Afterburners

by William Robert Stanek

  “Clear to the rear, Six,” called back PBJ. As he was to my right, he shot me a knowing grin.

  I immediately headed to the luxury powder room in the rear, a gray curtained open chemical toilet on a pedestal that needed to be manually lowered—I’d seen quite a few new troops hop up there without first lowering the platform. When a chemical shitter came crashing down with you on it, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Most probably this was the origin of the unwritten law among crewers: no shitting on the airplane. There was also a funnel shaped thing that passed for a urinal. The right paratroop door was close enough to the toilet so I could glance out the window. The sky was still shrouded in darkness. The Buffs had a predawn strike, so I wasn’t surprised to see darkness.

  I had just plugged back up on headset when the MCC called out, “15 minutes to stations.” The adrenaline was pumping, really pumping.

  The moment of truth was near. We’d find out not only who had done their homework as they should have, but also who really understood it. If the military had taught us anything in our however short or long careers, it was how to adapt. I’d been through years of training to get into this hot seat that I sat in now. I wasn’t about to blow it.

  I took a deep breath and repeated to myself, “This is what it was all for.”

  The pilot began the Airborne Combat Entry Checklist and I knew this was finally it. In five minutes we’d be on orbit supporting the first package: Buffs as they bombarded Kirkuk, a key airfield in Northern Iraq. This would be our first combat sortie. The time to rise to the occasion was now or never. For some, the time simply would never come. For those of us who did rise to the occasion, we’d never be the same again.

  Two minutes to orbit now. I heard the Spotter calling out the location of traffic. The AMT had been there before; but now we needed him to do his job, and that job was to keep the system up and running.

  The pilot called out, “Combat stations,” and the MCC relayed it. I punched off ship’s Interphone and pulled out the out-of-ship radio buttons so I could back up the MCS on radio communications. Then I went to work. When I found that first target soon afterward and it was confirmed, I hit a new high—I’d climbed to the top of the world.

  On radio, Gypsy was calling Shadow, and our navigator answered the call. Shadow was our call sign. Gypsy was the airborne warning and control aircraft (AWACS). They were passing an air advisory. I wasn’t worried. We had our dedicated high-value air asset combat air patrol (HVAA CAP) of Eagles—F-15C—all-around air superiority fighters that could match any Soviet-made MiG any day of the week.

  On a different radio channel, I heard chatter from Phantom. Phantom was passing the targets it had already acquired and I was writing them down as fast as I could. I passed the list to the MCS who was staring at the pencil trembling in his hand and a blank piece of paper. I wanted to slap him and scream, “Come on, PBJ, get with it!” but I didn’t.

  Phantom was the friendly folks on the RC-135; and after a short delay, PBJ relayed a greeting. His face flushed with a bit of color as a familiar voice tweaked back over headset. He knew their lead op. Afterward it was back to finding equitable targets, which meant searching the frequency spectrum and finding enemy communications wherever they might be. The operators on positions One to Four specialized in air communications, such as communications from Iraqi fighters, Iraqi air defense, and those communications between Iraqi fighters and Iraqi air defense. The senior operators on the other side of the plane took everything else and that meant the senior ops had walls of high tech gear to keep track of and manipulate.

  On Position Six, I had three banks of electronic gizmos to contend with. On the left was a tower of RF spectrum analyzers that could be configured for automated or manual search in specific frequency ranges. In the center below my CRT was a line of hot button controls for the computer systems. Above the CRT was a specially configured wide spectrum analyzer. On the right, a tower of signal analyzers and other gear for locating the source or sources of origin, identifying and classifying signals.

  As we found signals, we worked to verify them as either friendly or enemy. Enemy signals were quickly and closely analyzed to determine the type, origin, and more. It was important to know whether a signal was from an enemy facility, ground vehicle, or aircraft; whether the signal was being transmitted ground to ground, ground to air, air to air, or air to ground; and whether the communications were a possible threat to our operations. If an operator was unable to verify a possible enemy signal, he would pass it on to another operator, typically one with more experience. Once a signal was verified, it was passed on to the Mission Crew Supervisor or Mission Crew Commander who marked the signal for jamming and other possible countermeasures.

