar opened and twelve men walked out. They headed for the waiting jets. The hangar doors rolled back and at 0230 the distinctive, sirenlike wail of the F-15s’ jet fuel starters echoed across the ramp as the twelve jets started engines. The first two jets taxied out of the alert revetments at 0235 followed by pairs at thirty-second intervals. The first two jetstook the runway and a green light flashed from the tower, clearing them for takeoff. The two jets roared down the runway for a formation takeoff at exactly 0240 as the second set of two taxied into position and held, waiting for the green light that would come thirty seconds later.

  The sequence repeated itself until all twelve F-15s had launched. By 0243 the base had reverted to its usual sleepy quiet. Colonel “Mad” Mike Martin, call sign Viper 01, had led the eleven other Vipers of the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing in a “com out” launch and was streaking toward Kirkuk at 540 knots, four hundred feet off the deck. ETA Kirkuk: 0310.

  The observer who had been watching the air base started his car, drove to a nearby house, and made a phone call.

  The shrill wail of the siren reached the small room in the officers’ quarters where Johar was sleeping. He was fully awake when he heard the first bypass turbofan engine of a Su-27 crank, splitting the night air. Johar glanced at his watch; 0251 local time. He sighed, got out of bed, pulled on his flight suit, and walked over to the officers’ mess for breakfast. Samir was already there, waiting for him.

  The AWACS orbiting ninety nautical miles north of Mosul in the tri-border region of Turkey, Iraq, and Iran monitored the takeoff of eight Su-27s being led by Mana. The tactical controller punched the button that selected the Have Quick radio and tromped on his foot pedal to transmit, warning the in-gressing F-15s that interceptors were airborne out of Mosul and moving into a formation. It worried him that the Iraqis had responded so quickly.

  Matt’s Tactical Electronic Warfare System came alive just as they copied the AWACS warning on the bandits coming at them from Mosul. “I’ll be damned,” Furry mumbled from the rear. “That’s an SA-Three.” The chirping on the TEWS audio shifted to a higher beat as the surface-to-air missile went into a launch mode. The SA-3 Goa was an old Soviet-built weapon with a range of eighteen miles. Its radar could track up to six aircraft and launch two missiles at a single target. Neither Matt nor Furry was overly worried about that missile since they were well below its minimum guidancealtitude. But like Mad Mike had repeatedly yelled at them, “Always honor the fuckin’ threat!”

  Martin’s voice came over the Have Quick radio. “Matt, nail that SA-Three. I hold him at your two o’clock, twelve miles.” He should have used Matt’s call sign, Viper 03, but the use of his name over the secure radio prevented confusion. In the heat of battle, it was easy to miss the numbers after a name.

  “Roger, boss. Will do.” By calling Martin “boss” instead of using his call sign of Viper 01, there was no doubt whom he was talking to. Now another threat popped up on the TEWS. Two SA-6 sites directly ahead of them had become active.

  “Sean,” Martin ordered his wingman, Leary, “get the one on the left. I’ll get the right.” As planned, the lead aircraft would engage whatever threat came up to open up a corridor for the ingressing F-15s. By taking out the surface-to-air missile sites, the following aircraft could concentrate on hitting the target and have a safe escape route. The operations plan named Trinity called for the Eagles to open up a corridor twenty miles wide and, for a very brief period, establish air superiority.

  Matt pointed the nose of his jet directly at the SA-3 site, double-checked to be sure he had selected a GBU-24 and that the Master Arm switch was up, and looked through the HUD. The Navigation FLIR had penetrated the dark and was showing him a three-dimensional view of the world in eleven shades of gray. He saw the flare of a rocket plume directly in front of him—a SAM missile launch. The bright plume of the SA-3 captured Matt’s attention as it corkscrewed off to the right. “Foxed ‘em,” Furry chuckled from the pit. The TEWS had done its magic and decoyed the missile’s guidance system. “Designating,” came from the rear. Furry had slued the Target FLIR onto the SAM site and locked it up. Matt mashed the pickle button and held it, waiting for the weapons delivery computer to reach a solution. The F-15 gave a slight shudder as the two-thousand-pound bomb under their left wing separated.

