Having a girlfriend who's also a fighter pilot gives me more than a few insights...she flies for the CA ANG, and has also put me in touch with a few retired F-4 drivers who flew for the Guard in the '80s. They, too, have been helpful with how things go in the F-4.

Anyway, the Fox codes...

nice work. took me two days to catch up. looking forward to more.

FYI the only active radar missile in theater (or anywhere else, for that matter) is the AIM-54A/C Phoenix, on the F-14. There is a shore-based Navy squadron in Tenth Air Force, and they go on Foxbat hunts, and also have splashed a Mainstay.

Matt just remind me who is in this war as your write-up is now so vast it would take weeks to go back reading through it

Good Guys: USA, UK, Canada, South Korea.

I think Japan, China, Australia and Israel are also on the good side. Who else?

Bad Guys: USSR, East Germany, Cuba, Libya, Nicaragua and Mexico

Other baddies I think are Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Bulgaria, Vietnam, North Korea. Are they also in North America and who else is on the Soviet side?

And what of the French?

What happened to all the AIM 7E and [solid state] AIM 7F Sparrows? They are Actively Guided and were the most produced radar-guided missiles in the US inventory [excepting that the AIM 7F was introduced in the mid '70s, the production of which will be affected by your timeline]. I can see all the AIM 7Ms being gone since only a few hundred were made starting in 1982, but there should be at least a few AIM 7Es left. They were the standard radar-guided missile for the Air Force.

The Fs are in widespread service, but many of the Es are either at the end of, or are past, their effective shelf life. The 335th has just received Fs, but will not get AIM-9L (the "All-aspect" Sidewinders) until near the end of the war. The RAF has the better radar missile in the Sky Flash, but their F-4Js are the only birds in theater who are wired for them. The 335th was actually using Sparrows left over from SEA, which may explain the poor results when using AIM-7s in combat...

The next day begins....



335th TFS, Sheppard AFB, TX; 22 November, 1987. 0525 Hours Central War Time:



Major Matt Wiser left his tent in Officer Country and headed on to the 335th's Office. The squadron CO took a look at the Eastern Horizon and noted the first hint of the predawn twilight beginning to show. Good flying weather today, he noted, but tomorrow.....A storm that was hitting the Pacific Coast right now would affect them the following day, and thus no flying unless it was a maintenance check, or an air defense scramble. There would be one other, for he promised Jana Wendt, the reporter attached to the squadron, a backseat ride in an F-4, and he intended to make good on that promise. The CO did wonder how the reporter and his wingmate get along, for he intended to have Capt. Kara Thrace take her up, while the Major had Trevor Scott, her cameraman, in his back seat.

When he got to the squadron's office, he found the night-shift admin people winding things up, though their shift had a half-hour to go. Hacksaw, the night-shift SDO, was at his desk as the Major came in.

“Boss,” Hacksaw said. He didn't rise from the desk, as that was considered rear-area habit. They were in a combat zone, and as Major General Robert Tanner, the Commander of the Tenth Air Force had said, “The shooting's started, and we can dispense with the jumping up and down nonsense.” That was something the CO agreed with completely, though it gave one officer who had been a thorn in his predecessor's side, and was currently stuck in his, fits.

The CO nodded. “Morning, Hacksaw. Still grounded?”

Hacksaw let out a grin. “When the stand-down's over, I get back in the air, Doc says.”

“Good for you,” Major Wiser nodded. “You may think you've been missing out, but you haven't missed a damned thing. Keep that in mind for today and tomorrow.”

“I know, Boss,” Hacksaw replied. “It's just...”

The CO understood. He knew the feeling, having been grounded back in March for two weeks with a cold himself-and his backseater had been grounded at the same time with a cold as well. Something that irritated them to no end for those two weeks. And yet, Doc Waters, the squadron's flight surgeon, outranked them in anything medical-even the CO, whether it was the late Colonel Rivers back then, or the Major now. “Yeah, but....you'll be back in the air day after tomorrow, where you belong.” He glanced at his office, and saw someone waiting. “XO in?”

“He's waiting for you.”

“All right, Hacksaw. Thanks.”

“You got it, Boss.”

The CO went to his office, and found Capt. Mark Ellis, his Exec, waiting. “Morning, Mark,” the CO said.

“Morning,” the XO replied. He had a clipboard in one hand and a cup of cocoa in another, which he handed to the CO. “Got a few things for you.”

Major Wiser took the cup and started to drain it. “What have we got?”

“Morning reports for MAG-11 and Tenth Air Force,” Ellis said, handing the CO the clipboard.

The CO scanned both, then signed them. “That's that. What's next?'

“Morning weather.” The XO handed the CO the Weather Report.

“VFR flying until 1800 or so, then clouding over, with rain developing overnight. Steady rain after 0200, and scattered showers after 1500 tomorrow with return to VFR conditions. Clouds top out at 18,000.” Major Wiser put down the paper. “Lovely. No flying for most of the day tomorrow, which means our check ride with Ms. Wendt is in the afternoon.”

The XO grinned. “Still trying to scare her out of here?” He wondered.

“She's made of sterner stuff,” the CO admitted. “To be honest, I thought she'd be out of here after her first Scud attack or that Su-24 strike. Which shows that first impressions don't mean much sometimes.”

“That's a fact,” Ellis said as there was a knock on the office door.

“Yeah?” The CO said. “Come on in and show yourself!”

A female lieutenant with wavy blonde hair as long as regs permitted came in, with a cup of hot liquid in each hand. “Morning, Guru,” said First Lieutenant Lisa Eichhorn, call sign Goalie, as she came into the office.Guru was the CO's call sign. She handed the CO one of the cups. “And that's for you.”

Guru took the cup and had a sip. Cocoa again. “And good morning to you,” he said. She was not only his GIB, but also his girlfriend. “Ready to go out and earn your flight pay this morning?”

She grinned. “And come April 15, we give forty-five cents of every dollar back to Uncle Sam.”

“That we do,” Guru nodded. “Wars are expensive.”

“Don't we know it,” Mark Ellis said.

“Well, this time tomorrow, we're busy sleeping in?” Goalie asked with a grin. She was looking forward to some bedroom gymnastics.

“First we have to get through today,” Guru reminded them. “First things first.” Though he didn't mind catching up with such athletics with Goalie, they had a busy day ahead, one they had to live through first.

Both knew full well what the CO was talking about. Get through the coming day, then worry about what the next day would hold. “That detail is always there,” she admitted.

“It is,” the Exec added.

“Anything special before we head to eat?” Guru asked as he sipped his cocoa.

“What's the latest on Frank?” Goalie asked.

“Nothing new from Doc,” Guru said. “But Doc did say he'd keep an eye on Frank.”

A smile appeared on Goalie's face. “Maybe Doc will find a damned good reason to ground him.”

“Maybe,” the XO said.

“I doubt it,” Guru nodded as he finished off his cocoa. “Doc told me Frank aced his flight physical, but he'll be watching for the slightest reason to ground him.” Guru glanced at the clock on his office wall. “0550. Let's get ourselves some breakfast.”

The three went to the Officer's Mess, where people from MAG-11's squadrons were milling about, waiting for the chow line to open. There, they found Marine Colonel Allen Brady, the MAG-11 CO, talking with two of the Marine squadron commanders. “Morning, Colonel,” Guru said.

“Morning, Major,” Brady said. “Ready for a maximum effort today?”

“Yes, sir,” Guru said as RAF Squadron Leader Dave Gledhill came over. He was in charge of the 74 Squadron detachment that had come over to their little corner of the war. “You all set, Dave?”

“Quite,” Gledhill replied. “Though this is new, having a unit stand-down. On Bermuda, we just gave individual crews the day off.”

“That's another sign you've come to a whole new ball game in a different league,” Guru nodded. “Be glad you're getting it. Get caught up on maintenance and aircrew rest, then go back.”

“Indeed,” Gledhill said. He glanced around, and saw his two female ace pilots, Karen McKay and Susan Napier, chatting with Capt. Kara Thrace, who was Guru's wingmate. “I see Kara's chatting up with Susan and Karen.” Just then, two other ace pilots, Lieutenants Valerie “Sweaty” Blanchard and Sandi “Flossy” Jenkins joined them, followed by Jana Wendt, the reporter from both CBS and 9 News Australia who was attached to the 335th.

“And the reporter's with them,” Goalie observed. “She'll be doing a piece on them.” By the tone of her voice, it wasn't a question.

“No doubt,” Colonel Brady said. “You're still taking her up, Major?”

“Kara will, yes, sir,” Guru grinned. “I don't think we'll scare her back to Nellis-she's proven to be made of sterner stuff, but she'll definitely be pulling some Gs.”

“That's a given,” Goalie grinned. “I won't be there, sir, but I'll be waiting when she lands.”

“No doubt,” Colonel Brady said. He, too, wanted to see how Ms. Wendt would take a flight in a fighter, for she did want to fly with the Marines as well. “You're taking her cameraman, I gather?”

“Yes, sir,” Guru nodded.

The Marine Mess Officer came out of the tent just then, and flipped the sign on the door from CLOSED to OPEN. “Chow's ready, people!”


After breakfast, the flight leads went to the Ops Office to get their mission folders, while the crews went to their briefing rooms. The CO was first in, and found Capt. Don Van Loan waiting. “Don,” Guru said. “What's on tap for me this morning?”

The Ops Officer handed him a folder. “Dublin, and you've actually got three targets.”

Guru scanned the mission outline. Then he stared at Van Loan. “Whose bright idea was this?”

“Don't look at me, Boss-man. I just put things together from what the ATO calls.”

“I know, Don,” Guru said. “At least we're getting Dave Golen and Flossy again, and Dave Gledhill's element.”

“They're good people, Boss,” Van Loan grinned.

“They are. Thanks, Don,” Guru said. He then went to his squadron's briefing room-a former classroom from the days Sheppard was an ATC base. The CO found the squadron's mascot, Buddy, waiting at the door, wanting in. He opened the door, and the dog went in and promptly found a place to lie down and go to sleep. Guru then came in. “People, we've got our mission,” he said, seeing Dave Golen, Flossy, their GIBs along with Dave Gledhill's element.

“Where to?” Kara asked.

“Dublin,” Guru replied, opening the folder and passing out the briefing materials. “We've actually got three targets.”

“Three?” Sweaty wanted to know. “Whose bright idea was this?”

“Whoever put the ATO together,” Guru replied. “I'm taking Kara and hitting the municipal airport. It's been hit several times, and the East Germans have put it back together somewhat. It's still in use as an FOL for Su-25s and for Hind or Hip gunships.”

Kara looked at an SR-71 photo of the target. “So who gets what?”

“I'm taking the ramp area, and you get the runway,” Guru said. “We each have six Mark-82s and six M-117s, plus the usual air-to-air load.” That was four AIM-9Ps, two AIM-7Fs, a full 20-mm load, two wing tanks, and an ECM pod-in Guru's case, an ALQ-119, while Kara still made do with an ALQ-101.

“Sounds good,” Kara grinned. “Been a while since I got a runway.”

“We'll tear it up,” Preacher said.

“Good. Sweaty?” The CO turned to his second element lead. “You and Hoser have this target south of the airport between F.M. 322 and F.M. 1702. It's a damaged vehicle collection and repair point.”

“Big mother,” Sweaty noted after seeing the imagery. “I notice it's right across the road from the town cemetery.”

Hearing that, the crews were incredulous. “Why'd they do that?” KT, Hoser's backseater, asked.

“Good question,” Hoser said. “It's a big field, and available, so why not?”

“Probably what they were thinking,” Preacher nodded.

“What's the loadout?” Sweaty asked. “Same as you and Kara?”

“It is, and Dave Golen's element has it as well,” Guru said, checking the ATO.

IDF Maj. Dave Golen, their “Observer”, asked, “What's on for us?” He nodded at Flossy.

“You've got this,” Guru said, tapping a photo of a collection of trucks with trailers, command vehicles, tents, and communications antennae. “It's listed as a suspected CP, but might be a SIGINT site, or a com relay. Whatever it is, you two make it go away.”

“A chance to kill a general?” Golen grinned. “It'll be a pleasure.”

Flossy asked, “What if it's gone when we get there?”

A very good question, Guru knew. “No alternates listed, so your choice: you can add your bombs to what Sweaty and Hoser do, or split the difference. One of you can go for this:” Guru tapped a spot on another photo-this one a low-level from an RF-4C. “It's a small fuel dump. Not big enough for two birds, but one....”

“I'll take the fuel dump if the CP isn't there,” Dave said.

“That leaves the repair yard,” Flossy nodded. “I'll finish what Sweaty starts.”

“Sounds good,” Guru nodded approval. “Okay, the other Dave?” He nodded at Dave Gledhill and his RAF people. “TARCAP as usual.”

“Got it. We'll have four Sidewinder-Ls, four Sky Flash, two wing tanks, and a SUU-23 gun pod,” Gledhill said.

“Good,” Guru said. “Nearest MiGs are at Brownwood Regional, and that's three minutes' flight time away for those MiG-21s and -23s.”

Kara nodded, then asked, “Boss, what's the MiG threat?”

“Now that you ask, it's MiG-21s and -23s at James Connolly AFB, Waco, with more at Waco Regional and Temple. More Floggers and Fulcrums are at Gray AAF at Fort Hood, with additional MiG-29s and the Flankers at Bergstrom AFB near Austin. Throw in the MiG-29s at Goodfellow, and -23s at San Angelo Municipal.”

“And the air-defense threat?” Dave Golen asked.

“They're East Germans. Around the airport? Just 23-mm and 37-mm. Dublin is a Division-level HQ, so there's SA-6 in the area, along with ZSU-23-4.”

Hoser nodded. “Somebody has to ask: any ZSU-30s?”

Guru scanned the intel sheet. “None reported, but that doesn't mean the East Germans don't have any. If you see those damned basketball-sized tracers at the target? Abort. We'll head for an opportunity target instead.”

Kara said, “There's plenty around, with this being an Army-level formation's rear.”

“There's several possibles listed,” said Guru. “All right: Ingress and egress.” He saw that everybody was paying close attention. “We hook up with the tankers at Track CHEVRON near Mineral Wells, then we get our asses down low. Follow the Brazos again, and watch for flak at the bridges and the Lake Granbury Dam. Once we get to Brazospoint, watch out, for we'll be back in the Libyan sector, and we all know how they shoot.”

“As if somebody's banned the practice and it's taking effect five minutes from that,” KT joked.

“A Golden BB can still nail you,” Guru warned them. “Keep that in mind. Anyway, we follow the river to Lake Whitney and down the lake. One mile from the dam, we turn to a heading of Two-four-five, head over the town of Fairy, then hit Lamkin on State Route 36. Then we go west for thirty seconds, then turn north, following F.M. 1702. Thirty seconds from the target, we pull up, as there's no good visual cues for a pullup. ID your target, make your run, then get your asses north. Once clear, make sure your last jink takes you to the left, and pick up State Route 16.”

Flossy asked, “Why the highway, Boss?”

“It's the boundary between the East Germans and the Soviet 32nd Army, if you'll recall, and they don't react much-probably because they think the other guys on either side of the highway will respond. Get to the highway, then north to the I-20. Meet the tankers, then come back.”

“And an hour or two later, we do this all over again,” Kara spat. It reminded her of what she'd been taught about the air war in Southeast Asia.

Guru nodded sympathetically. “That's a given. Anything else?” He asked as an Ops NCO came to collect the briefing materials.

“Buddy's still asleep,” Sweaty said, nodding at the dog.

“Let him sleep,” said Kara.

“Yeah,” Guru agreed. “If that's it, gear up and we'll meet at 512's revetment.”

The crews headed for their locker rooms to get into their flight gear. They were already in their flight suits, so it was the G-suit, survival vest, and picking up their helmets and sidearms.

When Guru came out of the Men's, he found Goalie waiting for him as usual. “Ready?”

She nodded. “Cry Havoc, and let slip the dogs of war.”

“One of the Henrys?” Guru asked as they headed out of the squadron's office.

“Richard III, I think,” Goalie replied. “It's been a while.”

“Same here,” Guru said as they walked over to 512's revetment. The rest of the flight was waiting. “All right, gather 'round,” The CO said, getting ready for his final instructions.

“Usual on the radio?” Kara asked.

Guru nodded, then replied, “Call signs between us, and mission code to other parties.”

“How many today?” Flight Lt. Susan Napier, Dave Gledhill's wingmate, asked.

“Hopefully, just the four scheduled,” said Guru. “But you never know.”

Sweaty nodded. “We could get back, and find out we're getting a hot turnaround, and are doing CAS the rest of the day.”

“Easily,” Kara agreed. “It's happened before.”

“That it has,” Guru nodded. “Okay, a reminder about bailout areas. Anyplace rural and away from the roads. As for mission code, we're Rambler Flight. Anything else?” Heads shook no. “Okay, let's fly. Time to hit it.” He clapped his hands for emphasis.

The crews headed for their aircraft, as Guru and Goalie went into the revetment. There, Sergeant Crowley, 512's Crew Chief, was waiting. “Major, Lieutenant? Five-twelve's ready to kick some more Commie ass,” he said, saluting.

Both Guru and Goalie returned the salute, “Thanks, Sarge,” Guru said. He and Goalie did their usual preflight walk-around, then mounted the aircraft. After getting strapped into their seats, it was time for the preflight cockpit check.

As they went through the checklist, Goalie asked, “Just how busy are we going to be today? Ejection seats?”

“Armed top and bottom, and check yours,” Guru replied. “And good question as to how busy we're going to be. That's up to Ivan.”

“Figured,” said Goalie.

“Yeah, they do have a say in that,” said Guru. “Arnie?” He was referring to the ARN-101 DMAS.

“Arnie's set, and so is the INS,” Goalie said. “Preflight checklist complete and ready for engine start.”

“So it is.” Guru gave a thumbs-up to his CC, and he got the “Start Engines” signal from Sergeant Crowley. First one, then both, J-79 engines were up and running. Once the warm-up was finished, Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Flight with eight, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

A controller replied at once. “Rambler Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi to Runway Three-Five-Lima. Hold prior to the active, and you are number two in line.”

“Roger, Tower. Rambler Lead rolling.” Guru replied. He gave another thumbs-up to his CC, who waved to the ground crew. The chocks were pulled away from the wheels, and Sergeant Crowley gave the “Taxi” signal.

Guru released the brakes and taxied 512 out of the revetment. Once clear, Sergeant Crowley snapped a perfect salute, and both Guru and Goalie returned it. Guru taxied to Runway 35L, as the others in the flight fell in behind him, and when he got to the holding area, a flight of Marine Hornets was ahead of his, but he was the first 335th flight out of the gate this morning. After the Marines launched, Guru led the flight into the holding area, where the armorers removed the weapon safeties. Then he called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting clear to taxi for takeoff.”

“Rambler Lead, Tower,” the controller responded. “Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are two-six-five for ten.”

“Roger, Tower.” Guru taxied onto the runway, then Kara followed in 520, getting right in at his Five O'clock. A final check to make sure all was ready, then he glanced over at 520. Kara and Brainiac gave thumbs-ups to signal they were ready. Then it was time. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

As usual, the Tower didn't reply by radio, but flashed a green light. Clear for takeoff.

“Ready?” Guru asked his GIB.

“Let's do it,” Goalie replied.

“Yeah, let's,” said Guru. “Canopy coming down. He pulled his canopy down, closing and locking it, and Goalie did the same. He looked to his right at 520, and saw that Kara and Brainiac had done the same. “Time to go.” He firewalled the throttles, released the brakes, and 512 rumbled down the runway and into the air, with Kara right with him in 520. Thirty seconds later, it was the turn of Sweaty's element, followed by Dave Golen's, with the two RAF F-4Js bringing up the rear. Rambler Flight formed up at FL 100, then they headed south for the tankers.

Over Central Texas: 0735 Hours Central War Time:



Rambler Flight was headed south, having topped up from the KC-135s and, for the RAF, the Tristar, and had crossed the fence and was now in hostile territory. They were following the Brazos River, just inside the sector held by the Nicaraguans, with the East Germans on the west side, and were just getting to Lake Granbury. So far, there had been no flak from the Nicaraguan side, but some East Germans had shot at them from the other side of the river.

In 512's front seat, Guru was watching not just his instruments, but also keeping up his visual scanning. Which was something the instructors at the RTU drummed into one's head not just in Ground School, but in the air as well. “Granbury Bridge in how long?” He asked Goalie.

His backseater replied, “Thirty seconds.” Or eight miles, she silently added. She, too, watched her instruments, and double-checked the navigation. Not just using the ARN-101, but also the old-fashioned way, with a map and stopwatch. And like a good GIB, Goalie also had eyes out of the cockpit, for having two pairs of eyes in the aircraft had saved their asses more than once.

“Got it,” Guru replied. He checked his EW display. Still clear, but he expected a Mainstay's radar signal to pop up any time.

“Coming up on the bridge,” Goalie advised. There were actually two bridges at Granbury, one of which carried U.S. 377 over the river, and the other was the old U.S. 377 bridge. A third railroad bridge had been dropped earlier in the summer, leaving these two. Sooner or later, Guru felt, somebody's going to drop these-unless the Army says no.

“Bridge coming up at One,” his GIB called. “And there's the flak as well.” Sure enough, the East Germans on the west side of the river began shooting, as 23-mm tracers along with puffs from 57-mm guns came up. As usual, though, the Nicaraguan gunners on the east side stayed silent, and Rambler Flight easily outdistanced the flak.

“And the dam?” Guru asked, referring to the Lake Granbury Dam.

“Coming up,” said Goalie. “Three miles.”

“Got it,” said Guru as the flak from the west side of the dam appeared. “East Germans are right on time.”

In the back seat, Goalie nodded, then she checked her EW display. “And so is Ivan.”

“What?”

“Check your EW.”

Guru checked his EW display, and sure enough, a strobe appeared to the south, along with the SEARCH warning light. “Mainstay again.” It wasn't a question.

“Roger that. Glen Rose Bridge in twenty seconds,” Goalie advised.

“Copy,” Guru said. That bridge was for U.S. 67.

“And tally on the bridge.”

The Glen Rose Bridge appeared at their One O'clock, along with the flak from the East Germans. As did a convoy on the bridge-military trucks and APCs. “Too bad this isn't armed recon,” Guru noted wistfully.

“Not their turn today,” Goalie replied. Too bad, she thought.

On the bridge, an East German Major was wincing. His convoy had had to travel through not just a Cuban rear area, but also the Nicaraguans' and the latter, he felt, were beginning to act just as his father had told him about the Italians in the last war. They were a bunch of slackers, and though they seemed very competent in their defense, or so it seemed, the Nicaraguans seemed to want the Yankees to come to them instead of resuming the offensive. At a stopover, one of the liaison officers with the Nicaraguan II Corps had taken the Major aside and given him a piece of news. Not only did it seem that the Nicaraguans want to lose the war, the other Major had said, but they wanted to do so as quickly as possible.

With that bright piece of news in hand, the Major's convoy, with supplies eventually destined for the 20th MRD, began crossing the bridge. The Traffic Regulators, at least, were Soviet, and had things well in hand. His command BTR-60PB began to cross, with trucks-including a gun truck with a ZU-23 AA gun mounted, following. Then he froze. The AA guns on the west side of the river opened up as eight American F-4s appeared, and a feeling of dread came over him, for his convoy was a sitting target. To his relief, the Ami Phantoms didn't attack, but kept on going south, intent on business elsewhere. The Major then shouted into his radio, and the convoy began moving forward again. They didn't hit us. This time, he thought.


“Brazospoint next,” Guru said as Glen Rose fell behind.

“Copy that,” Goalie said. “Twenty seconds.”

“Got it,” Guru replied as he took 512 down the middle of the river, and the flight followed. Then he called the AWACS. “Crystal Palace, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler Lead, Crystal Palace,” a controller replied. “First threat bearing One-six-zero for fifty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-seven-five for sixty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing Two-one-zero for eighty. Medium, closing. Fourth threat bearing Two-four-zero for ninety. Medium, going away.”

“Copy that,” said Guru. “Say Bogey Dope?”

“Rambler, First threats are Fishbeds. Second and third are Floggers, and fourth are Fulcrums.”

“Roger, Crystal Palace.”

“Brazospoint coming up,” said Goalie. “Flak on both sides.” That meant they were out of the Nicaraguan sector to the east, and had Libyans on the east bank. This was also where the Ops Officer had run into a flak trap, and Guru had led a strike later that same day to take out the guilty parties.

“Right on time,” Guru said as the flak appeared. The East German gunners stopped shooting after the strike flight cleared the bridge, but a quick glance to the rear showed the Libyans still firing. As usual.

“They are,” Goalie agreed. “Thirty seconds to the Route 174 bridge. That signaled the north end of Lake Whitney.

“Copy.”

The strike flight kept on course, and the bridge that carried State Route 174 over the Brazos came into view-with the flak from both sides of the river. “Bridge and flak ahead,” Goalie called.

“Roger that,” Guru replied as they overflew the bridge, and unlike the Glen Rose Bridge, there was no traffic on the bridge. “This one's empty.”

“Too bad,” Goalie said as the lake opened up ahead of them.

Seeing the lake, Guru dropped lower, from 500 feet AGL to 450, and the flight followed as he did. A quick glance at the EW display showed the Mainstay radar signal still there. “And the Mainstay's going.”

“Still say someone needs to do something about those guys.”

“So do I.”

As Rambler Flight thundered down the lake, they attracted the attention of not only locals who were fishing to supplement the rationing that the occupation imposed, but also Soviet, East German, and Cuban soldiers who wanted fresh fish as a change from Army rations. Not to mention in a couple of what had been prewar, boat-in campgrounds, some of the local Resistance. The locals and the Resistance people had smiles on their faces. Seeing the Air Force coming in-as it did on a regular basis-was a boost to the morale of both the civilians and the Resistance. While the Soviet-bloc soldiery, though....seeing American aircraft over their territory unmolested by either fighters or anti-aircraft weapons was not a boost to their own morale.

“Coming up on the dam,” Guru said as they flew over a small island in the lake-about three miles from the dam itself.

“On it,” said Goalie. “Turn in ten...now five, four, three, two, one, MARK!”

Guru put 512 into a hard right turn to two-four-five, and cleared the lake. Once steady on the new course, he asked Goalie, “How far to the next checkpoint?”

“Fairy is the next one,” she replied. “Four minutes.”

“Roger that,” said Guru. Then he called the AWACS. “Crystal Palace, Rambler Lead. Say threats.”

A controller got back to him right away. “Rambler Lead, Crystal Palace. First threat bearing One-one-zero for forty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-two-five for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing Two-one-zero for forty. Medium, going away. Fourth threat bearing Two-six-five for fifty-five. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Crystal Palace. Do you have bogey dope?”

“Rambler, First threats are Fishbeds. Second and third are Floggers, and fourth are Fulcrums.”

“Copy that, Crystal Palace,” Guru said. Well, now, he thought. We may have to fight our way past those MiG-29s. “Fulcrums ahead.”

“I heard,” Goalie replied. She took a look at her EW display. “Still clear except for the Mainstay.”

Must have their radars off, Guru thought. “Keep on it,” he said.

“Rambler, Crystal Palace,” the AWACS called back. “Bandits bearing Two-six-seven for sixty. Medium, going away.”

“Crystal Palace, Rambler Lead,” replied Guru. “These the Fulcrums?”

“Affirmative, Rambler.”

“Copy that,” Guru said.

“Two minutes to Fairy,” Goalie said.

“Got it.”

Some hills went by as the strike flight kept on course. Then the AWACS came up. “Rambler Lead, Crystal Palace. Threat bearing Two-six-five for fifty. Medium, going away.”

“Fulcrums going home?” Guru thought aloud. Then he responded to the AWACS. “Crystal Palace, Rambler Lead copies.”

“Let's hope so,” Goalie said. “Thirty seconds to Fairy.”

“Copy.” It wasn't long until Guru had visual on the town. “Fairy at Twelve.” The crossroads town, more a name on the map than a town, was also a collection of ruins. However, the town was at the junction of two Farm-to-Market roads, and as such, rated a small garrison. As the F-4s flew past, a quick glance showed some APCs parked among the ruins, but no fire came up. Good. “How long until Lamkin?” That was the next checkpoint.

“Eighteen miles,” Goalie replied. “Thirty-five seconds.”

“Copy that.”


In Fairy, a Soviet patrol was just beginning to stir. They were reservists from a rear-area protection division, all from Minsk, and most of them were well into their forties. Their platoon leader was a former schoolteacher called back to duty, and he was thirty-five. The Senior Lieutenant had taken officer's training at the University in Minsk, and done his time as a platoon leader, before going back to civilian life. With the war, he had been called back to the colors, though not too eagerly, for he was married with two children and a third on the way when he was reactivated in 1985. Not only that, but he missed his students, and still got letters from some, who were asking what it was like to be in America, and was military life all the State TV, Radio, and the magazines called it? Since most of his students were in their early teens, and thus too young to be drafted, the Lieutenant was....delicate in his answers. Yes, he was proud to do his duty, and yes, there was a lot here in America, but things weren't so.....heroic where he was. No, for his platoon was made up of men too old for front-line service, and their equipment? BTR-152 APCs with a platoon of equally old T-54As attached. No, there would be no brave stand like in the Barrikady Factory in Stalingrad....if the Yankees appeared with their dreaded M-1 tanks? His platoon would be brushed aside like so many flies. Not only did he know it, but his men as well.

The Lieutenant got out of his APC to stretch his legs when his Platoon Sergeant pointed to the east. Aircraft coming in. His men took whatever cover they could, away from the tanks and APCs as the F-4s flew overhead. Not a shot was fired, either from his men or the attached tanks, as the aircraft thundered on to the west. Getting up from a roadside ditch, he nodded to the Platoon Sergeant, who began shouting at the men to get them back into some semblance of order. At least they didn't hit us, the Lieutenant thought. But next time? It might be different.


“Lamkin in when?” Guru asked Goalie as Fairy disappeared behind them.

“Fifteen seconds,” Goalie replied.

“Give the count,” Guru said, his eyes out the cockpit, keeping his visual scanning.

“Turn in ten, now five, four, three, two, one, MARK!”

Guru put 512 into a hard right turn, settling on a course of 350 Degrees, heading towards the target. With no visual cues for pullup, it would be the old-fashioned way, by time and distance. “Flight, Lead, Music on, switches on, and stand by,” he called the flight, as he turned on his ECM pod.

“Roger, Lead,” Kara replied, and the others followed suit.

“Set 'em up,” Guru told Goalie.

“On it, she replied, working the armament control panel in the back seat. “All set here. Everything in one pass.”

“Good,” he called. “How long to pull?”

“Forty seconds.”

Guru took a quick glance at his EW display. No fighter radars, he was glad to see, but that damned Mainstay was still there. “Roger that,” he said. Still clear visually, he saw.

“Twenty seconds,” Goalie advised.

“Start the count at ten.”

“Stand by.....Ten....now five, four, three, ready, ready, PULL!”

Guru pulled back on the stick, and as 512 pulled up, he could see his target. Dublin Airport was there, as was the vehicle repair yard. “Flight, Lead. Target in sight.”

“All set back here,” Goalie said, tightening her shoulder straps.

“Then let's do it,” said Guru, rolling in in his attack run.


At the Dublin airport, an East German Air Force Major was now in command. The Soviet Navy Yak-38s had been pulled out to reequip, and that left exactly two Su-25s, four Mi-8s, and a single An-2 on the ramp area, of which only the Su-25s were Soviet, and they were busy rearming for another sortie. The Major had been there since the front had stabilized, and he had been there for every air strike that had come in. Either F-4s, or A-7s during the day, and A-6s (or so he thought) at night. And yet, the need to support the Army meant that the airport was still being kept open, despite all the attention the Fascists paid to it. To make matters worse, the 4th MRD still had its divisional headquarters in the town, and the division's rear-area services were set up in and around the town, with a vehicle repair facility just south of the airport. Though he did wonder whose command vehicles had set up south of the runway a couple days before, but they had left without anyone paying much attention.

The Major's main concern at the moment was air defense. Or more correctly, the lack of it. All the raids had put a serious crimp in the defenses, and at the moment, all the Major had was a single battery of ZU-23s, all spread out around the field, and a battery of 37-mm guns from the 1950s, manned by gunners who dated from the 1960s. Cursing whoever had sent these overage reservists, the Major knew that with no radar-and the radar-guided 57-mm battery that had been there had been wrecked, the field would only have visual warning of an attack, and visual aiming. Then the 4th MRD's SAM Regiment had been most uncooperative, flatly refusing to locate a battery at the airport, much to his disgust. At least the missile gunners were ready, for the air force personnel had a number of shoulder-fired Strela-3 (SA-14) missiles, though they would need some warning, like the AA gunners.

Satisfied as best he could, the Major went to talk with one of the Mi-25 pilots, who was waiting on a maintenance crew to arrive to repair a broken rotor head due to battle damage. He had only taken a few steps from the tent that served as his office when a shout came, followed by AA gunners turning their weapons to the south, and he saw smoke trails in that direction, and they were climbing. F-4s, he knew from experience, and they were getting ready to attack. “AIR ALARM!” The Major shouted, then he jumped into a foxhole.


“Lead's in hot!” Guru called as he took 512 in on his bomb run. He spotted two Su-25s and several helos-were some Hinds, he wondered, and decided to take them. The defenders down below must have been on the ball, the CO thought, for flak began to come up, both 23-mm and 37-mm. Even an SA-7 type missile was launched, but head-on, it had no chance to guide. Ignoring the flak, Guru lined up the two Su-25s in his pipper. You'll do, he thought. Not today, Ivan or Franz. “Steady....Steady....” he muttered as the aircraft grew larger in his pipper. “And....And.....HACK!” Guru hit his pickle button, sending his six Mark-82s and six M-117Rs down onto the target below. He pulled up and away, applying power and jinking as he did so, hoping to avoid not only the airport's defenses, but the SA-6s and Shilkas in the area. Only when clear of both the airport and the town did he make his call. “Lead off target.”


“Schisse!” The Major muttered in the foxhole. Shit... The damned Amis are back. He heard Guru's F-4 make its run, then the bombs followed. The concussion, the dust, and then at least three sympathetic detonations shook the Major, even in the foxhole. He lifted his head to have a look, and saw both Su-25s blasted apart, along with the damaged Mi-25, while another Mi-25 had been peppered by shrapnel from a bomb blast, but wasn't on fire. Maybe we can save that, he thought. Then the AA guns turned back south, and the Major ducked. For he knew that meant another Ami coming in.


“BULLSEYE!” Goalie shouted from 512's back seat. “And we've got three or four secondaries!”

“How big?” Guru asked as he dodged an SA-7 type missile that flew by on the left side of the aircraft.

“Big enough,” was the reply.

“I'll take that,” Guru said as he jinked again, then settled on his egress course.


“Two's in hot!” Kara made her call as she took 520 down on her attack run. She saw the CO make his, and the fireballs that erupted on the ramp area as his bombs found targets. With her target being the runway, she centered the midpoint of the runway in her pipper as she came in. Kara, too, ignored the flak, and concentrated on the bomb run, while an SA-7 flew past on the right side, and another went by below. No matter. “Steady....And...And.....Steady.....And.....NOW!” She hit her pickle button, and her bombs came off the racks and onto the East Germans below. Kara then pulled up and away, and like the CO, applied power as she did so, and began jinking. No sense in making it easy for the gunners below....Only when she was clear of both the target area and the town did Kara make her call, “Two's off safe.”


“DAMNT!” The Major shouted to no one in particular. Damn....these Amis are very persistent. He heard Kara's F-4 come in, and he glaced up as the big Phantom released its bombs. This time, the bombs fell further away than the first ones had, and he knew right away what the target was. The runway. The Major saw the bombs going off, as clouds of dirt, smoke, and debris came up. Fortunately for him, the bombs were too far to worry about, and after the F-4 got away, he got up from the foxhole, intending to get things in order. Seeing the AA guns turn back south, and one of his ground officers come over and literally shove him back into the foxhole told him something else. More Ami Phantoms coming in.

“SHACK!” Brainiac's shout came over 520's IC. “Good hits back there!”

Kara grinned beneath her oxygen mask. “We got the runway?”

“We did, and it's cut,” her GIB replied.

“That's good,” she replied as an SA-7 flew past on the right. She jinked right, and another flew by just a hundred feet or so above. Some flak from rooftops in the town did come, but she was too fast for the gunners to really track. Once she was clear, Kara picked up the CO's smoke trail, then Guru's bird came into view.

“Three's in!” Sweaty called as she came in on her run. As she came in on the bomb run, she saw Kara's bird pull up, and leave bomb blasts on the runway in its wake. Good, she said to herself as she lined up her target, the vehicle repair yard. As Sweaty came in, she saw that it wasn't full to the brim, but wasn't empty, either. Must be a slow day, she thought as she lined up several tanks in her pipper. You'll go, Sweaty said to herself. She, too, ignored the flak, and the SA-7s-two of them-that came her way. “And..And....And.....HACK!” Sweaty hit her pickle button, and her dozen Mark-82s and M-117s came off the racks. She then pulled up and away, jinking and applying power as she did so, and even waggling her wings to the civilians in Dublin as she flew out. When clear of the town, Sweaty made her call, “Three's off.”


The Major muttered some curses again as Sweaty's F-4 made its run, but to his relief, the airport wasn't hit. For a moment, he wondered what had been the target, then the bomb blasts-and a couple of fireballs-signaled a strike on the repair yard. That facility was none of his concern, only the Army's, and the Major knew it. He glanced around, seeing a soldier fire a Strela-3 missile at the departing F-4, then the man ran into cover. The AA guns turned back south, and that meant more Amis, the Major knew.


“BULLSEYE!” Preacher shouted from Sweaty's back seat. “Got some secondaries!”

“What kind?” Sweaty asked as she jinked to avoid a SA-7 on the right, then another on the left.

“Several, and they're righteous!” The ex-seminary student turned GIB was pleased with that.

“I'll go with that,” Sweaty replied as she finished jinking, then picked up the CO's element.


“Four's in hot!” Hoser called as he came down on his run. He saw what his element lead had done, and aimed his run for the southern end of the yard. Double-whammy for you, Franz, he thought as he lined up some vehicles that to him, looked like APCs. No matter, he said to himself as the flak came up, and so did a missile, probably an SA-7 that flew by harmlessly on the left, all of which he ignored. Hoser concentrated on his bomb run, as the APCs grew larger in his pipper. You're gone.... “Steady....Steady... And...And....NOW!” Hoser hit the pickle button, sending his dozen bombs down on the target. He then pulled up, jinking and applying power as he did, clearing both the target and the town. Only when he cleared the latter did he make his call. “Four off target.”


“Ugh...” the Major said to no one in particular. The fourth Ami Phantom came in, and as he watched from his foxhole, Hoser's F-4 released its bombs onto the repair yard. A couple of fireballs mixed in with the bomb blasts told him that the aircraft had hit what it was aiming at, and the Major shook his head. At least the repair yard was the Army's to deal with, and not his problem. What would those Party bosses back in Berlin think of this, he wondered to himself. Then he stopped. The Stasi were always on the lookout for any sign of “Defeatism” and “Non-belief in Our Victory”, he knew. Shaking his head, he started to get up when the AA guns once again turned south. More? The Major huddled in the foxhole one more time.

“Five in hot!” Dave Golen called as he came in on his run. Seeing that the target for his element was gone, he didn't have time to wonder where it went or to look around. He decided to take the small fuel dump just east of the airport, and the IDF Major easily picked it out. Just like on the photos, he thought. Not a big dump, but still worth torching. Ignoring the flak and at least two SA-7s that came his way, he lined up the depot in his pipper. “Steady now....Steady....And...Steady.....NOW!” Golen hit his pickle, sending a dozen more Mark-82s and M-117s down onto the East Germans. Like the others, he, too, applied power and pulled up, jinking all the while to avoid flak or SAMs. When he cleared both the airport and Dublin proper, Golen made his call. “Five off target.”


“Schisse!” The Major yelled as Dave Golen's F-4 came in and released its bombs. This time, he had no doubt as to what the target was. His fuel dump. Oh, it wasn't large, but enough to support operations as they currently stood-and it had been relocated several times after being hit in air strikes. The size clearly made no difference to the attacker, for a dozen bombs came off the aircraft, and as it thundered overhead, the bombs landed in and around the fuel dump. A number of oily fireballs erupted at once, then several others as secondary explosions set off more fuel tanks or drums. This is not good, the Major thought, knowing full well that was an understatement. He got up out of the foxhole once again, then noticed the AA guns turning once again. Back to the foxhole, he thought as another Ami Phantom came in.


“GOOD HITS!” Terry McAuliffe, Golen's GIB, shouted. “Multiple secondaries!”

“How big?” Golen asked as he jinked, dodging another SA-7 on the left, and some AA fire from a building in town.

“Big enough!”

“Good to know,” Golen said as he jinked again, then picked up Sweaty's element.


“Six in hot!” Flossy called as she brought 1569 in on her bomb run. She saw the fuel dump go up, and the craters on the runway, and decided to strike the repair yard. Flossy spotted a number of vehicles that hadn't been struck, and selected those for her strike. She, too, ignored the flak coming up, and a couple of non-guiding SA-7s, as she concentrated on her bomb run. Going to really ruin Franz's morning, she thought as the vehicles-these looked to be a mix of APCs and tanks-grew larger. “And....And....Steady...” She said aloud. “And....HACK!” Flossy hit her pickle button, and sent her dozen Mark-82s and M-117s onto the yard. She immediately pulled up and away, jinking as she did so, and applying power. Flossy cleared the target and the town, and when clear, she made the call. “Six off safe.”

“Of all the...” The Major said as Flossy's F-4 came in on its run. At first, he wondered what the aircraft's target was, then when he saw bomb release, he knew what it was. The repair yard again. A dozen bomb blasts followed, then a couple of fireballs right after, then a couple more. That's the Army's problem, he thought. He got up out of the foxhole, and saw the AA gunners swinging their guns around, but no longer firing. This one's over, he said to himself. Now to get some order out of this mess. The Major then began shouting orders.

“SHACK!” Jang called from 1569's back seat.

“Good hits?” Flossy asked as she jinked left to avoid a missile, then right to avoid another, along with some tracer fire from the town.

“Good and a few secondaries to go along with 'em.”

“That'll liven up their morning,” Flossy said as she picked up her element lead, and formed up with him.


When Flossy gave her “Off safe” call, Guru grinned beneath his oxygen mask, while Goalie called on the IC. “Six in and out.”

“Still got a game on,” Guru reminded her. “Rambler One-seven and One-eight, get your asses down and clear.”

“Roger Lead,” both Paul Jackson and Susan Napier called, and both RAF F-4Js hustled to catch up with the strike birds.

“Approaching Route 16,” Guru said as the state highway appeared to the left. “How far to the fence?” That meant the I-20.

“One minute,” Goalie replied. “Sixteen miles.”

“Got it,” Guru said. “Two, where are you?”

“Right with you, Lead,” Kara replied. A quick glance to the right had 520 right with them in Combat Spread.

“Sweaty?”

“On your six, and Hoser's with me,” Sweaty called.

“Five and six behind Sweaty,” Dave Golen added.

“Roger all,” said Guru. Then he called the AWACS. “Crystal Palace, Rambler Lead. Any threats?”

“Rambler Lead, Crystal Palace,” the controller replied. “Threat bearing Two-two-zero for forty. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing Two-one-five for fifty. Medium, closing. First threats are Fishbeds, second threats are Fulcrums.”

“Roger that. Can you arrange a reception committee?”

“Can do, Rambler,” said the controller. “Break, Rustler Lead, Crystal Palace. Bandits bearing One-eight-five for forty-five. Medium, closing. Multiple bandits inbound. Kill. Repeat: KILL. Clear to arm and fire.”

“Rustler Lead copies,” an F-15 flight lead replied. “Confirm clear to arm and fire.”

“Rustler, Crystal Palace. Clear to arm and fire.”

“Roger.” The F-15 lead turned, and the four-ship flight turned south, fangs out.

In 512, Goalie was checking her navigation. “Thirty seconds to the fence,” she called.

“Lead, Two,” Kara called out. “What if the bandits get past the Eagles?”