  Time raced by as we worked the signal environment feverishly. When we hit our jam window, Captain Willie slammed the Lady into jam, effectively blocking the targeted enemy communications channels. This not only confused the enemy but also prevented command and control communications for their air defense networks.

  Soon the Buffs would be smacking the hell out of Kirkuk. Strike Eagles would follow. Behind them a dozen Fighting Falcons.

  We were still on fast-forward when Captain Willie’s voice tweaked Private and hissed into our headsets, “Crew, the packages have hit their targets. And they’re successfully egressing!”

  A tremendous uproar ensued. Emotions flowed. I know more than one of us had tears in our eyes. We’d done it; our first mission was accomplished. We had fifteen minutes of station’s time left to ensure the last of the package made it out safe and then all we had to do was make it back to base.

  That’s when all hell broke loose and when Gypsy called out, “Bogies at your nine o’clock!”

  No questions asked, the pilot did an evasive combat dive and our hearts jumped into our mouths. Everything that wasn’t bolted down went flying and we learned our first important combat lesson: if you don’t need it, don’t put it on your position.

  We were leveling off and about to turn back onto our orbit when Gypsy called out again, “Shadow, those bogies are bandits. Repeat, bandits nine o’clock high!” I’m not sure if anyone pissed in his pants, but I imagine some came close. The pilot took the Lady into another hard dive. Part of the MiG CAP sped off, chasing the Bandits. Gypsy was directing them hard—the crew in the AWACS were just as excited as we were.

  We stayed on orbit, continuing our evasive maneuvers for fifteen tortured minutes. The radios were alive with screaming voices. Eagle Leader was advising that the Bandits were Soviet-made MiGs. And Gypsy was still directing the Eagle formation hard.

  In the background I heard that Phantom was returning to base—bugging out as we called it.

  Paladin-1, the Eagles’ leader was screaming, but I couldn’t discern his squawk from amidst all the other chatter. The radios were drowned in a clutter of excited voices.

  The Eagles were doing their job, following Gypsy’s advice, and some of us were praying. It’s a good thing that during combat stations we were to remain strapped in and that no one had been in the rear except for the Spotter who was clinging to the starboard door for his life. Big John, the AMT, and Craig, who was supposed to sit Position Four but was spotting, were thanking the Almighty that they had their chutes on. Later that morning, someone would call Craig, the newly wed, Cosmo, and the name would stick.

  “Gypsy, Paladin-3 advises Bandits are Mirages not MiGs,” the voice of Paladin-1 squawked into my headset along with all the others.

  The F-1 Mirage wasn’t the deadliest fighter in the Iraqi inventory, but the F-1 crews were very skilled and had been tempered by the long Iran-Iraq war. I was sure the Eagles were taking the confrontation with deadly seriousness.

  We continued to work, our hearts in our throats. I didn’t have time to look about the cabin; but from the voices in my ears, I knew who was doing his job and who wasn’t. PBJ to my right was still visibly shaken. He just sat there still as can be, his eyes glossed over. In combat you either rise or you fall, and P
BJ was teetering on the edge of that bottomless pit.

  Abruptly Captain Willie’s voice tweaked in our ears, “Pilot, MCC, the packages have safely egressed. We’re cleared off stations. Let’s get out of here now!”

  “Roger, MCC, breaking off,” responded the pilot, relieved.

  We headed home. The prospect of safety somewhere ahead snatched PBJ away from the endless fall. I could see in his eyes that he, like me, was a survivor. It had only taken him longer to realize it.

  No one relaxed again until we were wheels down. In the end, the bandits got away, but we didn’t care, our CAP of Eagles had done their job—in the confusion, that final bit of information had been lost. The incident prepared some of us for a day when the shit really would hit the fan, a day when the bandits would be coming after us hungry.

  The adrenaline pump I felt wouldn’t slip away until well after debrief. Debrief lasted about an hour.