  Now Furry concentrated on the Target FLIR and refined the placement of the cross hairs, laying them directly over the Low Blow fire control radar that was the heart of the SA-3. “Lasing,” he said. Matt watched the second missile flashby well behind them. Then the target disappeared in a bright explosion. “That’s wasting a perfectly good GBU,” Furry allowed.

  “Honor the threat,” Matt grunted.

  “I’ll make it a rule,” Furry answered. Two more explosions flared in front of them as Martin and his wingman worked over the SA-6 sites.

  The voice of the tactical controller on the AWACS came over the Have Quick radio. “Viper Zero-One. Eight bandits zero-nine-zero degrees at forty nautical miles. Heading two-three-zero degrees, angels ten, cospeed.” The tactical controller had told Martin that Mana’s formation was forty nautical miles to the east of him at ten thousand feet and was on a heading that would intercept them. Matt ran the geometry through his head and calculated they would merge twenty-five miles downtrack.

  But Martin had other ideas. “Aldo, have you identified the threat?” Aldo was the call sign of the AWACS.

  “Checking with Duster now,” the AWACS controller answered. Duster was the call sign for the RC-135 Bill Carroll was on. Carroll’s job was to monitor the Iraqis’ radio nets and try to learn if Mana was airborne. The Americans were going after him, the threat they thought was Joe. “Viper Zero-One,” the AWACS controller was back within seconds. “Duster says the lead bandit is your target. KILL. Repeat KILL.”

  “Roger, Zero-One copies,” Martin answered, confirming he was going after Mana. “Sean, go spread.” He told his wingman to move into a line-abreast, combat spread position. The lieutenant was going to have his hands full just keeping his lead in sight, so Martin turned his formation and position lights to bright. Martin turned forty degrees to the left, onto a collision course with Mana. “Lead’s engaged,” he transmitted, telling Matt that he was now leading the attack onto Kirkuk, as planned.

  “This is Aldo,” the radio spat. “Multiple bandits now launching from Kirkuk.” The tactical controller on board the AWACS had detected a second group of fighters launching. The warning had increased Matt’s situational awareness and he knew he would have to fight his way into and off the target.

  Now Martin and Leary were bearing down onto Mana, approaching from the Iraqi’s front right quarter. On theground, Martin had decided to open the engagement with head-on missile shots and then split to bracket their opponent, if he was still alive. The idea was to get Mana to commit on one of them, who would then become the engaged fighter. The other man would become the free fighter and protect the engaged fighter’s back or, depending on circumstances, move in for a sequential attack. Like most things that sound simple, it was hard enough to do in daylight; at night it was almost impossible. But Martin never suffered from a lack of confidence.

  Both attacking F-15s were down in the weeds, still four hundred feet off the deck, less than a thousand feet apart, with their radars in standby. They did not want the bandits’ radar warning gear to detect them. Martin’s wizzo concentrated on the picture he was getting from the Navigation FLIR. When he caught a glimmer of movement, he slued the Target FLIR onto that portion of the sky in front of him. The powerful sensing device broke out t
he heat signature and the image of a Flanker appeared on his screen. Since the FLIR was totally passive and die bandit would have no indication he was being tracked, the wizzo locked on. “Bandit on the Target FLIR,” he told Martin.

  Martin punched up the Target FLIR and was now looking at the world through a greenish soda straw. While he had a very narrow field of view, he could clearly make out the oncoming Flanker. His first thought was how much it resembled an F-15. Then he saw a second Flanker behind the first. He recognized a bearing of aircraft when he saw one and his combative instincts drooled with hunger. It was going to be a turkey shoot.