“Then we turn on them, Two,” Guru replied firmly. “Not before.”

“Roger that,” Kara said, her reply tinged with disappointment, though she knew the CO was right. Why hassle with MiGs if the F-15s were coming in? But if they jumped a recon bird....

“Rustlers, clear to engage,” Rustler Lead called, as four F-15Cs engaged four East German MiG-21s out of Brownwood Regional. The first volley of AIM-7Ms splashed two, and the other two were killed by a second volley. Two MiG-29s then continued to close in, and one of them was splashed, with the other turning for home after seeing his flight leader killed.

“Crossing the Fence....now!” Goalie called as the twin ribbons of I-20 appeared.

“Got it,” Guru said. “Flight, Lead. Music off and IFF on, out.” He turned on his IFF transponder and turned off his ECM pod.

“Mainstay's gone off,” Goalie said, checking her EW display.

Guru checked his own display, and saw the Mainstay signal was no longer displayed, and the SEARCH warning light was off. “We'll see him again, unless somebody takes another Phoenix shot.”

“To be wished for,” said Goalie.

“Yeah.”

The flight climbed to altitude, and met up with the tankers for their post-strike refueling. That done, they headed back to Sheppard. When they got there, the flight was third in line to land, after a Marine Hornet flight and a westbound C-130. When it was their turn, they came in and landed, and to those watching on the ground, it was disappointing, as no one did victory rolls.

As they taxied in, the crews saw a C-5B coming in to land. “What's he got?” Guru asked. “First time in a while I've seen a Galaxy.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Goalie said. “Haven't seen a C-5 since one night in Denver. They brought in a ton of supplies, and stuffed five hundred or so people in for the trip out.”

Guru heard that, and shook his head. How that bird had gotten airborne with that many people.... “Did they make it?”

“They did,” Goalie said as 512 taxied towards the dispersal area. “They went to Salt Lake. Don't know how, but they made it.”

Shuddering at what he'd heard about Denver, he was actually glad to have been either in the air, or doing his Resistance time. “One of these days, you need to share some of those stories,” Guru said.

“I will,” Goalie said.

Guru taxied into the squadron's dispersal area, then the aircraft went for their individual revetments. Finding 512's, he taxied in, and Sergeant Crowley gave the “Stop” signal, and the ground crew laid down the wheel chocks. Then the Crew Chief gave the “Shut Down” signal, and Guru shut down the engines.

After the post-flight cockpit check, and the ground crew deploying the crew ladder, pilot and GIB got out. They did a post-flight walk-around, and when finished, Sergeant Crowley was waiting with bottles of water for both. “Major, how'd she do?”

“Five-twelve's working like a champ, Sarge. Tore up an airfield again, and got a couple of ground kills, but no MiGs in the air.”

“This time,” Goalie said wistfully. She, too, wanted more air-to-air action, with KT having five backseat kills to equal her own.

“Better luck next time,” Guru said, then he downed half his water bottle. “Sarge, get her turned around for the next one. We'll be back at it before too long.”

Crowley nodded. “You got it, Major! All right, people! You heard the CO. Let's get this bird ready for the next one!”

While the ground crew got to work, Guru and Goalie went to the revetment's entrance, where Kara and Brainiac were already waiting. “Well?” Guru asked his wing crew.

“Tore up the runway,” Kara grinned. “And you guys did the same to a couple of Su-25s and a couple of helos.”

“Strike camera should tell us,” Goalie said. “Hinds or Hips, I think, from the prestrike photos.”

“I'll take either one,” Guru said as Sweaty, Preacher, Hoser, and KT arrived. “How'd it go with you guys?”

Sweaty had a grin from ear to ear. “Turned that repair yard into a junkyard.”

“That we did,” Hoser nodded. “But what'd they have there? There were more than a couple secondaries.”

“Fuel or ammo taken from vehicles?” KT asked.

“Maybe,” Preacher said. “The explosions were righteously good, though.”

“They were,” Dave Golen said as he and his people came up. “Got the fuel dump.”

“No C3 site?” Guru asked.

“Nobody home,” Terry McAuliffe replied. “So we took the dump.”

“Flossy?”

“We finished the repair yard,” Flossy grinned, and Jang nodded. “No MiGs, though.”

Dave Gledhill's people came next. “I'll second that,” Gledhill said. “Where did those MiGs that were coming for us go? The ones closing before turning for the target?”

Guru nodded. He'd been wondering about that himself. “Maybe they got vectored after somebody else?”

“Or they were low on fuel,” Dave Golen ventured. “The MiG-29's something of a gas hog, isn't it?”

“It is,” Sin Licon said as he came up. “At least these ones are. Major, we need to get the debrief done.”

Guru nodded, as he knew it. “That we do. Come on, people. Let's make the intel folks happy. Then we can get something to snack on, check your IN boxes and make sure they're empty, because in a couple hours at most, the next game is on.”

“As long as 'tis not CAS,” Sweaty nodded.

“Don't say that word,” Kara reminded her. “Last thing anyone here wants. Let the SLUF and Hog drivers handle that.”

Guru nodded back. “No argument from me on that, Starbuck. Come on: let's get the debrief done. One and done. Three more to go.”

“Hopefully,” Goalie said.

“Yeah,” the CO nodded. “Let's go.”

Second mission:


335th TFS, Sheppard AFB, TX; 0915 Hours Central War Time:


Major Matt Wiser sat at his desk, going over some papers. One thing the CO thing was teaching him was that the battle with the bureaucrats never stopped, though having a good Exec meant that Mark filtered out the wheat from the chaff, and left him only what was really important. The paperwork from the AF bureaucracy out of the way, he turned his attention to some squadron business-namely, the supply requisitions that required his signature. That done, Guru got up and went to his office window. The rumble of jet engines, and a low-flying HH-53 rescue chopper, was music to his ears, as he watched a flight of Marine F-4s rumble down one of the runways and into the air. Good. Shove it up Ivan's ass, the CO thought when a knock on his office door came. “Yeah? Show yourself and come on in!”

The Exec, Mark Ellis, came in. “Boss, got something for you. It's from Frank.”

“A request for a transfer, I hope?” Guru asked. Major Frank Carson was a running sore in the squadron, having been a thorn in not only his side, but his predecessor's, for two years. The CO had finally had enough of the Major's presence, and had warned him that one more foul-up would send Carson packing for (hopefully) colder climes.

“No, but another complaint,” Ellis said, handing the CO a paper.

Guru took the paper. “What's he upset about now?” He scanned it, then stared at his XO. “Flossy flashed him coming out of the shower again.”

“She did,” Ellis nodded.

The CO shook his head. She had good reason to despise Carson, but then again, so did he, and just about everyone else in the squadron. Not to mention MAG-11. “Well, we know where this goes,” he said, feeding the complaint to the office shredder. Though he did have a mind to remind Flossy about not razzing Frank.

“That's that.”

“It is,” Guru said. “Kerry Collins back?”

“Not yet, Boss. He left a half-hour after you did.” Capt. Kerry Collins was the Squadron's Ordnance Officer.

“Okay. Sometime today, I need to talk to him. I need to know how long it takes to qualify a new piece of ordnance on the F-4.”

Ellis had an idea of what the CO had in mind. “That mission you and Goalie are cooking up?” Seeing the CO nod, he went on. “Anything in particular?”

“Durandals,” Guru said. “Or the Israelis' Dibber bombs.” Both weapons were specialized anti-runway ordnance, and had proven their worth. The former in this war, and the latter both in 1967 and 1973.

“That's F-111 and A-6 ordnance for the Durandal,” the XO replied, referring to the French-made and license-built anti-runway bomb. “As for the Dibbers? Don't know if we've ever had the chance. I know the Israelis have.” Ellis said. “Have you talked to Dave Golen?”

“Not yet. But we'll be bringing him in on this, and not just for planning. Chances are, unless he gets himself killed or gets recalled back home, he's flying the mission,” said Guru. A chat with their IDF “Observer” on this subject was definitely in order, he realized.

“Good idea,” Ellis said. “You still want just three flights?”

“Maybe, maybe not. Four might be better,” Guru said. “We'll work that out after Goalie and I get back from Nellis. General Tanner needs to be briefed, so we get mission approval, but I have no idea when they want us there.”

“Probably after the stand-down,” the XO said. Then there was another knock on the door.

“Yeah?” Guru asked. “Show yourself and come on in!”

Kara opened the door. “Boss and XO, we've got missions.”

“No rest for the weary or the wicked,” Guru observed. “When?”

“Birds are prepped and folders are ready,” Kara replied. “Ready to go when you're ready.”

“Guess I'd best get my people,” Ellis said.

“And mine,” Guru added. “Kara? Pass the word to the XO's flight, and round ours up. We getting Dave and Flossy?”

“Not this one, Boss. We do get the Brits, though,” Kara replied.

Guru nodded. “Not every time,” he mused. He did like having the IDF Major with his flight, for Dave Golen had shot MiGs off his and Goalie's asses at least twice. “All right: have our people in the briefing room. Ten minutes.”

“I'm gone,” Kara said, then she headed out the door.

“Good luck, Mark,” the CO said, shaking the XO's hand. “Kara doesn't want to be Ops just yet.

“You too, Boss,” said Ellis. “And you be careful your own self. Don't want to be CO. Not like that.”

Guru knew what he meant. That was the same way he had gotten the 335, filling a dead man's shoes. “Know the feeling, Mark. Do my best, even if I come back via Jolly Green.”

“You really don't want to take Goalie skydiving?” Ellis said as he turned to leave.

Guru let out a grin. “Only if I have to,” he said.

After the XO left, the CO went to the Ops Office, and found Don Van Loan waiting. “Boss,” Van Loan said, handing Guru a mission folder. “Here's your mission.”

Guru nodded, then opened the folder. “Well, now....more in the East German rear,” he said, scanning the target brief. “Army-level target again.”

“Yeah, same for me, but you don't get Dave and Flossy this time.”

“Okay, Don. Thanks,” the CO said. “You have a good one yourself.”

“You, too, Boss.” The Ops Officer nodded. No need to warn the CO about not coming back-since the XO had already told him.

Guru took the folder and went to his flight's briefing room. When he got there, he found the rest of his flight waiting, and Buddy, the squadron's mascot, already asleep. “All right, people,” the CO said. “We've got a mission.”

“No Dave and Flossy this time?” Sweaty asked.

“Not this one,” Guru said. “This one's in the East German sector again. Seven miles northwest of Hico, at a spot on the map called Clarette, there's a supply depot, and it's good-sized one.”

“And we get to make it go away,” Hoser said. It wasn't a question.

“Bingo,” said the CO. He passed around some RF-4C and SR-71 imagery. “No designated aimpoints on this one, so it's put your bombs where you think they'll do the most good.”

Goalie took a look an some of the imagery, and tapped one of the photos with a pencil. “They've got quite a few revetments here, and that usually means ammo.”

“Fuel drums also here,” Kara noted. “And bladders, too.” She looked at the CO. “Don't they usually separate fuel and ammo?”

“They do,” Guru said. “I'm curious myself, but ours is not to reason what they do, ours is to make this go sky-high.”

“Truck park just across the road,” Sweaty added, looking up from an RF-4C image. “Fuel and dry cargo, both of 'em. And we've seen this before.”

“Maintenance area?”

“Smells like it to me,” Sweaty nodded. “Some of their supply trucks probably rest here when not rolling.”

“Whatever,” Hoser said. “So, who gets what, and what do we get to wreck this place with?”

“Dealer's choice as to the former,” Guru said. “As to what we get? Same as last time: six Mark-82s, six M-117s, plus the usual air-to-air of four Sidewinders, two Sparrow-Fs, usual pods for leads and wingmen, two wing tanks, and full twenty mike-mike, each bird.” He looked at his crews. “The Mark-82s have Daisy Cutters.” By that, the CO meant the fuze extensions. “Dave? You get the TARCAP, as usual.”

“Right,” Dave Gledhill replied. “We've got the same load we had this morning.”

Heads nodded at that, then Kara asked, “So, how do we get there? Usual route for the Brazos?”

“That we do,” Guru said. “Follow the river along the east side, just inside the Nicaraguan sector. All the way to Lake Whitney. A mile short of the dam, we turn to a course of Two-three-five to the town of Fairy. Turn northwest to Hico.”

“Which we've hit before,” KT recalled. “More than once.”

“That we have,” the CO agreed. “The town is the pop-up point. Seven miles northwest, twenty-five seconds, is the target.”

“Egress?” Sweaty asked.

“Once you're finished jinking, get your asses north, but stay clear of Stephenville,” Guru advised. “That place still crawls.”

Nodding, Kara spoke up. “Defenses here?” She asked.

“Hico's close to shoot on the way in, and they still have 23-mm, 37-mm and 57-mm,” said Guru, reading from the intel sheet. “The target area proper? They've got 23s and 37s.”

“Plus the guys with SA-7s,” added Brainiac. It wasn't a question, from his tone of voice.

“That, too, and on the way out?” Guru said. “There's still SA-4 and SA-6. So stay low, keep your ECM on, and that's that. If you see those damned basketball-sized tracers? Abort, and we'll go for an opportunity target.”

Kara grinned. “Plenty of those around in an Army-level rear area.”

“Ought to be,” Guru nodded. “Okay, MiG threat is unchanged, as is the weather. Same for bailout areas. Anything else?”

“Two more after this one?” Susan Napier asked.

“We should, unless somebody hollers for CAS,” the CO said as an Ops NCO came to the door. He would collect the briefing materials after everyone left. “Any other questions?” Heads shook no. “Okay, that's it. Gear up and we'll meet at 512.”

As the crews got up to leave, several people noticed Buddy still asleep. “Buddy slept through,” Preacher noted. “Let him sleep.”

“Remember, it's not him waking up in a brief,” Goalie said. “It's that he doesn't fall asleep in the first place.”

“It is that,” said the CO as he handed the material to the Ops NCO. Then he headed on out to the Men's locker room. After getting into his G-Suit, survival vest, and drawing his sidearm and helmet, Guru left, and found Goalie waiting outside, as usual. “You ready?”

“Let's go fly,” Goalie said. “They do pay us for this, you know.”

“Not enough,” Guru replied as they headed on out. After leaving the squadron's offices, they found Dave Golen, Flossy, Terry McAuliffe, and Jang going over their own mission. “Dave,” Guru nodded. “Too bad you're not going with us.”

“Can't have it every time,” the IDF major said. “Where are you headed?”

“Ammo dump near Hico,” Guru said, showing him the map. “You?”

“Eight miles south, on Highway 281. Reported truck park near Olin.”

“Okay, if it's not there? You come our way. We don't get paid for bringing ordnance home. What's your mission code for this one?”

“Firebird,” Golen replied.

“Good. I'll call you and ask if you have no joy on target. If you don't have a target....”

“We'll come your direction.”

Guru nodded. “Good. And come up our way anyhow if you come across those basketball-sized tracers. Don't want anyone crossing paths with ZSU-30. Not until we get the EW tweaked.”

“We'll be there, and doubly so if the MiGs show.”

They shook on it, then Guru nodded at Golen's wingmate. “I need to talk to Flossy.”

“What's up, Boss?” Flossy asked.

“Come with me,” the CO said, walking towards the dispersal area. “Did you flash Frank this morning?” Guru asked with all due seriousness. “That's the last thing anyone should be doing.”

Flossy shook her head. “No, Major, I didn't, and you can ask Goalie, Kara, and Sweaty. Along with Ryan Blanchard. They were there. I did have my bathrobe open a little more than I should've though.” She looked at her CO and something came to her. “He complain again?”

“He did,” the CO nodded. “I don't want to give him any reason to pop, either in the air or on the ground. No razzing him, understood? Even though you have very good reason to.”

Flossy knew what the CO wanted. Namely, for Frank to impale himself of his own volition, not because of something she-or anyone else in the squadron said or did. “Understood, Major.”

Guru nodded again. “Good. That's that.” The two went back to where Dave Golen and the others in his element were waiting, along with Goalie. “Dave? You all have a good one. Bring everybody back now, you hear?”

“Loud and clear, but nothing's guaranteed in this line of work,” Golen replied.

“As we're all well aware. Okay, if you hit MiG trouble, holler, and we'll bring the Brits.”

“The more the merrier,” Jang grinned.

“That it is,” Guru said. “You all have a good one.”

“You too,” Golen nodded.

Guru and Goalie then headed to 512's revetment. “What was that all about?” Goalie asked as they approached the revetment.

“Frank had another complaint about Flossy,” Guru said. “Said she flashed him.”

“Not that way,” Goalie admitted. “She may have had her bathrobe a little too loose, but then again, a lot of us do that.”

“You were there,” Guru said. “Along with Kara, Sweaty, and Ryan, and they'll back up you and Flossy. Still, no razzing Frank, remember?”

“I know, you want him to fall on his own sword, and not have anyone help him.”

“That's the best-case scenario, other than Doc finding a reason to ground Frank and send him out of here for some tests.” Goalie nodded as they arrived at the revetment, and the rest of the flight was there, waiting. “All right, gather around.” It was time for Guru to give his final instructions.

“Usual on the radio?” Kara asked.

“That it is,” Guru said. That meant mission code to AWACS and other parties, and call signs between themselves. “Dave and Flossy have their own mission, but they'll be close enough to come in if we holler. And if they have no joy at their target, they're coming in anyway.”

“They seem to draw MiGs on occasion,” Hoser pointed out.

“They do, and we get a fight,” Guru admitted. “All right! Let's get this one done, then we can get some chow. Two more in the afternoon, unless some Army puke starts screaming for CAS.”

“That we don't want,” said Sweaty. “Leave that to the Hogs and A-7s.”

“No arguing with you there,” Guru said. “Anything else?” Heads shook no on that. “Okay, let's go. Time to hit it. Meet up at ten grand overhead.” The CO clapped his hands for emphasis.

The crews headed to their aircraft, while Guru and Goalie went into the revetment. Sergeant Crowley, the Crew Chief, was waiting as the ground crew wrapped up their chores. “Major, Lieutenant,” Crowley said as he snapped a salute. “Five-twelve's ready to rock and roll.”

“As always,” Guru replied as he and Goalie returned the salute. Both pilot and GIB did their usual preflight walk-around, then they climbed the crew ladder and mounted their seats. Crowley and the Assistant Crew Chief helped them get strapped in, then they removed the crew ladder. Then Guru and Goalie went through their preflight checks.

“Looking forward to that little trip to Nellis?” Goalie asked as they went through the checklist.

“It's business, you know,” Guru replied. “But yeah, we'll get at least one night in Vegas.”

“It is that,” Goalie agreed. “Ejection seats?”

“Armed top and bottom. Check yours. Arnie?”

“Arnie's up and running, and so is the backup INS.” She meant the ARN-101 DMAS and the backup INS. “You do value your wallet being full.”

“You read my mind,” Guru admitted. “Though I don't mind occasionally feeding a one-armed bandit.”

“Same here. Then there's the other reason.”

“Which is?”

“Getting at least one night in a real bed. Been a long time, and not just for sleeping...Preflight checklist complete and we're ready for engine start,” Goalie said, putting the checklist back in a flight suit pocket.

“It has been. And that we are,” Guru replied. He gave a thumbs-up to his Crew Chief, and Sergeant Crowley responded with the “Start Engines” signal. First one, then both J-79 engines were up and running. Once the warm-up was complete, Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead with six, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

“Rambler Lead, Tower,” a controller responded. “Clear to taxi to Runway Three-Five-Lima. Hold prior to the active, and you are number three in line.”

“Roger, Tower. Rambler Lead is rolling.” Guru gave another thumbs-up to Sergeant Crowley, who responded with one of his own, then waved to the ground crew. The chocks were pulled away from the wheels, then Guru released the brakes and began taxiing. He taxied out of the revetment, responding to Crowley's signals, and once clear, the Crew Chief snapped a perfect salute, and both Guru and Goalie returned it.

Guru taxied out, with the rest of the flight following, and taxied to Runway 35L. There, a four-ship of Marine Hornets, followed by a four-ship of Marine F-4s were ahead of him. First the Hornets went, then the Jarhead Phantoms taxied out. Guru then taxied into the holding area, where, as usual the armorers were waiting. There, the weapon safeties were removed. Guru watched as the four Marines thundered down the runway and into the air, then it was his turn. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting clear to taxi for takeoff.”

A controller got back to him at once. “Rambler Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are two-six-eight for ten.”

“Roger, Tower,” Guru replied. He taxied onto the runway, and Kara followed in 520, taking her position in his Five O'clock. A final cockpit check followed, then Guru checked Kara's bird, and saw Kara and Brainiac give a thumbs-up, as usual. Both Guru and Goalie returned it, then it was time. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

The tower flashed the usual green light. Clear for takeoff.

“Ready?” Guru asked Goalie.

“All set. Time to fly,” she replied.

“It is,” Guru said. “Canopy coming down.” He pulled his canopy down, closing and locking it. That done, he glanced again at 520, and saw their canopies down and locked, signaling all was ready. “Then let's go.” Guru firewalled the throttles, released the brakes, and 512 thundered down the runway and into the air, with 520 right alongside. It was the turn of Sweaty and Hoser thirty seconds later, followed by the two RAF F-4Js. They met up at FL 100, then headed south for the tanker track.


Over Central Texas, 1040 Hours Central War Time:


Rambler Flight was headed south, having crossed the I-20 and were now in enemy territory. They had met up with the tankers west of Mineral Wells and topped up, and were now just east of the Brazos River, a quarter-mile inside the Nicaraguan II Corps sector, but close enough to use the river as a visual navigation aid-especially the bridges. So far, the Nicaraguan flak gunners were staying quiet, but when they got to the first of the bridges over the Brazos, the East Germans on the west bank would shoot-no doubt about that.

In 512's cockpit, Major Matt Wiser looked up from his instruments. Fighter pilot habits took hold once in enemy territory, and that meant having eyes outside the cockpit as well as inside. The need to have one's head on a swivel had been drummed into his head at the RTU before the war, and wartime experience had reinforced it with a vengeance. “Granbury Bridge in how long?” He asked Goalie.

“Four miles and fifteen seconds,” his GIB replied. “EW still clear.” Then a strobe came up to the south, and the SEARCH warning light came on. “Spoke too soon.”

“Mainstay,” Guru said. It wasn't a question.

“Has to be, and bridge at One, and the flak,” Goalie replied as the Granbury Bridges appeared. The railroad bridge that carried a rail line up to Fort Worth had been dropped, but the old U.S. 377 Bridge and the new four-lane bridge that carried the highway across the river were both still up.

“Got it,” Guru said as the East German gunners across the river opened up. He took a quick look at the two road bridges. “No traffic.” Both bridges were clear as they passed by.

“Too bad,” Goalie said wistfully. She remembered armed reconnaissance that they had flown in New Mexico prior to PRAIRIE FIRE that summer, and catching convoys or units in column on roads they had thought safe.

Guru stayed on the east side of the river, as he headed towards the Lake Granbury Dam-where more flak awaited. “Dam in when?”

“Twenty seconds.”

Guru kept up his visual scanning as he led the flight closer to the dam. He knew they were approaching the dam when the gunners on the East German side opened up with their 23-mm and 37-mm guns. “There's the dam.”

“Got it,” Goalie noted. One more checkpoint clear. “Twenty seconds to Glen Rose,” she added. That meant the U.S. 67 bridge.

“Copy,” Guru replied. Then he called the AWACS. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

A controller got back to him right away. “Rambler, Warlock. First threat bearing One-four-five for forty-five. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing One-six-zero for fifty-five. Medium, going away. Third threat bearing One-eight-five for seventy. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Warlock. Any bogey dope?”

“Rambler, First threats are Fishbeds. Second and third are both Floggers.”

“Copy.”

“Bridge and flak ahead,” Goalie advised, as the 23-mm, 37-mm, and 57-mm fire appeared from the west side.

“Roger that,” Guru said as the flak gunners kept shooting. They were shooting wide, as the F-4s were too low and too fast, for Rambler Flight easily outran the flak. “How long to Brazospoint?” He asked Golaie as he took 512 to the right, then right down the middle of the river, with the rest of the flight following.

“Twenty seconds,” replied Goalie. “Libyan sector again.”

“Yep.”

The strike flight continued south, with the Brazospoint Bridge coming up. There, the squadron had been burned by a flak trap a few days earlier, with one crew down and MIA, and another down and rescued. But they had turned the tables on the East Germans and Libyans, putting the hurt on both the flak gunners, SAM operators, and even some Libyan MiGs that had come to the party.

“Visual on the bridge,” Goalie said. “And the flak.”

“Right on time,” Guru said as the East Germans on the west side-and now Libyans on the east side, opened up. A quick glance at the EW display showed no gun radars, which meant the gunners were shooting visually. Again, the strike flight was too fast the for the gunners to track accurately. “Libyans still shooting?”

“Lead, five,” Paul Jackson called. “They're still at it back there.”

“Let'em shoot,” Guru replied. “How long to Route 174?” That was the next bridge, and it led right to Lake Whitney.

Goalie checked the map and the DMAS. “Twelve miles,” she advised. “Forty seconds.”

“Copy,” Guru replied. Then he called the AWACS. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler Lead, Warlock,” the controller called back. “First threat bearing Zero-nine-zero for forty. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing One-six-zero for fifty. Medium, going away. Third threat bearing One-eight zero for sixty-five. Medium, closing. Fourth threat bearing Two-four-zero for seventy. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Warlock. Confirm bogey dope?”

“Rambler, First threats are Fishbeds. Second and third are Floggers, with the fourth Fulcrums.”

“Copy.”

“One-seventy-four Bridge dead ahead,” Goalie reported. “And the flak.” Again, the gunners on both sides began shooting.

“Got it, and there's westbound traffic,” Guru said as they overflew the bridge. It looked like APCs and trucks, and even some tanks. He, too, wished for an armed recon.

“Not their turn,” Goalie said.

“Not today,” Guru agreed.


On the bridge, a Soviet Major of Transport Troops was having a fit. He had had enough problems with those black-assed Libyans causing him delays, and that was without the air strikes-two of which had hit his convoy while in the Libyan sector. The lackadasial attitude the Libyans had only reinforced his loathing for anyone not from the Soviet Union, though he did admit that the East Germans came close-but they were still Germans, he reminded himself.

Now, his convoy with supplies and replacement vehicles for the 144th GMRD was crossing this bridge, and the last thing he wanted was for there to be an air attack. His heart froze as the AA gunners opened fire, then six American fighters came right down the river, headed right for his convoy. Some of his men grabbed their AKM rifles or machine guns and opened fire themselves, while others took cover underneath their vehicles-even though if the bridge was dropped, that wouldn't help. To the Major's relief, the Americans oveflew the bridge and his convoy without dropping a single bomb. Maybe they had other business, he thought. Then he began shouting orders and getting his men back into their vehicles-all the while keeping an eye on the sky. For more American aircraft arrived-or the flight that had just passed turned back....


In 512, Goalie noted, “And here's the lake. One minute ten to turn.”

“Roger that!” Guru said as he dropped down lower, from 500 feet AGL to 450 feet. And Rambler Flight thundered down the lake. He glanced at the EW display. “Still got the Mainstay.”

Goalie was exasperated. “Why doesn't somebody take those guys all the way out?” This was getting tiresome, being tracked by an airborne radar and not being able to do a damned thing about it.

“Maybe somebody's working on it,” Guru said. He was looking around, hoping nobody with a MANPADS was around. “Turn point in when?”

“Forty seconds,” Goalie said. “Hope you're right, or maybe the Tomcats pull another one.”

“Navy's got their uses,” quipped Guru.

The strike flight thundered down the lake, once again giving reassurance to the locals who were fishing, and to the Resistance who were using a couple of boat-in only campgrounds as gathering spots, that friendlies were nearby, and that there was light at the end of the damned tunnel. While the Russians, East Germans, and Libyans who were also there were wondering where their air forces were, if Americans were flying up and down the lake on a regular basis.

“Turn in when?” Guru asked.

“Fifteen seconds,” Goalie advised. “Counting down. Ten, now five, four, three, two, one, MARK!”

Guru turned right to a course of Two-three-five, heading for the town of Fairy. “Steady on Two-three-five.”

“Copy that. Thirty-five miles to Fairy. Two minutes.”

“Got it,” Guru replied.

The Texas hills went by, as the strike flight continued on course. While the pilots maintained their visual scanning and quick checks of their instruments, the GIBs checked the navigation, the EW displays, and had another set of eyes looking out. For most crews were killed by what they didn't see, and having two pairs of eyes looking out had been a crew-saver more times than anyone cared to count.

“How long to Fairy?” Guru asked. That was their next turn point.

“One minute,” Goalie replied. “Sixteen miles.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. Then he called the AWACS. “Warlock, Rambler. Say threats?”

“Rambler Lead, Warlock,” the AWACS controller replied. “First threat now bearing One-eight-five for forty-five. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing Two-two-zero for Fifty-five. Medium, going away. Third threat bearing Two-seven-five for seventy. Medium, going away.”

“Roger, Warlock. Any bogey dope?”

“Rambler Lead, first threats are Floggers. Second and third are both Fulcrums.”

“Copy.” Two groups of Fulcrums, Guru thought. That'll make Kara and the RAF guys drool.

“Fulcrums, Boss,” Kara called, as if she had anticipated Guru's thought.

“Only if they get too close,” Guru said, reminding her of a squadron rule: No trolling for MiGs.

In 520's cockpit, both Kara and her GIB, Brainiac, were disappointed. And yet, they knew full well why that was a rule-going back to the early days of the war. Hassling with MiGs wasn't their primary mission: putting bombs on target and making things on the ground burn, bleed, and blow up was. “Maybe they'll get close enough,” Kara said on her IC.

“Maybe,” Brainiac reply. He didn't sound too confident, with the two RAF F-4Js along to deal with any party-crashers.

“Fairy coming up,” Guru called. “Got visual.”

“Copy,” replied Goalie. “Turn in five, four, three, two, one, MARK!”

Guru put 520 into another right turn, centering on a course of Three-four-zero. “Hico's next.” That was the pop-up point. “How far?”

“Six miles,” said Goalie. “Twenty seconds.”

“Flight, Lead,” Guru called the flight. “Switches on, music on, and stand by.” That meant to arm their weapons and turn on their ECM pods.

“Roger, Lead,” Kara replied, and the others did as well.

Guru turned on his ALQ-119 ECM pod, and told Goalie. “Set 'em up.”

Goalie worked the rear seat armament controls. “You're set. Everything in one pass.”

“Rambler Lead, Firebird Lead,” Dave Golen called. “No joy on target.” Golen's element had launched just after they did, and had followed Rambler Flight south.

“Roger, Firebird,” Guru called. “Come and join the party,” he said.

“On our way,” Golen replied, his two-ship turning north.

Goalie checked her map, then the DMAS, and looked outside. “Hico coming up.”

“Got it,” Guru said. “Flight, Lead. Stand by to pull.”

“Five seconds, Four, three, two, one, MARK!”

Guru pulled up as Hico appeared, and as the flight overflew the town-and sending many in the garrison to their shelters, while a few flak and SAM gunners tried to shoot, he headed for his target. Just as Hico went behind them, he glanced at his EW display, and it chilled him. Four, then five, then one more bright squares appeared, four of them with “11” inside, and two with “23.” “Son of a bitch!”

“What?” Goalie asked.

“We've got a SAM trap!” Guru called. “Flight, Lead. ABORT!”

“Lead, you sure?” Kara replied.

“Gadflies and Zoo Twenty-threes down there,” the CO said. “ABORT! Firebird, did you hear that?”

“Roger, Rambler,” Golen replied. “Coming up on your six.”

Guur turned sharply to the right, and as he did, one of the SAM vehicles launched.

“SAM, Ten O'clock!” That was Goalie's call. A single SA-11 came up, headed for them.

Guru saw the missile, and as it tracked 512, he turned hard left and got back down low. Kara and the others saw it as well, and they did the same maneuver. The SAM break worked, for the SA-11 flew past. Guru then turned back north. “When we get back, remind me to see about crunching some balls.”

“Whose?” Goalie asked. She knew that Guru would want an opportunity target, and some were so marked on their maps.

“Somebody in the ATO shop at Tenth Air Force,” Guru muttered. “Find me an opportunity target,” he said as Dave Golen's element joined up.


At Clarette, a Soviet Lieutenant Colonel was kicking up some dirt in disgust, though he wanted to kick a particular officer. His battalion from the 140th “Borisov” SAM Brigade, which belonged to the 4th Guards Tank Army, had been sent in along with a detachment from the 144th GMRD to set up a missile and gun trap for the American aircraft that had been prowling the area. Though this was the East German rear, the Colonel had gotten his orders from the Colonel who commanded the Brigade, and those orders had come down from Army, and that meant General Suraykin. But instead of setting up a phony munitions dump or missile site, as the East Germans had done, he had found an actual supply dump that the East Germans had just established, and set up around it, much to the surprise of the East Germans, though they were glad to have the missiles around.

Each Buk (SA-11) missile vehicle had been well camouflaged, as had the ZSU-23-4s that he had been loaned, with each vehicle commander given specific orders not to fire until ordered. And yet, someone had been trigger-happy, shooting a missile after some incoming Americans who promptly evaded the single missile and turned away. Frankly, he didn't blame them, for these were fresh arrivals from the Rodina, new to combat. Still, the Colonel made a mental note to kick the vehicle commander's ass later, but he did note that the missile, though it had guided initially, had lost lock once the F-4 (at least that was what he thought the aircraft were) had dropped back down low, and there had been ECM coming not just from the target, but several others with it. Oh, well, the Colonel mused. Not this time. Maybe the Americans will come later in the day. He ordered his men to stand down, then he headed to the field kitchen. Might as well get some lunch, the Colonel thought.


“Now what?” Guru asked as Goalie checked her map. “Can't fly around here all day.”

“I'm looking,” Goalie replied as she scanned a list of opportunity targets. “Got a couple. One's another supply dump.”

“Where?”

“East of Stephenville,” Goalie said. Another one's a missile support facility, and we're headed right for it.”

“Talk to me,” Guru said. A SAM or Scud support site was definitely worth hitting. Even on a spur-of-the-moment occasion like this.

“One mile south of Paluxy,” advised Goalie. “Forty seconds away, and turn five degrees right.”

“Flight, Lead,” Guru called. “That's our new target. Firebird, did you copy?”

“Roger,” Dave Golen called back.

“Copy that, Lead,” Kara replied. Somebody back there had been trigger-happy, and was probably now going to be shot. His problem....But SA-11s? Those weren't in the brief, and she knew, not on the threat board in the Ops Office.

“Fifteen Seconds,” Goalie called. “Pull on my count.”

“Stand by to pull,” Guru told the Flight. “On me.”

“And.....PULL!”

Guru pulled back on the stick, and as he did, he looked around. But it was Sweaty who eyeballed the target.

“Lead, Sweaty,” she called. “Target at Eleven O'clock low!”

Guru rolled left, and picked it out. Almost a carbon copy of the depot they had been tasked to hit, Only this one had rows of missiles laid out on the ground. At least the EW display was clear at the moment, other than the Mainstay. No AAA, no SAMs, and no MiGs. “That's it. We'll take it. Dealer's choice as to aim points. You guys and Firebird, follow me in. Rambler One-five and One-six, do your TARCAP thing.”

“All set,” Goalie said from the back seat, stowing the map as the rest of the flight-and Firebird-acknowledged.

“Then let's go,” Guru said as he rolled in on his bomb run.


Below, at the SAM support facility, the soldiers there were going about a routine day. The missiles were a mix-some were Krug (SA-4) for the East German Army, while others were Kub (SA-6) and Romb (SA-8) for both the East Germans and the Soviets. The latter, in fact, were present in force as the 144th Guards Motor-rifle Division was refitting nearby, and the Soviets insisted on priority for the division's refit. The East Germans, who considered themselves better socialists than the Soviets, went along, though the Krugs were now regarded as nearly useless, for they were big, not that useful against maneuvering targets, not to mention easily jammed and when the missile radar vehicle was taken out, impossible to guide, for the mobile launchers had no guidance capability. The Kubs and Rombs were still useful, but even the Russians were hoping to replace them-but so far, only the Buk (SA-11) was in-theater, and not all that widely seen. Hence the reliance on the older systems.

All of that was well known to a Soviet Army Lieutenant Colonel who ran the facility along with an East German officer who held the same rank. In fact, the two allies divided up the facility according to Front's allocation of replacement missiles. Right now, since the 32nd Army to the west and the 4th Guards Tank Army to the east had the Buk in their Army-level missile brigades or about to be assigned, the Krugs were all for the East Germans. The Kubs and Rombs were shared equally, but the Colonel knew that those systems were now a little dated. Two years of combat had exposed weaknesses-especially in the Rombs-while the Kubs' weaknesses were well known, and the Americans-thanks to the Israelis in 1982, knew them full well, while the Rombs were getting to be long in the teeth as well. Maybe those draft-dodgers in white coats and carrying slide rules were working on something to help, for he'd heard that in this sector, the number of kills had gone way down, and the intelligence people who specialized in air-defense matters were trying to figure out why.

At least that's not my concern, the Colonel thought. It was a sunny day, though word had come down that a storm was due overnight and would last thorugh most of the day tomorrow. Good. The threat of air attack would go down, his men would be able to get the missiles distributed to those who needed them, and maybe they could displace and move to a new location. He was thinking about lunch when shouts came from the perimeter, and the AA gunners began swinging their weapons to the south. Tiny specks appeared, with smoke trails behind them. Air attack...... “TAKE COVER! AIR ATTACK WARNING!” The Colonel shouted it twice, then jumped into a slit trench.


“Lead's in hot!” Guru called as he took 512 down on the bomb run. He saw the flak begin to come up, and noted it was the light stuff, namely the 23-mm and 37-mm. No radars, he saw on the EW display, and that meant the gunners were shooting by eye alone. Not good enough, Ivan or Franz, Guru thought as he lined up some missile transporters in his pipper. Were those SA-4s? No matter, Guru said to himself as the transporters grew larger as he closed in. “Steady...And...Steady...And.....HACK!” He hit his pickle button, sending his six Mark-82s and six M-117s down onto the target. Guru then pulled up and away, applying power and jinking as he did. Once he was clear, the CO made the call. “Lead's off safe.”


“NYET!” That was the Colonel's shout as Guru's F-4 came in and released its bombs. He huddled in the trench with a number of others, and felt the concussion as the bombs went off. When he heard the F-4 clear the area, he glanced out of the trench, and saw that several of the Krug transporters had either been blasted apart by the bombs or tossed like toys by the shock waves. A couple were on fire, and when a missile exploded, he ducked back into the trench. The Colonel then heard the AA guns firing again. Having been bombed more than once, he knew from experience what was next.


“SHACK!” Goalie shouted from the back seat. “Got a few secondaries!”

“What kind?” Guru asked as he jinked to avoid some tracers, then jinked again as a shoulder-fired missile flew past on his right.

“Looked like missile cook-off.”

“Good enough,” Guru replied as he set course north.


“Two's in!” Kara called as she took 520 down on the target. She saw the CO's run, and the secondaries that resulted, and decided to pick other game. Spotting some large missiles on the ground, Kara lined those up in her pipper. SA-4s by the size of them, she thought. Okay, Ivan.....Better to kill the missiles on the ground than dodge them in the air. She, too, noted the flak and a couple of shoulder-fired missiles, and ignored both, concentrating on the bomb run. The missiles grew larger in the pipper as she got closer to the release point.... “Steady....Steady....And...And.....NOW!” Kara hit the pickle button, releasing her bombs, and after they came off the racks, she, too, pulled up and away, jinking to give the flak gunners and SAM-shooters a harder target. When she was clear of the target, Kara got on the radio. “Two's off target.”


In his trench, the Soviet Colonel huddled as Kara's F-4 came in. He didn't look up, but heard the aircraft come over, and also heard and felt the bombs going off. Now what? He wondered, though not aloud, for one of those in the trench was his Political Officer. Even while under air attack, the Party man would be looking out for anyone showing defeatist tendencies-something that the Colonel knew was starting to spread, with the front now back in Texas. When the F-4 was gone, he looked up, and saw where the Krugs had been laid out on the ground, awaiting shipment. Some had gone up in sympathetic detonations, while others had taken off, going across the ground in all directions. Shaking his head, he saw the AA gunners turning their ZU-23s back to the south. Knowing what that meant, he ducked back into the trench as the guns opened fire. More Americans coming....


“BULLSEYE!” Brainiac shouted from 520's back seat. “Got some secondaries!”

“How many?” Kara asked as she jinked to avoid some flak, while an SA-7 type missile flew harmlessly above 520's cockpit.

“Several, and they're good-sized. Might have had missile cook-off back there.”

“Good, as long as they fry some Russians,” Kara said as she picked up the CO's bird.


“Three in hot!” That was Sweaty's call as she came in on her run. She watched Kara pull up, and saw the results of her strike, with missiles going off down below, while others took off, some going up, others going towards trees or hills. Sweaty spotted more missiles on the ground, and selected those as her target. Ignoring the flak coming up, she lined the missiles up in her pipper, totally set on the bomb run. “Steady....Steady.....Steady.....HACK!” Sweaty hit the pickle button, and her six Mark-82s and six M-117s came off the racks. She then applied power, pulling up and away, jinking as she did so. When she cleared the target, Sweaty called, “Three's off.”


“Not now...” the Soviet Colonel said as he heard Sweaty's run. He looked at his Political Officer, and to his pleasure, the man looked properly terrified. Good, the Colonel thought as he heard the F-4 clear the area, and he wondered where the bombs had come down. A dozen explosions and several sympathetic detonations later, he stuck his head up. Looking at where the Kub missiles were stored, he saw the fires and explosions still going on, then he ducked as a missile cooked off, and headed right for him. The Kub flew overhead, and what it hit, right then he didn't care. Then the AA guns picked up again. Knowing what was coming, he wondered, Why me and why now?


“SHACK!” Preacher shouted. “Good hits!”

“Secondaries?” Sweaty asked as she pulled away, dodging some tracers and even a shoulder-fired missile as she got clear.

“Good enough,” her GIB replied.

“Sounds good to me,” she said as she picked up smoke trails ahead, then had eyeballs on the CO and Kara.

“Four in hot!” Hoser called as he went in on his run. He saw what the others had done, and spotted some vehicles near where the CO had put his bombs. The Boss missed a few, he thought, and selected those as his target. He saw the flak coming up, and ignored it as he picked out the remaining missile transporters and lined them up in his pipper. Your turn, he thought, as he approached the release point. “And...And....Steady...And....NOW!” Hoser hit his pickle button, sending his bombs down onto the target below. He then pulled away, applying power and jinking as he did, not giving the flak gunners an easy target. “Four's off target,” Hoser called when he got clear.


“Damn it!” The Soviet Colonel said, not caring if anyone heard him. He heard the AA guns open up again, then Hoser's F-4 came, and as it thundered past, it left a dozen bombs in its wake. He heard and felt the bombs going off, and after the last explosions, the Colonel took a look around. He saw where the F-4 had planted its bombs, close to where the first one had struck, and the remaining Krug missile transporters were either wrecked or on fire. Shaking his head, he started to get up and out of the trench when someone pulled him back in. He saw it was his East German counterpart, but before he could open his mouth to thank the man, the sound of AA fire started up again. More Americans? Lovely.



“BULLSEYE!” KT shouted as Hoser pulled clear. “Good hits back there.”

“Any secondaries?” Hoser asked as he dodged an SA-7, then some tracers as he maintained his jinking.

“Two or three.”

“Good enough,” replied Hoser as he dodged some tracers, then an SA-7. Then he picked up Sweaty's bird, and formed up with his element lead.


“Firbird Lead in hot!” Dave Golen called as he came in on his run. As he went in, Golen noticed that the target had been serviced pretty well, with numerous fires and secondary explosions still visible. He looked around, and noticed a truck park across the road from the target. Golen adjusted his run, then lined up some of the trucks in his pipper. He noticed the flak, and even a couple of SA-7s, but ignored both the flak and the missiles, as he concentrated on the bomb run. Your turn now, Ivan, he thought. “And...And..Steady...And....NOW!” Golen hit the pickle button, relasing his dozen bombs onto the target below. He then pulled up and away, applying power as he did so, and began jinking. When he was clear, he made the call, “Firebird Lead off target.”


