almost the last aircraft at the top of the stack. The two F-15s that had followed us out of Iraq were somewhere behind us, and two KC-135 tankers were orbiting at 25,000 feet until all the fighters landed.
“TORCH One . . . High Stack.”
He made the call and went into a sharp, descending turn. I was supposed to wait until he called “mid-stack,” and then I’d start down. Dropping the mask again, I loosened my seat straps, wiped my face, and actually relaxed a bit. And why not? What else could happen?
Under normal circumstances, that’s a risky thought to have. Under these circumstances, it was downright cocky. And stupid.
As I watched the jets spiral down and cross the runway threshold, a wholly unbelievable plume of white smoke lifted off from the north side of the base. My mouth dropped open. Really.
SAM.
Holy shit . . . I was trying to think of what to say and fumbling for the mike button.
SAM!
But an extremely excited voice beat me to it.
“Mi . . . Missile . . . Missile launch! Launch at . . . EXXON 21!”
EXXON was one of the orbiting tankers, and the pilot sounded like he was getting an enema.
Suddenly, the amazingly fast missile detonated in the middle of the stack with fighters swirling all around it. For a long, long moment, there was dead silence and then the tower frequency exploded.
“Tower . . .”
“LIK Tower . . . TARZAN Three . . . there was a missile launch from the base.”
“What the hell was . . .”
“ . . . North of the base . . . exploded at . . .”
“ . . . About 7,000 feet.”
“Two . . . are you all right . . .”
We found out later that the Patriot base defense missile battery was in auto-mode. Among other things, this meant that if it detected jamming, then it would lock onto the jamming source and fire. No one had foreseen the effect that a hundred jets, all with jamming pods, radios, and electronic equipment would have on the Patriot. It saw all that and interpreted everything as hostile, locked the biggest thing it could see, and fired. The poor tanker pilot had probably wet his pants, and who could blame him?
Everyone finally calmed down and normal calls continued. I landed uneventfully and found Orca waiting for me at the end of runway (EOR), getting “de-armed.” This meant that the explosive charges that released our bombs, missiles, or countermeasures were deactivated and pinned to keep them from coming off on the ground. I looked over at him, barely thirty feet away, and gave him a few enthusiastic fist pumps. He nodded, and I saw him smile. The EWO had his arms up on the canopy rail and his head back like he was asleep. But then I saw the visor turn toward me, and he gave me a thumbs-up.
One hour later, we’d shut down, visited maintenance debrief to explain any problems with the jets, gone by life support and gotten out of our gear, turned in our paperwork, and were back in the squadron. This was a long, low building that had been built during the Cold War and smelled like it hadn’t been used since the Cuban missile crisis. It was “hardened,” or reinforced, with six-feet-thick walls to withstand the nuclear attack that never came. Pilots coming back from missions would drop off their paperwork at the duty desk and then wander into the intelligence vault for yet another debrief. This was a sealed room with no windows. There were lots of secret computers, and all the classified information pertaining to our aircraft, weapons, and missions was kept here. Maps covered the walls with the latest and greatest updates on MiGs and SAMs. We’d pass on our enemy encounters and then discuss the target area.
Finally, after all this, we’d find an empty briefing room and discuss the flight in detail. We’d talk through each phase of the mission, tear apart the good and bad aspects, and arrive, hopefully, at ways to make it better. We’d dissect our videotapes and analyze each weapon that was dropped, shot, or fired. From
“TORCH One . . . High Stack.”
He made the call and went into a sharp, descending turn. I was supposed to wait until he called “mid-stack,” and then I’d start down. Dropping the mask again, I loosened my seat straps, wiped my face, and actually relaxed a bit. And why not? What else could happen?
Under normal circumstances, that’s a risky thought to have. Under these circumstances, it was downright cocky. And stupid.
As I watched the jets spiral down and cross the runway threshold, a wholly unbelievable plume of white smoke lifted off from the north side of the base. My mouth dropped open. Really.
SAM.
Holy shit . . . I was trying to think of what to say and fumbling for the mike button.
SAM!
But an extremely excited voice beat me to it.
“Mi . . . Missile . . . Missile launch! Launch at . . . EXXON 21!”
EXXON was one of the orbiting tankers, and the pilot sounded like he was getting an enema.
Suddenly, the amazingly fast missile detonated in the middle of the stack with fighters swirling all around it. For a long, long moment, there was dead silence and then the tower frequency exploded.
“Tower . . .”
“LIK Tower . . . TARZAN Three . . . there was a missile launch from the base.”
“What the hell was . . .”
“ . . . North of the base . . . exploded at . . .”
“ . . . About 7,000 feet.”
“Two . . . are you all right . . .”
We found out later that the Patriot base defense missile battery was in auto-mode. Among other things, this meant that if it detected jamming, then it would lock onto the jamming source and fire. No one had foreseen the effect that a hundred jets, all with jamming pods, radios, and electronic equipment would have on the Patriot. It saw all that and interpreted everything as hostile, locked the biggest thing it could see, and fired. The poor tanker pilot had probably wet his pants, and who could blame him?
Everyone finally calmed down and normal calls continued. I landed uneventfully and found Orca waiting for me at the end of runway (EOR), getting “de-armed.” This meant that the explosive charges that released our bombs, missiles, or countermeasures were deactivated and pinned to keep them from coming off on the ground. I looked over at him, barely thirty feet away, and gave him a few enthusiastic fist pumps. He nodded, and I saw him smile. The EWO had his arms up on the canopy rail and his head back like he was asleep. But then I saw the visor turn toward me, and he gave me a thumbs-up.
One hour later, we’d shut down, visited maintenance debrief to explain any problems with the jets, gone by life support and gotten out of our gear, turned in our paperwork, and were back in the squadron. This was a long, low building that had been built during the Cold War and smelled like it hadn’t been used since the Cuban missile crisis. It was “hardened,” or reinforced, with six-feet-thick walls to withstand the nuclear attack that never came. Pilots coming back from missions would drop off their paperwork at the duty desk and then wander into the intelligence vault for yet another debrief. This was a sealed room with no windows. There were lots of secret computers, and all the classified information pertaining to our aircraft, weapons, and missions was kept here. Maps covered the walls with the latest and greatest updates on MiGs and SAMs. We’d pass on our enemy encounters and then discuss the target area.
Finally, after all this, we’d find an empty briefing room and discuss the flight in detail. We’d talk through each phase of the mission, tear apart the good and bad aspects, and arrive, hopefully, at ways to make it better. We’d dissect our videotapes and analyze each weapon that was dropped, shot, or fired. From
Similar Books