  The colonel thumbed the weapons select switch aft; the radar came alive and locked on the nearest target, which was Mana. Martin shoved the switch full forward, which called up an AIM-120 AMRAAM, and hit the pickle button. A missile dropped out of its well underneath the fuselage and streaked toward Mana. Martin fully expected the target to reach and take evasive maneuvers when the pilot saw die missile’s plume fighting the night. No reaction. Now Martin had closed to inside nine miles. He moved the weapons select switch to its middle detent and the reassuring growl of a Sidewinder filled his headset. He mashed the pickle buttonagain and a Sidewinder leaped off the left inboard missile rail and homed on the Flanker.

  Now Mana had two missiles coming at him and still no reaction. Martin’s wingman, Sean Leary, wanted a piece of the action and when he saw Martin launch a Sidewinder, he locked up the second aircraft in line with his radar and repeated the performance, sending first an AMRAAM and then a Sidewinder at the second Su-27. But the lieutenant was overeager and had launched the Sidewinder too early. Unlike Mana, the pilot in the second Flanker had his head out of the cockpit and wasn’t listening to the directions from the ground controller. He saw the two missiles coming at him and turned hard left just as Martin’s AMRAAM flew under Mana’s right wing. It would have been a near miss except that the proximity sensor worked perfectly and the warhead exploded, sending a hail of expanding metal core into the underside of the Flanker.

  Mana fought briefly for control as the Flanker jerked to the left, its triple fly-by-wire systems able to handle most of the damage and keep the Flanker flying. But Mana panicked and jerked at his ejection seat handle. Fourteen hundred pounds of rocket thrust kicked Mana and the 450-pound K-36 ejection seat out of the aircraft just as Martin’s Sidewinder flew up his Flanker’s right tail pipe and exploded.

  The pilot in the second Flanker honked back on the stick and climbed, not realizing that Mana was now between him and the missiles Leary had fired at him. Leary’s AMRAAM was transitioning from semiactive guidance to full internal guidance when its radar detected the second Flanker climbing. It had no trouble homing on its target.

  But Leary’s Sidewinder was confused. It had lost the heat signature it was homing on and had gone into memory mode. Then its seeker head caught the heat signature from the rocket in Mana’s ejection seat and homed on that. Mana never saw the missile that killed him.

  As briefed, the two F-15s blew through the oncoming line of Flankers, shattering what was left of die formation’s integrity as the colonel nailed his second Flanker with a Sidewinder. The Iraqi ground controller was screaming at the Flankers to maintain their bearing of aircraft so he could guide the remaining five Su-27s into an envelope where they could fire their weapons. But Martin and Leary had no intention of fighting that leisurely an engagement. What the Iraqis were doing worked well against unarmed airliners and possibly against bombers, but never against a fighter, especially one like the F-15E in the hands of a pilot who knew how to use it. It never dawned on the Iraqi radar controller that the Flanker pilots were scrambling for their lives.

  Martin was surprised when his wizzo called out, “Bandit at seven o’clock, two miles, on us.” He twisted his head around to the left and could barely make out the plan form of a Flanker converting to their six. He saw a missile fire and home on him. It had to be either an AA-11 or AA-8, the two short-range dogfight missiles with passive infrared guidance the Flanker could carry. “Flares and chaff,” the wizzo said as he sent a stream of flares and chaff into their wake.

  Instinctively, Martin pulled into a very tight oblique loop to reverse onto his attacker. All the time, he kept his eyes “padlocked” on the Flanker, evaluating the situation. By turning his tail pipes away from the missile, the guidance head lost its heat source and homed on the flares. But how had the Flanker found him when his TEWS had not warned them of a radar tracking them? He didn’t consciously work the problem; the answer was just there. He had made a mistake. His left hand dropped off the throttles and, without looking, he turned his formation and position lights off, reached back for the throttles and selected guns.

  The attacking Flanker pilot momentarily froze when the lights he had been following went out and the dark gray F-15 disappeared, blending with the night. For a fraction of a moment, he rolled out while he tried to reacquire the target. Then he hardened up his turn again, turning in the same direction as before, still looking for the fighter he knew was out there. In desperation, he turned on his radar. But his nose was not pointed within sixty degrees of Martin and he came up dry. Now his own radar warning gear was screaming at him, telling the Iraqi that he was being tracked by a fighter that was behind him. He twisted around to his left in time to see what looked like a solid line of tracers reaching for him. Martin had selected high rate of fire for his gatling gun and squeezed off a short burst. Only every seventh bullet was a tracer, but at six thousand rounds a minute rate of fire, it looked like an unbroken line of red. Nine rounds of 20-millimeter high-explosive ammunition walked through the Flanker’s cockpit.