“This isn't happening,” the Soviet Colonel muttered as he heard the AA guns firing, then the thunder of Dave's F-4 as it flew by. Then the bombs followed, and it sounded and felt like the bombs landed further away than the others. He poked his head up out of the trench, and saw several smoke clouds to the south, across the road from the depot. The truck park, he realized. Then he saw the AA guns swivel back to the south, and shook his head. Another American? The Colonel muttered another curse, then dropped back in the trench.

“GOOD HITS!” Terry McAuliffe shouted from Golen's back seat. “Got a few secondaries!”

“How many and how big?” Golen asked as he jinked left to avoid a missile, then right to dodge some tracers. These looked like 23-mm, he saw. Those, we can handle, he thought. Not those nasty 30-mm ones....

“Several, and they're good-sized.”

“We'll take those,” Golen replied as he jinked one more time, then headed north, picking up Sweaty's element.


“Firebird Two in hot!” Flossy called as she took 1569 down on its bomb run. She saw where Dave had planted his bombs, and noticed a number of trucks that had escaped her lead's strike. All right, Ivan, she thought. Your turn. Flossy selected a group of trucks and lined them up in her pipper, all the while ignoring the flak and a couple of SA-7s that came up her way. Keeping steady, she concentrated on her bomb run, and got ready. “And....And....And....HACK!” Flossy hit her pickle button, and her six Mark-82s and six M-117s came off the racks. She then pulled up and away, applying power and jinking to give the flak gunners and SAM shooters a harder target. Once clear, she made the call, “Firebird two off safe.”


“Sookin sin!” The Colonel shouted. Son of a bitch.....and this was shaping up to be a bitch of a day. He heard the AA gunners shooting, even the whoosh of a missile being fired, then came the thunder of Flossy's F-4 as it came by. The bombs followed, and he had a good idea as to what had been hit. He got up out of the trench, and saw more smoke and flame from the truck park. Looking around agog at the general destruction, the Colonel was at a loss for words at first, then the AA gunners shooting again brought him back to his senses. Two more F-4s thundered past, but didn't attack. A reconnaissance flight? That didn't concern him, but getting some order out of this mess did. He began shouting orders.


“Flossy's clear,” Goalie said in 512's back seat.

“Six in and out,” Guru agreed. Firebirds, join up on us. Rambler One-five and One-six, get your asses north.”

“Roger, Lead,” Golen replied, as did both Paul Jackson and Susan Napier.

“Copy all,” said Guru. “Two, you there?”

“Right with you,” Kara replied, and both Guru and Goalie took a look, seeing 520 tucked in with them in Combat Spread.

“Roger that,” Guru said. “Sweaty?”

“On your six,” Sweaty called. “Hoser's with me.”

“Copy, Four,” said Guru. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

The AWACS controller replied at once. “Ramber, Warlock. First threat bearing Zero-eight-zero for forty-five. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing One-seven-zero for fifty. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing Two-one-zero for sixty. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Warlock,” Guru said. “Bogey dope?”

“Rambler, first threats are Fishbeds. Second threats are Floggers, and third are Fulcrums.”

“Eighty seconds to the Fence,” Goalie advised.

“Roger that, Warlock,” said Guru. He got down even lower, to 400 Feet AGL, and still, the damned Mainstay radar was still there on his EW display. No fighter radars, though. Good.

“Lead, do we turn on 'em?” Kara asked. Though she knew the answer, she had to ask anyway. For the CO did want to catch up to her in terms of the squadron's kill lead, Kara knew.

“Only if we pick up their radars,” Guru replied.

“Roger,” Kara said. She knew why, but still...she wanted that tenth kill and the status of double ace.

“One minute,” said Goalie. Sixteen miles to the Fence.

The combined strike flight headed north, right over the East German 20th MRD's positions. They drew no fire, mainly because the East Germans were surprised to see American aircraft coming at them from their own rear. By the time the ZSU-23s and SA-6s were warmed up, it was too late. Though there was some small-arms fire.

“How long? Guru wanted to know as some machine-gun tracers came up after the flight.

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie replied. Eight miles.

“Rambler, Warlock, threats have all turrned away,” the AWACS controller advised.

“Roger that, Warlock,” Guru said. Not this time, but one of these days, they would be in a fight again, and he knew it. Then he'd catch up to Kara, and even get past her. For he wanted that tenth kill as well.

“Crossing the fence....now,” said Goalie as the twin ribbons of I-20 appeared.

“Flight, Lead. Music off, and IFF on, out,” Guru called the flight. He glanced at the EW display, and the Mainstay's signal was off, and the SEARCH warning light was dark. After the flight acknowledged, he climbed up to altitude and headed for the tankers.

After meeting up with the tankers, and taking on fuel from the KC-135s-and for the RAF, a KC-130, the flight headed back to Sheppard. When they arrived, they were second in the pattern, after a Marine four-ship of Hornets, with two 335th flights behind them.

When cleared in, Rambler and Firebird came in and landed, and as they taxied away, those waiting were again disappointed. No kills scored this time out, but maybe next time, the ground crews watching thought. The same thoughts were shared among the news crew, who, as usual, were filming as the F-4s taxied past, canopies now open.

“Don't they ever stop?” Guru asked, shaking his head as 512 passed the newsies.

“If they did, maybe their pay would be docked,” Goalie joked.

“Guess so,” Guru said as he turned into the squadron's dispersal area.

The flight taxied in, and the crews headed to their revetments. Guru found 512's, and Sergeant Crowley guided him in. Once he was in place, Guru got the “Stop” signal, and the ground crew put the wheel chocks in place. Then came the “Shut down” signal, and both engines were shut down. After that, came the post-flight checklist, while the ground crew deployed the crew ladder. Once the checklist was done, Guru, then Goalie, climbed down from the aircraft. They did the post-flight walk-around, and only then did Sergeant Crowley come up. As usual he had bottled water for both pilot and GIB.

“Major, Lieutenant? How'd things go?” Crowley asked as he handed a bottle to the CO.

“Almost ran into a flak and missile trap,” Guru said after taking a swig of water. “Almost, that is.”

“So we found an opportunity target,” Goalie added. “Some of the SAM operators down there are going to be short of reloads.”

“For a while,” Guru grinned. “Wrap up the post-flight, Sergeant, then get yourselves some chow. You can do the turnaround once you all get some food.”

The crew chief beamed. “Yes, sir!” He turned to the ground crew. “All right, people! Let's get the post-flight done, then we get something to eat before getting the CO's bird ready for the next one! Get to it!”

“Still going to send him on R&R? Goalie asked as she and Guru headed for the revetment's entrance.

“Yeah,” Guru nodded. “He deserves one, and I'm making sure he gets it over Christmas and New Year's.

Goalie agreed. “Ordering him to have a Merry Christmas at home?”

“Something like that,” Guru said as they got to the entrance, and found Kara and Brainiac there. “Well, that was an interesting one.”

“Not every day we run into one of those,” Kara said. “Missile trap with SA-11. Somebody's fucked up on the intel estimate-again.”

Guru nodded. “Not arguing with you, and I do want somebody's balls crunched, but not Sin Licon's. He just passes down what they give him.”

Kara knew it as well. “So you want somebody's ass at Tenth Air Force?”

“Something like that,” Guru said. “So, a SAM support site got it instead.”

“It did,” said Kara. “And you had a few secondaries.”

“So did we,” Brainiac added.

“Who put that briefing together?” Sweaty roared as she and Preacher, with Hoser and KT, came up. “Nobody said a damn thing about SA-11s!”

Guru nodded sympathetically. “Down, girl, and I'm just as pissed off as you are.”

“Where'd they come from?” Hoser asked.

“Your guess is as good as anyone's,” Kara said. “Nothing on the threat board at Ops about SA-11 in the area.”

Dave Golen, Flossy, and their GIBs came next, followed by the RAF crews. “That was fun,” Golen said. “First time I've had two targets changed on one mission.”

“Same here,” Flossy added. “Where'd those missiles come from?”

“Good question, and something we'd like to know,” Guru said. “What'd you guys hit?”

“Truck park across the road from the missile depot,” Golen replied. “You seemed to have serviced the dump pretty well. Plenty of secondaries and fires down there.”

Guru nodded. “Good to know, Dave. Too bad the MiGs didn't show,” he added for Golen's benefit and the RAF's. “First time for SA-11?” The CO asked Dave Gledhill.

“On land, yes,” Gledhil replied, and his people nodded. “But at sea? We were told not to get too close to a Red Convoy if they had Sovremmeny destroyers. They have SA-N-7, and it's the same type of missile as SA-11. Even has the same code name: Gadfly.”

“Same missile?” Brainiac asked.

“So they say,” Gledhill replied. “No way to know for sure-yet.”

“Save that for later,” Guru said. “Be glad somebody down there was trigger-happy. Otherwise I'd be writing letters-or Mark Ellis would, and some of us would've been skydiving.”

“Happy thoughts,” Sweaty said. “Not.”

Guru winced at that. “No. Once was enough, mind.”

“So now what?” Jang asked.

Guru said, “We debrief, and don't tear into Sin Licon. He just passes down what they tell him.”

“You know the Intel Community's motto, Boss,” Preacher said. “We're betting your life.”

The CO knew it. “We all know it. And today, somebody was betting just that. Okay, let's debrief. Then get the armchair warriors out of the way, and chow down. Because in an hour and a half, max, we're back at it.” It was 1145.

“Third quarter,” Flossy said.

“It will be,” said Guru. “Let's go.”

The flying day continues; some FNGs arrive:



335th TFS, Sheppard AFB, TX; 1215 Hours Central War Time:



Major Matt Wiser sat in his office, going over some papers. Why couldn't the paper-pushers leave those fighting the war to do their jobs, he wondered. The CO had no use for bureaucracy and those who inhabited that maze, and yet, he also knew that they kept the warfighters supplied so that they could go out and put the hurt on the bad guys. And yet, some of their memos reminded him how out-of-touch some of the paper-pushers were, for there was yet another memo criticizing the “excessive” expenditure of 20-mm ammo. Guru was half a mind to feed the offending memo to the shredder, but decided to keep it to show to General Tanner the next time the Tenth Air Force's Commanding General came by, or better yet, General “Sundown” Cunningham, the Vice-Chief of Staff of the Air Force. Scuttlebutt had it that General Cunningham was coming by after Thanksgiving sometime, and if Frank was still around, Cunningham was likely to kick the snobby major off base-and do some more ass-kicking to the bureaucrats when the CO showed the General the memo.

He had finished the papers and put what needed to go in his OUT box, when there was a knock on the office door. “Yeah? Come in and show yourself!”

Goalie came in, with two plastic bags and a carrier for drinks. “Lunchtime,” she said. “Barbeque chicken sandwiches with Cole slaw and corn on the cob. And lemonade.”

“Good,” Guru replied, taking his bag and opening the container inside. He opened the Styrofoam container, but before he ate, he said, “You're not going to believe this.”

“What?” His GIB asked as she got ready to eat.

“This.” Guru showed her the memo. “I'd like to give these guys a rifle and send them into the infantry.”

She read it and shook her head. “Lovely,” Goalie spat.

“Yeah,” Guru said. “Let's eat.”

As they ate, they discussed squadron-related matters, and then their previous mission came back up.
“We came close,” Goalie said in between bites. “That SAM trap was laid on pretty good.”

“It was,” Guru agreed. He had to respect an enemy's competence when called for. “Be glad ALQ-119 works against SA-11, and that somebody down there was trigger-happy.”

“And he probably earned himself a trip to a penal battalion.” Goalie let out a chuckle at that.

“Or a bullet in the back of the head,” Guru added.

“Either one's acceptable,” said Guru.


They had just finished lunch when there was another knock on the door. “Yeah?” Guru said. “Come on in and show yourself!”

The Exec, Mark Ellis, came in. “Boss, got a couple things for you, and heard about your SA-11.”

“Word travels fast,” Goalie observed, though she-like the others, knew it from the experiences of others, and some of those were not good.

“It does,” the XO admitted. “Any advice?”

“Unless you've got folks with antiradar missiles around-like Weasels or IRON HAND? Abort. Find yourself an opportunity target,” said Guru.

Ellis nodded. “Will do, Boss,” he said. “Got these for you.” He handed the CO a couple of papers.

“What's this?”

“Updated weather report. Storm's still coming in, right on schedule.”

“So we get our stand-down,” Guru noted. “What else is there?”

The Exec handed the CO another paper. “Newbies are here. They came in on a C-130 half an hour ago.”

“How many?”

“Two crews,” the XO said. “Only one of 'em is a vet, the rest are fresh from Kingsley Field.”

Guru nodded. Not what he wanted, but then again, how many other CO s were in the same boat? Wanting veterans and getting mostly newbies out of the RTU. Oh, well.... “They outside?”

“Yeah,” said Ellis. “You want to see 'em now, I suppose?”

“That I do, and tell me we've got billeting space?”

The Exec nodded. “We do, Boss. Want me to bring 'em in?”

“Go ahead,” the CO said.

Ellis opened the office door and waved the four new men in. All were in their dress blues with field caps, and they saluted the CO upon entering.

Guru returned the salutes, then got things off. “My name's Major Matt Wiser. All right, you're with the 335th Tactical Fighter Squadron, the Chiefs, or as some folks also add, with some pride, 'The Air Force's Bastard Orphans.' We're OPCON to Marine Air Group 11, and have been since the early days of the war. Second, you are now on a base at war, so we can dispense with the jumping up-and-down foolishness you learned at either the Academy, ROTC, or knife-and-fork. There is still a significant fixed-wing threat, a substantial TBM threat, and there's also Spetsnatz to worry about. So we're pretty informal around, here, everybody packs a weapon, and no need for snappy salutes or dressing up. Understood?”

“YES, SIR!” The four shouted.

I hope you do, the CO thought. He nodded at a Japanese-American Captain who was the senior of the four. “Captain...Hasegawa? Let's see your orders and personnel jacket.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Terry Hasegawa said, handing that material to his new CO.

Guru scanned the Captain's file. “Impressive. ROTC, University of Hawaii. First in your class, then first in UPT.” That meant Undergraduate Pilot Training. “You asked for F-4s?”

“Yes, sir,” Hasegawa replied. “Dad flew F-4s in Vietnam: LINEBACKER I and II, so...”

“And so you did,” Guru finished. He read on. “You were with the 35th?” He meant the 35th Tactical Fighter Wing-the Wild Weasels.

“Yes, sir,” the Captain nodded. “Flew with the 563rd TFS. E models in the Hunter-Killer team.”

Goalie recognized it at once. “You're following up the Gs after they shoot their HARM or Shrike, with dumb bombs or CBUs.”

“That's right. What got me was an SA-11. Dislocated shoulder and a broken leg, with some first-degree burns. GIB didn't get out.”

“Where?” Guru asked.

“Near Vaughn, New Mexico, Day two of PRAIRIE FIRE,” Hasegawa said. “Some rancher and his son found me, and took me in. Ivan was too busy trying to hold off First Cav to look for a downed pilot, and they never looked around, far as I know. After the Cav arrived, I was on the shelf until last month. Then requalifying, and, well, here I am.”

“Glad to have you here, Captain. And if you have any pointers on how to deal with SA-11, we'd like to know. Because there are two people in this room-” Guru pointed to himself and Goalie- “Who nearly ran afoul of an SA-11 trap this morning, and any information you have would be greatly appreciated.”

Hasegawa nodded. “Yes, sir. I'll pass on what I know.”

“Good,” Guru nodded. “You have a call sign?”

“Samurai, and that comes from my being pretty good at Kendo.” He saw puzzled looks, and explained. “Japanese fencing.”

Goalie nodded herself. “And your buddies at Flight or the RTU found out, and so...”

“That's about it.” Hasegawa noticed Goalie's silver bar and navigator wings. The fact that she was here with the CO meant that she was his GIB. Not that it was his business...

Mark Ellis spoke up next. “Any of your relatives in the plastic model business?” Hasegawa Models were known the world over, and he had built some-and so had the CO, for one of their 1/72 scale F-105s sat on Guru's desk.

“Maybe a distant cousin I don't know,” the captain shrugged. “Been asked that more than once.”

Guru smiled. “In that case....” He held out his hand. “Welcome to the Chiefs.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hasegawa grinned.

“You're welcome, Captain,” Guru said. He turned to a big blond fellow who looked to be as tall as he was and had silver bars on his shoulders and navigator wings on his left breast. “And you are?”

“First Lieutenant Dave Lundquist, sir,” the man replied. He handed Guru his own orders and jacket.

Guru opened the orders, and then the jacket. He then looked up. “Academy?”

“Yes, sir,” Lundquist nodded. “Technically, I'm class of '87.”

Goalie was surprised, though not completely. Both Annapolis and West Point had graduated the class of '42 a couple of weeks after December 7, 1941, while making the rest go onto an accelerated three-year program. Though she had helped evacuate the Academy in her C-130 days a few days into the war, what happened after getting them all to Beale AFB in California wasn't on her mind-flying into Denver with food, ammo, medicine, and then flying people out was. “That's a first for us, though. Wartime Academy grad.”

“It is,” Guru nodded. “Any problems working with ROTC or OTS alumni? For your information, I'm the latter.” All four newbies looked at him. “I was a First Lieutenant and a veteran of six months in this very squadron when the balloon went up. There were twenty-four birds and thirty-six crews in this squadron on Invasion Day. Now, there's maybe eight or ten original birds and ten individual aircrew who are Day One vets, plus another vet who was at another base. This squadron's been at it since Day One, so remember that.”

“Yes, Major,” the new guy replied. “And no problem with ROTC or OTS people. One of my instructors
at Mather was ROTC and another up at Kingsley Field.” Mather AFB near Sacramento was the AF's Navigator Training School, which handled training for navigators west of the Rockies these days. Guru and the others had heard that the Navy handled the training for AF navs on the East Coast-something that, prewar, would've been unheard of.

Guru looked at him. Good for you, he thought. “All right, then.” He scanned Lundquist's file. “Physics major and biology minor? You have aspirations, I take it. Do those include NASA?”

“Yes, sir. I know I can't be a shuttle pilot because I'm not a pilot. But there's always Mission Specialist.”

Goalie looked at him, then Guru. “He'll fit in with Cosmo.”

“He will. We've got a former grad student in Astronomy who's now flying F-4s. You and her might just have a few things to talk about.”

Ludquist's face let out a grin. “We just might, Major.”

“Sounds good.” Guru put out his hand. “Welcome to the Chiefs.”

“Thanks, Major,” the big Swede said as he and the CO shook hands.

“Glad to have you,” Guru said. He turned to the next guy, a fellow who looked like he'd once played football, and not in the backfield. Like Lundquist, he wore First Lieutenant's insignia and nav wings. “And you?”

“Mark Walker, Major,” he replied. “Out of Richfield, Utah and BYU.” He, too, handed the CO his orders and jacket.

“Says here you dropped out of your Junior year at BYU to join up,” Guru said. “OTS, then nav, and F-4s.” Then something caught his eye. “Business major?”

Walker nodded. “That's right, sir.”

“Says here you've got 20/10 vision in one eye and 20/30 the other. That explains you as a nav, but you're also a rated private pilot?”

“Learned to fly from Dad, and I've got 300 hours in his Cessna 172 and a Beechcraft Baron. As long as I wear a contact in the bad eye? I'm fine.”

Hearing that, Ellis asked, “Did you try and get a waiver into Flight Training?”

“Yes, sir, I did,” said Walker. “Must've had the wrong review board, because my request was denied. But I ran into a couple of guys at Kingsley Field who had the same vision I did, and they were in the front seat.”

“Different review board,” the XO commented.

“Guess so,” the CO added. “Okay, any problems with female aircrew? Some folks from your neck of the woods do have an issue with that.”

Walker shook his head. “No, sir, and I'm not going to argue with somebody's record just because they're female.” He looked at Goalie, and saw her fruit salad. Especially the DFC and Silver Star ribbons. “I gather there's a few in this squadron?”

“There are,” Guru said. “And two pilot and two GIB aces, as a matter of fact. Along with two F-4s that are, well, 'unmanned'.”

“All-female crews,” Goalie added.

“And several other aircrew,” said the CO. “Any problems?”

Walker shook his head again. “No, sir.”

“All right,” Guru said, extending his hand. “Welcome to the Chiefs.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“Glad to have you with us,” Guru said. He nodded at the fourth arrival, who wore pilot's wings and the bar of a First Lieutenant, and looked like he'd been a wrestler in school. “And you?”

“Pat Erickson, sir,” he said, handing his orders and jacket over. “University of Wyoming via a small town near Rochester, Minnesota.”

Guru nodded and went over the man's jacket. “Says here you were working on a Physics major and a minor in P.E.” He looked up. “Going to be a teacher?”

“Yes, Major,” Erickson nodded back. “But the Russians had other plans, and so, here I am.”

“So you are,” the CO said. “Well, when this is over and you've fulfilled your commitment to the Air Force, you can go back to school, then tell your students what you did in World War Three.”

“If he makes it to the end,” Goalie observed. She was matter-of-fact about it, as the CO and XO knew.

The Exec nodded. “That little factor is always there,” he said.

Guru agreed. “It is. Now how'd you wind up in Wyoming?”

Erickson smiled. “Baseball scholarship. Played Third base and Shortstop in high school, and the same in College. If not for this war, I'd be in my Senior year right now.”

“Looks like we've got a ringer when we play the Jarheads in a pickup baseball game,” Goalie grinned. She had played softball at the Air Force Academy, how many years or lifetimes back? Several, she knew.

“That we do,” Guru noted. “All right....top fifteen percent in your OTS class. Top twenty-five percent in UPT.” His head perked up. “Says here you asked for F-16s?”

The ex-baseball player nodded. “Everybody wants either F-15s or -16s, seems like. Asked for F-16s first, then -15s. They were also asking for people to sign up for the F-20, so that was my third choice. Opened my orders, and they said 'Kingsley Field, Oregon.'”

Guru looked at him sympathetically. Not everybody got what they wanted, in peacetime, and especially so in wartime. “The Viper's loss is Double-Ugly's gain. You might want to keep that in mind.” Then something occurred to him. “How long ago were they recruiting people for the F-20?”

“About a month ago,” Erickson replied. “You sound like that's important, sir.”

“Just curious. We had some F-20s here a week ago, and they were demonstrating the bird, and trying to poach Phantom Phanatics into that little toy.”

“Ah, I see. Well, sir, that's that.”

“It is,” the CO nodded, holding his hand out. “Welcome to the Chiefs.”

“Thanks, Major,” replied Erickson as he shook Guru's hand.

“You're welcome, Lieutenant. Now, for your information, we're in the air-to-mud league for the most part. Eighty percent of our tasking is hitting targets on the ground. That means BAI, Counter-air, and even CAS. Now that doesn't mean that we don't accept the occasional MiG or helo we run across, or if we're jumped by the bad guys. We do have our share of aces, but nobody has a score in the double-digits, if you know what I mean.” Heads nodded at that, then the CO went on. “Also, eighty percent of our losses are people who don't make it to ten missions. Get past that, and your chances of survival go up considerably.”

“Forget about rotating out,” Ellis added. “We're in this for the long haul. Just like the Luftwaffe, the Japanese, or the Russians in WW II. “The one thing that keeps you from burning out are stand-down days like we have coming up tomorrow, and your time on R&R. You get two two-week periods during the year.”

Goalie then said, “The only way out is to be either KIA/MIA/POW, you do get burned out and the flight surgeon grounds you for a while, or somebody at Training Command asks for you.”

“That's how it is,” Guru said. “Now, there is a significant Spetsnatz threat to this base. And the Marines we're OPCON to take the 'Everyone a rifleman' saying very seriously. After the XO shows you to your billets, he will take you to Captain Ryan Blanchard and her Combat Security Police. You will draw a long gun and a pistol from them, and she and her people will instruct you in the care, feeding, and use of such firearms. Is that clear?”

“YES, SIR!” All four shouted.

“Good. All right, two more things. First, there's a snobby Major who's been a PITA to everyone in this squadron in particular and MAG-11 as a whole. He's a Frank Burns wannabe, a would-be martinet, and personifies the worst of Academy grads-he hates anyone not wearing an Academy class ring, has no use for ROTC or OTS alumni, and thinks enlisted and NCOs are serfs and he's the lord. Just give him the polite minimum and you'll be fine.”

“How bad is he, Major?” Hasegawa asked.

“Bad enough,” Guru replied. “Now, tonight you're all newbies. Tomorrow? Fellow animals in the zoo. Watch out for Captain Kara Thrace. She dominates the pool table and poker games, and do not play pool with her unless it's a friendly, and don't play poker unless you've got money in your wallet.”

All four looked at each other. “They did warn us about her, Major, when people found out we were coming to the 335th,” Lundquist said. “She's that bad?”

“She is,” Goalie said. “Don't get into debt with her. For she has an 'alternate payment plan.'”

“They did warn us about that as well.” Nothing more needed to be said, for word traveled fast about Kara's antics. All they needed to know they could pick up from anyone who'd been on the Trans-Pacific ferry run.

“Good. See that you remember all of that. Any other questions?” Guru asked the four. Heads shook no.

“No, sir,” Hasegawa said.

“Good. Welcome to the 335,” Guru said, shaking their hands. “Mark?”

“You guys come with me,” the XO said. “Get you billeted, then over to the CSPs.”

After Ellis had left with the four, Goalie looked at the CO. “Memories?”

Guru thought for a moment. “Yeah. Almost three years or three lifetimes, it seems. Reported in with Mark, Don, and Tim Cain. He had two other GIBs with him.” Memories of he and his friends' first day came back, realizing that they were now on the bottom of the totem pole in the squadron, and yet, they were going to do what they joined the Air Force to do: fly fighters.

“And who's left?”

“Mark, Don, and myself. The GIBs? All KIA or MIA,” Guru said. “You?”

“When I got to Little Rock and my old C-130 outfit?” Goalie asked. “It was 'Too bad you're a female, because with your Academy and UNT record, you'd be a fighter WSO or a SAC radar navigator. So make the best of it.”

“And you did, until they changed the law.”

“I did. Still got some good memories from those days, and some bad ones. Denver, especially.”

“I know: you've told some of those stories. And seeing a 747 take fire and crash after takeoff with five hundred people stuffed into it had to be no fun. We've flown over that wreck when we took our shots at the siege, remember?”

“Yeah, and it doesn't make that memory any better. Hardly anyone got out, and hope to God we put the hurt on the guys who did it. If not us, then they got caught in the retreat south or in the Pueblo Pocket and they paid for it.”

Guru nodded, then gave her a hug. “You've got your memories, and I've got mine. Some good, others, mighty bad.”

“We all do,” she said. “And what do we do about it?”

He had a ready-made answer. “The best we can,” Guru said. She was right, though: Some private time together was well overdue. “You mentioned some bedroom gymnastics? With the stand-down tomorrow? We can sleep in.”

Goalie let out a grin from ear-to-ear. “Sounds good to me.”

Then a knock on the door interrupted. “Yeah?” Guru said. “Show yourself and come on in!”

Kara came in, and saw the both of them still embracing. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Just a mutual hug when we both needed one,” Goalie said.

“She's right,” Guru replied. “What's up?”

“We've got a mission,” Kara said. “Us and the Brits. It's a six-ship for strike, in case you're wondering.”

“Dave and Flossy, then,” Guru said, seeing Kara nod. “And the Brits?”

“Dave Gledhill's element.”

“Guess we just got the kickoff for the second half,” Goalie said.

“We did,” Guru agreed. “Halftime's over, and time to get back in the game.” He looked at Goalie, then Kara. “Get everybody to the briefing room.”

“How soon?”

“In ten,” Guru said, putting his game face on.

Goalie and Kara looked at each other and nodded. “Got it,” Kara said.

“No rest for the weary or the wicked,” Goalie said as she went to Kara.

“We'll rest after the war, or when we're dead.” Guru replied.

Both knew the CO was right. “We're gone,” Kara said. And both headed out the door.

Goalie's right, Guru thought to himself. We do need some time together. He took a deep breath, then went out himself, and as he did, his Staff Sergeant secretary said, “Good luck, Boss,”

“Thanks, Trish,” the CO replied. Then he went to the Ops Office and found the Ops Officer waiting. “Don,” Guru said. “Kara says I've got a mission?”

“You do,” Van Loan replied, handing him the folder.

Guru opened the folder and scanned the mission summary. He looked at his Ops Officer. “We hit something like this for an opportunity target a couple of hours ago.”

“I heard,” Ops said. “This one's Soviet, and it's the guys who got chewed up a couple of weeks ago-back when General Olds came, and General Yeager's pups helped out.”

“Regimental laager, and these guys are reequipping,” Guru noticed. “Tell me someone in my flight's got Mavericks.”

“Dave and Flossy do,” Van Loan said. “You get the Rockeyes or dumb bombs.”

“Thanks, Don,” the CO said. “You be careful out there. Keep a lookout for SA-11s.”

“After what you guys ran into?” Van Loan replied, “Will do, and be careful your own self.”

Guru shook his hand. “Always.” Then he headed to the Briefing Room his flight used, and went in. He found the rest of his flight there, and Buddy, the mascot, already curled up and asleep. “Okay, folks. Hope you enjoyed halftime, because the third quarter's ready to kick off.”

“Where are we headed?” Sweaty asked.

“Morgan, west of Lake Whitney,” the CO replied. “There's a regimental-sized laager north of the town, and we get to put the hammer down on 'em.”

“Aren't these the same guys who gave us the first ZSU-30 scare?” Hoser asked.

“They are, and that's why Dave and Flossy are coming with us,” said Guru. He turned to their IDF “Observer”. “You two have six Mavericks each. Kill any air-defense assets you see, and opportunity targets if you run out.” The CO passed around some RF-4C and SR-71 imagery of the target area.

Dave Golen smiled. “It'll be a pleasure.” Though if MiGs came, that meant only two Sparrows and a full cannon load.

“We'll take them out,” Flossy added.

“Good. Kara?” Guru turned to his wingmate. “You and I have Rockeyes.”

Kara nodded. “Gotcha, Boss.” She preferred the CBUs for dealing with armor.

“And us?” Sweaty asked, nodding in Hoser's direction.

“Mark-82s with half having the Daisy Cutter fuze extensions,” Guru said.

Preacher looked at one of the pictures. “This a tank or motor-rifle regiment?”

“Motor-rifle, looks like,” Guru replied. The intel sheet didn't say. “As for defenses? Expect regimental level, and that means ZSU-23-4 at least, if not ZSU-30, plus SA-9 or -13.”

“What about heavier stuff?” KT asked.

“Good question. The division these guys belong to had SA-11, but they got chewed up along with the rest of the division, Intel says. Expect a mix: SA-6 or -8, and any remaining SA-11s along with 'em.”

Flossy then asked, “We getting Weasels?”

“Negative,” said Guru. “So we make a few fake “Magnum” calls. In fact, why don't you and Dave do that when you take your Maverick shots?”

“And watch as their radars all shut down to avoid HARMs, and they eat Mavericks instead,” Dave Golen grinned. “I like it.”

“Boss, anyone tell you that you can be a sneaky bastard?” Kara said.

“More than once,” Guru nodded. “One other thing before moving on: we'll be in range of the Hillsboro SA-2, so watch for flying telephone poles.”

“Too far away, and we'll be too low,” Preacher said.

“You never know,” Guru reminded him-and the others. Now, the MiG threat is unchanged since this morning, and the closest MiGs are at James Connally AFB and Waco Regional, and those are Floggers and Fishbeds.”

Dave Gledhill looked at his map. “Closest Fulcrums?”

“Gray AAF at Fort Hood and Bergstrom AFB, which is where the Flankers are,” Guru replied.

Heads nodded at that. Nothing new here. “Okay, Boss, usual way in?” Hoser asked.

“Negative,” Guru said, letting out an evil-looking grin. “We're going in the back way.”

“Back way?” Sweaty asked.

Guru repeated his grin. “We tank up as usual near Mineral Wells at Tanker Track ARCO. Then we get south to the town of Ranger on I-20. Pick up the Leon River, and follow that to Proctor Lake-that's also State Route 16, and the seam between the East Germans to the east, and the Soviet 32nd Army to the west. When we get close to the Proctor Lake Dam, turn to a heading of 110, and head for the town of Fairy-which we've used before. Hit Fairy, then it's Zero-five-zero to Morgan. Our IP is State Route 6 and the Meridian State Park. Pop up, ID your targets-and it's dealer's choice again-then strike. Once clear, get your asses north to the Brazos, and we'll get into the Nicaraguan sector again. Follow the Brazos until we get to the I-20.”

“The reverse of some of what we've been doing,” Kara smiled. “I like it, Boss.”

“So do I,” Dave Golen added.

“Usual air-to-air?” Goalie asked. She, too, wanted the chance at another scalp on her belt.

“Four Sidewinders, two Sparrow-Fs, except for Dave and Flossy-all they get are two Sparrow-Fs, ECM pods and gun. For the rest of us? Full gun, usual ECM pods,and two wing tanks.” Guru nodded at Dave Gledhill. “The Other Dave?”

Hearing that, Gledhill laughed. “Four Sidewinder-Ls, four Sky Flash, SUU-23 pod, and two wing tanks, as usual.”

Guru nodded. Just the usual. “Sounds good, Dave. Any other questions?”

“Buddy's asleep,” KT said, gesturing at the dog, curled up and getting some sun shining through a window.

“Let him sleep,” Sweaty nodded. “Uh, Boss.”

“I would've said the same thing,” Guru laughed as an Ops NCO came to collect the briefing materials. “That's it. Gear up and get ready to fly. Meet at 512.”

The crews headed to their respective locker rooms to gear up. When Guru came out of the Men's, wearing G-suit, survival vest, helmet in hand, and packing his sidearm, he found Goalie waiting, as usual, and similarly attired. “Ready?”

“Two more, then we can knock off for a day,” she grinned. “Let's get it done.”

“Then let's go.” They left the squadron office, then headed out to the dispersal area. When they got to 512's revetment, the rest of the crews were waiting. “Gather 'round, people.”

“Usual on the radio?” Kara asked. That meant call signs between them, and mission code to AWACS and other parties.

“That it is,” Guru nodded. “Bailout areas are still unchanged: that means anywhere rural and away from roads. Lake Whitney-if you're hit at the target-will do in a pinch.”

Flossy asked, “And those basketball-sized tracers?”

“If we encounter them at the target? You and Dave kill them,” Guru said firmly. “If we get some before? Evade, and mark the location.”

“Gotcha, Boss,” said Kara.

“All right, people! Don't get complacent,” Guru reminded them. “That gets people killed or worse,” he said.

“Got you, Major,” Sweaty replied, and when people used his rank, that signaled to Guru that they were taking him very seriously indeed.

“Good. We're still Rambler Flight. Now, I know you're looking forward to the stand-down, but we've still got the afternoon to get through,” said the CO. “Anything else?” Heads shook no. “All right!” Guru clapped his hands for emphasis. “Let's fly. Time to hit it. Meet at ten grand overhead.”

The crews headed to their aircraft, and as Guru and Goalie went into the revetment, the Crew Chief, Sergeant Crowley, was waiting. He snapped a perfect salute as usual, and both Guru and Goalie returned it. “Major, Lieutenant? Five-twelve's ready to rock and kick some more Commie ass.”

“Thanks, Sarge,” Guru replied. He and Goalie did the usual preflight walk-around, then climbed the crew ladder and mounted their aircraft. After getting strapped into their seats, putting on and then plugging in their helmets, they went through the preflight checklist.

As they were doing so, Goalie said, “Any idea when they want us at Nellis? And ejection seats?”

“No idea, but it'll be soon,” Guru replied. “Armed top and bottom. Check yours. Arnie?”

“A night on the strip after we brief the brass,” Goalie thought out loud. “Mine's armed, and Arnie's up and going.” That was the ARN-101 DMAS system and the backup INS.

“They'll be packed,” Guru reminded her. “That's the biggest R&R destination west of the Rockies.”

“There'll be room for two more,” Goalie said. “Preflight checklist complete and ready for engine start.”

“Roger that,” said Guru. He gave a thumbs-up to his Crew Chief, and Crowley gave the “Start Engines” signal. First one, then two, J-79 engines were up and running. “Wouldn't mind a night like that myself.” Once the warmup was complete, Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead with eight, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

A controller got back to him right away-and this one was female. “Rambler Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi to Runway Three-Five-Lima. Hold prior to the active, and you are number two in line.”

“Roger, Tower. Rambler Lead is rolling.” Guru gave another thumbs-up to Sergeant Crowley, who waved to the ground crew. They removed the crew ladder and then pulled the chocks away from the wheels. Guru then released the brakes, and following Crowley's “Taxi” signal, taxied out of the revetment. Once clear, Crowley snapped another perfect salute, and again, both Guru and Goalie returned it.

Guru taxied towards the runway, and as he did, the rest of the flight fell in behind him. When 512 got to the holding area, there was a four-ship of Marine F/A-18s ahead of him. Both had to wait while a C-130 came in to land, and once it taxied clear, the Marines taxied onto the runway. After they launched, it was Rambler's turn to enter the holding area. There, as usual, the armorers removed the weapon safeties. Then Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting taxi for takeoff.”

The same controller replied. “Rambler Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are Two-five-five for eight.”

“Roger, Tower.” Guru replied, then he taxied 512 onto the runway. Kara followed in 520, and tucked right with him in the Five O'clock position. One final check, then he glanced over, where Kara and Brainiac were going through with their final checks. Then it was time. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

As usual, the tower didn't reply by radio, but flashed a green light. Clear for takeoff.

“Ready?” Guru asked Goalie.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” Goalie replied. “Let's get it done.”

“Canopy coming down,” Guru said, closing and locking his canopy.

Goalie did the same, and both looked over at 520, whose crew had also closed their canopies, and gave thumbs-ups. The crew in 512 returned them, and it was time.

“Let's go,” Guru said. He firewalled the throttles, released the brakes, and 512 rumbled down the runway and into the air, with 520 right with them. Thirty seconds later, it was Sweaty and Hoser's turn, followed by Dave Golen and Flossy, with the RAF element bringing up the rear. The flight met up at FL 100, then they headed south for their tanker rendezvous.

The strike, and some air-to-air action:




Over Central Texas: 1330 Hours Central War Time:


Rambler Flight was headed south, having cleared the I-20 and was now in enemy territory. They had joined up with the tankers over Pleasant Kingdom Lake, west of Mineral Wells, and while the 335th birds topped up from KC-135s, the two RAF F-4Js had joined up with their own Tristar to top up. Now, they were back down in the weeds, going for their target by the back door.

In 512, Guru was watching his instruments, then taking a look around. Keeping his head on a swivel had been drummed into his head at the RTU before the war, and having eyes out of the cockpit was very conducive to a long lifespan. He then took a look at his EW display, and for once, the round screen was blank. “No Mainstay radar.”

Goalie grinned beneath her oxygen mask. “Yet.” That was the operative word, and both of them knew it.

“So far, so good,” Guru said as he picked up the Leon River, and turned to follow it. The rest of the flight followed him as he followed the river south. “How far to the lake?” He meant Lake Proctor and their first navigation checkpoint.

“Twenty seconds to Route 16,” Goalie replied. That meant State Route 16, which formed the boundary between the East Germans to the east, and the Soviet 32nd Army to the west. “One minute to the lake.”

“Roger that,” said Guru. Just then he saw a strobe come up on the EW display, and it was to the south. Not very bright, he noticed, then the SEARCH warning light came on. He had a good idea what it was. “Spoke too soon, because guess who's up and active?”

“Mainstay again,” spat Goalie. It wasn't a question from her tone of voice. “Love to get somebody to do something about those.”

“Maybe somebody's thinking of it, just like we're cooking up something,” Guru reminded her as Highway 16 appeared. “There's the road.”

“Got it,” Goalie said, back to business. “Forty seconds to the lake.”

“Copy.”

The flight followed Highway 16, skirting the town of De Leon as they did. As they did, the locals in the town took note, and cheered, much to the disgust of the garrison-the 511th MRR from the 155th MRD, 32nd Army. The regimental commander, who had been the commander of the Regiment's second battalion before the regiment had assumed its current positions, shook his head. The sooner he and his men were back in action, the better. At least I have a political officer who's not concerned about that, he thought. For the last thing he wanted was any kind of underground or Resistance activity. Not that such things were out of the question: his own intelligence officer, not to mention division's, as well as the GRU Field Security Unit, were convinced the Resistance was just laying low, and biding its time. Just as long as I'm not around when they come out, the Lieutenant Colonel thought.


“There's the lake,” Guru said as Proctor Lake came into view. “Time to turn?”

“Fifteen seconds to the dam,” Goalie replied. “Steady....Now ten, and five, four, three, two, one, MARK!”

Guru turned left, to a heading of 110, just as the flak gunners at the dam spotted them and opened fire. The 23-mm, 37-mm, and 57-mm fire missed, as the strike flight turned to the southeast. “On track. How long to Fairy?” The spot on the map-and not much else-was their next checkpoint.

“One minute thirty,” said Goalie. “Twenty-four miles.”

“Copy,” Guru replied. Then he called the AWACs. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

A controller got back to him right away. “Rambler, Warlock. First threat bearing Two-three-five for thirty-five. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing Two-three-zero for forty. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing Two-two-zero for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Fourth threat bearing One-six-zero for seventy. Medium, going away.”

“Roger, Warlock,” said Guru. “Say bogey dope.”

“Rambler, first threats are Fishbeds, and second threats are Floggers. Third and fourth are Fulcrums.”

“Copy all,” Guru replied. MiG-29s? That'll make Kara, Dave Golen, and the RAF happy.

“One minute to Fairy,” Goalie advised.

“Roger that,” Guru replied, checking his EW display. So far, just the Mainstay's radar, but the bad guys could be taking cues from the Mainstay controllers, and stalking them with their radars off. He had then had his eyes out of the cockpit, keeping up his visual scanning, but coming in at 450 Feet AGL and 500 KIAS would hopefully keep the Mainstay's radar from picking them up.

The Texas hills flew by as Rambler Flight continued on course. The pilots concentrated on flying, checking their instruments-with a particular attention to the EW display, and maintaining their visual scanning, while the GIBs watched the navigation, and had a second pair of eyes out.

“Thirty seconds to Fairy,” Goalie advised. “Eight miles.”

“Roger that,” Guru replied. His head was on a swivel, watching the instruments, then scanning visually.

“Coming up on the turn,” said Goalie. “Ready to count.”

“Give it to me.”

“Copy. Turn in ten, now five, four, three, two, one, MARK!”

Guru turned left, turning onto a course of Zero-five-zero. “Steady on new course,” he called. A quick check of the EW display still showed only the Mainstay signal. “And the Mainstay's still there.”

“What else is new?” Goalie quipped. She checked her own display, and saw the same thing. “One minute thirty to target. One minute to IP.”

“Copy all,” Guru said. Then it was time for another call to the AWACS. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

A controller on the E-3B got back to him. “Rambler Lead, Warlock. Threat bearing Two-seven-zero for forty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-eight-five for forty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing Zero-nine-zero for sixty. Medium, closing. Fourth threat bearing Zero-six-five for sixty-five. Medium, going away.”

“Roger, Warlock. Do you have Bogey Dope?”

“Rambler, Warlock. First and second are Fulcrums. Third and fourth are Floggers.”

Guru replied, “Rambler Lead copies.” MiG-23s on the way out? That would be better than Fulcrums.

“Rambler, Warlock. Additional threat bearing One-six-zero for eighty. Medium, closing. Bandits are Flankers.”

“Copy.”

“Flankers?” Goalie asked. “Thirty seconds to pull.”

“Our lucky day,” Guru replied. “Set 'em up.” He meant the armament controls.

“On it,” said Goalie as she worked the armament control panel, setting up the ordnance. “All set. Everything in one.”

“Roger that.” It was almost time. “Flight, Lead. Switches on, Music on, and stand by to pull,” Guru called to the flight. He then turned on his ALQ-119 ECM pod.

“Roger, Lead,” Kara replied, and the others did the same.

“Fifteen seconds,” said Goalie.