  Afterward, we turned in our weapons and the extra gear we had checked out. It was 13:00 before we left base ops and it was only then that I realized how exhausted I was; functioning on three hours of sleep just didn’t cut it. In the PME, I fell asleep, flight suit and all. At the time, none of us knew it, but this would be our shortest and easiest day for days to come.

  Monday, 21 January 1991

  I’m weary, bone tired. Saturday and Sunday I flew on my second and third wartime missions. The days passed in a blur of activity and confusion. I never fully realized how bizarre or wonderful our modern electronic age is. Here we were at war with Iraq and I was at an air base in Turkey.

  I remembered an old black-and-white clip issued by the war department during World War II. It was a special on the Memphis Belle. The narrator described England as an air front. I guess that’s what Turkey was, an air front.

  In my mind, the Gray Lady stacked up to the Belle point for point; yet our missions can’t be measured in payloads or tonnage dropped, but in lives saved and planes returned safely to base.

  It seemed we were segregated from the war and that we only jumped in and out of it for short spurts. Then things happened that reminded us just how insecure we were even though we were hundreds of miles away from the war zone.

  Iraq was again accusing Turkey of unprovoked aggression. They said that by allowing U.S. warplanes to attack Iraqi targets, Turkey was being drawn closer to war. Iraq threatened certain retaliation. Defenses around the air base had been bolstered, and reports said a Patriot missile battery was already here although I’d seen no reassuring signs.

  We were directed to start taking our pyridostigmine tablets every eight hours for seventy-two hours. The powers that be believed Iraq would indeed attack Turkey. If the attack came, they believed it would come in the form of a chemical or biological attack. The experimental drug in the tablets was supposed to counter side effects that would otherwise cripple us in the battlefield.

  Late in the afternoon, I awoke to the sound of screaming sirens. The sirens’ wail, a wavering tone, told me attack was imminent or in progress. It signified Alarm Red.

  Still exhausted from the early morning flight, it took me a few moments to orient myself. Shortly I remembered, as did everyone around me, words from our briefings on the unconventional warfare threat, “All attacks should be considered chemical until proven otherwise. Take immediate cover and don protective gear.”

  Real world chemical gear is carefully sealed in government plastic bags, each piece separate. The full chemical ensemble includes overpants, overjacket, plastic overboots, mask, hood, cotton glove inserts and plastic overgloves, all worn over the top of a standard uniform or flight suit. Over the top of all that went a protective helmet and a web belt with canteen, medical kit and a pouch containing nerve agent antidote: pyridostigmine tablets, three atropine auto-injectors, and three 2-pam chloride auto-injectors. In short, it was everything we needed to survive.

  Plastic bags were being ripped apart all around the room. Many like me had already gone through a previous Alarm Red. We had our masks at the ready, our gear close by. Others who had arrived only recently were scrambling and tearing open bags.

  Chemical hoods, part of the full ground-crew ensemble, are not only carefully packed in plastic but also packed with baby powder to preserve them. The filters for our particular type of masks, the full-face type, were packed in tin cans. There were about five or six people that were opening the tin cans and baby powder was everywhere.

  I went for my mask first and messed with the ground-crew ensemble second. Then I huddled on the floor in the quasi-dark of that small room, waiting for the sirens’ wail to end.

  I glanced down at the pouch containing the irksome looking auto-injectors. I remembered from demonstrations and training that beneath the safety cap was a hidden needle over two inches long. The needle wasn’t thin, but rather thick to prevent breakage and to allow the antidote to inject more quickly. To activate it you were supposed to slam the needle end of the injector hard against the side of your thigh until the needle triggered, then hold it there while the contents oozed into your leg. You did this first with the atropine then followed it with the 2-pam chloride. If symptoms persisted, you were supposed to do this again after ten minutes.

  It could have been worse. The older auto-injectors required you to inject the antidote manually into your leg by squeezing and rolling the tube down the way you would a tube of toothpaste. I lay there in the quasi-darkness thinking about all of this. This was, indeed, war; and nowhere was truly safe.