  There was no elation in Martin as he came off his third kill. He would celebrate later. His voice was all business when he called Leary for a fuel check and to join up on him. He headed for a low-level orbit point they had selected to wait for his next engagement. “Damn,” he muttered to himself. “That was too easy.” He knew that “Joe” was still out there.

  Matt had copied the second bandit warning from the AWACS and decided that it was too early to react to that threat. They were still ninety nautical miles out and Furry was having a problem in the pit. The ring laser gyro that drove their inertial navigation system was advertised to be accurate within .8 of a mile per hour and normally was much better than that. But they had been airborne less than fifteen minutes, and when he visually fixed their position by map reading, he discovered they were over three miles from where the moving map on the Tactical Situation Display said they were. “Problems,” he told Matt. “I need to make a map and update our position.”

  “Do it,” Matt said. He worried that the Iraqis might detect their radar when it came out of standby, but he knew Furry. The wizzo wouldn’t have even mentioned it unless it was absolutely necessary. Because the two men had flown together so long, they were a tightly welded team with an absolute trust in each other. Matt glanced at the radar video as it came active and waited for Furry to make a patch map. He kept his head up, looking through the HUD, using the Nav FLIR to penetrate the night. He heard Furry count down as the system froze the map to work on later. When Furry said “Done,” Matt took control of the radar and swept the horizon for the second group of bandits. He came up dry and Furry returned them to silent running. “Where the hell are they?” he muttered.

  “Ask Aldo,” Furry grunted.

  Matt keyed his radio and queried the AWACS “Aldo, say position of bandits over Kirkuk.”

  “Aircraft calling Aldo,” the AWACS replied, “say call sign.”

  “Viper Zero-Three,” Matt answered, wondering who in the hell else they thought would be transmitting on a Have Quick radio net. The Israelis would have never wasted time with call signs and would have recognized his voice.

  “Roger, Viper Zero-Three. Be advised that bandits are still launching out of Kirkuk and being vectored to the west, well clear of you. Ah, stand by.”

  What the hell Matt thought, I’m eight minutes out and they�
��re telling me to stand by!

  “Viper Zero-Three.” The AWACS was back on frequency. The tactical controller had been receiving new information from Duster, the orbiting RC-135 that was monitoring Iraqi communications. “The bandits are being vectored to a holding orbit thirty-five miles southwest of target. Two bandits are now being vectored onto you, bearing one-six-zero, seventy nautical miles, heading zero-two-five.”

  Both Martin and Furry mentally ran the geometry of the developing intercept and where they would merge with the bandits. Thanks to the AWACS and RC-135, their situational awareness had increased a hundredfold. Now the TEWS started to light up with the first tickles of a search radar. Another symbol appeared on the video display—a Gadfly SAM. It was directly in front of them, next to their target. “Holy shit!” Furry yelled. “They’re going to jump us just before we get in range of the Gadflies around Kirkuk.”

  Time to find out how good the air defense pukes are at separating us from their scumbags, Matt thought. And time to change plans, he added. “Doc, Wedge,” he transmitted, calling Viper 05 and 06. “Cleared in hot on the bandits.” A cool “Roger” answered him and the two F-15Es behind him shoved their throttles into Mil power and turned toward the two bandits that Aldo had identified. “Boss,” Matt radioed, “say position.”

  “Chasing Flankers to the north,” Martin answered, his voice cool and matter-of-fact. “We’ll keep them off your back.” He and Leary had become separated and were jumping any stray Flanker they could find. The ground controllers directing the Iraqis couldn’t keep up with die rapidly changing fight as the two F-15s effectively kept the Su-27s occupied.