“Start the count,” Guru said.

“Pull in ten, now five, four, three, two, one, PULL!”

Guru pulled back on the stick as State Route 6 and the Meridian State Park appeared. The flight climbed, and as they did, radars started coming on. “One-five, one-six, do your thing.”

“Roger, Lead,” Dave Golen called back. He and Flossy shot ahead, then he called out, “Miller One-five, MAGNUM!” But instead of a Shrike or HARM, it was a Maverick that he sent on its way.

Flossy was next. “Miller One-six. MAGNUM!” Another Maverick left the rails.

Just as the second “Magnum” call was made, the radars in the area, either ZSU-23-4 or SA-6 from Meridian proper-all shut down. None of the Russians down below wanted to eat an antiradar missile if they could avoid it....

“Dave and Flossy at work,” Goalie said.

“They are,” Guru said. He picked out the town of Morgan, which was the target. “Morgan dead ahead. Flight, Lead. Time to go in.” As he made the call, Flossy made another call, and a Maverick shot after a target.

“Roger that, Boss!” Kara called back.

“All set?” Guru asked Goalie.

“Ready when you are,” she replied.

“Time to do it.” Guru then rolled 512 in on the bomb run.


In Morgan, the 254th Guards “Matrosova” MRR, 144th Guards Motor-rifle Division, had its headquarters. The regiment-along with the rest of the division, had been roughly handled in its first combat experience a couple of weeks prior, and was now resting and refitting. However, the regiment's motor-rifle battalions, which had been equipped with BTR-70s when they deployed, was now being equipped with BTR-60PBs, though the tank battalion had, instead of the T-72As originally issued, T-72M1s from the production line in Czechoslovakia. His artillery battalion was better off, receiving new D-30 122-mm howitzers, but his air defense battalion was not in very good shape. Instead of the 2S6 Tunguskas they had deployed with-and given a good account of themselves before taking heavy losses to Yankee attack aircraft and armor-had been taken away by 4th Guards Tank Army and ZSU-23-4s and Strela-10 (SA-13 Gopher) launchers issued instead.

The Regimental Commander had survived, though many of his subunit commanders hadn't. The man had been a Lieutenant Colonel when the division had deployed, but was now a Colonel. Then he had to make a whole raft of personnel changes, promoting some officers into slots that had to be filled, though at least one was by necessity-promoting the only surviving company commander in Second Battalion to fill the battalion commander's position-while new officers had arrived to fill the junior officer slots-while a few stood out as competent, others were not. The Colonel had been appalled when he found out that two new platoon commanders had been transferred into the Army from the RSVN-the Strategic Rocket Forces, and had originally been commanding guard units around missile sites. He had asked his fellow regimental commanders at a conference at Division HQ in Meridian, and found out that his wasn't the only regiment, for not only had junior officers been assigned, but whole platoons had been culled from reservists who had served in the RSVN guard force, and sent over. To the Colonel, that was a whole raft of “Sad Duty to Inform You” telegrams just waiting to be sent, and his fellow regimental commanders-to say nothing of the Divisional Commander agreed with him-in private, of course.

Now, in Morgan, things were calm. No air strikes, he had been glad to see, though his outposts near the Brazos River reported American aircraft using the river as ingress or egress routes into the Soviet rear, but there wasn't much anyone could do about it. His relations with the local garrison-made up of Rear-Area Protection troops from Minsk, were good for now, though they were not that enthused about any kind of activities that would stir up the local population. The Regimental Political Officer had told the Colonel about the local PSD man, and for once, the Colonel and the Zampolit were in agreement. For the PSD man was a swine of the worst sort, and though the underground was laying low, the Major who commanded the garrison had told him, they were just biding their time. And if someone did kill the PSD man-for there were the occasional roadside bombs or snipers-or if someone casually stuck a knife into his ribs-no one would complain, and the chances of any kind of reprisal measures being taken were remote, at best.

The Colonel left his headquarters, which prewar had been a small office building-a lawyer had used his office before, his Chief of Staff had told him-and decided to go inspect his battalions. First Battalion was laagered to the northwest, with Second to the Northeast. Third Battalion was to the southeast, and the tank battalion to the southwest. His artillery battalion, engineers, and other elements were in the town proper, though each battalion had a battery from the air defenders. He had plans for a regimental-sized training exercise to shake the men down, and was looking forward to that. The Colonel had just reached his UAZ-469 jeep when shouting came from several nearby buildings, and AA guns that had been put on rooftops began to turn and open fire. Air attack! The Colonel got down next to his jeep along with his aide, and got ready to ride out the attack.


“Lead's in hot! Dealer's choice as to targets,” Guru called as he took 512 down on the bomb run. He saw the flak starting to come up, and that looked like guns on rooftops, while some ZU-23s were firing from a field where some command tracks were parked. Ignoring the tracers, he spotted the tank battalion's laager southwest of the town, and lined up some tanks in his pipper. Just then, he saw a GUN warning light come on, and a bright square with a “23” appear on the EW display. ZSU-23-4....a Shilka. Then it suddenly went off as a male voice gave a “MAGNUM!” call came over the radio, and a fireball appeared down below. Good shooting, Dave, Guru thought as he concentrated on the bomb run. “Steady....Steady......HACK!” He hit the pickle button, releasing his Rockeye CBUs onto the T-72s below. Guru then pulled up and away, applying power and jinking as he did. When he approached the Brazos River, with the Route 174 Bridge to his One O'clock, he made the call. “Lead's off safe.”

“What the...” the Lieutenant Colonel muttered. He saw Guru's F-4 make its run, and the bomb release. He knew right then that the town wasn't the target, but his regiment was. The Colonel at first wondered what the target was, then he realized what was under attack. His tank battalion and striking arm. Not the tanks! Then several fireballs signaled the death of tanks, and who knew how many others were damaged? The Colonel gestured to his aide, and yelled at his driver. “Get me to the tank battalion, NOW!”

His aide tapped him on the shoulder. “Comrade Colonel,” the Captain said politely.

“WHAT?”

“More aircraft coming in.”

The Colonel looked to the south, and sure enough, another F-4 was inbound. “TAKE COVER!” He shouted, and all three leapt out of the jeep and flattened themselves on the ground.


“SHACK!” Goalie yelled from 512's back seat. “We got secondaries!”

Guru jiked to avoid a SAM-probably an SA-13, then he jinked again to avoid some tracers. “How many? He wanted to know.

“Several,” Goalie replied, turning her head around to scan for threats.

“I'll take 'em,” said Guru as he picked up the Brazos River.


“Two's in!” Kara called as 520 went down on its bomb run. She saw where the CO had put down his CBUs, and the secondaries that followed, and decided that had been serviced enough. As Kara went in, she picked out some APCs northwest of the town, and selected those. Your turn, Ivan, she thought as she lined up several APCs in their laager. She, too, took notice of the flak, and even a couple of SAMs that were too big for SA-7s, but failed to guide. Ignoring the ground fire, Kara kept a steady hand as she got ready for bomb release. “And...Steady....And.....NOW!” She hit her pickle button, releasing her dozen Rockeyes onto the motor-rifle battalion's position. Kara then pulled up and away, jinking and applying power to clear the target. Once clear, she made the call, “Two's off target.”


“Sookin sin!” Son of a bitch, the Colonel muttered as Kara's F-4 overflew the town, and he watched again as the bombs came off. This time, he knew right away what the target was, and that was First Battalion's positions. As he watched the big Phantom pull up, he heard many small explosions, then saw several fireballs erupt in the fighter's wake. Not again....Then he noticed the AA guns on the rooftops turning back to the south. More Americans? Not now, not today, he thought.


“BULLSEYE!” Brainiac shouted from 520's back seat. “Multiple secondaries!”

“How many?” Kara asked as she jinked left to avoid tracers, and then right to avoid a couple of missiles-both of them SA-7 sized by the size of their smoke trails. Say what you want about Ivan, she thought, but those gunners down there had guts.

“Two-handed multiple,” her GIB replied.

“Good enough,” Kara said as she approached the Brazos, and picked up the CO's bird.


“Three's in!” That was Sweaty's call as she came in on her bomb run. She saw Kara's target area, and spotted another laager northeast of the town. Selecting that as her target area, Sweaty picked out some APCs and what looked like supply trucks in the field. Time to make you go away, she thought as she lined up the trucks and a couple of APCs. Sweaty, too, saw the flak coming up, and ignored it, and the SAMs as well-and these were both SA-7s and larger ones-maybe SA-9 or -13? No matter, Sweaty thought as the trucks and APCs grew larger in her pipper. “And...And...And....HACK!” She hit her pickle button, and sent her dozen Mark-82s down onto the Russians below. Sweaty then pulled up, applying power and jinking to avoid flak, and after clearing the target area, she made the call, “Three off target.”

The Colonel watched as Sweaty's F-4 flew over the town, then released its bombs. “Mother of god.....” the Colonel muttered, not caring if anyone heard that. Again, he knew what the target was, and this time, it was Second Battalion's laager. A few choice curses left his lips as the bombs landed, and the Colonel both heard and felt the explosions. The Colonel turned to his aide, and found another officer there as well-his new Zampolit. To the Colonel, the latter looked properly terrified. Good. Let that hack find out that the latest Party blather didn't fit where they were now. He looked up, and saw the guns on the rooftops swinging back to the south, and that told him another aircraft was coming in. This raid wasn't over just yet....


“GOOD HITS!” Preacher shouted from Sweaty's back seat. “Multiple secondaries!”

“What kind?” Sweaty asked as she jinked to avoid a SAM-probably an SA-7, then again to avoid another, which was bigger-either an SA-9 or -13.

“Rightously big!”

Sweaty grinned beneath her oxygen mask. The ex-Seminary student turned WSO never forgot where he came from, and yet, she wondered what the priests back at the Seminary would say about his new choice of profession. Save that for later, she said to herself. “That'll have to do,” she replied as she headed for the Brazos, picking up the CO's element in the distance.


“Four's in!” Hoser called as he came down for his run. He saw the results of Sweaty's run, and picked out another laager to the southeast of the town. You'll do, Ivan, he thought as both 23-mm and 37-mm flak came up, along with two or three SAMs-MANPADS by the size of them. No matter, Hoser thought as he lined up some APCs and trucks in the middle of the laager. Battalion command group, maybe? Hoser thought. Your time's up, Ivan....He lined them up in his pipper. “And...And...And....NOW!” Hoser hit the pickle button, and his dozen Mark-82s came off the racks. After bomb release, Hoser pulled up, applying power and jinking as he did, and when he cleared the town, he made his call, “Four off target.”

“Nyet!” The Colonel said, more to himself than to anyone around him. He saw Hoser's F-4 make its run, and the bomb release. The big Phantom overflew part of the town, and the Colonel saw the AA guns trying to track the aircraft, but their fire fell behind, as the F-4 was just too fast. He looked to the south, and saw four more aircraft orbiting, then they dropped down and followed the others out. As they did, he heard the townspeople cheering. If it was reversed, we'd do the same, he knew. Standing up, he started to issue orders. Time to see what the Yankees had done to his regiment, and to count the losses. The Colonel looked at his Political Officer, who was still visibly shaken. “Well, Comrade, this was your first air raid, wasn't it?”

“Is it always like this, Comrade Colonel?” The Party man replied.

“Be glad you weren't here two weeks ago,” the Colonel smiled. “We had a ground battle and plenty of air strikes. When you hear the veterans giving advice to newcomers such as you?”

“Yes?”

“Take it,” said the Colonel. He then got into his jeep with his aide and a radioman, and headed off to check on his battalions.

“Four in and out,” Guru said as 512 got to the Brazos. “One-five, One-seven, get your elements down and out of Dodge.”

“Roger, Lead,” Dave Golen called back. “MAGNUM!” He added as he shot his last Maverick.

“On the way,” Paul Jackson replied as the two RAF F-4Js followed.

“Copy that,” Guru said. “Two, where are you?”

“Right with you, Lead,” Kara replied.

Guru turned his head, and saw 520 right with him in Combat Spread. “Got you,” he called. “Sweaty?”

“On your six, and I've got Hoser,” replied Sweaty.

“Roger that,” Guru said. He was keeping up his visual scanning. Now that the target had been hit, he and the rest of the flight weren't flying for God and Country, but for themselves. Then he heard a call that no one wanted to hear, this time from Dave Golen.

“Lead, Five. BREAK! Bandits above, coming down!”

Without hesitating, Guru pulled up and right, while Kara went hard left and low-down to 400 Feet AGL, and as both broke, the crews spotted two MiG-23s coming down. “Where the hell did they come from?” Guru asked as he called up his Sidewinders.

“AWACS got sloppy,” Goalie said as she kept visual on the bandits.

“Lead, One-seven,” Paul Jackson called. “We're on them.” He called up his own AIM-9s as he rolled in behind the MiGs and applied power.

Guru pulled up, and watched as the MiGs overshot. He caught a brief glimpse of their insignia on the wings and tail, and saw a green circle on the wings, and a green flag on the tail. “Libyans again.”

“Lead, Two, Got visual, and coming around,” Kara said. She, too, armed her Sidewinders, and was hoping for that tenth kill.

“Three and four coming in,” Sweaty added. With fangs out, she said to herself as she armed her own weapons.

However, the two RAF crews made such preparations moot. Jackson rolled in behind the Libyan lead, and was amazed at his opponent's maneuvering-or more precisely, the lack thereof. “Bloody hell! Where'd he learn fighter tactics?”

“He must've stayed home that day,” Dave Gledhill replied. He checked their own six. “We're clear. He's yours.”

“Roger that,” Jackson said as he uncaged a Sidewinder and the loud growl of the seeker filled his headset. It got louder to signal missile lock. “FOX TWO!” Jackson called as he squeezed the trigger, sending an AIM-9L after the MiG-23.

In the MiG the acting CO of the Libyan Air Force's 1047th Fighter Squadron grinned beneath his oxygen mask. He and his wingman had been flying over their comrades on the ground when explosions on the ground to the southwest caught his attention. Not even bothering to contact the A-50 AWACS aircraft, he motioned to his wingman with hand signals. Follow me. Not even using his radar, the Libyan Lieutenant led his wingman-a decent chap who was seconded from the Syrian Air Force, after the Americans who had slaughtered his squadron a few days earlier-or so he hoped. He spotted two F-4s that were leading the way for several others, and ignoring everything he'd been taught, charged after eight F-4s with only two.

He dropped on the lead element, but when he saw the two F-4s break, the Lieutenant knew he'd been made. Looking around, he saw two more F-4s coming in from above, and called his wingman to break. As he turned, he lost visual with the F-4, before there was a loud BANG, then every warning light on his instrument panel lit up. Before he could grab the handle of his ejection seat, there was another explosion....the last thing he felt was the heat.

In their F-4J, Jackson and Gledhill watched as the AIM-9 tracked the MiG-23 and flew up its tailpipe. The missile detonated, and the MiG began to trail fire. Then there was a larger explosion as the MiG blew apart. “SPLASH!” Jackson called.

“Hear that?” Guru said as he picked up the MiG leader just in time to see the fireball in the sky.

“That's what, seven?” Goalie asked as she worked the radar controls, trying to pick up the other MiG.

“Think so,” Guru replied. He had his head on a swivel, looking for the other Flogger. “Two, you with me?”

“Right with you, Lead,” Kara replied. “Tally Flogger, Eleven O'clock, three miles.” She uncaged a Sidewinder, even though a side shot wasn't advised. But if he turned away....

Susan Napier and Razor Wilkinson, though, had other ideas, They saw the MiG leader go in a fireball, and picked up the wingman as he was trying to find a target for himself. “Easy, Lead,” Napier called. “We're on him,” she added as both of them saw Guru and Kara's F-4s coming in. She uncaged a Sidewinder and got lock almost immediately. She squeezed the trigger, and called, “FOX TWO!”

The MiG wingman was frantically looking around for his leader. He had heard nothing over the radio, and the sight of a fireball in the sky at first, gave him hope. Did the Lieutenant score? Then he saw several Phantoms, and knew that his leader hadn't, and that fireball was him. Suddenly, there was a loud BANG, and his instrument panel's warning lights lit up. He reflexively grabbed his ejection handle, and the seat fired, sending him clear of his MiG as it tumbled out of the sky. The parachute deployed, and the seat fell away, and as he hung in his seat, an F-4 flew by. The Syrian Lieutenant saw the grey paint scheme, and to his surprise, the insignia on the side. Not the Americans-but British! “The English? Here?”

Napier and Wilkinson watched as the Sidewinder went off just below the MiG's tail, and the Flogger began to stream fire. The canopy came off, the seat fired, and the pilot was soon hanging in his chute. Resisting the temptation to blow him a kiss, Napier flew right past him, then joined up on her element lead. “Two has a splash!”

“Another one for Napier,” Goalie said.

“Save it for later,” Guru said as he turned back north. “Flight, Lead. Form up and let's get the hell out of here.”

“On you,” Kara said as she came up in Combat Spread.

“Sweaty and Hoser on your six,” Sweaty called.

“Five and Six with you,” Dave Golen added.

“Seven and Eight here,” Paul Jackson said.

“Roger all,” Guru replied as he took 512 down to 400 Feet AGL and past the Brazospoint Bridge. He turned slightly to the right, getting into the Nicaraguan sector, then turning back left, just to the east of the river, and yet, still able to use it as a navigation aid. “How far to Glen Rose Bridge?”

“Fifteen seconds,” Goalie called.

“Copy,” Guru said as the flight skimmed the east bank.

“And there's the bridge,” said Goalie as the bridge appeared at their Eleven O'clock. “And the flak.” As usual, the East German flak gunners were alert and shooting.

“Right on time,” Guru deadpanned. He then called the AWACS. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say bandits?”

A controller replied right away. “Rambler, Warlock. Bandits bearing One-eight-five for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Second group bearing One-four-zero for sixty. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Warlock,” Guru called. “Do you have Bogey Dope?”

“Affirmative,” the controller replied. “First bandits are Floggers, second are Fulcrums. Wait one,” the controller paused, then continued. “Rambler, third group of Bandits. Bearing Two-four-zero for seventy. Medium, closing. Bandits are Fulcrums.”

MiG-29s, Guru thought. They're calling in the clans on us this time. “Roger that, Warlock.”

“Fifteen seconds to Lake Granbury Dam,” Goalie reported.

“Screw that!” Guru said. He took 512 down to 350 Feet AGL, and the others followed as he cut across two bends in the river, bypassing the dam, but cutting into the East German sector. Still, they were in range of the flak gunners at the dam, and they swung their weapons to the south and began shooting. However, the strike flight was too fast for the gunners to track, and they outdistanced the Triple-A.

“Twenty seconds to Granbury bridges.”

“Copy,” Guru said. He took a look at his EW display and saw only the Mainstay signal. Here's hoping they can't track us in the weeds, he thought. He then took the flight back across the river into the Nicaraguan sector just as the U.S. 377 bridge appeared, and the AAA from the East Germans came at them.

“East Germans on the ball,” Goalie observed. As the bridge went past, she took a quick look. Empty. “No traffic.”

“Not this time,” Guru said as the old U.S. 377 bridge went by, and the damaged Railroad Bridge as well. Then he took the flight right down the middle of Lake Granbury, leaving the town-and the AAA-behind them. “Warlock, Rambler. Say bandits.”

“Rambler Lead, Warlock,” the AWACS controller replied. “Bandits bearing One-eight-five for forty. Medium, going away. Second bandits bearing One-two-five for fifty. Medium, turning...now going away. Third group bearing Two-two-zero for sixty. Medium, going away.”

“They're not keen on an Eagle welcoming committee,” Goalie quipped.

“Would you?” Guru said. “Roger that, Warlock.”

“Not me,” replied Goalie. “Thirty seconds to the fence.” That was the I-20.

Guru checked his map. If they followed the river, the I-20 bridges over the Brazos would be where they crossed the fence, and those bridges had an Army I-HAWK SAM battery in attendance. And those pukes operated on the “Shoot them down and sort them out later” mentality, or so it seemed. “Got it,” he said. A couple of miles short of the freeway, he turned west, and the others followed, then they picked up the interstate west of the bridges. “And there's the fence.”

“We're here,” Goalie said. And no trigger-happy Army pukes on the ground shooting at them.

“Flight, Lead. Music off and IFF on, out,” Guru called, then he climbed to altitude.

Once the flight had climbed away, they headed to the tanker track, and the usual post-strike refueling. This time, they all hooked up from KC-135s or KC-10s. Once that was done, Rambler Flight headed back to Sheppard.

Upon arrival, Rambler Flight was third in the pattern, behind the eastbound C-141 and a flight of Marine F-4s. When it was their turn in the pattern, the two RAF birds each did a victory roll, much to the delight of those watching on the ground, then everyone came in and landed.

As they taxied in, popped their canopies, and raised them, the crews noticed the news crew filming-as if their very jobs depended on it. They zeroed in on the two RAF F-4s, whose crews were each holding up a finger to signal a MiG kill.

“Well, now,” Jana Wendt said to the 335th's PAO, Lieutenant Patti Brown, who had gotten back from a strike herself about fifteen minutes earlier. “Guess who we'll be trying to interview?”

The PAO nodded, but said, “Remember, they'll be a little busy after they shut down, and have to make the intelligence people happy.”

“I know, but we'll get them one way or another.”

The flight taxied into the 335th's dispersal area, then the individual crews taxied to their revetments. Guru found 512's revetment, and followed his Crew Chief's signals to taxi in. Once in, he got the “Stop” signal, then the ground crew came out with the wheel chocks. Only then did Guru get the “Shut down” signal. Then it was time for the post-flight check.

“Three and done,” Guru said as he and Goalie went through the checklist.

“One more?” Goalie asked. She knew already, but still..... “As long as it's not CAS.”

“You are preaching to the choir,” Guru said. When done, both pilot and GIB got up and climbed down from the aircraft and took off their helmets, as the Crew Chief came with a bottle of water for both of them. “Thanks, Sarge.”

“How'd it go out there, sir?” Sergeant Crowley asked.

“Made some armor go away,” Goalie quipped.

“And the RAF got a couple of MiGs,” added Guru.

Hearing that, Crowley was beaming. “Shit hot! Uh, sir.”

Guru laughed. “Sarge, you can use that kind of language on the ramp anytime, for all I care.” He took a drink of water, then went on. “Besides, after a strike? It's damned appropriate.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Sure is,” Goalie added.

Guru nodded, then looked at the aircraft, then back at his Crew Chief. “All right, Sarge. Let's get her ready for the next one. We've got time for one more strike.”

Crowley nodded himself. “You got it, Major! All right, you guys, you heard the Boss! Let's get her ready for the next one!” And the ground crew went to work.

Guru and Goalie then headed for the revetment's entrance, and as usual, Kara and Brainiac were already there. “Well?” Guru asked his wingmate. “How'd you guys do?”

“Made some APCs go away,” Kara said. “You got some armor.” It wasn't a question.

“How'd you guess?”

“You rolled in on the tank battalion laager,” Kara grinned. “Recognized that from the photos.”

Goalie grinned. “And some of 'em went up.”

“They did,” Guru said as Sweaty and Hoser came with Preacher and KT. “What about you guys?”

“Tore up some APCs, each,” Sweaty replied. “Now, the RAF's hogging the air-to-air stuff.”

“It's what they're here for,” Guru reminded them. Then Dave Golen, Flossy, and their GIBs-Terry McAuliffe and Jang, arrived. “Thanks for killing the air-defense threat.”

“Not all of them,” Dave nodded. “But we got enough.”

“And killed a few tanks or APCs when the air-defense people shut down,” Flossy added.

Guru nodded as the two RAF crews came over. “Dave,” he said to Dave Gledhill. “Nice job with the Floggers. That's what, seven for you?”

“Thanks,” Gledhill replied. “Eight for me, but six for Paul and Susan. By the way, did anyone notice who those chaps were?”

“Green circle on the fuselage and wings, with a green flag on the tail,” Kara said. “Those were Qaddafi's boys.”

“And they flew like they expected to get splashed,” Susan Napier added. “Who taught those guys?”

“Good question,” a voice said. Sin Licon, the Squadron Intelligence Officer came over. “Libyans again?”

“They were, and they didn't check their six,” Dave Golen commented. “That's poor training.”

“Or target fixation,” Flossy said. “They were focused on the Boss and Kara, and didn't check to see if anybody else was around.”

Kara nodded. “Either way,” she said as she finished a bottle of water. “They paid for it. The guy who bailed out? That's one debrief I'd like to hear.”

“Ditto,” Guru said. “We debriefing out here, Sin?”

“No, sir,” the intel replied. “But we need to go in and get that done, then Doc asked me to remind you all to see if you can get a workout in before the last mission.”

The CO looked at him. “Doc checking off names again?”

“I plead the Fifth on that, Boss.”

Guru cracked a grin at that. “Okay, Sin. Let's get the debrief done.” Then he turned to the crews. “Let's make the intel happy, check your desks and see if the armchair warriors sent you anything, and try and get a workout in before the next one.”

“One more run?” Kara asked.

“One more,” Guru nodded. “Let's go and debrief, then get the rest out of the way."

Last mission of the day, with a stand-down for weather coming...



335th TFS, Sheppard AFB, TX; 1510 Hours Central War Time:

Major Matt Wiser sat at his desk, going over some papers. Even though it was wartime, and the bureaucracy had shrunk some, there were still enough of the armchair warriors left to make his life-and that of every other squadron and wing commander, miserable from time to time. Wonder if Frank knows this guy, the CO wondered as he read some memo about “proper attire on the flight line.” Someone whose ass spent way too much time warming a chair and not much else was worried about how ground crews were dressed? Shaking his head at the whole thing, the CO went through the rest of the papers, glad that he had a good exec to filter out the wheat from the chaff-much as he did for the late Colonel Rivers, not that long ago. Supply requisitions, signing off on enlisted promotion recommendations, all of that-that was soon taken care of, and when he was finished, he got up and looked out his office window.

What he saw pleased him, as AF and Marine F-4s, Marine F/A-18s, and Navy A-7s, along with the occasional helo or C-130, were taking off and landing. Good. Shove it to the bastards, the CO thought. In an hour or so, he and his flight would be doing their share of shoving, and the sooner they got to the Rio Grande, the better. The country had come a long way since PRAIRIE FIRE back in May and all through the summer, but there was still a long way to go.

The CO was still looking outside when there was a knock on his office door. “Yeah? Show yourself and come on in!”

His Exec came in. “Boss, got a couple things for you, then I've got a mission,” Capt. Mark Ellis said.

“Get a workout in?” Guru wanted to know. With the sawbones checking off names, it wasn't a good idea to get the Flight Surgeon angry, and he did outrank everyone when it came to anything medical.

“Just finished,” Ellis replied. “These are for you, and oh, by the way, the eastbound C-141 came in.”

“I saw earlier,” the CO nodded. “What have you got?”

“Updated weather. Storm's coming in, right on time, and we can expect IFR at tactical altitudes beginning at midnight and lasting until at least 1400,” the XO said.

Guru scanned the weather report. “Cloud ceiling 15,000 to 18,000,” he noticed. “Good enough.”

Ellis stared at his CO. “Still taking that reporter on a 'check ride'?” He was referring to Guru's planned hop with Jana Wendt, the reporter attached to the squadron from both CBS and 9 News Australia.

“Kara's taking her,” the CO grinned. “I've got the cameraman. Go up, do some turning and burning, maybe head to the old Scud box and do some ACT.”

“Like with Yeager and the F-20s?” Ellis asked, and the CO could see the grin from ear to ear on the XO's face.

“Something like that, and get the reporter sick,” Guru replied, thinking of how good that would look when the reporter staggered out of 520's back seat, ready to lose the contents of her stomach. “Won't scare her out of here-she's been around way too long for that-but she will appreciate what we do day in and day out.”

“Getting our perspective.”

“Just what I have in mind,” Guru said. “What else?”

Ellis handed the CO some papers. “Airman First Class Anthony Rodriguez wants to go to Airman to Pilot.” The XO saw the questioning look on the CO's face, and added, “He's one of mine, not Frank's.”

Guru scanned the application. “Two years of community college, transfer to UNLV, two semesters there before the balloon went up,” he saw. “Shooting for navigator?” The CO looked from the papers at his XO.

“He's got 20/40 vision in both eyes,” replied the XO.

“Okay,” Guru signed “Approved,” on the last page. “He does know that if he gets his commission and earns his nav wings, there's an eight-year commitment to the Air Force?”

“He does.”

“All right,” Guru said as he handed the application back to the XO. “See it goes out. Anything else?”

“Chief Ross has been trying to get anything on Airman Kellogg's family,” Ellis reported. “Still nothing on the parents or the brother, but there may be a lead on the sister.”

“Oh?”

Ellis nodded. “Nothing definite, but a woman with the same name as the sister joined the Air Force out of Little Rock a week after the balloon went up, and Kellogg did say his dad told her to get to Little Rock or Memphis, as I recall.”

“So do I,” said Guru. “Okay, I'll talk to Kellogg sometime tomorrow and give him an update, such as it is. Have Chief Ross talk to him, see how he's doing, and one more thing: Ross should tell Kellogg not just to be ready for some bad news, but that Ross won't make promises he can't keep.”

“We may never find out about any other family, other than his brother-and the Navy would let him know if he's KIA or MIA,” the XO grimaced.

The CO nodded grimly. “That is a very real possibility,” he noted. Okay, that's it?”

“Yep, and in ten, I have a brief, then it's wheels-up.”

Guru and the XO shook hands. “Good luck, and be careful, Mark,” the CO said. “Don't want to break in Don as XO, and we all don't want Kara as Ops-yet, anyway.”

“Until we change her attitude towards paperwork,” Ellis said. “And you be careful, Boss. Sure don't want to be CO.”

“Will do,” Guru said. “Now get outta here. You've got a mission to brief and fly.”

“You got it, Boss.” The XO grinned, then headed to brief his flight.

After he left, Guru looked at his watch, and nodded. Time to get a run in at least. He left the office and told his secretary, “Trish? I'm getting a workout in. No calls unless it's either Colonel Brady or somebody with stars on their shoulders.”

Staff Sergeant Trisha Lord smiled. “Will do, Major.”

The CO went to his tent to change, then went over to the Fitness Center, which was one of the largest tents on base. At the entrance he found Doc Waters there, as expected. “Doc. Checking off names, I see.”

“Have to stay busy,” the sawbones replied cheerfully. “I'm glad I'm not that busy, and you do know what I mean by that, but it does get boring, checking you guys out, or the ones with the flu, and tossing in the occasional sports injury.”

“You might have us to thank for that,” Guru said. “Been putting the heat on the bad guys so they don't hit us here all that often.”

“For now,” Doc replied.

“Yeah,” said Guru. And he knew what he meant. Sooner or later, Ivan would strike Sheppard again. An air strike, missile attack, even a Spetsnatz raid, all were possibilities. He went into the tent and found a treadmill, and noticed Goalie and Kara already going at it. Guru also saw the occasional glance shot at both of them, for both were in sports bras and shorts. Somebody's going to get skinned at the pool table, he thought as he got up on his own treadmill and started a four-mile run.

He was almost through when the Ops Officer found him. “Boss,” Don Van Loan said.

“Don, let me guess: you've found me a mission,” replied Guru. It wasn't a question.

“You got it,” Van Loan said, shooting a glance at both Goalie and Kara, who had been joined by Sweaty. “Birds are prepped and the mission folder's ready.”

“Got you,” the CO said. He nodded at the three others, and they got down from their treadmills. “Get changed-and don't bother to shower, because we've got a mission,” he told them.

“Lovely,” Kara said. “Round everybody up?”

“Do that, once you've changed,” Guru said. He turned to the Ops Officer. “Dave and Flossy coming?”

“They are, Van Loan replied. “And the Brits.”

“All right.” The CO looked at Kara and Goalie. “Get everybody to the Briefing Room in fifteen.”

The two looked at each other. “On our way,” Kara replied, then they, along with Sweaty, went to change.


Guru then headed to his own tent to change, then went to the Ops Office. As expected, Van Loan was waiting with the mission folder. “Don,” Guru said. “Let's have it.”

“Here you are,” the Ops Officer said, handing the CO the folder. “You've got a doozy.”

Guru opened the folder and scanned the mission brief. He then looked at the Ops Officer. “Who came up with this? Two targets?” He then shot a stare that would have wilted any plant-or anyone, for that matter.

“Don't look at me, Boss-man,” Van Loan replied, holding up his hands. “This came from the ATO.”

Guru nodded, then checked the brief again. “Good thing we're getting Weasels, because this place will crawl.”

“That it will, Boss,” said Van Loan. He winced, then added, “You've been there a couple of times before.”

“I have,” the CO admitted. “Okay, Don. Since I don't have a choice, I'll take it. You be careful out there your own self.”

The Ops Officer nodded. “Will do, and take your own advice.”

“Always,” Guru said. He then headed to his flight's briefing room, and found Buddy, the squadron's mascot, waiting outside the door. The CO opened the door, and the dog went in ahead of him, and Guru found the rest of the flight already there and waiting. “All right, people, somebody's saved the best-or hairiest-for last, because that's what we've got.”

“Where to?” Sweaty asked.

Guru had a copy of a TPC chart, and a JOG chart. “Right here: Coleman, and we've been here before,” he said. “Second strike the day our friends from the Tigers started flying.”

“Figures,” Kara spat. “What's the target?”

“Targets, mind,” the CO said. He looked at everyone. “First, and that's for elements one and two, the supply dump west of town, at the junction of F.M. 402 and F.M. 422.” He passed some RF-4C imagery around. “So Sweaty? You follow me in on this one.”

“Swell,” she replied. “This place crawls. There's quite a bit of flak here.”

“And missiles-this is the HQ for the Soviet 32nd Army,” Guru said. “As for ordnance? First two elements get a dozen Mark-82s, and half of those have Daisy Cutter fuze extenders.”

“No CBUs?” Hoser asked. HQ, 32nd Army? No wonder the Weasels are coming, he thought.

Guru shook his head. “Not this close to the town,” he replied. “Dave G?” Guru nodded at their IDF “Observer” and his element. “You and Flossy take the airport. It's being used as a FOL for Su-25s and helos, so you might find a mixed bag on the ramp.”

“Who's got what?” Flossy asked.

Guru checked the brief. “You both have dumb bombs. Mark-82s and M-117Rs. And everybody's got the usual air-to-air load.” That meant four AIM-9Ps, two AIM-7Fs, two 370-gallon wing tanks, an ALQ-119 or ALQ-101 ECM pod, and full 20-mm gun.

“My people?” Dave Gledhill spoke up. “Four AIM-9Ls, four Sky Flash, two wing tanks, and a SUU-23 pod.”

“You might need them,” Guru replied. “Brownwood Regional's about a minute and a half to the east, and that means MiG-21s and -23s. San Angelo's about three and a half minutes to the southwest, and that means MiG-23s and -29s from San Angelo Municipal and Goodfellow AFB.”

“And we got a couple Fulcrums the last time we came this way,” Susan Napier said.

“Be careful of what you ask for,” Guru reminded her. “Because you might just get it. Now, until bomb release, no hassling with MiGs-that's what the RAF is for. Once we're clear of the target? Different story.”

“Got it,” said Kara, though several could see her have a grin on her face. A chance to become a double ace, and that be a MiG-29? She was looking forward to that.

Preacher asked, “What's the defenses?”

“Good question,” Guru replied. “It's a mix. This is an Army-level formation, and they do have SA-4s. Intel says, though, that they're beginning to replace the SA-4s with SA-11s, which is why we're getting a pair of Weasels at the tankers.”

“Nice to have, that,” Dave Gledhill said.

“They are,” said Guru. “Coors One-one and One-two will go in with us. Now, besides the SA-4 and possible SA-11, there's guys with MANPADS, plus flak. That's the 23-mm and 37-mm, which is optically guided, and radar-guided 57-mm. Those are around the airport, so Dave G and Flossy? Watch yourselves. One of the Weasels can put a HARM or Standard-ARM onto those chumps for you if need be.”

“Oh, they will be,” Jang quipped.

“Chances are? Yes,” said Guru. “Then again, who knows what unit might be passing through, and what they've got? SA-9 or -13, and for guns? ZSU-23s or possibly ZSU-30s.”

Kara scowled. “And if we see those basketball-sized tracers, we abort.” It wasn't a question.

“Right. There's two or three opportunity targets to the northeast, and we'll go for one of those if necessary.”

Hoser looked at the TPC chart. “What's the way in, Boss?”

Guru nodded. “Just coming to that. “We meet up with the Weasels at the usual Tanker Track, then get down low, cross the I-20 and follow the Leon River. Stay with the river to Proctor Lake, but don't cross it, but we'll skirt it instead to avoid flak at the dam. Then we go south to State Route 36, then turn to a heading of Two-three-five, and maintain that heading, passing State Route 16, then U.S. 84/183, all the way to the Colorado River. Turn west and follow the river. Keep clear of the bridge for U.S. 377 at Winchell.”

“Let me guess: Flossy said. “There's flak.”

“There is,” Guru said. “Only 37-mm, but still... Anyway, keep going west until U.S. 283. Turn north, and once we hit U.S. 67/84, at the town of Santa Anna, that's the IP. We pop up, turn northwest, and ID the targets. Make your runs, then get your asses down and away to the north. Avoid Lake Coleman and the dam there, because there is flak at said dam. Your last jink post-strike has to be to the northeast. Stay low until reaching the I-20, then we climb up to meet the tankers, then we come on home.” He turned to Dave Gledhill. “You guys? When we pop up? Do your TARCAP, and nasty things to any party crashers.”

“Will do,” said Gledhill.

“If you're hit, stay with the bird as long as you can, but be advised that both Abilene Municipal and Dyess AFB are available as divert fields, but be advised there's Patriots there, not just I-HAWK. If you have to divert, make sure you're squawking on IFF. Just like the I-HAWK pukes at the I-20 bridges over the Brazos, these clowns shoot first and sort them out on the ground.”

Susan Napier asked, “What are the bailout areas?” Always a good thing to know, even if you didn't need to use it. Then, anyway.

“Simple,” Guru replied. “Anyplace rural and away from roads. Hole up somewhere, and Jolly Green will come for you-especially at night. There's not much in terms of Resistance people here, but the ranchers will help-or if they can't for whatever reason? They will find someone who will.”

“Good to know.”

“It is,” said the CO. “Now, this may be the last one for today, but treat it like the first. Complacency kills, and I can't stress that enough. You hear me?”

“We get you, Major,” Goalie said. When anyone addressed the CO by his rank, they were taking him very seriously.

“That's good. Now, anything else?”

KT pointed at the dog. “Buddy's asleep.”

“Good omen,” the CO grinned as an Ops NCO came to collect the briefing materials. “Nobody wake him. And if that's it, let's gear up. Meet at 512.”

The crews went to their locker rooms, and when Guru came out of the Men's, all geared up and ready, Goalie was waiting, as usual. “All set?”

“Last one, then tomorrow's the stand-down,” she grinned. “You betcha.”

“Then let's go.” Guru said. They went outside, and found Frank and his people coming in. “Frank,” the CO said. “How'd it go?”

“Routine,” Carson said. “Nothing hairy, if that's what you're wondering.”

“Good,” Guru nodded, glancing at Frank's GIB and wing crew, who nodded. “Don't take any chances, ever. Because I don't want to do any letter-writing. Comprende?”

“Yes, sir,” Carson replied, but everyone could hear the contempt in his voice.

“Hope so,” said Guru, and they could hear the firmness in his voice.

“Understood,” the despised Major said, then he went into the office.

Lieutenant Brian Slater, Frank's GIB, went up to the CO. “Major, I can tell there's a ton of pressure building up. Sooner or later...” His voice trailed off, and Guru knew what he meant.

“Brian, remind him of two things: First, he's responsible for you as his GIB. Second? If he fucks up in the air, you die six feet behind him. If you think you have to confront him directly? Remember that you have my permission to do just that,” Guru said. “And if he tries to write you up? It gets fed to the office shredder.”

“Thanks, Major,” Slater replied with relief. “I may do just that.”

Guru nodded. “Sean and Melissa?” He turned to Captain Sean Hennings and Lieutenant Melissa Brewster, who were Carson's wingmates. “Same for you two. Any fuckup might get you two killed or worse-captured. What I said to Brian applies to you two also.”

Both nodded. “Might just do it, Major,” Hennings said, and Brewster nodded.

“All right: get your debrief out of the way, and clear your desks before hitting the Club.”

The trio nodded, then headed on in.

“Sooner or later,” Goalie said. “He's going to pop. You and I both know it.”

“Unfortunately,” Guru agreed. “Just as long as he doesn't get any friendlies killed.”

“To be wished for.”

“Yeah.”

“But I doubt it,” Goalie said. “Hate to say it, but....” And the CO knew full well what she meant.

Guru and Goalie then walked to 512's revetment, and found the rest of the flight waiting. It was time for him to give his final instructions. “All right, people, gather 'round.”

“Usual on the radio?” Kara asked. That meant call signs between them, and mission code to the AWACS and any other interested parties.

“It is,” Guru replied. “Now, I can't stress this enough, so I'll repeat: DO NOT get complacent. This may be the last one of the day, but treat it like it's the first. I don't want to spend any part of my stand-down tomorrow doing any letter-writing. Understood?”

“Loud and clear, Major,” said Sweaty, and the others nodded.

“Okay, we're still Rambler Flight. Meet up at ten grand overhead as usual. Anything else?” Heads shook now. “All right!” The CO clapped his hands for emphasis. “Time to fly. Let's hit it.”

The crews headed to their aircraft, and both Guru and Goalie went into the revetment, where the Crew Chief was waiting. “Major, Lieutenant?” Sergeant Crowley said as he snapped a salute. “Five-twelve's ready to rock and kick some more Commie ass.”

“Thanks, Sarge,” Guru said as he and Goalie returned the salute. They did the usual pre-flight walk-around, then climbed the crew ladder and mounted the aircraft. After strapping into their seats, putting on their helmets and plugging in, they went through the pre-flight checklist.

“Still got this bad feeling about Frank,” Goalie said as she went through the checklist. “Can't shake it.”

“You are preaching to the choir,” Guru replied. “Just pray that if anyone gets killed, he's the only one-as much as I hate to say it.”

“Amen,” Goalie replied. “Ejection seats?”

“Armed top and bottom, check yours, and I'll second the 'amen,'” said Guru. “Arnie?”

“Arnie's up and running,” Goalie said, referring to the ARN-101 DMAS system. “Preflight complete and ready for engine start,” she added, stowing her checklist.

“That we are,” Guru replied. He gave a thumbs-up to his CC, and Sergeant Crowley gave the “Start Engines” signal. First one, then both, J-79 engines were up and running, and during the warm-up, Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead with eight, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

A controller got back to him right away. “Rambler Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi to Runway Three-Five-Lima. Hold prior to the active, and you will be number two in line.”

“Roger, Tower,” Guru called back. “Rambler Lead is rolling.” He gave another thumbs-up to Crowley, who waved to the ground crew, who pulled the wheel chocks away. Then Crowley gave the “Taxi” signal, and Guru began taxiing out.

Once 512 cleared the revetment, Crowley gave another thumbs-up, then he snapped a perfect salute. Guru and Goalie returned it, then Guru taxied towards the taxiway, and the rest of the flight fell in behind him. When they got to the holding area, a four-ship of Marine Hornets was ahead of them, while a Marine KC-130 came in to land on the same runway. As the Marines taxied onto the runway, Rambler Flight taxied into the holding area. There, the armorers removed the weapon safeties, making them “live.” When they were finished, Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting taxi for takeoff.”

“Rambler Lead, Tower,” the controller replied. “Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are two-six-six for five.”

“Roger, Tower,” Guru acknowledged. He then taxied onto the runway, and Kara in 520 followed, pulling in right with him in the Five O'clock position. Guru turned to look, as did Goalie, and both Kara and Brainiac gave the thumbs-up, signaling ready. Guru and Goalie returned it, then did a final cockpit check. All squared away. “Ready?” Guru asked his GIB.

“All set,” Goalie replied.

“Then let's go,” Guru said. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

As usual, the Tower didn't reply by radio, but flashed a green light. Clear for takeoff.

“Canopy coming down,” Guru said, pulling down and locking his canopy.