  The Alarm Red was followed ominously by Alarm Black, which meant imminent arrival or possible presence of nuclear, biological, or chemical contamination. This was a period of uncertainty. I was no longer just frightened but terrified by the very real possibility that there were weapons of mass destruction enroute to our location.

  Seconds ticked by. The air outside was balmy and still. It became so hot inside the protective suit that sweat poured down my face and into my eyes. The suit clung to my body. All I wanted to do was close my eyes, thinking that maybe if I did, when I opened my eyes again I’d find it was all a bad dream.

  As tends to happen in a bad dream, things got worse before they got better. One of the crewers started freaking out and running around the room. He was screaming something as he ran around the room. I don’t know what he was saying, but I really didn’t have to. He had let panic set it. Any thoughts running through his mind were surely worse than reality—at least that was my hope.

  I couldn’t help trying to remember if he were one of the newbies. Had he put on his suit and mask too late to prevent onset of chemical or biological agents that might be present in the air? Did he need to be injected with antidote? Was this just what it appeared to be—a panic attack?

  I nodded to PBJ next to me and together we tackled the crewer to the ground. As I turned him around, I realized it was Big John. His eyes were wild and unfixed as we turned him about to face us.

  It was then that the attack ended. The sirens stopped wailing. We couldn’t be sure that NBC contaminants were not present. We knew it was a necessary safety precaution. Still, I couldn’t help wondering and praying for the All Clear announcement.

  The All Clear was long in the coming. I slapped Big John’s shoulder reassuringly as I removed my mask.

  Shouts of joy erupted from the silent and mostly dark chamber. We’d find out later that Scud missiles had been launched at Israel. The alarms had been safety precautions and nothing more. If the attack had been real this day, some of us would have been dead or worse, myself most likely included—I didn’t dive for that mask as quickly as I should have.

  No one spoke of what Big John had done. We all went back to what we were doing before the alarms sounded. The inevitable preflight alert came at 20:30. I never got back to sleep after the Alarm Red and I still hadn’t eaten anything but an MRE the day before. I stuck my head in the faucet and turned on the cold water. The water was extremely cold due to the cool Turkish nights, but I needed it to wake me up and to clean the gr
ime of a trying day.

  In the first days of the war there was so much uncertainty, so very much uncertainty, and even more confusion. We never knew when we were going to fly next. We never knew what was going to happen next. It was sleep when you got time if you got time.

  As the new day came, we were still sitting in intel getting the daily preflight intelligence briefing. The confusion we felt yesterday was gone, leaving a feeling of disorientation. We weren’t at all accustomed to sitting in a war room with an intelligence planner telling us about real-world packages we were going to support.

  Today the packages would be hitting enemy early warning radar sites, airfields, and aircraft, as well as chemical and biological storage facilities. The intent was to destroy Iraq’s capability to conduct unconventional warfare, and this was one of the key goals of the forces in Turkey. Nearly all of these facilities were located in areas north of Baghdad. To complicate matters, large numbers of Iraqi fighter jets were withdrawing from the hot areas in the South to northern airfields.

  From what I could tell, the air campaign was progressing well, but there was an evident threat from the powerful Iraqi machine. SAM sites, AAA sites and scores of Iraqi fighter jets were still intact and ready to knock us out of the skies. It was a threat that none of us took lightly—there was just too much unknown.

  The items we’d been given on arrival and had simply accepted we found the good sense to start asking questions about. We knew about blood chits, SAR codes, and evasion maps, but we’d never had to put them to real use before. Blood chits were exactly what the name implied. They were written promises of reimbursement in Arabic should we be shot down over hostile territory. Basically our lives in exchange for reward. The blood chit had four corner tabs that could be torn off to give to a benefactor and each tab was specially numbered. SAR codes were used to aid search and rescue efforts. If we went down, we knew how and when to properly contact the rescue teams. The evasion map was a specially designed map of our region of operations. It also had a number of useful survival tips printed along its sides: various first aid procedures, how to find water sources, even pictures of edible plants. On one of its two exposed sides was a tiny replica of the gallant stars and stripes.