“Copy,” Goalie replied, doing the same.

Guru then turned to see Kara and Brainiac, and they were ready as well. “It's time.” He firewalled the engines, then released the brakes, as 512 rumbled down the runway and into the air, with 520 right alongside. Thirty seconds later, it was Sweaty and Hoser's turn, followed by Dave Golen and Flossy, with the RAF element bringing up the rear. Rambler Flight met up at FL 100, then headed for their tankers.

Strike, and some more air-to-air:


Over Central Texas, 1610 Hours Central War Time:


Rambler Flight was headed south into enemy territory. They had met up with their tankers and topped up, with the 335th birds hooking up to KC-135s, and the RAF plugging into a KC-10. The flight then had met up with the two F-4Gs tasked to them, before getting down low and penetrating into hostile airspace, with the sun getting low in the west. If anyone was out there, looking for them, the old adage “Beware the Hun in the Sun” from both WW I and II, still applied.

Major Matt Wiser had his eyes on a swivel, as usual. A quick check of his instruments, then the EW display, then outside. A habit that had kept him and his GIB alive, and one that had been drummed into his head at the RTU at Homestead-how many years had it been? No matter, it would have been that many lifetimes, he knew. A quick glance again at the EW display showed it clear-for now. “EW clear,” he said. “How long until Proctor Lake?”

His GIB was on the ball, as usual. “Twenty-four miles,” Goalie replied. “One and a half minutes.”

“Roger that,” Guru replied. They were following the Leon River, which wasn't much of a river, but it led right to the lake. “And time to Highway 16?”

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie advised. She took a look around visually, then checked her own EW display. Something had just popped up. “Got something on the EW display,” she said as the SEARCH warning light came on.

“Got it,” Guru scowled beneath his oxygen mask. The strobe was to the southeast, and no way to know how far. But only one radar in this part of Texas could pick them up this low. “Mainstay again.”

Goalie scowled herself, then shook her head. “Lovely. Somebody's got to do something about those guys.”

“Maybe somebody's cooking something up,” Guru replied. “Maybe a sub's going to sneak into the Gulf and pop some Tomahawks into wherever they're parked.”

Goalie liked the sound of that. “Here's hoping,” she said. “Highway should be coming up.”

“Got it,” said Guru as State Route 16 appeared. Though a MSR and the boundary for the Soviet 32nd Army and the East Germans, it was empty of traffic at the moment. “And that's that,” he said as they overflew the road. He then turned right to follow the river to the lake. “Time to the lake?”

“Twenty-five seconds.”

“Roger that,” Guru then called the AWACS, orbiting somewhere along the Texas-Oklahoma border area. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

A controller replied immediately. “Rambler Lead, Warlock. First threat bearing One-four-zero for fifty-five. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-seven-five for sixty. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing Two-one-zero for sixty. Medium, going away. Fourth Threat bearing One-eight-zero for eighty-five. Medium, going away.”

“Roger, Warlock. Do you have bogey dope?”

“Affirmative,” the controller said. “First and second threats are Floggers. Third are Fulcrums, and the fourth are Flankers.”

Hearing that, Guru's head perked up, as did Goalie's-and so he hoped, everybody else's in the flight. Flankers? When was the last time they heard that? “Roger that, Warlock.”

“Flankers?” Goalie asked. “Been a while since we've heard that call.”

“It has,” Guru replied. “Lake's coming up.” The north shore of Proctor Lake appeared, and he turned slightly left, to skirt the lake along the east shore, and thus avoid overflying the dam-with its attendant flak batteries. As the flight cleared the lake, there was still some 23-mm flak as trigger-happy gunners opened up, though the strike flight was too fast to track. Then came U.S. 67-377, and the small town of Proctor. A few vehicles were visible in the town, but no traffic on the highway as Rambler Flight headed south.

In the town, the local garrison-made up of Reservists from a Rear-Area Protection Division out of Minsk, was simply minding its own business. Namely, keep the road open, provide a presence to deter any “bandit' (Resistance) activity, and otherwise maintain order. The Soviet company commander knew that his men were in no shape for any kind of a serious fight, with a company's worth of BTR-152s (and his battalion was the only one in the regiment so equipped-the rest making use of captured trucks), a platoon of three T-54s whose data plates showed they had rolled out of the Chelabinysk Tank Works in 1950, a mortar battery, a few DshK machine guns and ZPU-2 14.5-mm guns for air defense, and not much else. Given the quality of the men-all of whom were either over thirty-five or barely eighteen, the Captain wondered what would happen first-either they would take to their heels at the first sight of American armor, or simply surrender. At least the Political Officer understands-the Captain thought, for the Zampolit was also a Reservist, pulled from a job in the Minsk Party and sent here. It took all of an hour in this miserable place called Texas to get him homesick, just like the rest of the men.

As long as those bandits who call themselves the Resistance stay away, the Captain thought. He got up from his desk-his headquarters was in what, prewar, had been an auto-parts store and had belonged to the manager. He went outside, and found some locals lining up outside the local market. Now, his previous thought came to mind, as he knew the Resistance was around, just lying low. Then the rumble of jets came, as a dozen or so American F-4s thundered overhead, and the locals were cheering. Was it like this for the Fascisti when our Il-2s or Pe-2s came over, he wondered. At least they didn't bomb us, he thought. Where they were going and what they intended to attack wasn't his problem.


“How far to Highway 36?” Guru asked as Proctor disappeared behind them.

“Eight miles,” Goalie answered. “Thirty seconds.”

“Copy that,” Guru replied. He maintained his visual scanning, and checked his EW display. The Mainstay's signal was still there, and the strobe had gotten brighter, which meant the signal strength was increasing. Guru then took 512 down to 450 Feet AGL from 500, and the rest of the flight followed. Another glance showed just the Mainstay's signal, and no other radars. “Still there,” Guru spat.

“The Mainstay?”

“Yep.”

“Swell,” Goalie said. “Highway 36 coming up.”

“Got it,” said Guru as the highway appeared. No traffic, he saw. Too bad, because if they were on an armed recon, the flight would be prowling roads like this one, looking for targets. He turned onto the new heading of Two-three-five, heading generally to the southeast. “How far to the Colorado?” Their next turn point was the Colorado River.

“Two minutes,” Goalie replied. “Thirty-two miles.”

“Roger that,” Guru said as the flight continued on course, the rolling hills of this part of Texas actually helping out, as this low, the Mainstay radar, along with most fighter radars, had trouble picking them out of the ground clutter.

“Fifteen seconds to Route 16.”

“Got it.” Guru then saw the highway appear, and as it went by below, there was no traffic, other than what looked like a jeep. “Somebody got lucky.”

“Not their day,” Goalie replied, seeing the jeep-like vehicle. “One minute forty-five to the river.”

“Roger that. How far to 84-183?” Guru was referring to U.S. 84/183.

“Forty seconds.”

The strike flight kept heading southwest, and as they reached F.M. 218, halfway to U.S. 84/183, they overflew a column of people walking down the road. Unknown to the aircrews, the column was of prisoners being marched from a work assignment back to a labor camp. To Brenda Wallace, who had been arrested just after the invasion simply for being an assistant county librarian, the sight of the aircraft overhead was a good omen. The guards-all of them from the MVD, ordered everyone down, and as they took cover, she looked up, and saw the aircraft overhead. Brenda glanced at her friend, Karla Hayden, a former Army MP who had been discharged a few weeks prior to the invasion, and had been arrested due to that and her husband being a deputy sheriff, and both nodded. They grabbed their shovels-which they had dropped, and as two guards got up, smashed the shovels into the guards' skulls. Both picked up the guards' AKM rifles and magazines, and sprinted off the road into some nearby brush. They heard the sound of gunfire, and not knowing that others had the same idea they had, kept running. Unknown to the two, several others had managed to escape, either with weapons or without. “Now where do we go?” Brenda asked after they'd gone a half-mile or so.

“My ranch-or what's left of it-it's about two days' hike north of here,” Karla said. “First we find a place to hole up.”

“And then what?”

“I know a few people who-if they're not dead, will take us in,” said Karla. “Then we heal up some, and find a way to make Ivan pay.”

For the first time in two years, Brenda grinned. “Sounds like a plan,” she said, then gunfire and shouting off in the distance got their attention.

“We'd better go,” Karla said, shouldering her AKM. “Let's get the hell out of here.” Both escapees then got further away from their pursurers.


“Talk to me,” Guru said. “How's our time?”

“Thirty seconds to 84-183, one minute to the river,” Goalie called.

“Roger that,” he replied. Then Guru called the AWACS. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler, Warlock,” the controller replied. “First threat bearing One-one-zero for forty-five. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing One-four-five for sixty. Medium, going away. Third threat bearing One-eight-five for seventy. Medium, closing. Fourth threat bearing Two-seven-five for eighty. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Warlock,” Guru said. “Do you have bogey dope?”

“Affirmative,” said the controller. “First and second threats are Floggers. Third threats are Flankers, and fourth are Fulcrums.”

“Rambler Lead copies.” Flankers still....maybe that was where the Mainstay's orbiting? “Still some Flankers.”

“I heard,” Goalie said. Highway 84-183 coming up.”

“Got it,” Guru said as the two-lane highway appeared. Once more, there was no traffic moving. “Be glad we're not on an armed recon.”

In the back seat, Goalie nodded, mainly to herself. “You're not the only one,” she said. “Thirty seconds to the river.”

“Copy,” Guru said. He took a look at the EW display, and saw just the strobe of the Mainstay's radar. As long as that was the only one...

Goalie checked the DMAS and the INS, as well as her map. “Fifteen seconds to the river.”

Guru nodded himself. “On it.” A few seconds later, he called, “River in sight.” Then he turned right onto a course of Two-seven-zero, and the others followed suit. “Steady on, and how far?”

“Twenty-eight miles,” Goalie called. “One minute forty-five.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. They quickly came to where the F.M. 45 bridge had stood, but it had been dropped sometime in the past and wasn't back up. “How long until Highway 377?”

“Ten miles,” Goalie said. “Forty seconds.”

“Copy.”

It wasn't long until Rambler Flight got to the U.S. 377 bridge. Guru turned slightly right, avoiding the two 37-mm batteries guarding the bridge, and ovrflying what had been the town of Winchell, but was more a collection of ruins than anything else. Once clear, he got back onto a westerly course. “Highway 183 next up.”

“Copy that,” replied Goalie. “Forty seconds to turn.” The highway bridge over the Colorado was their next turn point.

The rolling hills and ranchland went by, as Rambler Flight headed west for the turn point. “Tally on the bridge,” Guru called. “And the flak.” The Soviet-manned 23-mm and 37-mm batteries defending the bridge opened up. “Turning now,” he said, putting 512 into a medium right turn, just enough to avoid the flak, but enough to pick up U.S. 183, which was another MSR in this part of Texas. “And on 183,” Guru said. “How long to Santa Anna?” That was the IP.

“Twenty miles,” said Goalie as the ruins of what had been the town of Rockwood flew by beneath them. “One minute fifteen.”

“Copy,” Guru said as the farmland and ranchland whizzed beneath them. They were at 450 Feet AGL and still doing 500 KIAS. A quick glance at the EW display still showed the Mainstay signal and nothing else. “Just the Mainstay.”

“Still?” Goalie asked. “Forty-five seconds.”

“Still,” said Guru, his head on a swivel. “Flight, Lead. Switches on, Music on, and stand by.”

“Roger, Lead,” Kara called back, as did the others.

Goalie worked the armament control panel in the back seat. Though Guru had one up front, it was easier for her to do it so that he could concentrate on flying the plane. “Switches set,” she called.

“Good girl,” Guru said as he turned on his ALQ-119 ECM pod.

“Fifteen seconds,” said Goalie. “Santa Anna straight ahead.”

“Got it,” Guru replied as the town became visible. “Flight, Lead. PULL.” He pulled back on the stick, and as 512 gained altitude, the EW display lit up as several radars came on line. “Coors, Rambler. Time to shut some radars down.”

“Roger, Rambler,” Coors One-one called as the two F-4Gs shot ahead of the flight to do their SAM-suppression. “MAGNUM!” A HARM missile left the rails, searching for a target radar.

“One-seven, One-eight, do your TARCAP thing,” Guru called Dave Gledhill's element.

“Roger, Lead,” Paul Jackson, Gledhill's pilot, responded.

“Target at Eleven,” Goalie advised as the supply dump came into view.

“So it is,” Guru replied as “Magnum” calls filled the airwaves. “Sweaty, Lead. Target's in sight. Dealer's choice where you put your bombs. One-five and One-six, get your target in,”

“Roger, Lead,” Sweaty called.

“Roger, Guru,” Dave Golen replied.

“We're set,” said Goalie from the back seat. “All in one.” She meant all bombs released in one pass. That had been a squadron rule since Day One.

Guru nodded as he rolled in. “Then let's do it.” He took 512 down on the bomb run.


In Coleman, General Sisov was in his headquarters, the City Hall, and he was not a happy man. Three days earlier, Marshal Kribov's visit had been delayed-not just due to the air strike on the airport, but that the Marshal himself had been caught in a strike, and his own Yak-40 transport had been wrecked. Though the Marshal had been pleased at what he found when he did get there, dismissing the air strike as an incident of war, he had been upset at some of the manpower issues raised in their meeting. The General had raised the issues of reservists from the RSVN and Vosyka-PVO arriving, and the Marshal hadn't been happy to hear that. Still, despite what the Marshal himself called “Serious reservations,” he told the General to get on with it, and do the best he could, given the circumstances. The RSVN soldiers, who had served as guards around missile sites, at least had some potential as infantry, while the V-PVO men? They would have to learn on-the-job how to operate the various SAM systems at Division and Army level, even though they were a far cry from the S-75 (SA-2) or S-125 (SA-3).

The General got up from his desk and left his office-which had been the Mayor's prewar, and had displaced the garrison commander, a fat Major who still commanded a battalion from a rear-area security unit from Leningrad. At least the Resistance in this area isn't a factor, Sisov thought, though his own intelligence people were convinced-unlike the rear-area people, that the Underground was simply keeping a low profile and biding its time until the U.S. Army got close enough, for the most part. Still, the occasional grafitti, roadside bomb, cut phone line, and sniper activity did show the Soviets that the Resistance had not gone away entirely, and the General knew it. At least my Zampolit isn't too eager, he thought. The new man, who had been the deputy to the previous one, was more concerned with keeping the Army's soldiers motivated than in doing anything to antagonize the civilian population, and that was very important, for the last thing General Sisov wanted was any serious issues with the locals, who didn't hide their contempt for their occupiers, even though things were calm for the most part.

General Sisov gathered his aide and Chief of Staff, and all three were about to leave the headquarters office when shouting outside drew their attention. Suddenly, his Air Force Liaison Officer and two other Air Force men ran for the stairs that led to the roof. Sisov and the two officers with him followed. When they got to the roof, they found the Air Force men with binoculars, and several soldiers with Strela-3 (SA-14) shoulder-fired missiles. “What's going on here?” Sisov roared.

“Air raid alarm, Comrade General,” the senior Air Force man, a Major, replied, pointing to the south.


“Lead in hot!” Guru called as he took 512 down on its bomb run. He saw the airport off to the east, which they had hit the day the RAF flew their first missions, and the flak coming up from both the airport and the supply depot that was the target for his element and Sweaty's. Guru ignored the flak coming up-the 23-mm and 37-mm from around the depot, and the 57-mm from the airport, as he picked out what looked like some fuel trucks at the supply depot. You'll burn, the CO thought as the trucks grew larger in his pipper as he approached bomb release. “And...Steady...Steady...And..And...HACK!” Guru hit his pickle button, releasing his twelve Mark-82s, then he pulled up and away, applying power and jinking to clear the town and the flak. “Lead's off target,” Guru called as he cleared the targe area.


“Not again,” muttered General Sisov as he watched Guru's F-4 make its run. Two of the soldiers on the roof shot missiles, but neither one appeared to guide, the General saw. Then he saw the bombs come off the F-4, and Sisov knew what the target was. Not the Army's main supply depot, he said to himself. Then several fireballs erupted, and that meant fuel. Sisov shook his head, and turned to see the Air Force men watching through their binoculars. Was this an air show to them? Then the General saw the AA guns turning back, and picking up another aircraft before they resumed firing.


“BULLSEYE!” Goalie shouted from 512's back seat. “We've got secondaries!”

“How many?” Guru asked as he jinked left to avoid some tracers, then right to avoid a missile-probably an SA-7 by the size of the smoke trail.

“Several, and they look like fuel tanks going up.”

“Just what I had in mind,” Guru replied as he turned north.


“Two's in!” Kara made the call as she took 520 in on her bomb run. She saw the CO's run, and the fireballs left in his wake, and Kara grinned beneath her oxygen mask. There's more where that came from, Ivan, she thought as she picked out some more trucks-some of which looked like fuelers, others were just plain supply trucks. The flak came up, and Kara ignored it, concentrating on her bomb run. Even a missile, which just flew by on the right side, didn't faze her. “Steady...And..Steady....And...And.. NOW!” Kara hit her pickle button, sending her dozen Mark-82s down onto the Russians below. She then pulled up and away, jinking and applying power as she did, giving the AAA and SAM gunners a harder target. “Two's off safe,” Kara called when she cleared the area.


“Of all the...” Sisov muttered as he saw Kara's F-4 come in. Another soldier fired a missile, only to see the missile seek the setting sun instead of the aircraft, much to the operator's fury (and Sisov's). The General watched as the F-4 released its bombs, then as it pulled away, several explosions-and more fireballs-erupted in the aircraft's wake. The General winced, then he saw the AA gunners on several rooftops spraying machine-gun and 23-mm fire at the departing aircraft, and their tracers fell well short. He looked around, and saw two more F-4s orbiting, and occasionally firing a missile at some target, and two more also orbiting, at a higher altitude, but doing nothing. Then the AA gunners turned back to the south, and that meant more Americans coming in.


“SHACK!” Brainiac shouted in 520's back seat. “Got multiple secondaries back there!”

“How many?” Kara asked as she jinked right to avoid some flak, then left to dodge a missile, then she went right again to pick up the CO.

“Several, and they were good-sized.”

“Good for them,” said Kara as she spotted a smoke trail, then the CO's bird.


“Three's in hot!” Sweaty made that call as she came in on her run. She saw Kara's bird pull up, and the fireballs in its wake. She came in, and spotted several revetments in the northern part of the dump, and that meant ammo. Grinning beneath her oxygen mask, Sweaty lined up some of the revetments in her pipper. She, too, spotted the flak coming up, and ignored it. Even a SA-7 type missile that came head-on, but failed to guide. Ivan, this just isn't your day, she thought as she approached bomb release. “Steady....Steady....And...And....And.....HACK!” Sweaty hit her pickle button, and sent her dozen Mark-82s down onto the burning dump below. She then pulled up, jinking as she went and applying full power to get clear. Once clear of the town, it was time. “Three's off safe.”


“Of all the...” General Sisov muttered as he watched Sweaty's plane make its run. The AA gunners tracked the aircraft, but their shooting left much to be desired, as their tracers flew wide of the target. Then he saw bomb release, and watched as a dozen bombs fell onto the supply dump. A dozen explosions resulted, followed by several sympathetic detonations marking artillery or tank ammunition going up. The General frowned, then heard the cheering below. No doubt the locals were seeing all this, and were showing their appreciation. At least there's not a PSD scum around, Sisov thought-that swine had been killed by a roadside bomb, and no one-locals, garrison, or anyone from 32nd Army for that matter, cared a whit. Then the AA gunners jolted him back to the present, as they turned their guns back south.

“BULLSEYE!” Preacher shouted from Sweaty's back seat. “Multiple secondaries!”

“What kind?” Sweaty asked as she jinked left to avoid a missile, probably an SA-7, then right to dodge some flak tracers.

“Multiple big and righteous!” The ex-seminary student shouted.

“Amen, brother,” Sweaty quipped as she jinked right again, then left, and picked up the CO and Kara, first the smoke trails, then visual on the birds.


“Four in hot!” Hoser called as he came in on his run. He saw the smoke columns and fires burning below, but he was able to pick out a part of the dump that hadn't been hit. As he came in, Hoser saw some trucks, and some more revetments, probably ammo storage. Good, he thought. Ivan, you're having a really bad day. Hoser saw the flak, and the MANPADS, coming up, and ignored them as he concentrated on the bomb run. “Steady....Steady....And...And....NOW!” Hoser hit his pickle button, releasing his dozen Mark-82s, then he pulled up and away, applying power and jinking as he did. Once he cleared the target area, then he made his call. “Four's off target.”


“Sookin sin...” said General Sisov. Son of a bitch... This certainly was a bitch of an afternoon, he thought. They'd been bombed before-but still....having his Army's main supply depot bombed was not the way he wanted the afternoon to end. Sisov decided to have a few words with the commander of the 272nd SAM Brigade, his Army's main air-defense unit, to see what could be done to improve matters. He turned to his Air Force Liaison Officer when the AA guns turned to the southeast. The next American aircraft was going for the airport....


“GOOD HITS!” That was KT's shout from the back seat.

“How good?” Hoser wanted to know as he jinked right to dodge a missile, then left to avoid tracers, then right again so he could pick up his element lead.

“Big and good!”

“Can't argue with that,” Hoser grinned beneath his oxygen mask. He scanned ahead, and picked up Sweaty's bird directly ahead.


“Five in hot!” Dave Golen called as he came in on his run. The IDF Major saw what the first four had done to their target, and now, it was the airport's turn. As he rolled in, a glance at his EW display showed a AAA radar up, then he saw an antiradar missile-either a HARM or Standard-ARM, fly into a 57-mm site and explode, taking out the radar van, and, he hoped, one or two of the guns with it. The radar signal went off, though the flak kept coming-though the 57-mm battery was out, tracers from 23-mm and puffs from 37-mm showed the gunners were still there. Ignoring the flak, he picked out the ramp area, then he called his wingmate. “Flossy, take the Runway. I'll take the ramp.” Not waiting for her to acknowledge, he concentrated on his bomb run, lining up the ramp area and two field hangars in his pipper, intending to walk his bombs across the field. As he got down, Golen noticed two Su-25s and what looked like a Hind gunship on the ramp. Your lucky day, Ivan, he thought as he got ready. “Steady...And...And....NOW!” He hit the pickle button, sending his six Mark-82s and six M-117s down onto the Russians. Golen then pulled up and away, jinking as he did so, and applying power. Only when he was clear of the target did he make his call. “Five off target.”


General Sisov watched as Dave's F-4 went in on its run, and this time, the bomb release was much closer. He winced as the bombs came off, and the big Phantom pulled away, and the General knew what the target was this time. The airport, he thought to himself. As he watched, the F-4 pulled clear, and the bombs went off, sending up clouds of smoke and dirt, and then four fireballs. What did he hit?” Sisov turned to watch, as two soldiers fired Strela-3 missiles, but neither one appeared to guide. He spat in disgust, then saw the AA guns turning back south. Another one coming in...


“SHACK!” Terry McAuliffe called from Golen's back seat. “Got a few secondaries!”

“What kind?” Golen asked as he jinked left to avoid a missile, then right to avoid some tracers.

“Two big ones and a couple smaller ones,” the GIB replied.

“Their lucky day,” Golen said as he turned north, picking up Sweaty and Hoser as he did.


“Six in hot!” Flossy called as she took 1569 down on the bomb run. She saw Dave Golen's run, and the fireballs that came in its wake, and heard his call. “Roger, Five,” she called back, and lined up the runway in her pipper. Flossy saw the flak, and the shoulder-fired missiles coming up, and ignored both as she concentrated on her bomb run. “And...And...And.....HACK!” Flossy hit her pickle button, sending her six Mark-82s and six M-117s down on the runway. She pulled up and away, applying power and jinking all the way. No sense in giving the flak gunners and missile operators an easy mark, she knew....Once clear of the target, Flossy made her call. “Six off target.”


General Sisov watched as Flossy's F-4 made its run. Shaking his head, he watched as the Phantom released its bombs, and though the airport was the target, he wasn't sure of the target as this time, there weren't any fireballs that came up after the bombs exploded. What was the target? Then he remembered the last time the Americans had paid a visit. Runway, he realized. He then saw two more F-4s fly past, but they didn't attack-were they reconnaissance? Then two more flew by, and the General watched as they headed north. He then turned to his Chief of Staff. “Get a report on the damage on the supply depot. And I mean right now!”

“Immediately, Comrade General,” the Chief replied.


“Six in and out,” Goalie said in 512.

“Still got a game going,” Guru replied. “One-seven and One-eight, get your asses clear of the target.”

“Roger, Lead,” Paul Jackson replied. “On the way out.”

“Coors, Rambler Lead. We're clear,” Guru said to the Weasels.

“Roger, Rambler, we're comin' out,” the Weasel lead called back.

Then the AWACS came on line. “Rambler, Coors. Warlock. Bandits, Bandits. Four Blue Bandits inbound bearing Zero-eight-five for twenty. Medium, closing. Repeat: Closing.” Blue bandits meant MiG-21s.

“Two, on me,” Guru called.

“Right with you, Lead,” Kara replied.

Guru took a quick glance to the right, and found Kara's 520 right with him in Combat Spread.

“Lead, One-seven,” Paul Jackson called. “BREAK!”

Without hesitating, Guru broke left and high, while Kara broke left and low. Both armed their Sidewinders as they turned. Hearing that call, Sweaty and Hoser also broke-she right and high, he left and low. As Guru turned, he saw four MiG-21s coming in. “Tally four Blue Bandits,” he called, using the old Vietnam code for MiG-21s.

“On them, Lead,” Jackson said. “Going radar. Lock one up,” he told Dave Gledhill in the back seat.

“Working...I've got one! Take the shot,” said Gledhill.

“FOX ONE!” Jackson called as he shot his first Sky Flash. Then he squeezed the trigger again. “FOX ONE AGAIN!”


In the lead MiG, an East German Captain saw four F-4s, though the A-50 controller only said two. Given the distance from the radar, he was surprised that the A-50 could pick out that many against the ground clutter. The Captain signaled his wingman, and dove in to the attack. He saw the four F-4s break, and he picked out one of them. Suddenly, his Sirena-3 RWR screamed in his helmet, and he frantically turned his head, looking for threats. Then he saw two missile trails coming, and he turned into the threat. The first missile missed, but the second hit-for he felt the impact and the explosion. He grabbed the handle of his ejection seat, but before he could pull it, a second explosion came, and he was surrounded by fire. The last thing he felt was the heat....

Both Jackson and Gledhill watched as their missiles traced their way to the MiG leader. He turned at the last minute, with one Sky Flash going past him, but the second smashed into his tail. The MiG-21 fireballed, and the other three broke and scattered. “SPLASH ONE!” Jackson called.

“Heard that,” Guru said, looking around. “Tally on one,” he said, picking up a MiG-21 as it turned back towards the east.

Goalie had her head out of the cockpit, looking around. “Six is clear.”

“Two, on me,” Guru called. He wanted this MiG for himself.

“Right with you,” Kara replied. Come on, Guru, let me have this one, she thought.

“Lead, Sweaty. BREAK!” Sweaty called.

Guru broke right and high this time, while Kara went low and to the left. As they did, Guru saw a MiG coming up from below. “Where'd he come from?”

“He wasn't there a second ago!” Goalie shot back as the MiG flew past.

“Not blaming you,” Guru said as he did a 180. “Hard to see back there.”

“Lead, Sweaty. I've got him,” Sweaty said. She rolled in behind the MiG-21, and saw the East German insignia on the tail. “Okay, Franz....” Sweaty muttered. She uncaged a Sidewinder, and got tone, then the growl in her headset growled very loud. Missile lock. “FOX TWO!” She squeezed off a Sidewinder, and the missile took the shape of a rattlesnake as it tracked to the MiG. The Sidewinder flew up the MiG's tailpipe and the MiG-21 fireballed. “SPLASH!”

“Sweaty's got one,” Goalie said.

“I heard,” said Guru as he looked around, for there were two more MiGs out there. “Two, have tally?”

Kara looked around the sky, and saw only F-4s. “No joy, Lead.”

“Roger that, Two,” Guru said. “On me.”

“Where's the other two?” Goalie asked. She had the radar on and was scanning outside as Guru jinked. “Six clear again.”

“Two, check my six.” Guru was still jinking.

Kara turned her head and saw nothing. “Lead, six is clear.”

Dave Golen and Flossy, though, found the other two. “Lead, One-five. Tally two Fishbeds.”

Guru turned in that direction, and saw two MiG-21s heading north, with two SEA-painted F-4s following. “Have eyeballs on you,” Guru replied. “Sweaty, you and Hoser clear us.”

“Roger that!” Sweaty replied as Hoser formed up with her.

In his F-4, Golen centered his pipper on the lead MiG, then both broke-lead to the left, wingman to the right. “Flossy, take the wingman.”

“On him,” Flossy said as she turned to follow the MiG.

Dave Golen heard that as he centered the pipper again on the MiG. Somebody hasn't told this guy a MiG-21 can't turn with an F-4 down low, he thought. No matter.....He centered the pipper on the MiG and armed his 20-mm cannon. He then squeezed the trigger for a two-second burst, just as the Israeli Air Force taught, and that was enough. A hundred and twenty rounds of 20-mm API and HEI rounds tore into the MiG, which caught fire. Then Golen and McAuliffe watched as the MiG-21, trailing fire, smashed into a hill just north of the town. There was no chute. “SPLASH!”


“Dave Golen's got another one,” Goalie said.

“Save it for later,” Guru said. “Still one out there and who knows what else,” he reminded her.


Flossy in 1569 picked up the wingman as he frantically turned left, then right, then left again. She uncaged a Sidewinder and closed in. The MiG driver's turning enabled her to close in, as he bled off airspeed, and she caught up. Then Flossy lined him up in her pipper, and the Sidewinder seeker growled in her headset. It then growled very loud,signaling missile lock. “FOX TWO!” She fired one, then a second, Sidewinder. The MiG turned again, for he might have seen the first missile come off, knowing that Sidewinders couldn't track a target pulling more than 6 Gs, and the first missile did miss. But he reversed his turn, and that solved the problem for the second missile. That AIM-9 flew up his tailpipe and exploded. The tail blew off the MiG, and the Fishbed plunged towards the ground. Just before impact, the pilot ejected, but his chute streamed, and barely had time to open before getting into the trees. “SPLASH!”

“Flossy's got another,” Guru commented. “Warlock, Rambler. Splash four Fishbeds. We are outbound at this time.”

“Roger, Rambler. Threats bearing Two-four-zero for sixty. Medium, closing. Bandits are Fulcrums.”

“Copy that,” said Guru. “Flight, Lead. On me and let's get the hell out of here.” Guru set course north, and saw Kara join up with him in Combat Spread.

“With you, Lead.” his wingmate replied.

“Roger that,” Guru said. “Sweaty?”

Sweaty replied, “On your six, and I've got Hoser.”

“Five and six behind Sweaty,” Dave Golen added.

“Seven and eight with you.” Paul Jackson called.

“Coors One-one and One-two coming out,” the Weasel leader said. “Nice work with the Fishbeds.”

“Copy that and thank you,” Guru replied. “How far to the fence?” He asked Goalie.

Goalie checked her map. “Twenty miles,” she said. “One minute fifteen.”

“Roger that!” Guru said as he continued north. We'll get to the fence before the Fulcrums get here, Guru thought. And if they do follow? There's going to be an Eagle welcoming committee.

“Rambler, Warlock,” the AWACS controller called. “Bandits now Two-three-zero for fifty. Medium, closing.”

Still coming? Guru thought. Well, if that's the way you want to play..... “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Can you get some Eagles if they get too close?”

“That's affirmative, Rambler,” the controller replied. “Outlaw Three-one, Warlock. Bandits bearing One-niner-five for fifty-five. Medium, closing. KILL. Repeat: KILL. Clear to arm, clear to fire.”

“Outlaw Three-one copies,” the F-15 lead said. Using hand signals, she motioned for her flight to follow, and the Eagles headed south, fangs out.

In 512, Guru asked Goalie, “Time to the Fence?”

“Forty-five seconds,” Goalie replied. “Twelve miles.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. He had an eye on the EW display, and though it still showed just the Mainstay's radar, those MiGs could light off their own radars at any moment. “EW still has the Mainstay.”

Goalie shook her head. “Still need to teach those guys a lesson,” she grumbled.

“Girl, you are preaching to the choir,” said Guru. “Thirty seconds?” He wanted to know what was taking so long to knock out the Mainstays himself. When they got to Nellis, maybe he could ask General Tanner. Maybe.

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie said.

“Outlaw Three-one has four bandits,” the F-15 leader called out. “Let's go get 'em.”

Just as the F-15s charged south, the F-4s crossed the I-20, and the crews saw the F-15s shoot by overhead. “Get some,” Guru muttered.

Almost as if she had heard Guru, the F-15 Lead took the first AIM-7 shot, and the other three Eagles shot as well. Two MiG-29s went down, and the other two turned back, hoping to draw the F-15s into range of any one of several divisional or Army-level SAM batteries. The Eagles didn't take the bait, and turned back to their CAP station.

“And we're across the fence,” Guru said as the twin concrete ribbons of I-20 passed beneath them. He glanced at the EW display one more time, and saw that the Mainstay radar signal was gone. Finally, he thought.

Goalie let out an audible sigh of relief that the IC picked up. “About time,” she said.

“Flight, Lead. Verify IFF is on and Music off, out,” Guru called to the flight, as he climbed to altitude. He turned off the ECM pod and made sure his IFF was on.

“Roger, Lead,” Kara said, and the others followed.

Rambler Flight joined up with the tankers, and they noticed the first strikes by the A-6s and F-111s were coming in to top off before going in. The flight joined up with KC-135s this time, and after topping up, got ready to head back to Sheppard or to Reese-which was where the Weasels were based.

“Coors, Rambler. Nice work, fella,” Guru said to the Weasel element lead. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” Coors One-one replied. “Maybe we can do this again sometime.”

“Glad to have you guys around,” said Guru. Then both flights headed to their home bases.

When Rambler got to Sheppard, it was still light, but they were the last ones to come in. As they came into the pattern, those four pilots who had scored did victory rolls, then the flight came in and landed. As they taxied in, the victors popped their canopies, and held up fingers to signal MiG kills, much to the delight of other air and ground crew who were watching, along with the news crew.

“About time,” Jana Wendt said as the MiG-killers taxied past, to the cheers of the various spectators.

“But not the CO,” Lieutenant Patti Brown, the PAO, said with a tinge of disappointment. From what she'd heard, the CO was due for another kill. All good things come to those who wait, she reminded herself. And she wanted a MiG or two for herself.

After coming off the taxiway, the flight headed to the squadron's dispersal area, then they headed for their revetments. Guru taxied to 512's, and followed Sergeant Crowley's signals to taxi into the revetment. Once in, he stopped, and the ground crew came out with the wheel chocks, and then Guru shut down. Guru and Goalie had already popped and raised their canopies, and after going through the post-flight checklist, they stood up in their cockpits as the ground crew brought the crew ladder. “Four and done,” Guru said as he took off his helmet.

“And a day off tomorrow, thanks to Mama Nature,” Goalie quipped. “Do need to catch up.”

“On sleep,” Guru agreed. “And certain other things,” he grinned.

Goalie let out a grin of her own. “Good to see you want to get caught up with bedroom gymnastics.”

“That's one way to kill time on a stand-down,” Guru said as he climbed down from the aircraft. Goalie did the same, and they did a quick post-flight walk-around, then they came to the Crew Chief. “Sarge,” Guru said as Crowley handed both of them a bottle of water-and Guru proceeded to drain half of his right away. “Five-twelve's still going strong. She's due for a hundred-hour, right?”

“That she is, Major,” Crowley said. “We'll get started on that, and finish up in the morning. Word's gone around you're taking that prissy reporter up.”

Guru shook his head. “Not her, but the cameraman,” he said. “Captain Thrace is taking the reporter.”

“Still trying to scare her off this base?” Goalie asked.

“No, she's made of sterner stuff,” Guru admitted. “But if we can get her airsick, and maybe appreciate what we do day in and day out.”

“To be wished for,” Goalie spat. She didn't mind the reporter, but still had a lingering suspicion of the press. Some of her Academy instructors were Vietnam vets, and they had passed down their dislike of the press to many a cadet.

“Yeah,” Guru said. “Didn't get any MiGs, but there's always next time. Sooner or later, Sarge, you'll get that ninth-and maybe tenth-red star on the bird.”

The Crew Chief grinned. “We'll be waiting, Major. And don't worry about that hundred-hour check. We'll have her ready by afternoon. You can take that to the bank.”

“Thanks, Sarge,” said Guru. Then he and Goalie left the ground crew to their work, and headed to the revetment's entrance, where Kara and Brainiac were waiting. “Well, no joy on the MiGs this time.”

Kara shook her head. “At least we tore up that supply dump,” She replied. “We both had a lot of secondaries.”

“And maybe next time, the MiGs cooperate,” Brainiac added. He wanted to be a double ace himself.

“Maybe,” Guru said. He was looking for his ninth-and tenth kills himself. “And where'd that one MiG come from?” He was referring to the MiG that had gotten into his and Goalie's blind spot.

“Not there one second, then there the next,” Goalie said, shaking her head. “How'd I miss him?”

“He was in your blind spot,” Sweaty said as she and Preacher, with Hoser and KT came up. “Hard for me to see, and harder for Preacher.”

Preacher nodded. “Or any other GIB.”

“Yeah,” Guru said. “Not blaming you,” he said to Goalie. “But thanks for killing him,” the CO said to Sweaty. “Who were they?”

“East Germans,” Dave Golen said as he and Flossy, with Terry McAuliffe and Jang, came up. “Anyone else see the insignia?”

Sweaty nodded. “I did,” she said. “They were good, I'll say this.”

“They had guts, tangling with us at low level,” Guru admitted. “Sweaty got the guy who tried to line us up.”

“And Dave Golen got a gun kill,” Flossy said. “Isn't this your first here?”

“It is,” the IDF Major said with pride. The Israelis prided themselves on gun kills over any with missiles. Even though most of those scored in the Bekaa Valley Turkey Shoot had been missile kills.

“That's what, seven here for you?” Goalie asked.

“Yes, and for Flossy, too.”

“How'd you do on the airport?” Guru wanted to know.

“Tore up the ramp area,” Golen said. “Got a couple of Su-25s, and maybe a Hind, too.”

The CO nodded. “And Flossy got the runway.” It wasn't a question.

Flossy grinned. “It's a bunch of craters, and I'll bet it'll be back operational tomorrow.”

Guru nodded, then he spat. “No bet. This stalemate reminds me of everything I've read or heard about Southeast Asia.”

“No arguing that,” Goalie said. She was the only Academy grad in the flight. “Some of my instructors would say the same thing. “Had a few Vietnam vets as instructors back at the Springs.”

Then the RAF crews came over. “Well, that was interesting,” Dave Gledhill said. “MiG-21s, and those were East Germans.”

“You noticed,” said Sweaty. “And you guys got one.”

“My seventh, but Paul's fourth,” the RAF Squadron Leader said. “Next time...”

“Always, that,” Susan Napier replied.

Guru nodded, then whispered something to Kara. She went to her Crew Chief, and came out of her revetment. She nodded to the CO. Guru and several others went to 520's revetment while Flossy and Jang were talking. Then Flossy stepped aside. “Jang?”

Jang turned when she heard the CO's voice. “Major?” Then she saw the CO, Goalie, Kara, Brainiac, Dave Golen, Flossy, and Hoser all with buckets of water. “Oh, fuck.”

Guru yelled, “NOW!” And those with the buckets splashed Jang with cold water! “Congratulations, Jang! You're now a backseat ace, and no one can take that from you.”

Jang nodded, then shook her head. “Damn, Major, that's cold!”

“Better that than any of the lakes around here,” said Guru. “Okay, people!” he added, putting his CO's hat on. “We need to debrief and make the intel folks happy. Then check your desks before heading to the Club.”

“Do we have to make those chairborne warriors happy?” Kara spat. She, like almost everyone else in the squadron, had little use for bureaucracy and those who inhabited it.

“Unfortunately,” Guru said. He checked his watch. “It's 1645. Let's get it done, then we can blow off some steam.”

Sweaty grinned. “And no twelve-hour for everybody-except those stiffs pulling Zulu Alert.”

The CO nodded. “You've got that right. Come on and let's go. Get this over and done with.”

Blowing off steam and celebrating MiG kills...Remember, even though it's a stand-down coming, it's "Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow they may not separate us from the rest of the aircraft." And a very......inquisitive flight surgeon:



335th TFS CO's Office: 1655 Hours Central War Time:


Major Matt Wiser sat behind his desk, clearing out his IN Box. Fortunately, there wasn't much, and what was there was rapidly dispatched to the OUT box. Silently cursing the AF bureaucracy, the CO got up and looked out his office window. Another day done, he thought as the first signs of dusk came. How many more, before this is all over, he mused. Too many, that was the answer that popped into his mind. He went to his desk and made sure it was tidy, before a knock on the door interrupted him. “Yeah? Come on in and show yourself!”

The office door opened and the Exec, Capt. Mark Ellis, came in. “Boss, got a couple of things for you before we hit the Club.”

Guru nodded. “Okay, Mark. What have you got?”

“First, the storm's coming in, right on schedule,” the Exec said, handing the CO another weather update. “Rain starts after 2200, and we should be wet until noon at least.”

“Lovely,” Guru spat. “F-111s and A-6s down low for us, Su-24s for the bad guys, and up above at Angels twenty, it's anyone who's a fighter or recon bird. But...”

“I know what you mean,” Ellis nodded. “Anyway, Doc's going to supervise the drawing for who sits Zulu Alert tomorrow. He'll do it before 1800.”

The CO nodded approval. “Good. Because for some people, twelve-hour kicks in then, and it also means Early-Bird. Flight leads draw. Anything else?”

“The Scroungers have been busy, Chief Ross says. They found us three dozen more kits for laser bombs.”

Guru let out an evil-looking grin. “About time. Next time we get a point target, we pull the assigned ordnance and hang GBU-10s instead, and somebody gets to use either Pave Spike or Pave Tack,” the CO said, referring to the two laser designators the squadron used. Not that much, he knew, but that would change.

“Understood. And they also found three dozen Maverick-Ds,” said Ellis.

The CO's jaw dropped. AGM-65Ds? “The IIR Mavericks?” Seeing the XO nod, he went on. “I take it the paperwork regarding all of these-and this includes the GBU kits-has been....created?”

Ellis said, “It has.”

“That's a relief. Because I don't want somebody showing up wondering where his laser bomb kits or Mavericks are when we've used half of 'em. What's next?”

“That's it,” said the XO.

Guru was pleased. Now they could hit the Club. He got up and grabbed his bush hat. “The bar, and food, await.” Seeing Ellis nod, Guru added, “Let's go.”


When Guru and the Exec got to the Club, the place was already buzzing. Word of Jang becoming a backseat ace-and thus forming an all-female ace team with Flossy-had traveled fast, as did something that both 335th officers heard when they got there, namely, a Marine crew from VMFA-333 had made ace themselves, but there was a catch that had people's eyes perk up. For all five kills the crew had made were all helos. Either Hips or Hinds, much to the crew's chagrin. No matter: a kill's a kill, that was what fighter pilots all over thought. Still, starting out with one's first five kills as helos was unusual. Though both Guru and Ellis had heard of A-7 and A-10 drivers who were aces-and had killed helos to do it.

The two bellied up to the bar, and found Smitty there, waiting for them as usual. “Smitty, what have you got this evening?” Guru asked the barkeep.

“No Sam Adams, Major, sorry about that.” The barkeep replied.

Guru nodded. Oh, well....not the first time. “So, what's available?”

“Bud, Bud Light, Miller, Lite, Olympia,” Smitty recited what he had.

“Bud for me,” Guru nodded again.

“And for me,” Ellis added. “I'll pay for both.” Seeing Guru turn to him, he said, “Only fair I buy for you once in a while, Boss.”

“Fair enough,” Guru said. Ellis paid the barkeep, and both raised their bottles. After they drank, the two noticed Flossy and Jang coming in, with the reporter and cameraman following. “Well, now,” Guru observed. “If Flossy and Jang weren't targets already, they are now.”

The XO nodded, just as Colonel Brady came over. “Major, Captain,” the MAG-11 CO said. “Smitty, the usual.” After the barkeep handed Brady a Bud, he said to Guru. “Major, you've got an all-female ace team. Isn't that a first?”

“First in the squadron, for sure,” Guru admitted. “Maybe in the whole Air Force for all I know. And Ms. Wendt's all over them.” He indicated the reporter, who was talking to both crewers, and there was much waving of hands as they demonstrated the kill that made Jang an ace.

Brady nodded. “Speaking of that reporter, tomorrow's her check ride, if I heard you from last night.”

“It is, and Kara's taking her up,” Guru said, indicating Kara, who was talking with Dave Golen.

“And you've got the cameraman, Boss,” the Exec grinned. “Going to make him puke?”

The CO smiled. “Maybe, or see which one's made of sterner stuff,” he joked. “Seeing both of them puking on the ramp after it's over would be worth it.”

“I'd love to see that,” Ellis said. “Then again, maybe I will.”

“I'd like to see that as well, Major,” Brady added.

“Don't worry, sir,” said Guru. “One way or another, it'll be on film.”

Brady laughed. “No doubt, Major.” Then they noticed Frank coming in, and both he and Flossy exchanged looks. The glare she sent his way spoke volumes. “Those two don't like each other, I've heard.”

“No, sir,” Guru said. “They do have a history, and it's not good.” He explained for a minute. “And everytime she sees him, it's the 'Don't fuck with me again' look.”

“And if looks were daggers, he'd be bleeding,” Ellis added.

Colonel Brady shook his head. “Major, If I were you, I'd shit-can him and send him packing. I do know why you can't, though.”

“Yes, sir,” Guru nodded. “But...if either my flight surgeon finds something that requires him to be sent away for some tests-and after that, he's flying a desk someplace. Or, Sundown Cunningham pays a visit sometime between now and Christmas? Frank gets booted off this base so fast he never knows what hit him.”

“To be wished for, anyway,” Mark Ellis said. “Or he has a fuckup in the air, and winds up in front of a General Court-Martial. Or gets himself-and only himself-killed.”

“Either answer can be graded as correct, sir,” said Guru.

Brady gave a sympathetic nod. “No doubt, Major. You people have a good rest of the evening, and if you're not on Zulu Alert, sleep in tomorrow.”

“Here's hoping,” Guru said. “Thank you, sir.” He then shook hands with his Exec, then went to the table his flight used. “Looks like Jang's getting some attention.”

Kara nodded. “Not every day you get just a backseat ace only,” she said. “Wonder if it was like this for Chuck DeBellevue or Jeff Feinstein?” Kara was referring to the AF's top aces in Southeast Asia, both of whom had six kills-all from the back seat.

“Probably,” KT said. “Where's Goalie?”

“She went to get the papers,” Sweaty replied as Goalie came back to the table.

“Got the L.A. Times for the CO, Orange County Register for me,” Goalie said, tossing the papers on the table. “And who wants USA Today and Stars and Stripes?”

“I'll take USA,” said Hoser. And as he did, his flightmates watched as the first place he went was the sports section. Even though pro and college sports had been curtailed due to the war, there was still enough to keep sports fans interested, as well as entertaining those on the Home Front as well as the front lines. But he did give the front page to his element lead.

“Stars and Stripes for me,” Kara said, and Goalie handed her the paper.
“Not much happening,” Sweaty said, reading USA Today's front page. “Though Proxmire's scandal got a little wider.”

“Got that here,” Guru said. “Page one in the L.A. Says here one of his aides turned, and he's cooperating with the FBI.”

“Wouldn't you?” Brainiac asked. “Especially when not flipping means life in Marion or a needle.”

“No-brainer there,” the CO admitted. “Jerry Brown's making an ass of himself again. We didn't call him 'Governor Moonbeam' for nothing, you know.”

Goalie looked at him, then the Orange County Register's front page. “Same here. Says he's going to run for the Democratic nomination next year.”

“If he wants to commit political suicide, he's welcome to do it,” Guru replied. “Your story say he's running as a peace candidate?”

“It does. He's saying that someone needs to run as a peace candidate, and he's going to be one.”

“Well, he made an ass of himself in '80,” said Guru. “Might as well do it again.” With those expected to run staying out, and for good reason, Guru knew, the ones who didn't get much traction in normal years were probably going to run. Though anyone who went up against Bush was going to regret it. Very.

Kara looked up from Stars and Stripes' international news section. “They had a free-for-all in West Berlin.”

“A riot?” Sweaty asked, and Kara nodded. “How big?”

“Pretty big rumble, I'd say. The pro-neutralists-and they were waving red and black flags, mind-had about 50,000. The anti-neutralists had about the same. Lots of property destruction, and the usual arrests.”

“Of the pro-Reds, I'll bet,” Goalie said. “Speaking of Germany, the Bundeswehr exercise is still going.”

“The coup's coming,” said Preacher. “When?”

“That's the question for Final Jeopardy,” Guru quipped.

Dave Gledhill then came over. “Heard this on the BBC's shortwave. The Italian Prime Minister was assassinated.”

“What?” Sin Licon said from a nearby table.

“That's right. Seems the chap was wavering, thinking about tossing the neutralist partners in their government. The Red Brigades claimed they did the job.”

“Meaning the KGB issued the hit,” Goalie said. “And they pulled the trigger.”

“That's about the size of it.”

Then the Mess crew arrived, bringing the meals whose prep had been supervised by the restauanteurs who had taken over the Marines' mess operation-with Colonel Brady's blessing. “People, we've got Bison meat loaf, or Chicken done Tex-Mex style, with all the fixin's. Come and get it.

After people got what they wanted, it was time for the CBS Evening News. After Walter Cronkite came on, the lead was about the Proxmire scandal. “Why doesn't Proxmire just quit?” Don Van Loan asked.

“The farmers in Wisconsin do like the milk subsidies he gets them,” the XO replied. “If he has any sense, he'll just announce he's not running for reelection.”

“If,” Cosmo spat. She had good reason to despise the Senator, even more than those who had been in the military prewar.

Then the news turned to the stalled battle lines in Texas, where, from the desert of West Texas all the way to the Louisiana and Arkansas state lines, things had settled down to a stalemate. That was followed by a carrier raid on Alaska, and the riot in West Berlin. After that, news from Rome, where the pro-neutralist Italian Government was running into trouble-namely, the Interior Minister and the Finance Minister quitting due to a sex scandal in the FM's case, and the Interior Minister's brother being arrested as a member of the Red Brigades terrorist group.

“About time,” Guru observed. “When West Germany and Italy go, the neutralists are finished.”

“That'll be the day,” Colonel Brady said.

The newscast concluded with an On the Road segment, with Charles Kuralt visiting Cape Hattaras, North Carolina. There, a Coast Guard station was keeping watch, not just for hazards of the sea, but also Soviet subs and Spetsnatz swimmers. “Found a few of those guys a month or so ago,” a Coast Guardsman said. “Kept 'em occupied until some Marines from LeJune came to finish the job.”

Kuralt then visited a British Cemetery at Ocracoke Island, where four British sailors whose armed trawler had been sunk by a U-Boat off the Cape in 1942 had been laid to rest, and several new graves had been added-for a British frigate escorting a convoy bound for Charleston had been sunk by a Soviet sub, and eight bodies had washed ashore. Just as in 1942, the locals had opened their hearts to their country's allies. So eight British seamen now joined their fellow sailors at rest on American soil, far from home.

Cronkite then gave his trademark closing. “And that's the way it is. For all of us at CBS News, good night.”

After the newscast ended, Guru stood up. “Colonel, if you don't mind, I've got some squadron business to take care of.”

“Go right ahead, Major,” Brady said.

“Thank you, sir,” Guru said. He then nodded to Doc, who produced a hat. “For one flight, Twelve-Hour starts now. Then another in two hours, and so on. For these are the stiffs who are going to pull Zulu Alert tomorrow. Yeah, I know, it's a stand-down, with wind and rain most of the day, but up at Angels Twenty, it's CAVU. Doc's got the hat, and the flight leads draw.” Guru then went over to Doc, and as CO, drew first. He read the slip of paper. “Noon to 1400,” he said.

“Last Call's at midnight, so..” Kara grinned.

“It is. “XO?”

Mark Ellis came up, and drew. “1000 to Noon,” he said.

Guru nodded, then turned to Van Loan. “Ops?”

Don Van Loan came up, and drew. “Great. 1400 to 1600.”

“My turn, and please let it be 1600-1800,” Kerry Collins said as his turn came up. No such luck. “0800 to 1000.”

Guru grinned, then said, “Okay, now two elements will handle the last two: 0600 to 0800, and 16 to 18. Your turn, Dave,” he said to Dave Golen.

The IDF Major came up, and Doc stirred the pot. Then it was time to draw. “I'm lucky. 1600-1800.”

“That leave two element leads left. T-Bone and Frank,” the CO said. “Frank, you're senior, so you first.”

There was silence-even from the Marines and Navy there-as the most hated man in the 335th, as well as MAG-11, made his draw. A groan followed. “0600 to 0800,” Carson said.

“Okay, T-Bone and the rest? Congratulations. You all get the whole day off,” Guru said. “Doc will remind each element or flight when Twelve-Hour kicks in for you.”

Doc Waters spoke next. “Frank, that means now for your people.”

The snotty Major nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Understood, Doc.” At least the order came from someone who he actually respected, and not that upstart who was CO.

“One other thing, people!” Guru said. “Jang, stand and be recognized.”

“Uh-oh...” several people muttered.

Jang stood up, with Flossy, Dave Golen, and Terry McAuliffe close by. “Major,” she nodded.

“All right, folks, Jang, here, became a backseat ace today. Thanks to Flossy's flying and some East German who thought at low level, he could take on an F-4. The two of you proved him wrong, and he became Flossy's seventh, and your fifth,” the CO said. “So, that means, Jang, you're now a certified, card-carrying aerial assassin, and nobody can take that away from you!”

“Thanks, Major,” Jang beamed. She then laughed as Buddy, the squadron's mascot came to her.

“ARF!” The dog barked, and everyone laughed.

“Even the dog approves,” Dave Gledhill observed.

“He does,” said Guru. “Except for Frank's element, drink up!” Guru then went to the bar and got a plate of nachos and another beer. When he got back to the table, Kara had already left. “Kara's gone to hold court.”

“She did,” Sweaty replied. “One of the RAF Rockape officers challenged her.”

“This I have to see,” Guru said, and then Dave Gledhill came up. “Dave,” he nodded.

“I warned you about the Rockapes,” the Squadron Leader reminded the 335th's CO.

Both combatants laid down their money, and though it was close, the RAF officer won out. Kara paid him, then came over in a rage. “Where'd he learn to play?”

“You'd have to ask him that,” Gledhill said. Though he was pleased to see the Wild Thing taken by one of his people.

“Watch it,” Guru told him. “She'll get slightly drunk, then challenge another to show it wasn't a fluke.”

Almost as if she had heard her CO, Kara went and got another beer. She downed half of it, then went back to the pool table. Another RAF Regiment officer challenged her, and again, she accepted. This time, her skills were superior, and the RAF man was out $50.00. “Next!”

Karen McKay turned to Goalie. “She's always like this?”

“Especially after she loses,” said Goalie. “Kara goes and beats the next three or four to show that the guy who beat her was lucky.” And I'm glad I never played with her after the first night, Goalie silently added. How many student hangouts near Auburn banned her because of her skills, she wondered.

True to form, Kara then dispatched a transiting C-130 driver doing an RON, his navigator, and to top things, VA-135's XO. “Are you satisfied?” She asked the crowd, echoing one Wild Bill Hickock after a gunfight.

“Anyone beat her more than once?” McKay asked.

“Three have. And all three have stars on their shoulders,” Goalie grinned. “General Tanner, General Olds, and you missed him by a day, General Yeager.”

The night went on, and when it was almost 2200, Goalie came to the table and found Guru there, nursing his fourth beer. “Well?”

“Been a long day,” Guru said. “Some air-to-air, Jang an ace, and oh, by the way, we still haven't lost anyone, the one RAF loss excepted.”

“Yet,” Goalie said. “Sooner or later, though....”

“Yeah.”


A few minutes later, Kerry Collins and Ryan Blanchard got up to leave, with Ryan slinging her M-16. “I think I know what they have in mind.” Guru said.

“So do I,” said Goalie. She was looking forward to some of that herself.

Then Don Van Loan and Sweaty went by, and their expressions showed to anyone watching what they had in mind. Guru nodded, finished his beer. “Well, I'm done for tonight.”

“Not necessarily,” Goalie reminded him as her own expression grew coy, and Flossy and Scorpion left, with similar intentions.

“I know what you mean,” said Guru. “Mark? You all have a good night, and sleep in. Get up when you feel like it.”

“That an order?” Kara asked.

“Why not?” Guru said. Then he and Goalie left the Club and headed to the CO's tent. On the way, they passed Don Van Loan's, and the sounds of passion could be heard from it. High and loud. “They're getting it on.”

“Can we be as loud?” Goalie wanted to know.

“One way to find out,” Guru said as they went into the CO's tent. When they got in, Guru went to an ice chest and got out some 7-UP, thanks to Chief Ross and the scroungers. “Still can't get any champagne, Ross said.”

“Enough of that,” Goalie said. She unzipped her flight suit, and Guru saw there was nothing beneath.

“You came prepared,” he said as she came to do the same to him.

“Always,” said Goalie, then when finished, they went after each other.


In the shadows nearby, a figure was listening. All four couples among the aircrews were....together. He smiled, and jotted down some notes. Doc Waters grinned, for he had told the CO what he planned to do after the war. Namely, do a journal article, and someone might find how wartime romances went with fighter pilots to be....interesting. Doc smiled to himself, took a few more notes, then left for his own tent and rack.

those SA-4 each pack 150kg warhead. two going off is worse than a 500 pounder... maybe a 750. I wonder what would happen if one of those f4s does a low level buzz at over the speed of sound. it worked pretty good in the Stan about getting a group to give up. I think someone posted a video of something like that on youtub

looking forward to more.

When those SAMs don't find a target, they either self-destruct in the air, or if they don't, they fall with a very big bang. The same goes for AAA fire: if it's fuzed for contact, it has to come down somewhere. Unfortunately, it's the civilian population that fares the worst when that happens.

Any thoughts on the air-to-air action, gents? Who's getting it, and who isn't? Kara wants to be the first female double ace in the USAF...

I'm following some of the posts, but I'm also playing a pair of PBEM games of "Red Storm: the air war over central Germany, 1987" by GMT.

The Phantoms in the current scenarios are all air-to-air, since it's the Pact's turn to run a bombing raid.

I was thinking about those SAMs in the dump they just hit.

A to A. how about a helo hunt? the F15/16 are keeping the 29 occupied and the f-4 (loaded with Aim-9 and very few Aim7) stay low and clip some rotor wings.

they also might be good to collect some transports instead of CAS. dealing with the escorts could be trouble. ;)

There might be a chopper hunt later on.

When SAM depots get it, some of the missiles do go off on their own-and hit whatever's in the way. (saw this in both SEA and in 1991 Iraq)

ahhhh the ground launched Hellfire. :o.

First part of the stand-down....



335th TFS, Sheppard AFB, Texas; 23 November 1987: 0725 Hours Central War Time:

The sound of rain hitting the roof of the tent finally woke its occupants up. Sort of, anyway. Guru opened his eyes, then looked at his watch, then the clock on the nightstand he had next to his camp bed. 0725, he saw. He turned in bed, and found Goalie still asleep, or at least, trying to get back to sleep, the covers having slid off her chest and belly during the night-and what a night it had been. How many times did they do it, Guru wondered, before they did fall asleep. Then at least once during the middle of the night, and again an hour or so before. Well, we did want to make up for lost time, he thought as Goalie finally woke up, sitting up in bed. “And good morning, sleepyhead,” he said.

“Morning,” she replied, still groggy. “What time is it?”

“It's 7:25,” he said. “And it's still raining.”

“Gee, I left my ten-gallon hat at home,” she joked. “Feel worn out?”

Guru chuckled. “Very. And we'll probably get worn out again tonight, knowing both our moods.”

“Eat, drink, and be merry...” Goalie started.

“For tomorrow they may not separate us from the rest of the airplane,” he finished. “Yeah. First things first, though. Got to slay the armchair warriors.”

“Ugh,” Goalie said. “Don't those people ever give up?”

“No. Then we've got the alert stint from Noon to 1400, then Kara and I are taking the reporter and cameraman up.”

“And seeing the reporter puking on the ramp would be worth seeing,” Goalie laughed. “I'll bring my camera.”

“Do that, and doesn't Kara have a camcorder?”

“She does,” Goalie said. Though she wondered what Kara had videotaped with it. Then again, did she want to know? Probably not.

“Tell her to bring it. Twenty years from now-if we're all still alive-we can relive that at squadron reunions.”

Goalie nodded as she got out of bed and began to get into her flight suit. “Will do.”

“Okay, see you at breakfast. And if Kara's not there....” said Guru.

“Then we know where she is and what she's up to,” Goalie smiled as she finished dressing. “See you in a few.” Then she headed out, into the rain and for her own tent, then a shower.

Guru nodded after she left. “Yeah.” Then he got up, threw on a raincoat, got his things, and ran for the shower.

After the shower, he went to breakfast, and found Don Van Loan and Sweaty sharing a table, with Kara and Hoser already there. “Well, Boss,” Kara grinned. “Now I know why Goalie didn't come home last night.”

“How about you? Have a, uh, 'collection'?” Guru asked as he dug into his breakfast; chicken-fried steak (well, bison steak, really), eggs, hash browns, and toast.

“Nope, strictly voluntary,” Kara said. “But we did use the supply tent.”

“This time it was voluntary,” Sweaty muttered.

“This time,” Van Loan agreed as Goalie and Dave Golen came. “Morning, Dave,” he said.

“Morning,” the IDF “Observer” said as Goalie sat down next to the CO. “I see everybody's a little tired this not-so-fine morning. Does it always rain like this in Texas?”

“When it does, it does,” Guru said, sipping his coffee. “Be glad it's not hurricane season. When one of those slams into the Gulf Coast? Half the state can get a good soaking.”

“Be glad it's not tornado season,” Mark Ellis added as he came over. “First Cav was about to attack a town in the Panhandle-Hereford, I think it was, and the Russians there were going to make a stand. Storm developed, and a tornado smacked into the town. Killed some locals, killed some Russians, and both groups were still picking up the pieces when 1st Cav arrived. By the time the Russians realized the Cav was there, it was too late. So they ran up a white flag, and after they were disarmed, the Cav kept them at work, clearing the debris and searching for survivors.”

“I'll take the hurricane, thanks,” Dave Golen said. “That, you have advance notice, and can fly away from.”

“We are in Tornado Country,” Don Van Loan said. “They had one here in '79 that killed a few people, and tore up quite a bit.”

“And if we get warning of a tornado?”

“Clear the field of everything that can fly,” said Guru. If we can, he silently added.


After breakfast, the CO went to his office, and when he got there, he found Digger, Flossy's regular GIB, taking his turn as SDO. “Digger,” Guru said. “How's the ankle?”

“Comin' along fine, Boss,” Digger replied. He had been grounded due to a severe ankle sprain several days prior, and Jang had taken his place in Flossy's back seat.

Guru nodded. “That's good. Doc clear you?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, when he does, you may not go back to Flossy. She and Jang are doing mighty good together.”

“I heard, Boss,” Digger said. “Saw she got Jang to backseat ace. Flossy say anything about wanting me back?”

Guru shook his head. “No, and to be honest, I haven't thought about asking her. I'll talk to her today and see if she does want you back. If so, fine. If not, I do want to pair you up with a newbie pilot.”

“Babysit a new pilot?” Digger asked. He knew that vets did get paired up with new pilots or GIBs, because they had a habit of keeping both of them alive long enough for the FNG to become a veteran.
“Did it myself when Goalie reported,” Guru reminded him. “Colonel Rivers had the same policy when he was CO.”

Digger nodded. “And that turned out fine,” he said. “Okay, who?”

“Not sure yet. Make that call in a day or so.”

“Fair enough, Boss.” Then he got down to business. “XO's in your office, and folks have been sitting alert.”

“All right, thanks.” Guru then went to his office, saying a few pleasant words to his secretary, then he went in. “Mark,”

“Boss,” the XO said. “Got the usual admin stuff for you.” He handed the CO a clipboard and a pen. “Morning report for both Tenth Air Force and MAG-11.” The 335th was still a USAF squadron, and so they sent the AF admin stuff to Nellis, and the OPCON-related material to MAG-11.

Guru signed both papers. “That's done. What else?”

“Weather,” Ellis nodded. “Here's the update.” He handed the CO the weather report.

“Turning to showers, clearing by afternoon. Cloud tops out at 15,000.” The CO grinned. “Then I can give our friends from the news media a check ride.”

“And I'll be there on the ramp when you get back,” said Ellis. “Seeing the reporter puke.”

“One can hope,” the CO smiled. “Anything else?”

“Supply requisitions.” The XO handed the CO the forms. “How they managed it, I have no idea, but two refurbished J-79 engines are coming to us,” he said. “Plus the other stuff.”

“Hmm....” Guru said, scanning the list. “Fifty cases of fruit cocktail?”

Ellis said, “I saw that myself. The scroungers need it for horse-trading.”

“Fair enough,” said Guru. “Oh, before I forget. Get Chief Ross and Airman Kellogg over here.”

“Now?”

“Might as well get this over with,” the CO said, dreading some of what he'd have to say to the young airman.

“Will do.”

“And stay when they get here.”

The XO nodded. He knew what would be happening, and having a shoulder for Kellogg to cry on-if necessary-or two, would be a good thing. “I'll get them.”

A few minutes later, Chief Ross and Airman Kellogg came in. “Reporting as ordered, sir,” Ross said as both saluted.

Guru returned the salute, and nodded. “As you were. Kellogg, I'm afraid I have some bad news.”

“My folks?” Kellogg asked. His parents had stayed behind when the Soviets were approaching Wichita Falls during the drive north to the Red River and beyond, and had been arrested during the occupation.

“Nothing definite,” the CO said. “But it looks like they're in that mass grave.”

Kellogg said nothing for a moment, and Guru, the XO, and Chief Ross were expecting him to break down and start crying. But he was sterner than that. “What do they know, sir?” He said, showing some maturity beyond his sixteen and a half years. Maybe the time in the refugee camp in Wyoming and AF basic training had drilled that into him.

“All we know is that, thanks to the Chief's OSI contact, Ivan kept records of those they arrested, and those they either sent off to a labor camp somewhere, or even released. And your folks are on the arrest list, but not the labor camp or release one.”

The XO looked at the Chief. “They destroyed the execution records?”

“My OSI guy says it looks that way, sir,” Ross said. “The local KGB and DGI were pretty thorough in destroying what they wanted to destroy.”

“And the bodies, sir?” Kellogg asked.

“Captain Blanchard had a look at the grave-she's an ex-cop, by the way. She said the FBI told her that Ivan made everyone strip before being bound, blindfolded, and shot. So no ID on the bodies. And the deeper you go in the grave? The more decomposed the bodies are,” Guru said. He didn't add that the more recent bodies all showed signs of torture before they had been shot, but no need to tell Kellogg that.

“So they're in the grave?” Kellogg said, his voice shaky.

Guru nodded, then came and put his hands on the airman's shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Kellogg. “Sir, next time you go out on a mission? Make those bastards pay.”

The CO nodded. “We'll do just that,” he said. “Chief, any word on the siblings?”

“Mixed, sir,” Ross said. “No word on your brother, but there may be a lead on your sister. My OSI friend says a Jennifer Kellogg, who gave her home state as Texas, joined the Air Force a week after the invasion, out of Little Rock.”

“It might be her....” Kellogg said.

“Maybe,” Guru said. “Chief, your OSI pal certain of this?”

Ross nodded. “Not enough to take into court, but he's pretty certain. He hasn't gotten a reply on the SSN, but should in a week or so.”

“All right,” the CO said. “Kellogg? If you want to take the rest of the day off? You have my permission to do just that. In fact, you may also want to talk to a Sky Pilot, if that's what you think you need to do.”

“Sir, I'd like to stay busy, because work keeps my mind off of that, but...” Kellogg said. “I'll see a chaplain after lunch.”

“Good,” Guru said. “Now, why don't you wait outside for a minute or two? The XO, Chief, and I have a couple of things to talk about.”

“Yes, sir,” Kellogg said, saluting.

Guru returned it, and after Kellogg left, he turned to both Ellis and Chief Ross. “Keep an eye on him. Both of you, and pass that to Kev O'Donnell.” Capt. Kevin O'Donnell was the squadron's Maintenance Officer.

“Will do, Boss,” the Exec replied.

“Yes,sir,” Ross added.

Guru nodded. “Thanks, Chief.”

“Sir,” Ross said, then he left the office, taking Kellogg with him.

“Well?” Guru asked his XO.

Ellis shook his head. “Not so sure I would've been as calm. Then again, this is something they don't teach in any officer training.”

Guru nodded, this time grimly. “No. Now, to brighter things. You've got an alert stint in ten minutes.” He looked at the clock on his office wall, which said 0950. “Time to round up your people, gear up, and sit around hoping that siren doesn't sound.”

“And your people relieve us in two hours.”

“That we do,” said Guru. “Just stay away from the suggestion of pork tri-tip. There's been a few fools around here who seem to like that crap.”

“They brave, foolish, or suicidal?” Ellis asked as he opened the office door.

“Any of the three can be graded as correct,” Guru said dryly. He did wonder about that F-20 guy, Pruitt, who seemed to enjoy those. Did the kid-and he certainly looked like an eighth-grader in a flight suit-have a cast-iron stomach or a death wish?


While the Exec gathered his flight, and started his alert stint, Guru called up the members of his own flight, and told them to go ahead and get lunch when the Officer's Mess opened back up at 1100. For if the siren sounded, and they did have to scramble, he wanted everyone to have eaten already. While waiting, he finished attacking his paperwork. The CO was finished just after 1100 when there was a knock on his door. “Yeah? Come on in and show yourself!”

The door opened and it was Goalie, with two plastic bags in one hand, and a carrier with drinks in the other. “Beware Romulans bearing gifts.”

“You said it yourself: you're not much of a Trekkie,” Guru said. “What's for lunch?”

“Bison burgers,” she replied. “With fries and lemonade.”

“Good. Let's eat,” said Guru. “Because we relieve Mark's people in less than an hour.”

Over lunch, they discussed squadron-related matters, including those who had already taken their turn on alert. “Any word on how Frank's element did?” Goalie asked.

“No, and I'm tempted to find out,” Guru said, in between bites. Then there was a knock on the door. “Yeah? Come in and show yourself!”

1st Lt. Brian Slater, Frank's GIB, came in. “Major,” he said, sketching a salute.

“Brian,” Guru said. “Anything wrong?” Anything dealing with Major Frank Carson, in his view, warranted serious attention.

“No, Major, everything's fine,” Slater replied. Though using Guru's rank while talking indicated how serious the subject was.

“How was the alert stint?”

“Fine, no problems, and he was busy writing a letter, and reading a couple,” Slater said. “Don't know who he was writing to.”

Goalie scowled. “Probably a letter to his dad, who'll then show it to Teddy Kennedy, complaining how a son of Boston is being treated by these....peasants in the Air Force.”

“No doubt,” Guru sighed. “Have you talked to him?”

You mean confronted him?” Slater asked. Seeing the CO nod, he said, “No, not yet.”

“Talk to him politely. Do it at lunch,” said Guru. “Remind him that he's not the only one who pays the price if he fucks up.”

“Will do,” Slater nodded. “And if he doesn't listen, I can confront him more forcefully.”

Smart guy, Guru thought. “Something like that.”

“I'll do that, Major.”

“Good. You have a good lunch, and good luck talking to Frank.”

“Thanks, Major,” Slater said. “I may need it.”

“You just might,” Guru replied.

After he left, Goalie looked at her pilot and lover. “Now, what's going to happen if he does confront Frank, and gets physical? You know, the old movie line of shoving Frank against the wall and saying 'What the hell are you doing?'”

Guru nodded. “Like I said: any write-ups Frank sends me get fed to the shredder.”

“Think Frank will wise up?”

“That, I doubt.”


The clock ticked on, and soon, it was 1145. “Getting close,” Goalie said.

“It is,” Guru noted. “Okay, pass the word to our flight. Time to gear up. Meet outside and we'll do a preflight of the alert birds.”

“And for you and Kara, you two stay geared up because of your, uh, 'check ride' with the gentlepersons of the press.” Though she respected the reporter and crew, Goalie's voice gave some contempt for the media as a whole.

“It'll be fun,” Guru grinned as he got up. “Just bring your camera, and Kara's camcorder, and you'll see the reporter at least stagger out of Kara's bird, looking for somewhere to puke.”

“Half the squadron's going to be waiting,” Goalie pointed out.

“More the merrier.”


Guru went to the Men's Locker Room to gear up. He was joined by the other male members of his flight, and when they came out, the women were waiting. They then went outside and found the four alert birds, locked and cocked. All four were new birds from Japan, The Ops Officer was there, waiting, as he had been there for the others doing alert. “Don,” Guru said.

“Boss,” Van Loan replied. “I see you're here to preflight.” It wasn't a question.

“Right you are,” the CO said. “So who gets what if the horn sounds?”

“You get the first on the left, then Kara, Sweaty, and Hoser, going down the line.”

Nodding, Guru went to “his” bird, 86-1476, and both he and Goalie did a preflight walk-around, then they mounted the aircraft, to make sure all the cockpit switches were set. That done, they got out, and with the rest of the flight, went back inside to the Main Briefing Room, where the alert crews sat. The Exec's flight was there, waiting. “Mark,” Guru said. “It's a couple of minutes early, but we're here to relieve you.”

“Then we stand relieved,” the Exec replied as he and his people got up. “How's lunch?”

“Bison burgers are an option.”

“Sounds good,” Ellis said as his flight left.

“Anything I should know?” Guru asked.

The XO shook his head. “Nada.”

With that, the CO's flight sat down and found ways to kill time. Guru had brought a paperback book, as did Goalie, while Kara sat down to play solitaire. Brainiac took a nap, while Hoser and KT attacked crossword puzzles, and Preacher had a Walkman. “Two hours of this,” Goalie said as she looked up from her book.

“Whatcha reading?” Sweaty asked. She was going through the Sears Christmas Catalog, doing her shopping.

“Splinter of the Mind's Eye, by Alan Dean Foster,” Goalie replied. “Star Wars, set between the original movie and Empire Strikes Back.”

Guru looked up from the book he was reading: The First and the Last by Adolf Galland. “I'd like to see more of that. Stuff set between the movies, before, or after.”

“Well, maybe after this war's over, Lucas'll get off his ass and do some more-or let authors do some writing.”

“Here's hoping. I'd love to see how they found out Boba Fett had delivered Han to Jabba's Palace, for one. And how did Vader find out not only that Luke was his son, but also took down the Death Star?”

Sweaty nodded agreement. “Good questions,” she said. “Maybe we'll find out in a few years.”

“If we all live that long,” Kara added.


While they were sitting alert, various people came in to talk to Guru about squadron business, and the same for Goalie and Kara, for they were Senior WSO and Deputy Ops Officer, respectively. Don Van Loan came in about 1330, and said to Guru, “Boss, your flight's regular birds are out of maintenance. How do you want 512 and 520 for the, uh, media's 'check rides'?

“Kara?” Guru asked. “What do you think?”

Kara thought for a moment. “No Sparrows, since they don't know how to work the radar controls,” his wingmate replied.

“I'll go along with that. How about four Sidewinders, full gun, and a centerline tank?”

“Works for me,” Kara said.

“All right, Don, tell Kerry Collins and get 512 and 520 set up,” Guru told the Ops Officer.

“Done,” Van Loan said. “When do you want Ms. Wendt and Mr. Scott?”

“1400 on the dot,” Guru said firmly. “Have 'em waiting outside the respective locker rooms. We'll get them geared up-and brief outside. No time for a leisurely brief, unlike a peacetime incentive ride.”

“On my way,” Van Loan replied. He headed out to inform the Ordnance Officer, and the two newsies.

The clock wound on, and it wasn't long until Van Loan and his flight came in, a few minutes early. “Don, you're early,” Guru said. The wall clock said 1355.

“Birds are checked out, you and Kara have an upcoming engagement, and you guys need to get ready for that,” Van Loan replied. “Kerry says your birds are ready to go.”

Guru nodded. “Thanks, Don. Then I stand relieved.”

“Too bad we're stuck here, otherwise I'd love to see you guys when you get back.”

“Kara, have Sweaty get your camcorder. We'll want this for the reunion.”

“Again, if we live that long,” Kara replied dryly. She nodded at Sweaty, who headed out-along with Goalie, who went after her personal camera.

Nodding, Guru and Kara then left the briefing room, and went to the locker rooms. They found Ms. Wendt and Mr. Scott waiting, in generic flight suits with no nametag. “You two sure you want to go through with this?” Guru asked the both of them as Lieutenant Patti Brown, the PAO, arrived with an airman carrying the squadron's camcorder.

“Wouldn't miss this for the world,” Ms. Wendt said.

“I've been in choppers, but never in a fighter,” Scott added. “Make an interesting comparison.”

“Fair enough,” Guru said. “Then let's get you two geared up.”

They went into the respective locker rooms, where the newsies were fitted with harnesses, G-Suits, and helmets. Then they went outside, where Guru and Kara gave a brief rundown on SAR procedures, and on how to use the PRC-90 survival radio. It was then time to walk to the aircraft, and when they got there, there was quite a crowd, for word had gone around. AF, Navy, Marine, and RAF aircrew were gathered around, waiting. And among them was Colonel Brady. “Major,” Brady said. “Just wanted to see how this starts.”

“Well, sir,” Guru replied. “Not much at the start, but when we get back...” He looked at the two civilians. “Seeing how they handle turning and burning, that's going to be worth seeing.”

“No doubt, Major,” Brady grinned. “Now get airborne.”

“Yes, sir!”

Guru and Mr. Scott went to 512, and Scott showed the CO a Sony 8-mm camcorder, small enough to hold in one hand, and able to fit in the cockpit. Guru nodded approval, and Kara came over, for Ms. Wendt had a similar camera. Seeing the CO approve, she went back to 520.

Guru then did the preflight walk-around, and Scott shot some footage, then it was time to mount the aircraft. After Mr. Scott got in, he got his helmet on, then both the CO and Sergeant Crowley, the CC, helped him get strapped in. “Okay, Mr. Scott. Don't touch anything, hang on, and you'll be fine. Now, if we have to bail out, I'll say 'Eject, eject, eject.' You've got a handle on either side of the seat, and the face curtain. Understood?”

“Understood,” Scott replied.

“Major?” Sergeant Crowley said. “Captain Thrace wants you over at 520.”

“On my way,” Guru said. He walked over, and found Kara helping Ms. Wendt get strapped in. “All set?”

“Just about,” Kara said. “Ready, Ms. Wendt?”

“Ready, but what if we have to eject?” The reporter asked.

“I'll say 'Eject, eject, eject,” said Kara. “You know the ejection handles or the face curtain. Pull either one and out you go.”

The reporter looked at Guru, then Kara. “Do I say 'roger,' or 'will do', or what?”

“If that happens, you'll be talking to yourself,” Kara grinned, and she saw the CO do the same. “Because I'll be gone.” Then she helped Ms. Wendt close the canopy.

“She will be,” Guru said, grinning himself. “Kara? We're Corvette Lead and Zero-two, respectively. Meet at ten grand overhead.”

“As usual,” Kara replied as she got into her own seat. “See you up there.”

Guru nodded, then went back to 512, noting that the crowd had gone back, clear of the ramp. He saw that the CC had helped Mr. Scott close and lock the rear canopy. Then he climbed into his own aircraft, put on his helmet, and went through the preflight. When Sergeant Crowley gave the “Start engines” signal, he started one, then the other, J-79 engines. When the warm-up was complete, Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Corvette Lead with two, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

“Corvette Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi to Runway Three-five-Lima. Hold prior to the active, and you are number one in line.”

“Roger, Tower. Corvette Lead rolling.” He gave a thumbs-up to Crowley, who gave the “Taxi” signal. Guru gave him another, and the CC signaled to the ground crew, who pulled away the wheel chocks. The CO then taxied out of the revetment, and as usual, Crowley snapped a salute. Guru returned it, then he taxied to the runway, with 520 right behind. They got to the holding area, where the armorers removed the weapon safeties.

“What's their job?” Mr. Scott asked.

“They take care of the weapon safeties,” Guru said. “Those Sidewinders? They're now live.” Then he called the Tower. “Tower, Corvette Lead requesting taxi for takeoff.”

“Corvette Lead, Tower,” the controller replied. “Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are two-seven-one for five.”

“Roger, Tower.” Guru taxied onto the runway, and Kara followed in 520. He did a quick cockpit check, and glanced over to 520, where Kara gave a thumbs-up, and the reporters did the same. “Ready?” He asked Scott.

“Whenever you are, Major,” Scott replied. He was bracing for the takeoff.

“All right,” Guru said. Then he called the Tower. “Tower, Corvette Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

As usual, the Tower flashed a green light. Clear for takeoff.

“Canopy coming down,” Guru said. He closed and locked his own canopy, and saw that Kara had done the same. “All set back there?” He asked Scott one last time.

“Ready,” Scott said.

Guru then looked over at 520, where all was ready. Kara gave another thumbs-up to show she was ready to go. “Then let's go.” He firewalled the throttles, released the brakes, then 520 thundered down the runway and into the air, with 520 right alongside. They met up at FL 100, just beneath the cloud deck, then headed west for the old Scud Box.

Part II: the reporter and cameraman get their "Check Ride":



Over the Texas Panhandle, 1420 Hours Central War Time:


The two F-4s that made up Corvette Flight were headed west as they entered the old Scud Box. Bounded by Childress, Tulia, Abernathy, and Paducah, this had been one of Ivan's favorite Scud launch areas during the interval between PRAIRIE FIRE I and II that summer, and the 335th had spent a lot of time and effort, along with at least one crew, hunting Scuds. They had done the job, not always successfully, the pilots told their backseat passengers. Lots of places to hide in the day, and the bad guys were doing the old “Shoot and scoot” firing technique. Then there had been the air-to-air action, along with their usual strikes into the enemy rear.

“Wasn't this where you got your gun kill?” Trevor Scott, the cameraman, asked from 512's back seat.

“Who told you?” Major Matt Wiser asked. “You guys weren't with us then.”

“Sweaty and Hoser told us,” Jana Wendt called from 520. “They gave us the lowdown on what you guys did out here.”

In that bird's pilot seat, Captain Kara Thrace shook her head. “Figures,” she muttered. “Well, yeah, we did some air-to-air.”

“And she made ace out here,” Major Wiser replied. “Though her post-ace celebration was...memorable.”

“Guru, don't you start that story,” Kara shot back with mock indignation. “We're on an open channel here.”

“What happened?” Wendt asked. “If it's as naughty as you say, we can't air it.”

Kara shook her head. Might as well tell my version. “Well, I got a little drunk.”

“More than a little, I'll say,” Guru chimed in.

“Hey, this is MY story, okay?” Kara said. “I took a few guys to the supply tent to celebrate, then they found me the next morning.”

“As naked as the day she was born,” Guru quipped. “More than slightly drunk, sitting in the front seat of an F-4, and having puked all over the cockpit of said airplane.”

Wendt was surprised. “Not yours, I hope?”

“No, and before you ask, not the CO's, either,” Guru said. “It was that snotty Major we've all had problems with.”

“And his ground crew had to clean it up,” Kara added.

“They did,” Guru said. He checked his map, looked outside and below, then nodded. They were there. “All right, this is the Scud Box. Two, let's get down low, show our guests some of our old stomping grounds, then do some turnin' and burnin'.”

Music to my ears, Kara thought. “Let's do it. Hang on, Ms. Wendt, and you're about to have the most fun you'll ever have with your clothes on.”

“Oh, shit,” Jana Wendt muttered, then she pulled an airsickness bag from one of her flight suit pockets. The other female pilots and backseaters-GIBs they called themselves-”Girls in Back”-had told her to stuff her pockets with those bags. If she was going to fly with Kara, they had said, you'll need every last one you can find.

“Ready Mr. Scott?” Guru asked.

“Camera's ready,” Scott replied. “Let's go.”

Guru smiled beneath his oxygen mask. “Glad to oblige.” He then turned 512 into a hard diving left turn. “Follow me, Two.”

“With you,” Kara replied. “Like I said, hang on.” Then Kara followed the CO's bird down.

“Oh, shit,” Ms. Wendt said, holding onto the airsickness bag with one hand, and her camera with the other.

Guru and Kara went down low, down to 2500 Feet, then pulled up. After doing that, they went through some basic ACT maneuvering, then some barrel rolls, high and low yo-yos, even a couple of rolling scissors-one vertical, one horizontal.

“How do you like it, Mr. Scott?” Guru asked as they finished the horizontal scissors.

“Haven't had to use one of these bags,” the cameraman replied cheerfully. “I'm having a ball.”

“Getting some good footage?”

“You'll like it,” Scott said. “Jana, how's things over there?”

In 520's back seat, Ms. Wendt was groping for an empty airsickness bag. She had used several already. “Hanging in there,” she said, trying to be as stoic as possible, despite the queasiness in her stomach . She knew these fighter pilots were still hoping that they'd be able to scare her back to reporting on the war from CBS in Los Angeles, and she wasn't going to give them that pleasure, the CO's previous remarks notwithstanding. “You guys do this every day.”

“All the time,” Kara replied. “Boss, what's next?”

“You do the honors,” Guru said. “Show a SAM break. I'll call it.”

“Ready.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. He thought for a moment, then called. “SAM, Five O'clock.”

Without hesitating, Kara pulled sharply high and to the right, then she came around in a 180, before rolling back in. “How'd you like that?”

“How many Gs was that?” Ms. Wendt asked, trying not to throw up.

“Oh, only six,” Kara said.

Only six? It felt like six hundred, the reporter thought. “I'll take your word for it.” She reached for another bag-and saw she only had two left. Careful, now...

In 512, Guru grinned beneath his oxygen mask. If she's getting sick, good. Now they'll know what we do day in and day out. “Your turn, Mr. Scott,” he told the cameraman. “Ready?”

“When you are, Major,” Scott replied, getting ready to film.

“Kara, call it,” Guru said.

“Roger, Lead.” Kara thought for a second or two, then she made the call. “Lead, SAM, Eight O'clock!”

Guru pulled high and to the left, putting the F-4 into a turn that was high and tight, rolling inverted as he did. He rolled back, did a 180, then came in to join up on 520. “How was that, Mr. Scott?”

“Loved it,” Scott called back. Beneath his oxygen mask, he had a grin from ear to ear. “This is great!”

“Not so great when they're shooting at you,” Guru reminded him-and Ms. Wendt as well. “Watched a CO get killed on me, two weeks into the war,” he said. “Called the SAM, and next thing I see is that his bird's a fireball. Nobody got out.”

“Ugh,” Scott said.

“Yeah. Happened twice in those days, losing the CO, and lost an XO, too-on Day One. Those early days were rough.” Enough of that, the CO decided. “Two, let's get back down low. Show our guests some of our old targets.” Then Guru took 512 back down low.

“My pleasure,” Kara said. “Hang on again, Ms. Wendt,” she said as she followed the CO.

“Oh, God,” Wendt muttered as she reached for another bag as the maniac in the front seat-or so it seemed-took the fighter down.

They flew around for a few minutes, showing the reporters two of their old Scud targets, and a helo field that still had wrecked helicopters still sitting where they had been blasted. “When we did a Scud Hunt out here?” Guru said. “We also had other targets, if we couldn't find what we were looking for.

“You mean that chopper field?” Scott asked.

“No, that was a preplanned strike, but there were plenty of opportunity targets, let's put it that way.”

“If it was a military target out here,” Kara added. “Military traffic on the roads, a supply dump, truck park, and on and on. You name it, we hit it.”

“That we did,” Guru said. “Before that, we put the hurt on the bad guys retreating from Amarillo. They're still clearing wreckage from I-27 and U.S. 287. All right, now. Let's show these two an Immelmann, then stay high. Almost time to go home.”

“Right with you,” Kara said, joining up on her Lead.

“Ready...Ready.....NOW!” Guru pulled back on the stick and applied full military power. Kara did the same, and both F-4s pulled up. They went through the cloud deck, coming out at 19,000 Feet, then they split-Guru going right, and Kara going left. They leveled out just above the clouds.

“Is that it?” Ms. Wendt asked, and everyone listening could hear how shaken she was.

“It is,” Guru said. “Two, on me, and let's go home.”

“Roger that,” Kara said. She did a 180, then joined up on Guru, who then turned east towards Sheppard.

“That was interesting,” Scott said. He glanced around, then above, and something caught his eye. “Major, somebody's above us, and they're really high.”

Guru looked up, and sure enough, so high one could barely make out an aircraft, but it was there. “He's smokin',” the CO noted. The bogey-whoever he was, was going fast. “Too fast for a U-2.”

“Who is it?” Ms.Wendt asked. She couldn't pick out the aircraft, but was taking the CO's word for it.

“That high?” Kara said. “Either an SR-71 or a Foxbat recon bird. What they call a MiG-25R or RB.”

“Can you get him if you had to?” Scott wanted to know.

“Too high, and too fast,” Guru said. “Only way to nail a Foxbat in an F-4 is to jump him on takeoff-which is how I got my Foxbat kill. Or you get him on landing. Other than that? You need an F-14 or F-15.” Though a blue-suiter to the bone, he was enough of a professional to know that a Phoenix from an F-14 was the best Foxbat-killer out there. And he'd seen it happen more than once.

“Well, this has been interesting,” Scott said, looking around. All that was beneath them was clouds. “And for Jana's benefit, how do you know when we're back?”

“Just time and distance, since normally I'd have Goalie in the back seat working the nav system, but we're almost home.” Guru then took 512 down into the clouds, then came out beneath, with Kara right behind him, and the Wichita Falls area was revealed. “Here we are,” he said. Then the CO called the Tower for landing instructions.

“Major, could you have Kara come in a minute or two behind us?” Scott asked. “I should be behind the camera when she gets out.”

“Not a problem,” Guru replied. “Two, wait a couple minutes, then call the Tower and come on in.”

In 520, Kara grinned beneath her oxygen mask. “My pleasure.”

“Oh, God,” Ms. Wendt moaned. She was out of airsickness bags.

Guru heard that, and grinned himself. “All right,” he told Mr. Scott after hearing from the Tower. “We're coming in.” Guru then got into the pattern, waiting for the eastbound C-141 to land, then he made his approach and landing.

After touchdown, he taxied in, and popped his canopy. A good-sized crowd was watching: AF, Marines, Navy, and RAF. They saw him taxi into the squadron's dispersal area, then into 512's revetment. Before shutting down, he called the Tower and told them to go ahead and clear Corvette Two in.

Then he and Mr. Scott got out, and after a quick post-flight, shook hands with Sergeant Crowley, who, as usual, had a bottle of water for both. “How'd it go, sir? And for you, Mr. Scott?”

“New experience for me,” Scott replied. “I've been in helicopters, but this was totally different. There, you're packed in with a dozen or more people, and you're low and slow enough anyone can shoot at you.” And often did, he remembered from his Vietnam days, the last one a ride in a South Vietnamese CH-47 going back to Saigon from Xuan Loc two weeks before the end of that war.

“Leave that to the rotorheads,” Guru said, even though a good friend was such a driver, and had brought back two of his own after they had to bail out-a few days into being a squadron commander. Then Kara's F-4 made another flyby. “Kara's coming in. Get your camera ready.”

Scott produced his 8-mm, and both he and Guru went to watch as Kara's F-4 came in and landed. The F-4 taxied in, front canopy popped and raised, before taxiing into the squadron's dispersal area, then finding its revetment. Only after shutting down did the crowd approach, and at the lead of that was Colonel Brady.

“Major, Mr. Scott,” Brady said. “How'd it go?”

“I'll defer to Mr. Scott, sir,” Guru said.

“It was one hell of an experience, Colonel. Wouldn't mind doing it again,” Scott said. He looked at 520 as the ground crew brought the crew ladder.

“Want to do it with the Marines?” Brady asked. “Say the word, and I'll arrange it.”

“Love to, but I don't now about Jana,” the cameraman replied, nodding at 520.

“Then we'd best go see,” Brady said.

Both canopies were now open, and Kara had taken off her helmet, and both she and her Crew Chief were helping Ms. Wendt. The reporter shakily stood up, then climbed down from the Phantom. Then she got down on her hands and knees and promptly threw up! “Where's Doc?” Kara asked.

“He's comin'”, said Guru as a Dodge Crew-Cab pickup arrived, and the flight surgeon got out. “You have to arrive in style?”

The flight surgeon was cheerful. “First semi-emergency call in a while,” the sawbones replied. “And she may need a ride back to Medical.”

“Got anything?” The CO asked as they went into the revetment.

“Dramamine's right here,” Doc said, producing a bottle.

They went over as Ms. Wendt sat up, and Kara was standing over her. “You all right?”

“Like shit,” the reporter moaned. “Is that all right for you?”

“For a first-timer, it sounds good enough. Doc's here,” said Kara as the CO and the Flight Surgeon arrived.

Doc came up. “Want something for your stomach?”

Ms. Wendt nodded. “Please,” she moaned. The sawbones gave her two pills, which she swallowed, and then guzzled some water. “Thanks....”

“Was it worth it, Ms. Wendt?” Guru asked as he got there, with Colonel Brady and quite a few others behind.

“You still trying to scare me out of here?” Wendt asked as she staggered to her feet. “Told you guys I was staying. And I mean it,” she added as she staggered towards Doc's truck.

Guru nodded as Mr. Scott kept filming. “I know, but still...Had to ask.”

“You're not getting rid of me that easy,” the reporter said as Doc helped her into the right front seat of the truck. “How many Gs was that? Five million?”

Guru looked at Kara, who shrugged. “Just six,” Kara said.

Goalie came up. “She pass?”

“Just,” Guru said. He turned to Kara's crew chief. “Sarge, how many bags did she leave?”

“How many did she have?” The Staff Sergeant wanted to know.

Mr. Scott got close. “Jana, how many bags did you take?”

She moaned. “Twelve...”

“A dozen,” Guru said to the Crew Chief.

The Staff Sergeant nodded with a look of disgust on his face. “Twelve here,” he said. “Good thing she didn't puke all over the cockpit.” At least he'd have the assistant CC clean them up.

“You guys aren't scaring me out of here that easy,” Ms. Wendt said, staggering to her feet. “Besides, I've still got stories to do.”

Sweaty was standing next to Kara. “Told you,” she said.

Without a word, Kara opened a flight suit pocket and pulled out several $20 bills. She handed one to Sweaty, another to Goalie, and then Flossy, KT, the XO, Cosmo, Revlon, and a couple of others.

Then Guru, Goalie, Kara, Sweaty, Flossy, the XO, and Brainiac all got close to Ms. Wendt. “Well, Ms. Wendt, you and Mr. Scott now know what we do day in and day out,” said the CO. “With one difference.”

“What's that?” Mr. Scott asked.

“Simple,” Kara said. “Nobody was shooting at us,” she nodded. “No SAMs, no Triple-A, no MiGs. Or seeing somebody in your flight-or another friendly-turn into a fireball or having to bail out.”

Guru nodded. “And we've all seen that too many times,” he said.

“Some more than others,” Colonel Brady said. “Well, Ms. Wendt? You still want to fly with the Marines?” He was referring to a previous offer for a backseat F-4 ride with one of the two Marine F-4 squadrons in MAG-11.

“Once was enough for today,” Wendt moaned, staggering around. “I need to lie down.”

“Want to go to your quarters, or to Medical?” Doc asked.

“Whichever's closer.”

“Come on,” Doc said, taking her hand. “We'll get you to Medical, and I could give you an IV.”

“Just get me lying down, until the world stops lurching back and forth,” Ms. Wendt said as she was helped into the truck.

After the truck drove off, and people thought that Doc, at the moment, couldn't be more happier. He finally had a semi-emergency case, and was back in his element. “Doc looks like he's on Cloud Nine,” Goalie observed.

“Can you blame him?” Sweaty replied. “After that last air strike, the most he's had to do was an appendectomy.” To her, and the others, it seemed that the Doc was eager for something to happen, just to break the monotony.

“No,” Guru said. “Dave,” he turned to Squadron Leader Dave Gledhill. “You going to take her and Mr. Scott here up?”

“I think my guys and girls can show them a thing or two,” the RAF officer said. He, too, had a grin on his face.

“Anytime,” Scott grinned. “Even if Jana doesn't want to, I'm game.”

“Be careful of what you wish for,” Guru warned the cameraman. “Because you usually get it-and more, besides.”

“All right, people!” Colonel Brady said. “Still got some time before we can knock off.”

As the crowd broke up, Guru went to his PAO, Lieutenant Patti Brown. “Patti, you guys get your pictures?”

The PAO turned to the airman who was the squadron's photographer, and he had a camcorder in hand. The airman nodded, and gestured to one of the sergeants in the PAO shop, who had a 35-mm camera as well. “Got all we need, Major,” Brown said. “We'll share it with the newsies, and one of the guys wants to do an article for Airman.”

“Good,” the CO nodded as Goalie came up. “Get what you need?”

“Twenty years from now, if we're all still alive, we'll have a field day with these,” she grinned, having borrowed Kara's own camcorder.

The CO grinned, but then turned serious. “First we have to get to the 'after the war', first,” he pointed out. “That caveat is in force.”

“Isn't that the truth?” Goalie asked. “At least my IN box is empty.” Though only a First Lieutenant, she was Senior WSO.

“Lucky you,” Guru said. “Okay, make sure it's empty. I need to check mine, get one of the newbies in as SDO as Digger should be cleared, and pair him up with another newbie.”

“Still pairing old hands with FNGs?”

“Yep,” Guru replied. “That has a habit of keeping said FNG alive. When I can't pair old and new, we lose people.”

“Sad, but true,” Goalie admitted. “You still need to slay the armchair warriors?” She had developed a loathing for the AF bureaucracy, and she also knew that the CO had done the same.

“Unfortunately,” said Guru. “I'll see you in the Club.”


After Guru returned to his office, he found a few things in his IN box. Mostly memos about matters that might make sense-to someone flying a desk, but not to him-or anyone else flying combat. Shaking his head at one memo that was critical of “excessive expenditure of flares, either for IR deception or for night illumination”, he couldn't shred them, but instead simply filed them. One of these days, when either General Tanner, or better yet, Sundown Cunningham, paid a visit, Guru vowed to show the offending paperwork to the generals, and hopefully, said paper-pushers would get a royal ass-kicking, preferably followed by a trip to the front lines or up north to shovel snow at someplace like Gander or K.I. Sawyer.

After finishing the papers, he got up and took a look outside his office. While combat ops had not yet resumed, the transports were busy-with the eastbound C-141 taking off, having unloaded its cargo, and a C-130 was coming in, along with what looked like a Special-Ops MC-130 getting ready to depart. The “Snake-eaters” were always busy, and whatever they were up to, no one outside their compound, which included the old SAC Molehole, had any “need to know.” Whatever they did to put the hurt on the bad guys and make Ivan's life behind the lines miserable, all power to 'em, the CO thought. Then there was a knock on the door. “Yeah? Come in and show yourself!”

The XO opened the door. “Boss, got a couple of things for you before we knock off.”

“What have you got for me?” Asked the CO.

“First, all twenty-four birds are going to be up and ready in the morning.”

Guru thought for a minute. “Well, now. Last time we had that?”

“Yeah?”

“You, me, and Don were at Nellis. Day One.”

“That is something,” the XO admitted. “And crews?”

“I'm going to put Digger in with an FNG-and the same goes for Hacksaw when he's cleared. If we put vets with FNGs, the survival rate goes up,” Guru said, reminding the XO of a bitter truth.

“And if a crew is all newbies, they have, what, a fifty-fifty chance of not making it to ten missions,” Ellis nodded. It wasn't a question.

The CO nodded back. “Ain't that the sorry truth? All right, that's done. What else?”

“Weather update. Not quite CAVU tomorrow, but close,” the XO said as he handed Guru the weather report.

“Okay...Partly to mostly sunny, highs in the mid-60s,” Guru read the weather summary out loud. “Cloud base 12,000 to 15,000. Tops out at 20. The stand-down was fun while it lasted.”

“It was,” said Ellis. “Eastbound C-141 brought the newspapers, and everything on our supply list. Kev O'Donnell's pretty happy: two new ejection seats, radar parts, hydraulic fluid, brake fluid, engine oil, and the scroungers also came through.”

“As in?”

“Two dozen new Paveway kits.” Paveway meant laser-guided bombs. “All for GBU-10.”

“More UNODIR, if necessary,” Guru smiled. More laser bomb strikes-if they couldn't get any in the ATO, they would pull assigned ordnance and hit a point target with Paveways-Unless Otherwise Directed. “General Olds did give us the go-ahead for that.”

“He did. One other thing: Ryan Blanchard's CSPs found somebody in a hideout northeast of the base. Found the guy in what was a bombed-out house about five hundred yards north of Runway 17L. They caught him trying to get into the storm cellar-and he shot it out.”

Guru wasn't surprised at hearing the news. There was still an active Spetsnatz and PSD threat to the base, and though a PSD agent had been caught during General Olds' time on base-and later executed, the threat was still there. “They take him alive?”

“No. Ryan's people shot him full of holes.”

“They saved the OSI and Army Counterintelligence people a couple weeks' worth of work,” the CO observed dryly. “Find anything?”

“Yeah, he had two AK rifles along with the one he tried to use,” Ellis said. “Plus some explosives, timers, and so on. Plus a shortwave radio, one-time pad, a notepad, and a map of the base. Problem with the latter two? The notes in the pad and on the map are in shorthand, and it'll take some work to figure out what kind.”

“Too bad,” said Guru. “Because you can't interrogate a corpse. Anything else?”

“Aircraft status report,” Ellis replied, handing the CO the form.

Guru signed it, then asked, “That it?”

“That it is.”

“Okay,” Guru nodded. “Thoughts on this afternoon's excitement?”

The XO thought for a minute. “No way did we scare her back to Nellis or L.A.. If we did, she would've been telling her people to pack the minute she staggered to her feet.”

“I'll go along with that. She still wants to fly with the Marines, and maybe the RAF now,” said Guru. “She's made of more sterner stuff than we thought. If that Su-24 strike didn't prove that, this did.” The CO was recalling the last air strike, and Ms. Wendt had disdained the shelters, instead, going out and filming-as the strike came in. Her only regret, she had said to their temporary PAO, that they weren't on the air live.

“Looks like it. We may have turned her into an adrenalin junkie. If she wasn't when she got here, she's one now,” Ellis pointed out.

Guru winced, but knew the XO was right. “She told us she was staying back when General Olds was here. This was her way of proving it.” The CO looked at the clock. It read 1702. “Anything else?”

“Not until morning,” said Ellis.

“Good,” Guru said, standing up and grabbing his bush hat. “Then let's hit the Club.”

And the day comes to an end in the Club:



Officer's Club Tent, Sheppard AFB, TX: 1710 Hours Central War Time:


When the CO and XO arrived at the O-Club, the place was already buzzing. With Ms. Wendt's “Check Ride” over and done, and with the stand-down coming to an end, everybody was in a good mood. Even though with the latter, and getting back into combat as a result, it was what the crews had signed up to do. The two got to the bar, and found Smitty, the barkeep, there as usual. “Smitty,” Major Wiser said. “What have you got tonight?”

“No Sam Adams, Major, but I've got the usual suspects,” the barkeep replied cheerfully. “Heard you took the newsies up.”

“Had the cameraman,” Guru replied. “Bud for me.” He saw the XO nod. “And one for the exec.”

“Comin' up,” Smitty said, then he produced the two beer bottles.

“Thanks, Smitty,” the CO nodded. He paid the barkeep, took a drink, then said to the XO, “That was an interesting day.”

Ellis nodded. “It sure was, Boss,” he said. “Even if we didn't scare that reporter back to Nellis or L.A..”

“Were you guys trying to do that?” Smitty asked. “Word's gone around that's what you had in mind.”

“There was that chance,” Guru admitted. Just then, Ms. Wendt came in, with Goalie, Sweaty, KT, Flossy, Jang, and a couple other female aircrew. “Looks like she's recovered,” the CO observed.

“Looks like it,” Ellis said, noting the hand-waving going on, and the reporter nodding as if she understood. “We're stuck with her.”

Guru took another pull on his beer. “That we are.”

Colonel Brady came up, with the “Two Daves,” Dave Golen and Dave Gledhill. “Major,” the MAG-11 CO nodded. “How's our reporter?”

“Have a look for yourself, sir,” Guru said, gesturing in the reporter's direction. “I'd say she's recovered somewhat.”

“Give her a few days, then I'll see about getting her a ride with the Marines,” Brady said.

“And us,” Dave Gledhill replied. “Why'd she ride with you guys?” He asked Guru.

“She wanted to ride with me at first,” Guru said. “Then I told her if you're going up with us, you're riding with the best I have.”

“And Kara showed her,” Gledhill finished.

“She did,” said Guru. “Kara flew her bird like she had just stolen it, but then again, we all do.”

Both Brady and Gledhill nodded. “Keeps us alive,” the MAG-11 CO noted.

“It does that,” Gledhill agreed.


A few minutes later, people started to congregate at their usual tables, and when Guru got to his, he found Goalie, Kara, Braniac, Hoser, KT, Sweaty, and the others either there, or coming. “Well?” Guru asked his wingmate. “You gave it your all.”

“I did,” Kara admitted. “Not only didn't I scare her onto the next westbound C-130 or -141, but she's now got rides coming with the Jarheads and the RAF.”

“And you had a pool, I noticed,” the CO observed. He wasn't surprised at all.

“She did,” Goalie said.

Kara nodded. “And I paid up,” she said.

Then Don Van Loan came over. “Boss, here's the papers.”

“L.A. Times for me, and Orange County Register for Goalie,” Guru said.

“Here you are, and who wants USA Today or Stars and Stripes?”

“I'll take USA,” Sweaty said.

“Then I'll settle for Stars and Stripes,” Kara said. Though everyone did share, so when she got her copy, she passed the sports section to Hoser.

“I'm not a California boy,” Van Loan said, but I did get to like the L.A. Times while we were at Williams.”

“Okay, Don?” Guru said. “A little business before you go. I'm going to pair up Digger with a new pilot. Flossy and Jang have clicked as a crew, and now that's happened...”

“You don't want to break them up,” the Ops Officer finished. “Who does Digger pair up with?”

“Haven't decided yet. We'll talk it over tomorrow, and the day after, they start flying.”

“Fair enough,” Van Loan said.

“All right, Don, thanks,” said the CO.

“Anytime,” the Ops said, then he went to his table.

Sweaty looked at her CO and flight lead. “When do you go to Nellis?”

Guru shrugged. “Haven't had a call or message from General Tanner telling me to come to Nellis. When I do, I'm supposed to bring Goalie and all of the planning material. Such as it is.”

“When we flew that strike the day or two before PRAIRIE FIRE-the one we really can't talk about?” Goalie said, and she saw heads nod at that. They all had flown the mission. “We had everything we needed. Here, though, we've got diddly shit.”

“So when you do go, Mark's in charge, not Frank?” Kara asked.

“Exactly,” Guru replied. “Mark's the XO, he runs the show while I'm gone. Frank can bitch about it all he wants, but that's the way it is.”

Then the restaurateurs who ran MAG-11's mess came in. “Folks, we've got Tex-Mex style chicken, or Chicken-fried Steaks-they're Bison, though. Come and get it.”

After people got what they wanted, the CBS Evening News came on AFN. “Good evening from Los Angeles,” Walter Cronkite began. The big news today comes from overseas, where a new Italian government, formed after the assassination of the Italian Prime Minister, has denounced the previous government's neutralist policy, and has vowed a crackdown on the Red Brigades terrorist group.” The network's Rome correspondent came on, with images of protests both pro- and anti-neutralist, and several suspects in the murder of the Prime Minister being hauled into paddy wagons.

“Sources in Rome say that the new Prime Minister, Benito Craxi, is expected to visit Philadelphia in the coming weeks, and meet with President Bush. Though Italy is not expecting to join the war, this is one more nail in the European neutralists' coalition.”

“Well, now,” Preacher said. “About damned time.”

“Who's left?” Kerry Collins asked.

“The big one's West Germany,” Sin Licon, the SIO, said. “That Bundeswehr exercise is still going, and chances are, it won't be long.”

“Until the coup,” Colonel Brady said.

“Yes, sir,” Licon replied. “Until the coup.”

“Then the rest of those rats fall into line,” Flossy spat.

“In West Germany,” Cronkite continued, “continued protests against the Green Coalition's neutralist stance continue, with over 200,000 reported in Hamburg, 100,000 in Munich, and the same number in both Cologne and Frankfurt. Former Chancellors Willy Brandt and Helmut Schmidt both spoke in Hamburg, calling for the end of the neutralist government and an end to 'Soviet and Eastern manipulation of the government', a direct slap at the Soviets and East Germans.”

“That's balls right there,” Dave Golen noted. “That's what, the second time he's called for a coup?”

“Think so,” Hoser said.

Guru put down his fork and checked the L.A. Times again. “That Bundeswehr exercise is still going.”

“They're getting ready,” Jang said, and heads nodded at that.

“The only questions are when, and how bloody does it get,” Dave Gledhill noted.

Sin Licon nodded agreement. “That's about the size of it, sir.”

The broadcast continued, with a report from just north of the Alberta-Montana border, where the battle lines had remained stalemated since late 1985. “Glad we're not up there?” Kara asked. “Know a few people who did go North.”

“Definitely,” the CO said.

Then a report from Ms. Wendt came. “In Texas, an Air Force squadron has an unusual member,” Cronkite said to open the report. “Jana Wendt, from our sister network 9 News Australia, has the story.”

“Here, at a base in the liberated area of Texas, this Air Force squadron has an unusual officer. He has four legs, but a heart of gold, as pilots and crew go out and come back from missions.” Then footage of Buddy, the Golden Lab who was the 335th's mascot, ran, as the dog went to meet crews coming back from a mission. And also footage of the dog in a mission brief (supplied by the PAO). “They say that if Buddy sleeps through a briefing, it's going to be an easy one. If he stays alert, they say? Watch out.” That was followed by the footage of Buddy's being given his honorary Captain's commission. “He's so beloved, this unit made him an honorary Captain. A little morale boost for men and women who fly and fight every day, and for those who keep the squadron's aircraft flying. Jana Wendt, CBS News, with the U.S. Air Force, somewhere in Texas.” The report concluded with the dog in her lap, licking her all over.

“Not bad,” Colonel Brady said. “You did good, Ms. Wendt.”

“As opposed to today?” She asked, her appetite seeming normal. “When we shot that segment, the most I had to worry about was dog hair and being licked to death.”

“When are you doing your piece about your backseat ride?” Guru said in jest, then Buddy let out a bark.

“In a few days, Major,” the reporter said. “I still need to talk to the Day One people.”

Guru, Mark Ellis, Don Van Loan, and several others knew what she meant. A piece on those who had flown on Day One was on order, and getting that story out-especially to her parent network down in Australia, was important. For Australians, Day One was just a horrible story they had seen on the news, but for ten of those in the 335th who were in the tent, that had been the first day of what was turning out to be a long war.

“Just say when,” Lieutenant Patti Brown, the PAO, said.

“I'll let you know,” Ms. Wendt replied.


After a story about a Trans-Pacific convoy, and a look at how Major League Baseball was preparing for the postwar world, whenever that time came, the broadcast wrapped. “And that's the way it is,” Cronkite finished. “For all of us at CBS News, good night.”

“Slow day,” Dave Gledhill commented.

“There were days like this in World War II,” Guru said. “Not much happening either way.”

Heads nodded, then Kerry Collins said, “Tomorrow's a new story.”

“It is,” Don Van Loan nodded.

With that, and AFN airing a rerun of a Detroit Lions-Chicago Bears game from 1984, Kara got up, got another beer, and went to hold court at the pool table. “Won't be long until Twelve-hour kicks in,” Preacher said.

“Yeah,” the CO agreed. “Still, time to eat, drink, and be merry....”

“For tomorrow, they may not separate us from the rest of the airplane,” KT finished.

“Ain't that the truth?” Guru asked. “Since we're up to twenty-four birds, we're overdue for somebody's taking the big hit.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Preacher. The ex-seminary student said a silent prayer, hoping that event wouldn't come for a few days.

Guru nodded. “Well, Flossy and Jang are going to stay together.”

“Digger getting a new pilot?” Goalie asked. Being Senior WSO, that was something that concerned her. She saw Guru nod, then went on. “Well, if it keeps you from writing a letter in the next few days...”

“Of course, the letter you don't want to write above all is to Frank's Dad, then finding out some Senate or Congressional staffer is coming to see what happened,” Hoser said.

“Both can be graded as correct,” said Guru.

Eyes turned to Kara, who was holding court at the pool table. She easily dispatched a Marine Hornet driver, then two of the Special-Ops MC-130 guys, then came Susan Napier. Both combatants laid down their money, then went at it. This time, the RAF pilot's skills were superior, and Kara smiled, nodded, paid the $50.00, then came over to the table. “Well?” Sweaty asked.

Kara shook her head. “Where'd she learn to play like that?”

“Bermuda,” Dave Gledhill answered. “One way to kill time sitting QRA was the pool table, only we didn't play for money.”

“Figures,” Kara spat. She went to the bar, got another beer, then defeated the next three who challenged her-another RAF Rockape, and two Marines.

Guru smiled. “Good to see she hasn't lost her touch.”

“Can't have that,” Goalie said.

“No.” Guru then went to get another beer, and found Doc at the bar. “Doc.”

“Boss,” Doc Waters replied. “Keeping tabs on Frank, just like you suggested.”

“Anything leap out at you?”

“No, but I'm on the lookout. So far, all he's doing is whining about not being taken seriously.”

Guru nodded. Nothing new here. “We stopped taking him seriously as a squadron when Colonel Rivers not only stripped Frank of his flight lead qualification, he made me Exec.”

“Which is what he's talking about,” Doc said. “So far, nothing that would have me violate doctor-patient privilege.”

“All right,” Guru said as Smitty handed him another beer. He paid the barkeep, then said, “Watch him like a hawk, and keep me posted.”

“Will do, Boss.”

Guru went back to the table, “Doc's keeping an eye on Frank.”

“Good,” KT said. “How long until Sundown Cunningham comes calling?” She, and just about everyone else on the base, was hoping that the Vice-Chief of Staff would come on a visit, and wind up kicking Frank's ass off base.

“No idea.”

Colonel Brady then rang the bar bell. “Fifteen minutes until Twelve-Hour! People, we had a stand-down, but still had some flying. Major Wiser and Captain Thrace of the 335th took two of our guests from Down Under up, and showed them some fighter flying.”

“At least I got her airsick,” Kara said.

“That you did,” Guru replied. “And not surprised you had a pool going.”

“Hey, I did pay up,” Kara protested.

“Which you did.”

“Well, Ms. Wendt? How'd you like your exposure to fighters?” Colonel Brady asked.

“Now that the world's stopped lurching from side to side?” Ms. Wendt replied. “I did get a little appreciation for what you people do every day.”

Mark Ellis asked, “Even with no one shooting at you?”

“Even with that.”

Colonel Brady then asked the cameraman. “How about you, Mr. Scott?”

“Wouldn't have missed it for the world,” the cameraman grinned. “More excitement than in a chopper, I'll grant you.”

“At least we can bail out,” Don Van Loan said. “If you get it in a helo, you go down with the ship.”

“Been there, did that, in Vietnam,” Scott replied. “Twice, actually. Once in '72 during the Easter Offensive, and again three weeks before Saigon fell.”

Guru nodded. “Just be glad we didn't have to bail out. Did that once, and spent five months with the Resistance.”

“Had my turn to skydive,” Brady added. “And spent five years in Hanoi.” Brady looked at both newsies. “When you two want to fly with the Marines? Just say the word and I'll arrange it.”

“We'll take you up on that, Colonel,” Ms. Wendt said. “And the RAF, too.”

“Oh, joy,” Karen McKay muttered. Flying a prissy reporter was not what she had in mind.

“Fair enough,” Dave Gledhill said.

“All right! Ten minutes to Twelve-Hour, so drink up!” Brady announced.

People finished their drinks, or tried to, before one of the Navy Flight Surgeons rang the bell. “Twelve-Hour now in effect!”

After turning in what hadn't been drunk, people switched to nonalcoholic. “Well, even if it's iced tea, 'eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow they may not separate us from the rest of the airplane,” Kara said. She was eyeballing a plate of nachos she had brought over.

“It is that,” Goalie agreed. “Game time again tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Brainiac said. “Just as long as CAS doesn't come on the schedule.”

“Down, boy,” Guru said sharply. “If we get the call, we go. Simple as that. I don't like it any more than any of you, but if the Hogs and A-7s are busy...”

“Our turn again,” Sweaty finished.

Time went on, then Doc Waters himself rang the bar bell at 2100. “Aircrew curfew now in effect!”

Hearing that, Ryan Blanchard and Kerry Collins got up, with Ryan slinging her M-16. It was clear what they had in mind. Goalie saw that, and nodded at Guru. “Well?”

“Let's go,” Guru said. He knew what she wanted-and he was in the mood. “See you all in the morning. Bright and early, Zero-six hundred. For another day closer to the Rio Grande.”

“Night, Boss,” Kara said. She could tell what both had in mind.

Guru and Goalie went into Officer Country and found the CO's tent. Guru opened his ice chest, pulling out a bottle of 7-Up. “Nightcap?”

“Later,” Goalie said. She got out of her flight suit, and as before on such occasions, there was nothing underneath. “Ready?”

Guru got out of his. “Let's go.” Then they went after each other.


The next morning, the alarm clock buzzed. Guru woke up-slowly, and saw the time. 0415. Wonderful. Little under three hours to game time. He turned, and saw Goalie's bare back facing him. How many times again did we do it? Oh, well, it was fun while it lasted. “Hey, sleepyhead. Time to get up and be human again.”

She came awake, and sat up in bed, the covers coming off her bare chest. “And good morning to you. What time is it?”

Guru nodded. “Almost Zero-Dark-Thirty.”

Goalie got up and began to dress. “No rest for the weary or the wicked. Want to bet Kara's just now kicking out her latest one-night stand?”

“No bet,” Guru said as he got up. “Game day again.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “When we get to Nellis for that briefing? At least we'll have a night in a real bed.”
These camp beds are okay, but...Goalie thought.

“There is one small reward for briefing the brass,” Guru agreed.

“All right, see you in the chow line.”

“I'll be there,” Guru said.

After she left, he got ready to head for the shower. Though still dark outside, it wouldn't be long until breakfast at 0600, then the first mission brief, before going out on that first one of the day. And how many more until the Rio Grande? Guru thought. Too many, he knew, and not everyone would be there at the end. Time to get on with it, he said to himself as he left for the shower.

Guys, what would you like to see next? I have some more stories, set before this one, some fact files about ships, aircraft, armor, small arms and heavy weapons. (the T2K Small Arms Guide and Heavy Weapons Guide were very useful in prepping the latter one)

One of the stories deals with Kara making ace-and another deals with some of her wartime antics coming back in a manner that she didn't think of. Kelly Ray's POW experience is in three-one about repatriation, and two deal with a war-crimes trial and subsequent hanging of said war criminal. Another one deals with Guru's coming out of the Colorado Mountains to return to the cockpit-along with a dozen other evadees. Let me know what you want to see and I'll post 'em.

ahhh All?. just what ever you want to post, we will read and enjoy.

Okay, here goes: The first day of Operation PRAIRIE FIRE from the 335th's angle. PRAIRIE FIRE is the American counteroffensive after the Battle of Wichita that tore apart the Soviet front line in the Midwest and in the Southwest. Wichita was a failed Soviet offensive aimed at erasing a bulge in the Soviet line a la the Kursk one. The problem was that the Soviets delayed, and some intelligence work-along with Schwartzkopf's suspicions-"It's where I would attack, if I was in Marshal Kribov's shoes", as he said in his memoirs-laid the groundwork for a trap. Premier formations such as 1st Guards Tank Army, 3rd Shock Army, and 4th Guards Tank Army, were gutted as a result. The day after the Soviets called off the attack, Schwartzkopf's U.S. Fifth Army, Fourth Army in Wyoming and Colorado, and Sixth Army in New Mexico all went over to the attack.....

Note; the USAF expects to go to war and be billeted in a five-star hotel-or so the saying goes. The 335th is billeted at the Mesa Sheraton Resort, so...

Light the (Prairie) Fire


Williams AFB, AZ, 14 May, 1987; 1725 Hours Mountain War Time:


Captain Matt “Guru” Wiser of the 335th Tactical Fighter Squadron taxied his F-4E Phantom into its dispersal area. He and his flight had flown four missions that day, including one up to the Denver Siege Perimeter. Though there would be light enough for another forty-five minutes or so, this was the last flight of the day. After shutting down, he and his WSO, First Lieutenant Lisa Eichhorn, climbed down from the aircraft, bone tired and ready to get something to eat, and maybe have a beer in the Officer's Club, before going to their billet at the Mesa Sheraton, getting some sleep, and then going out the next morning and doing it all over again. His crew chief, Staff Sergeant Mike Crowley, was waiting for him. “Sergeant.”

“Sir,” Crowley said. “Word from Colonel Rivers, all aircrew meeting in the main briefing room. Now, Sir.”

The members of his flight looked at each other. His wingmate, Captain Kara “Starbuck” Thrace and her back-seater, Captain Judd Brewster, just rolled their eyes. Then the second element came over; First Lieutenant Valerie “Sweaty” Blanchard and her back-seater Second Lieutenant Bryan Simmonds, along with First Lieutenant Nathan West and his back-seater Second Lieutenant Kathryn Thompson. “What's going on?” Sweaty asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Guru said. “Let's go.”

The four crews headed on over to the squadron building, which had housed a T-37 training squadron prewar, and they went right to the main briefing room, not even bothering to get out of their G-Suits and harnesses. When they got there, they discovered the room was packed, and the CO, Lt. Col. Dean Rivers had a scowl on his face. Guru nodded to Maj. David Golen, who was an Israeli AF observer visiting the squadron. “Ever seen anything like this?”

“Once. The Yom Kippur War, on the first day, and then the day we crossed the Canal,” Golen said. He'd been a brand-new Second Lieutenant in 1973, and had nailed three MiGs during that war, and had a couple more in F-16s during the Bekaa Valley Turkey Shoot in 1982.

“Well, now that everyone's here,” Colonel Rivers said. “Especially the Exec,” nodding in Guru's direction. “Got some bad news for all of you: the twelve-hour rule is in effect, as of now. Curfew for you guys is at 2000. Wake-up is at 0300, and first wheels up tomorrow morning is at 0430.”

“What?” Starbuck said, and Guru echoed her. In fact, almost everyone was. The buzz in the room was palpable.

“Don't bother eating breakfast at billeting, because you'll eat here in the morning. The maintenance and ordnance folks will be up all night, getting your birds tweaked, and then armed,” Rivers continued. “I can't tell you guys any more than that, and this comes from Tenth Air Force. Any questions?”

“Colonel,” Guru's hand shot up. “What's this all about? Wasn't like this in the early days.”

“Can't tell you, XO,” Rivers said. Captain Wiser was the Executive Officer of the 335th. “Any other questions?” Rivers asked. He surveyed the room, then nodded. “All right. Get on over to the Sheraton, have a good dinner, get a good night's sleep, and see you in the morning. 0330.”

“Guru, what's going on?” Lieutenant Eichhorn, call sign Goalie, asked. “Something's up.”

“Yeah,” Guru said. “Go on ahead and get the debrief going. I'm going to see what this is all about.”
He then went down to see Colonel Rivers. “Sir. Can we talk?”

“My office,” Rivers said. And the two officers went to the CO's office. “Close the door, XO.”

After Guru did so, he asked “Permission to speak freely, Sir?”

“Always, Guru,” Rivers said. “Say whatever's on your mind.”

“Sir, I'm your Exec. If something's going on, I need to know about it. Especially if something happens to you,” Guru told his CO.

“I know, Guru, I know,” replied the CO. “I don't like it any more than you do, but this came from the top. Tenth Air Force. And General Tanner didn't like this either.”

And when General Tanner didn't like something, Guru knew, it had to be important. “Sir, does this have anything to do with Wichita? Or that conference you went to last week?”

“Maybe. That's all I can tell you. If anything happens to me, I'm putting together a packet with everything you need. Ross will give it to you,” the CO said. Master Sergeant Michael Ross was the squadron's senior NCO. And no one was more highly respected in the squadron than he was. The man was old enough to be the father of nearly everybody in the unit, and the enlisted airmen looked up to him as a father figure.

Guru nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“Anything else?” Rivers asked.

“No, Sir.”

“All right; get debriefed, get something to eat, and have a good night's sleep. It'll be a busy day tomorrow.”

“Yes, Sir,” Guru said.

“Dismissed,” Rivers nodded, and Guru saluted and headed out of the office. He then headed over to the locker room, got out of his harness and G-Suit, then went to the old classroom that his flight used for briefings and debriefings.

“Well?” Goalie asked as he entered.

“No joy,” Guru told his flight. “Whatever's going on, we won't know until after the first sortie.”

“What?” Kara and Sweaty asked at once.

“They're holding this close to the chest. This might have something to do with Wichita, but Rivers wouldn't tell me any more than that.”

Sweaty looked at her flight lead. “Guru, you're the XO. Shouldn't you know what's going on?”

“That's what I told him,” Guru replied. “He told me this comes from the top, and that's higher than General Tanner. Whatever this is, security's super-tight.”

Heads nodded at that. Something was up. And whatever it was, it was important. “So when do we know?” Kara asked.

“When we come back from the first sortie.” Guru said. “Let's get the debrief done, something to eat, then get back to the Sheraton. Won't be long until 0300.”


Sheraton Mesa Resort: 0300 Mountain War Time, 15 May 1987:

The phone rang in between the two beds. Each bed's occupant reached for the phone, but only one grabbed the handle. “Yeah?”

“This is your 3:00 AM wake-up call,” the voice on the other end said.

“Thank you,” Guru said as he hung up. He quickly got out of bed, and quickly got dressed. Captain Don Van Loan, his roommate, got up as well. “Won't be long until we know what this is all about.”

'Yeah,” Van Loan, the assistant Ops Officer, said.

Both quickly shaved and brushed their teeth, then headed on out, and the hall was filled with 335th and Marine aircrews who were all headed to the base. When they left the lobby of the hotel, the buses were there, waiting. The crews got onto the buses, then were bused to the base. When they got off, they noticed there was a large amount of activity, as promised, to get the first birds off by 0430. And everyone noticed the various squadron commanders there, waiting for their people. Guru noticed Colonel Rivers. “Boss.”

“Guru,” the CO said. “You guys all have fifteen minutes to eat. Then get dressed to fly, hit your briefs, then man your aircraft. First wheels up at 0430.”

“You heard him,” Guru told the 335th crews. Then they all filed into a Marine operated mess tent. He turned to Goalie. “When's the last time you ate in a chow line?”

“Been a while. The Academy, I think,” Goalie said.

Nodding, Guru picked up a tray and silverware. He looked at the young Marine cooks. “All right, what have you guys got here?”

“Here you go, Sir,” a Marine PFC replied, taking lids off of food trays.

“Lovely,” Guru said. “Steak and scrambled eggs.” He took a steak, some scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, toast, and coffee.

“The condemned got fed a hearty meal,” Goalie quipped as she got her meal, then sat down with her pilot.

“Clear the way! Dead people walking coming through,” Kara said, and the 335th people had a good laugh at that. But they couldn't linger, for they had to be in their briefing rooms shortly. The aircrew ate quickly, then all of them, Air Force and Marine, headed to their respective squadrons to be briefed.

When the 335th's officers arrived, they were told to get ready to fly, and report to their flight briefing rooms. And when Guru and the members of his flight arrived, they found two Marine officers, both aviators, waiting. “You guys flying with us?” Guru asked.

“That's right,” the senior one, Capt. Jerry Singleton, said, introducing his wingmate, First Lt. Cory Abbott. “We're your SAM and flak suppressors.”

After introductions, Guru opened the briefing packet. “Great.”

“What?” Kara asked.

“Moriarty, along I-40. Target is just south of the town. A mix of command vehicles and dugouts.”

“What about 'em?” Sweaty asked.

Guru looked at everyone. “HQ, Soviet 13th Army.”

The room was silent for a minute. “What the hell?” Kara asked. “Someone's gone nuts.”

“Tell me about it,” Guru said. “SA-2 and SA-3 nearby, plus at least one 57-mm battery, and watch for ZU-23s as well. They have a guard battalion around the HQ, so MANPADS will be there as well.”

“So how do we do this?” Goalie asked. “We don't have any Pave Tack pods, so what are we carrying?”

“Lead element has a dozen Mark-82s, each airplane,” Guru replied. “Second element has Mark-20 Rockeyes to rip them up afterwards. We go in, low and fast, make a turn and do our run from West to East. Pop-up at thirty seconds to target, drop our ordnance, and get gone. One pass and haul ass.”

“Sounds good to me,” Sweaty said. “Usual air-to-air load?”

“Yep,” Guru replied. “Four AIM-9s-and we get Ps now, by the way, and two AIM-7Es. Usual ALQ-101 in a forwards Sparrow well and a full load of 20-mm.” He looked around. “Okay, SAM-supporession,” he said, turning to the two Marines. “I want the SA-3 site hit with HARM, and the 57 site hit as well. Then CBU what's left.”

“Got it,” Captain Singleton replied.

“Bailout areas are anyplace where there isn't a road. Stay with a cripple as long as you can. If you can hit the river, best of all” Guru said, and everyone nodded. Then there was a knock on the door. “Come on in and show yourself!”

In came First Lieutenant Darren Licon, the Squadron Intelligence Officer. “Guru, got something from the Boss.”

“What is it?”

“Stay away from the Alberquerque area is what he's telling everyone.” Licon said. “And before you ask, he told me to tell you that you'll see why when sunrise comes.”

The aircrews looked at each other. “Lovely,” Nathan West said.

“Thanks, Darren,” Guru said. He turned to the aircrews. “Anything else?” Heads shook no. “Let's hit it.”

The first two missions of the day:



Over occupied New Mexico, 0525 Hours Mountain War Time, 15 May 1987:


The six-ship flight was headed due east, and as they did so, the crews could see the first rays of dawn beginning to break. They were going in a little higher than usual, since the F-4s normally didn't fly night strikes, and when they had left Williams it was still pitch dark. In the lead F-4, Guru was concentrating on flying the aircraft while Goalie handled the navigation. “Approaching Highway 285, Guru. Turn point in one minute.”

“Copy,” Guru said. “Crystal Palace, Corvette Two-One,” he said. “Any threats?”

“Corvette Two-One, Crystal Palace,” the AWACS controller called back. “Negative.”

“Roger,” Guru said.

“Turn point.... Now!” Goalie called.

Guru turned the F-4 due north. Their next turn point would be I-40. Ivan was using the Interstate as a Main Supply Route, and they'd flown strikes against supply dumps and truck parks along the freeway more than once. But they had been directed not to hit any bridges on the freeway. None at all. “How long to turn?”

“One minute,” Goalie replied.

“Copy.”

“And turn.”

Guru put the aircraft into a left turn, and in the predawn twilight, picked up the twin ribbons of interstate highway. So far, it looked like I-40 was quiet. Not for long, he thought. You guys are getting a big wake-up call this morning....”Pop up?”

“One minute.”

“Corvette Flight, Lead. Switches on, radars on. Time to go to work.”

“We're hot,” Goalie called. “Stand by... and now! Pop up!”

Guru pulled up to 1500 feet AGL and he saw the town. And just to the south, there it was. All the revetments built to shelter vehicles made the target stick out like a sore thumb. He then called the two Marines. “Rattlers, go to work.”

“Roger that!” Captain Singleton called.

Both Hornets climbed further, and picked out the SA-3 site. Singleton put his HARM missile on it, and the SA-3, which had just gone from search to fire-control mode, suddenly went off the air as the HARM exploded the radar. Then the Marine element lead rolled in, and put his two Rockeye CBUs onto the SAM site, putting it out of action.

Just as the Hornet lead went in, Lieutenant Abbott rolled in on the 57-mm site. Their radar was not up, so he simply dropped his CBUs on the flak battery, ripping it apart. Then it was time for the F-4s to go in.

“Lead's in hot!” Guru called. He picked up the center of the HQ area, where a number of command vehicles were all clustered together, and all of them had antennae very prominently displayed. He lined one of them in his pipper, then hit the pickle button. “HACK!” And a dozen Mark-82 five-hundred pound bombs came off his aircraft. “Lead off safe.”

His bombs landed in the middle of the target area, and several command vehicles exploded, or were tipped over by near-misses. A number of Soviet soldiers whose vehicles had not been hit tried to start their engines, but it was too late...

“Two in hot!” Kara called. She laid down her bombs just to the south of where Guru had put his, One of her bombs happened to hit the HQ's portable generator, while another bomb landed on top of a bunker where several of the Army's staff officers were sleeping. The bunkers were built to protect against insurgent rocket or mortar attacks. Not a five-hundred pound bomb landing right on top of it....”Two's off safe.”

“Three in hot!” Sweaty yelled. She and West had a dozen CBUs, and she decided to put hers right where Guru had laid his bombs. A dozen Rockeyes came off her bird, and each CBU had 247 bomblets, ideal for ripping up armored vehicles or anything else they touched. A number of vehicles that had survived Guru's bombs were hit by the bomblets, and they fireballed. “Three's off safe.”

“Four in hot!” West said. He laid down his CBUs on where Kara had laid her bombs, and as he dropped, he noticed some flak, probably 23-mm, coming up. It was too little, too late. And like his element lead, several vehicles were hit by his CBUs, and they fireballed as well, and also caught a number of personnel out in the open, killing and wounding many. He easily outran the flak, and called, “Four off safe.”

“Copy that. Form on me, music on, and let's get the hell out of here,” Guru called. That call told everyone to turn on their jamming pods, and the four F-4s did so. The two Hornets formed up on the Phantoms, and everyone headed to the southwest. The strike birds picked up their safe-passage lane, so that the Army pukes who handled the HAWK and Patriot SAM batteries wouldn't shoot them out of the sky.

As they headed out, they all noticed something as they approached the Rio Grande. Flashes all along and behind the river. Artillery fire. And to the north, at Alberquerque's southern outskirts, it looked like something from Apocalypse Now, as the sky was full of Huey and Chinook helicopters. “What the?” Kara called over the radio.

“Wouldn't want to be there right now,” Sweaty replied. “That sky's full of choppers. And above the choppers, it's full of shells.”

“Roger that!” Guru said. “Crossing the fence.” That meant the Rio Grande. And as they did, the crews saw Army vehicles crossing the river. “Go Army...”

“This is big, Guru!” Goalie said over the intercom. “Think this is it?”

He nodded. “Maybe.” Then it was time to call the AWACS. “Crystal Palace, Corvette Flight across the fence.”

“Copy,” the controller replied. “Do you need a vector to the tankers?”

“Roger that,” Guru replied.

The AWACS controller vectored them to the tanker track over the Continental Divide, and to the fighter crews, it was crowded airspace. Lots of tankers orbiting, whether KC-135s, KC-10s, or Marine KC-130s. And it seemed that there were fighters or attack birds all over, either pulling away from the tankers and headed in, or, like they were, coming out. And as usual, battle-damaged aircraft went to the head of the line, but this morning, there were only a couple. The Hornets drank from a KC-130, while the F-4s went to a KC-10 to refuel. Then they headed back to Williams. They came into the pattern and then landed, and as they taxied to their respective dispersal areas, the crews noticed a second wave was getting ready to go. It was 0615.

Guru taxied to his revetment and shut down. After he popped his canopy, he asked Goalie. “Now we'll find out what's going on.”

“Yeah,” Goalie said as the ground crew put the crew ladders in place.

Guru and Goalie climbed down from 512, then did a quick postflight inspection. Then he turned to Sergeant Crowley. “Pull the strike camera film and send it off.” As he said that, he noticed the ordnance crews bringing CBUs to 512, and the other three birds in the flight. “What the?”

“Guru,” Goalie tapped him on the shoulder. “Colonel Rivers and Licon coming.”

The CO and the SIO came over. “How'd it go?” Rivers asked. “This debrief will be out here. Because as soon as you're all turned around, you're going back out.”

“What?” Kara asked. “Sir, if you don't mind my saying this, but what's going on?”

“Now that the first wave is back, I can finally tell you guys. This is it. Operation PRAIRIE FIRE. Ivan impaled himself at Wichita, thanks to Schwartzkopf, and now, we're going to push them back. You guys probably saw the Army crossing the Rio Grande.” When he saw them nod, Rivers continued. “And they're not stopping until the Texas line at least.”

“About time,” Guru said. “So, the mission?”

“How'd it go?” Licon asked.

“No SAMs.” Guru said.

“Flak?”

“Only as I was coming in,” Nathan said. “The Marines did their job. No heavy flak, and no SAMs.”

“BDA?” Licon wanted to know.

“We hit the target area, and there were a few secondaries,” Kara said. “I saw some from Guru's bombs.”

“And some from yours,” Sweaty added. “You'll probably need the strike footage.”

“I'll have it developed ASAP,” Rivers said. “That strike was a high-priority one.”

“Yes, Sir,” Guru agreed. “Now what?”

“Get yourselves something to drink, hit the latrine, because in twenty minutes, you're going back out.”

“Sir?” Guru asked. Nothing like this had happened much since the early days.

“You're on-call CAS. Check in with III Corps' ALO, and they'll direct you to a FAC. We'll be doing this all morning, and likely all day as well,” Rivers said. “Good luck.” He then headed off with Licon to debrief another arriving flight.

“Like the early days?” Kara asked. “I've heard horror stories about those.”

“Yeah,” Guru said. “Five missions a day for the first four days. Total confusion, just find armor headed north and strike.” He shook his head at the memory. And he'd seen photos of I-19 north of Nogales, where the 335th, along with the A-10s from Davis-Monthan, had turned the interstate into a junkyard of Mexican and Cuban armor, shattered soft-skinned vehicles, and dead and maimed men.

“Better do what the Boss said,” Sweaty nodded.

Heads nodded in agreement, and they all went to do their business and get something to drink. When they came back, the crews noticed the ordnance guys hard at work. And there were numerous AF and Marine aircraft coming in and taking off. Then, fifteen minutes later, Sergeant Crowley came over to Guru. “Sir, you're ready to rock.”

“Here we go,” Kara said, getting off a parked Hummer.

Guru nodded. One thing he had noticed: no one had gotten out of their G-Suits. “Okay, this'll be short. Go by call sign, not mission code on the radio, unless you're with a FAC or an AWACS.” He saw his flight nod. “Anything else?”

“How about applying for frequent-flier miles?” Sweaty joked. And the others laughed.

“I'll take it up with the CO,” Guru laughed. “Anything else?” Heads shook no. He grabbed his flight helmet. “Time to go. Let's hit it.”

Five minutes later, the flight was taxiing to the runway, and then they launched. And this was the second mission of the day, and it was only 0705.......



Over Western New Mexico, 0815 Hours:


The flight of four F-4s was orbiting about twenty miles west of Los Lunas, on the Rio Grande. They had checked in with the Air Force Air Liaison Officer with III Corps, and had been told to wait. Guru had told the man, “We ain't got the gas to stay up here all day, fella.” But they had been told to wait. Then a call came for them.

“Corvette Two-One, Bulldog Zero-One. Contact Nail 36 for tasking,” the ALO called.

“Copy that,” Guru replied. “Nail Three-Six, Corvette Two-One, how copy?”

“Corvette Two-One, Nail Three-Six. Come on in. Tasking near Edgewood on I-40.”

“Roger that,” Guru called. “Flight, Lead. Let's go to work.” And the four Phantoms headed northeast. To everyone's surprise, their RWRs were not showing any enemy SAM or fighter radars. Something was going right, though down below, the crews could see the ground forces-in this area it was the 5th Marine Division, pushing east. As the flight cleared the Sandias, Guru noticed an A-7 orbiting. Only this one was a two-seat A-7K, now being used as a FAC platform. “Nail Three-Six, Corvette Two-One. Coming in from southwest.”

“Roger, Corvette and I see you,” the FAC called. With those smoky J-79 engines, one could see an F-4 approaching before one actually had eyeballs on the airplane.

“Roger,” Guru replied. “What's the target?”

“Armor headed south on Route 344, north of the Interstate. Tanks and Bravo-Tango-Romeos. Time to make these go away, son.” the FAC replied.

“By the sound of his voice,” Goalie said from the rear cockpit. “He's a Vietnam vet.”

“Not to mention calling me 'son',” Guru quipped. “Copy, Nail. Want to make the run northeast to southwest.”

“Your call, Corvette.”

Guru nodded. “Flight, Lead. Follow me in. Northeast to Southwest. One pass only. If you have hung ordnance, don't go around for another try.”

“Copy, Lead,” Starbuck called.

“Roger.” Sweaty.

“Copy that,” “Hoser” West.

Guru led the F-4s on their maneuver, and he watched as Nail made a run and fired a couple of rockets. The WP that resulted from the rocket impact clearly showed the target.

“Anything north of the Willie Pete is yours, Corvette.” Nail replied.

“Copy. Say threat.”

“Corvette, negative radar SAMs, but Sierra Alpha-Nines, and Shilkas.” And to prove his point, the A-7 dodged a hail of 23-mm fire coming from below.

“Copy,” Guru replied. “Set it up. Everything in one pass.”

“Got it,” Goalie said. “You're hot.

“Flight, follow me in. Lead's in hot.” And with that, Guru rolled in on the armor, still in road march.


Down below, the Soviet battalion commander was shouting at his company commanders on the radio in his command BTR.” First, there had been this no-notice order to form up and join the rest of the regiment, which was somewhere south of what the locals called 'I-40'. Second, as the battalion moved south, there had been some sniping, and some RPGs shot at their vehicles, knocking out a couple of BTR-70s and blowing the tread off a T-72. And now, this solo aircraft, which had been lurking, out of SAM range, and even daring his antiaircraft vehicles to shoot at it. Then his political officer tapped him on the shoulder. “What is it, Comrade...”

“AIRCRAFT!” The Zampolit shouted, pointing to the northeast.

“Mother of...” the Soviet Major muttered, as the lead F-4 came in and cluster bombs came off the racks.

“Gotcha!” Guru yelled as he laid his Rockeyes just north of the WP smoke. “Lead off target.”

“Two's in hot!” Kara called, seeing Guru's CBUs find targets and explode several. She picked out the trailing vehicles and selected them. Again, Rockeyes came off an F-4, and she pulled out. “Two off target.”

“Three's in hot!” Sweaty called as Kara pulled off. She decided on the middle of the column, and saw several vehicles explode as Kara's CBUs went off, and there were burning vehicles where Guru had dropped his. Steady, steady, she told herself. “HACK!” A dozen Mark-20 Rockeyes came off her aircraft.

“Disperse! Get off the road!” The battalion commander was shouting. The road ahead was blocked with burning vehicles after the first two aircraft had made their runs, Then he heard another aircraft coming in, and he was cursing his driver. “Move it, you gutless...” Then his BTR took hits, exploding around him.

“Three's off target,” Sweaty called.

“Four's in hot,” Hoser said. He simply made his run in between where Guru and Sweaty had dropped theirs, Again, CBUs came off an F-4, and he pulled up after release. “Four's off target.”

“Nail, Corvette,” Guru called. “How'd we do?”

“Corvette, Nail Three-Six. I give you one-hundred percent bombs on target. Grade Point Average Four decimal Zero. Have a nice day.”

“Roger that and thank you,” Guru replied. “Flight, let's get out of here.”

“Copy, Lead,” Kara calmly replied. Then she shouted. “LEAD! BREAK RIGHT!”

Guru broke hard right, then he saw a MiG-23 overshoot him. Then he heard Kara shouting.

“FOX TWO!” And an AIM-9P came off her Phantom, streaking like a spear into the MiG's tailpipe. The missile exploded, then the MiG became a fireball. There was no chute. “Splash!”

“Good kill, Two!' Sweaty shouted.

Guru frowned underneath his oxygen mask. Where had that MiG come from? If Kara hadn't been on the ball...”Nice shootin', Starbuck,” He called. Then he called the AWACS. “Crystal Palace, Corvette Two-One.”

“Corvette Two-One, Crystal Palace, go.” the controller responded.

“Crystal Palace, we just had a Flogger jump us. Where the hell did he come from?”

“Corvette, We had him about ten seconds before someone called 'Splash.'”

“Thanks a lot, buddy. He almost splashed one of us.” Guru replied, not bothering to tell the AWACS knothead he'd been the one who'd almost become someone's scalp.

“Roger, Corvette. Do you need a vector to the tanker track?”

“Copy.”

The controller vectored the flight to the tankers, and just like the previous mission, the tanker circuit was busy. After refueling, they headed back to Williams. When they landed, the flight taxied back to their dispersal area, and just like the morning, someone was waiting for them. Only this time, it was just Licon. After Guru popped his canopy, he and Goalie shook hands, glad to be alive. If Kara hadn't been on the ball...

“How'd it go, Sir?” Licon asked as Guru and Goalie got out of the aircraft.

“Air to ground was fine,” Guru said. “Turned a battalion into a company on Highway 344.”

“FAC directed?” Licon asked as the other crews arrived.

“Yeah. Nail Three-Six was his call sign.” Guru said. “He gave us a four-point-zero.”

Nodding, Licon said, “Good, Sir. Anything else?”

“Yeah, Kara got a MiG-23 that nearly got me. Where did he come from?”

“He was hugging the mountains, saw you, and rolled in behind you,” Kara said. “He was too close, though, to try an Aphid shot,. Looked like he was trying to line you up for guns.”

“Good shooting, though,” Goalie said. “Otherwise, it was skydiving time.”

“That's two for Kara, now?” Guru asked.

“It is, Sir,” Licon said. “How many eyeballs on the kill?”

“Three pairs, not couting Kara and Brainaic,” Guru said.

Licon looked at Sweaty and Hoser, and all four crew members nodded. “And you, Sir?”

“I broke right, rolled out, and saw the missile fly up the MiG's tailpipe.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Licon said. “I'll write that up as a confirmed kill, and note the location. Maybe we can find a wreck later on.”

“Thanks, Darren,” Guru said. “Where's the CO?”

“He went out about a half-hour ago with a four-ship. Carson's with him.”

“Good. That asshole's not around, and where the boss can keep an eye on him,” Kara said.

“Seconded,” Sweaty chimed in.

Then the crews saw the ordnance people bringing five-hundred and seven hundred and fifty-pound bombs to their aircraft, along with Capt. Mark Ellis, the Ops Officer. “This one comes for the Marines. Mountainair Municipal Airport, just north of U.S. 60. The Cubans have helos based there, either Hips or Hinds.”

“Let me guess; they want them gone,” Goalie said.

“Right on that,” Ellis replied. “So we got the mission, because Marine air is busy with CAS for the jarheads.”


“Since we don't have a choice, we'll take it,” Guru said. “How long?”

“As soon as you're turned around,” Ellis said. “Sandwiches and drinks in the Hummer, hit the latrine, and get ready to go ASAP,” Ellis said. “Have a good run.” He then headed off to see the next returning flight.

Nodding, the crews went to the Hummer while the ground crew and the ordnance guys went to work. “What's the sandwiches?” Sweaty asked.

Hoser checked the box. “Chicken, Ham, Turkey, Club, and something brown that just sits there.”

Goalie checked the ice chest. “Sodas, bottled water, tea, and Gatorade.”

“Coffee in a gallon thermos,” Guru said. He helped himself to a cup. He was still full from breakfast, and didn't want to chance himself on what some called “Roadkill sandwiches” from the Marines' mess tent.

“I'd like to know,” Kara said, in between bites of a chicken sandwich, “Who wasn't on the ball with that MiG?”

“That's the sixty-four thousand-dollar question,” Goalie nodded. “He must've come up from down south.”

Sweaty nodded as well. “Want to bet his GCI got taken out, and he was just looking for a target?”

“Since he didn't bail out,” Brainac said, “we'll never know.”

Sergeant Crowley then came over. “Captain,” he said to Guru. “Your birds are ready to go.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Guru said. He went over to a portable latrine-of which a number had been placed on the ramp area, and did his business there. Then he gathered his flight around the Hummer, and checked the materials Ellis had left for them. “All right....we'll come in south of Manzano Peak, pick up Route 55, and come in on the target. One run only, people! North to South. Go past the town, pick up the Chupaedra Mesa again, then turn west for the Rio Grande and I-25.”

“Threat?” Kara asked.

“Says here the only defenses are guns. ZU-23s and the quad ZPUs,” Guru said. “But everybody there likely has access to SA-7s, so watch it. No flak or SAM suppressors on this one: we're it.” Guru told his flight. “Any other questions?”

“No questions,” a voice said. “Just wishing you good luck.”

Guru turned and there was Dave Golen, their IDF observer. “Dave, this all bringing back memories?”

“Yes,” Golen said. “First day of the Yom Kippur War. But with one difference.”

“What's that?” Sweaty asked as she grabbed her helmet.

“You're winning.” Golen said. He put out his hand, and everyone shook it. “I wish I could join you.”

“Talk to Rivers when he gets back,” Guru said. “We had an IDF exchange officer go home a couple months ago: he had fifty-seven missions and a couple of MiGs on his belt when he left.”

“I will,” Golen said. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Dave,” Guru said. “Any other questions?” He asked his flight. Heads shook no. “All right, time to hit it.”

The crews went to their birds, and after a quick walkaround, they strapped themselves into their mounts. Their flight instructors would have been apoplectic at how rushed the preflight routine was, but on a day like today, no choice. They started engines, let them warm up, then they taxied to the runway, and after the tower showed them the green light, the four F-4s rolled down the runway and into the air.

And the morning goes on, two more missions before lunch:


Over New Mexico: 0950 Hours:


Corvette Flight headed into enemy territory, and as they crossed the Sandias south of Manzano Peak, their RWR receivers were clear. Either the EW effort was working, or so many radars had been knocked out, and gaps torn in the ComBloc air defense net. “How long to Route 55?” Guru called.

“One minute,” Goalie replied. “Stand by to turn.”

“Roger that.” Guru then called the AWACS. “Crystal Palace, Corvette Two-One. Say threat?”

“Corvette Two-One, Negative threat.”

“Copy.”

“Stand by....and turn!” Goalie called.

Guru put the F-4 into a turn, and the rest of the flight followed. “One minute thirty to pop-up?”

“Roger that,” Goalie said.

“Flight, Lead. Pick up your visual scanning. Don't want to be caught like last time,”

“Copy, Lead,” Sweaty called.

“Stand by...” Goalie said. “Now!”

Guru put the F-4 into a climb, and as he did, he could see the Mountainair Municipal Airport off to his right. “Target in sight. Lead is in hot.” He banked right, and began to roll in on the target.

“Switches set,” Goalie said. “We're hot.”


Down below, the Cuban Air Force's 261st Helicopter Squadron was trying to get their Mi-25 Hinds and Mi-8 Hips airborne. Several of each had already been shot down, and despite the skies being full of American aircraft, the ground forces needed their support. So far, the field hadn't been bombed yet, but the base commander knew his time would come. Apart from the armorers and maintenance personnel, the base commander had every available man digging slit trenches and foxholes, or improving already existing facilities, because sooner or later, the Americans would strike his field. He was distracted by a rumble off to the west. This time of day, he knew it wasn't desert thunder-he'd been exposed to enough of that the last year and a half. No, it was artillery fire. And it was coming closer.

“Steady, steady...” Guru called. He could see several helos and a couple An-2 transports on what passed for a parking area on this dirt field. Nice try, Fidel....and....”HACK!” He hit the pickle button, and six five-hundred pound and six seven-hundred and fifty pound bombs came off the aircraft. “Lead off target.”

There had been no warning. The first indication the Cubans had that their field was under attack was Guru's Phantom flying past, and then that Phantom laid a dozen bombs across the runway and the improvised parking area. Two Hips, a Hind, and one of the An-2s fireballed as bombs exploded on and around them.

“Madre Dios...,” the base commander said as one of his officers pulled him into a trench.

“Two's in hot!” Kara called. She rolled in on the western side of the field, and saw an An-2 trying to take off. She didn't have time to arm her 20-mm gun, but instead focused on the bomb run. “HACK!” She called, and walked her bombs across the runway, blasting holes in it, and also landing a bomb on a ZPU gun emplacement, whose gunners died not even knowing they were under attack. “Two off target.”

“Three's in hot,” Sweaty called. She selected the center of the runway, and saw two Hips siting next to it, still intact. She came in and smoothly walked her bombs across the center of the dirt runway, and exploded both Hips, as a five-hundred pound bomb landed between the two helos. “Three's off safe,” she called as Two-Three pulled away from the target, and right over the town of Mountainair.

“Four in hot,” Hoser called. He saw that the field had been smacked by the first three, but saw one area that hadn't been affected: a parking area south of the field for fuel trucks. Since there was no fuel storage here, even before the war, all fuel for the helicopters-and the occasional visiting An-2 or An-26, had to be delivered by fuel trucks. So Hoser made a turn before rolling in, coming in from due east, and walking his bombs along the south side of the runway. Several fuel trucks exploded, and a couple bombs landed in a tent area south of the runway. As he pulled out, he saw an An-2, to his surprise, take off and pull away to the east. You are one lucky SOB, he thought as he called. “Four off target.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. “Form on me, music on, and let's get the hell out of here.”

All four F-4s joined up and they headed right for the Rio Grande. As they headed west, all of the crews noticed Marine F-4s and A-4s overhead in abundance, providing CAS to the Marines on the ground. They even heard a Marine FAC simply stack aircraft up from 5,000 up to 25,000 feet, and telling newly arriving aircraft, “Get in line at 25,000 and wait your turn.”

“Guru, Sweaty. Glad that ain't us?” Sweaty called her flight leader.

“Roger that!” Guru replied. “Crossing the fence.”

“Corvette Two-One, Crystal Palace. We show you across the fence. Do you need a vector to the tankers?”

“Negative, Crystal Palace,” Guru replied. “Not this time.”

“Roger, Corvette. Maintain Two-Seven-Zero until state line.”

“Copy,” Guru replied.

Once they reached the Arizona-New Mexico state line, they were then able to head to Williams. After coming into the pattern, they had to wait as several flights of both AF and Marine aircraft took off, then the flight was able to land. After taxiing to their dispersal area, the crews got out, relieved that this one had gone off almost like a training mission. “Good one, Guru,” Goalie said.

“If they were all like that...” Guru said. “Take 'em while we can.”

“Hey, did anyone see an An-2 on the runway?” Kara asked as they walked back to the Hummer.

“Yeah,” Hoser said. “He took off just as I was pulling away. He's lucky.”

Sweaty nodded. “Those things can land anywhere. He probably found a strip someplace to the east.”

Guru nodded as Sergeant Crowely came up. “Sergeant.”

“Sir. Anything we need to know?” He was asking about maintenance issues.

“No, not yet. Pull the strike camera footage, and..” Guru stopped. He saw the ordnance crews coming with a mixed CBU and dumb bomb load. “Well....I know what we're carrying.”

“Yes, sir. Be ready in thirty minutes,” Crowley said.

“Okay, Sergeant,” Guru said. Then he noticed Colonel Rivers and the SIO waiting. “Sir.”

“How'd things go, XO?” Rivers asked.

“This one was as close to a milk run as we'll probably get. No Triple-A, no SAMs, no nothing.”

“BDA?”The SIO, Licon, asked.

“I'm claiming a couple of helos on the ground,” Guru said. “Put a few holes in the runway and the parking area. Calling that an airport is an overstatement, though.”

“Same here,” Sweaty added. “You'll have to check our strike camera footage, though.”

“Roger that,” said Kara. “Put mine on the runway, and maybe a bomb or two on a flak site.”

“Hoser?” Licon asked.

“Fuel dump,” West replied. “Made that go away.”

“Thanks, all of you,” Licon said. “BDA should be available later today. Recon's been active all morning, and don't be surprised if you see a high flier.”

“U-2s?” Goalie asked.

“Maybe,” Licon said. “Thanks again,” and then the SIO went off to receive another incoming flight.

“Let me guess,” said Sweaty. “SR-71s?”

“Maybe,” Rivers said. “Don't be surprised if they did show.”

Guru nodded. He noticed the maintenance folks and the ordnance people working. Many of the men were either wearing sleeveless T-Shirts or were going bare-chested, while the women in those crews were in the same sleeveless T-Shirts or were in sports bras. “If Carson saw those, he'd go ballistic.”

“No kidding,” Rivers said. “So far, nothing yet.”

“Give him time,” Kara nodded.

Guru nodded, then he saw the object of their discussion coming towards the group. “Uh-oh... Speak of the devil.”

Major Frank Carson came over. He was easily the most despised officer in the squadron, and that opinion was shared by everyone else in the unit, both officers and enlisted. An Academy grad, he was notorious for blindly enforcing every rule and regulation, even when those made no sense. Throw in his distaste for officers who were not Academy grads, or Academy grads who were “one of the boys” after hours, female aircrew, and just about how the 335th was run, and it added up to trouble. “Colonel,” he said, giving a perfect Academy salute. “Are you going to do anything about the airmen who are out of uniform on the ramp?”

“No,” Rivers said. “Other than telling the NCOs to have plenty of sunscreen handy. It's a hot day, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Sir!” Carson wailed.

“In case you haven't noticed, Major,” Rivers said. “We're at war. And right now, I don't give a damn how the ramp crews are dressed. If it keeps them comfortable while they're doing their jobs? I could care less.”

“Sir....You don't understand!”

“No, Major, you don't. Unlike you, I know what parts of the book to keep and what to throw away. Now get ready to go out again in fifteen. You're my number three again.”

“Yes, Sir....,” grumbled the Major.

“And Major? If you write anyone up for a uniform violation who's working on the ramp, I'll put it right where it belongs,” Rivers nodded.

“Very good, Sir!”

“In the office shredder,” Rivers said, seeing Carson's face deflate. “Now get ready to go out.”

“Yes, Sir.,” Carson saluted and headed to his own aircraft in a fit of the sulks.

“Now that's out of the way,” Rivers said. “Here's where you guys are headed.” He pulled out a TPC chart of Central New Mexico. “Right here...” Rivers pointed to a town called White Lakes, north of I-40 on U.S. 285.

“What's the target, Sir?” Guru asked.

“Supply dump and truck park. Right now their whole front in this part of New Mexico is coming apart, and III Corps is going forward a lot faster than they thought,” Rivers said. “Keep up the pressure, and don't give 'em time to regroup.”

“And if we don't find the dump? It could be empty by the time we get there.”

“Look for any military traffic on either 285 or State Highway 41. Stay away from I-40. The Army wants it intact,” Rivers said.

“Understood,” Guru said. “Sir, what's the threat?”

“Threat is mainly MANPADS and light flak-mainly ZU-23s. The SA-3 site at Clines Corners is down-the Weasels got there this morning,” The CO said.

“Good to hear, Boss,” Guru said. “Oh, Dave Golen's probably looking for you. I think he wants some stick time.”

“General Tanner sent something in case he wanted some,” Rivers said. “ID, dog tags, insignia, all of it. If he gets shot down, as far as everyone's concerned, he's one of us.”

'Yes, Sir.” Guru said.

“Okay, get something to eat, hit the latrine, because you're headed out as soon as you're turned around,” Rivers said.”And one other thing: good luck.”

“Thanks, Boss,” Guru said.

Colonel Rivers nodded as he headed off to get ready for his next flight.

Kara nodded as she got a Gatorade from the cooler. “Why hasn't he kicked Carson out?”

“Like it or not, he's qualified,” Guru said. “We still need warm bodies, even if he did barely qualify.”

“In the air, he could get somebody killed-or himself,” Sweaty pointed out. “Who qualified him?”

“Not sure,” Guru admitted. “I'll check his file.” As squadron Exec, he could do that. He went to the cooler and got a bottle of water. “What's the temperature?”

“Air or ramp?” Goalie asked. She had gotten out of the top half of her flight suit, as had Kara, Sweaty, and “KT” Thornton, and everyone else, for that matter. All had their T-Shirts and sports bras on, of course, but the sweat made sure that didn't help hide things. Much.

“Either one,” he said as he downed some water.

“How does 92 degrees sound? Or here on the ramp, it's probably 105.”

“Ugh,” Kara said as she picked at another sandwich. “Stay away from the brown stuff.”

“Why?” Sweaty's WSO, Preacher Simmonds, asked.

“One of those just moved.”

“Don't be surprised if somebody got a BLT from those jarheads and the tomato looked back at you.” Goalie said as she chomped down on a turkey sandwich, and the crews laughed.

Guru had just finished his water and a turkey sandwich when Sergeant Crowley came over. “Sir, all four birds are ready to go.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Guru said. He turned to his flight. “Take care of any business at the latrine, then we'll brief and launch.”

After everyone had come back from the latrine, and back into their flight suits and G-Suits, Guru gave his brief. “I'll keep this short. We're looking for a supply dump and truck park, north of I-40 on 285. The local SA-3 site is down, so we're good on that score. If the dump and park are empty, we look for military traffic on either 285 or Highway 41. Stay away from I-40, like the Boss said.”

“They want a Cannonball Run to the Texas State Line, and the freeway's the best way to do it,” Kara nodded.

“Right on that,” Guru said. “Any other questions?” There were none. “All right; let's go.” He picked up his helmet and went to his mount, 512, with Goalie right behind him. After a quick walkaround, they mounted their aircraft and ran through the preflight, and ran up their J-79 engines. After receiving permission to taxi, they taxied to the end of the runway, where the armorers pulled off the weapon safety pins. Once that was done, the F-4s taxied onto the runway, where the tower flashed a green light, and all four rumbled down the runway and into the air.


Over East-Central New Mexico; 1130 Hours:


Corvette Flight was once again over familiar territory, having flown numerous strikes into this part of New Mexico. Only this time, they were at 10,000 feet, and not having to worry about SAM activity, for both the EW and SEAD effort had paid off, and the ComBloc's air defense network in this area had been taken apart. Now the aircrews were looking for the truck park and supply dump that they had been tasked to hit. “Anything?” Guru asked Goalie, who was scanning the ground below with binoculars.

“Nothing yet. This might be a wild-goose chase,” she replied.

“Wouldn't surprise me if these guys just pulled up and left,” Guru said.

“Guru, Sweaty,” was the call over his radio. “We've got something.”

“Where?” Guru asked.

“Eleven O’clock low,” came the reply. “Look for the truck tracks.”

“Got it!” Goalie said.

“I see it,” replied Guru. “One pass: CBUs only. See if we can find the supply dump.”

“Copy,” Sweaty replied.

“Two, on me,” Guru called, and he saw Starbuck coming into formation in a right echelon. “One pass, east to west.”

“Roger that,” Kara replied.

“Copy, two,” said Guru. “Set us up: wing stations have the CBUs.”

“Got it,” Goalie replied, stowing the binoculars. She worked the armament switches. “You're set.”

“Time to go,” Guru said. “Lead's in hot!” He turned and rolled down the chute, lining up on the truck tracks below.


Below, the truck drivers and their MVD escorts were deciding what to do. Some of the truck drivers' destinations were now rumored to be in enemy hands, and the last thing the drivers-most of whom had been in the military twenty or twenty-five years earlier-wanted to do was keep going and run into the Americans. Others, including their MVD escorts, wanted to keep going, and at least find someone in authority to get further instructions from. They were still arguing with each other when an MVD lieutenant pointed skyward.

“Steady, steady,” Guru called, “HACK!” He hit the pickle button and six Rockeye CBUs came off the wing stations. He pulled up and leveled off, glad to have no return fire. “Lead off target.”

Six Rockeye CBUs have 1,482 bomblets. Guru's run effectively covered most of the truck park with the bomblets, and some of the trucks had fuel or ammunition as cargo....

“Two in hot!” Kara called. She saw the secondary explosions on the ground, as well as Guru's plane as it pulled up and away, rolling off to the right. “HACK!” She called, placing her CBUs to the right of her lead's, and careful to keep any of the bomblets away from the road. Even though they hadn't been told to avoid hitting 285, the chances were pretty good that friendlies might be coming down this road soon, and so....”Two's off target.”

“Three's in!” Sweaty called. She rolled in and laid her CBUs between Guru's and Kara's, and she noted that Kara's had also caused some secondary explosions. “Three's off target,” she said as she pulled up and away.

“Four in hot!” Hoser said. He wanted to lay his Rockeyes just to the south of where Guru had put his, and as he went in, he noticed some tracers coming up. Someone down there was shooting back. Mentally, he changed his mission from “attack” to “post-strike flak suppression.” Hoser centered his pipper on the tracers and released, calling, “Four off target.”

Down below, some of the MVD troops were firing back at the attacking aircraft. Though most of them had AKMs, they also had a BTR-152 and a DshK machine gun, and two of the MVD were manning the gun. Then Hoser's F-4 flew over them, and they saw the CBUs open, then hell came down on them as the bomblets detonated, killing and wounding many, and exploding the BTR as well (it being an open-topped vehicle, several bomblets landed inside the track....).


“Good work, Four,” Guru called. “You got secondaries.”

“Thanks, Lead,” Hoser replied.

“Guru, Starbuck. You want to go back and use the '82s?” Kara called her flight leader.

“Negative,” Guru replied. “Let's check out Highway 41. Maybe we can find something there.” He didn't want to go back to 285, because all they had found was the truck park, and no sign of the supply dump.

Back at the remains of the truck park, the survivors picked themselves up, and were deciding what to do. The highway known as “Interstate 40” was only a few kilometers away, and there was a traffic-control point there, one that many had passed through. Maybe they could get some help, or maybe a ride back to their units. Some were hesitant, but exploding trucks and delayed-action bomblets going off as well convinced them that staying around wasn't a good idea.


Up above, the four Phantoms regrouped and headed west. The crews knew the next major north-south road was State Route 41, and with this push on, that road was likely to be jammed with enemy traffic, either reinforcements headed to the front, or those trying to get away. Guru decided to call the AWACS and see if there was not only any threat in the area, but if a FAC or two were working nearby. “Crystal Palace, Corvette Two-One.”

“Corvette Two-One, Crystal Palace. Go ahead,” the controller replied.

“Crystal Palace, say bogey dope.”

“Corvette Two-One, Crystal Palace, negative bogeys.”

“Copy that. Any Nails working the area?” Guru asked. Nail was the usual FAC call sign.

“Stand by,” the controller said. After a few seconds, the controller returned. “Corvette, contact either Nail Three-One or Nail Three-Seven.”

“Roger that,” Guru replied. “Say closest?”

“Corvette, Crystal Palace, Nail Three-Seven is closest your posit.”

“Copy,” Guru replied. “Nail Three-Seven, Corvette Two-One with four Foxtrot Fours, inbound from the east.”

“Roger, Corvette, say type of ordnance?” The FAC called.

“Nail, Corvette. Six Mark-eight-twos and full guns each airplane.”

“Copy that. Route Four-One is full. Anything moving there is a target. Free strike,” the FAC replied.

Guru looked ahead and saw an A-7 orbiting. “Roger, Nail. Say ground threat?”

“Corvette, triple-A is the only threat, apart from MANPADS. No heavy stuff.”

Hearing that, Goalie called her pilot on the intercom. “Somebody must've took out the SA-2 south of here.”

“Not complaining about that,” Guru said. “Roger, Nail.”

Corvette Flight came in, and they could see the road was full of traffic. What looked like rear-echelon types headed south, and some armor headed north, towards U.S. 285. “Lead, Sweaty. How do you want it?”

“One pass, northeast to southwest,” Guru said. “Follow me in.”

“Copy,” Sweaty replied.

“Starbuck, Lead. On me.”

“Right with you, Lead,” Kara replied.

“Flight, Lead, Let's go to work.” Guru called over the radio. Then he told Goalie, “Switches set.”

“Copy,” she said. “Centerline set. You're hot.”

“Roger,” Guru said. “Flight, Lead's in hot!” He then rolled in on the attack run.

Below, on Highway 41, it was a traffic jam. The Soviet traffic regulators were trying to sort out the rear-services vehicles, who had been ordered to head for Interstate 40 and proceed east from the reinforcements headed in both directions. Tanks and APCs from one division were headed north to block the Americans coming from that direction, while an independent Motor-Rifle Regiment was headed south, to try and shore up the Cubans, who were being torn apart by the U.S. Marines. No one seemed to be paying attention to the sky, and that would prove to be a big mistake.

“Steady, steady,” Guru said to himself as he lined the pipper up on a crossroads. It looked like a small county road was intersecting with the state highway. Oh, well...your bad day, Ivan. “HACK!” He pushed the pickle button, and six Mark-82s came off the centerline rack. “Lead off target.”

Guru's bombs landed right on a traffic control point, and the bombs tore apart several trucks and flipped a BTR-70 over, as well as killing and wounding a number of the truck drivers and traffic regulators. No one even heard the F-4 come in. Then a trucker pointed east. A second plane was coming in...

“Two's in!” Was the call from Starbuck. She put her bombs just to the south of Guru's, and as she pulled away and rolled, she and Brainac saw secondary explosions. Somebody had something that went boom....”Two off target.”

Kara's bombs had landed on several supply trucks belonging to the motor-rifle regiment, and in particular, the artillery battalion. Her Mark-82s set off 122-mm artillery ammo, and there were several large secondaries as a result.

Now it was Sweaty's turn. “Three rolling in hot!” She called as she rolled in. Sweaty saw the explosions down below, and she put her bombs to the north of that. Her bombs landed on some armor headed north, and flipped a T-62 and tore apart several BMPs. But this time, as she pulled out, she saw an SA-7 or -14 coming up. “Three off, with a SAM at Seven O'clock.”

Just north of where Sweaty had dropped her bombs, several BMPs had pulled off the highway, and their infantry had deployed. One of them had an Strela-3 (SA-14) launcher, and he locked up the F-4 and fired.

“Preacher, dump some flares,” Sweaty said as she pulled into a tight turn.

“Gotcha,” he replied, pumping out a number of flares, and trying to see the missile.

“Sweaty, Starbuck,” Kara called. “SAM just hit a flare.”

“Copy,” Sweaty said.

“Four's in hot!” Hoser called. He had seen where the SAM had been launched from, and decided that nobody shoots at his element leader and gets away with it. He rolled in, and saw the dissipating smoke trail, and lined it up in his pipper. “HACK!” He called as he dropped his bombs.

Hoser's bombs landed in the middle of the BMPs, tossing several like toys, and killing or wounding most of the infantrymen around the vehicles. Unlike his element leader, he drew no fire as he pulled out.

“Four's off target,” Hoser called.

“Roger that,” Guru called. “Form on me. One pass is all we get.”

“Still got guns,” Kara reminded her flight leader.

“Not with those Grails around,” Guru said. Grails meant MANPADS to any aircrew.

“Copy,” Kara replied.

“Nail, Corvette, we are Winchester and headed out,” Guru called the FAC.

“Copy, Corvette,” the FAC replied. “Good bombs on target.”

Corvette Flight reformed and headed west. As they cleared the Sandia Mountains north of Albuquerque, they saw the sky over the city full of helicopters, and to their north, I-25 was full of American armor. Both sights were deeply satisfying to the aircrews. As they crossed the Rio Grande, Guru called the AWACS. “Crystal Palace, Corvette Two-One crossing the fence.”

“Copy, Corvette,” the controller replied. “Do you need a vector to the tankers?”

“Roger, Crystal Palace.”

The controller gave the flight a vector to the tanker track over the Continental Divide. This time, they hooked up with a KC-135, and the tankers were just as busy as they had been in the early morning. After refueling, they headed back to Williams, and after waiting a few minutes for outbound traffic to leave, they came in and landed. As they taxied in, the crews saw several Marine A-6s preparing to go out, and they were loaded with laser-guided bombs. There was a term going around those who used LGBs, and that was “tank plinking.” “Looks like the Jarheads are going to plink some tanks,” Goalie commented.

“Wish we could do that more often,” Guru said. Their squadron only had two Pave Spike Pods, and two Pave Tack pods, though several crews were qualified to use both types of pods. Both Guru and Goalie could count on one hand the number of times they'd flown a laser bomb mission.

The flight taxied in to their dispersal area, and shut down. Guru popped his canopy, and let out a big sigh. He checked his watch. “Four missions and it's already 1230.”

“How many more?” Goalie asked as she popped her canopy.

“However many they tell us,” Guru said as the ground crew brought the crew ladders. “Thanks, guys.”

“How'd it go, Sir?” Sergeant Crowley asked as both Guru and Goalie climbed down.

“Ripped up a truck park, and ripped up some armor,” Guru replied. “What's up next?”

Crowley nodded at his pilot. “Ordnance guys will be here in fifteen minutes, Sir. They need a break.”

“They, you guys, and everybody else,” Goalie said.

“Yes, Ma'am,” Crowley said.

“Nothing wrong with the bird, Sergeant,” Guru said as they did a postflight walk around. “No holes that we can see.”

“Thanks, Sir,” Crowley said. “They brought some more stuff for the cooler and more coffee.”

“All right, Sergeant,” Guru said. He headed to the Hummer, and found Mark Ellis and Darren Licion waiting. “Guys.”

Ellis put out his hand. “How'd it go, Guru?”

“Not bad,” Guru replied as the rest of the flight came over. “Tore up the truck park, but there was no sign of the supply depot.”

“What?” Licon asked, clearly surprised. “It was on the photos, clear as day.”

“Probably a dummy,” Sweaty chimed in. “Not the first time somebody got fooled that way.”

“I'll go along with that,” Kara added. “But the truck park....lots of secondaries there.”

“I'll check the strike footage,” Licon said. “What else?”

“We hit traffic on Route 41,” Guru added. “Lots of armor and trucks. Tanks, APCs, supply vehicles, that sort of thing.”

“FAC directed?” Licon wanted to know.

“You got it. Nail Three-Seven was his call sign.”

“Okay, I'll find out from him, and look at the strike footage,” Licon said. “Any threats?”

“Sweaty had a SA-7 shot at her,” Hoser said. “I put my stuff down on those guys.”

“Close call?” Mark Ellis asked.

“No, it went after a flare,” Kara said. “I don't think Sweaty even saw it.”

“We didn't,” Sweaty confirmed. “But the flares did their job.”

“Okay, I'll check with the FAC, and go over your strike footage,” Licon said. “Thanks, guys.” He then went off to debrief another returning flight.

“What's next, Mark?” Guru asked.

“On-call CAS again, but not until 1400. You guys deserve a break,” Ellis said. “Rivers said so.”

“He here?” Guru asked, reaching for the cooler and a bottle of water.

“No, he went out ten minutes ago,” Ellis said. “And Dave Golen was flying with him.”

“Carson with the Boss?”

“Yep,” Ellis said. “With Golen as element lead. Carson's number two to Dave.”

“Let's hope Frank learns something from him,” Guru said. “Though I doubt it.”

“Right on that,” Ellis said. “Oh, don't go into the squadron's building. The power's out, and thus the A/C.”

“What happened?” Sweaty asked. “Sabotage?”

Ellis shook his head. “Still checking. Power company says a transformer blew, but the FBI and OSI are out, making sure.”

“With this push on,” Kara said, “some sleeper agent must've decided to go active.”

“Probably,” Ellis admitted. “They still don't know yet.”

“Okay, Mark,” Guru said. “If anyone needs to see me, send 'em over this way.”

“Gotcha,” said Ellis.

While they were waiting for their birds to be turned around, the crews helped themselves to some more cool drinks, and the Marine mess people came around with some hot meals for lunch. “Captain, want something hot?” A Marine Mess Sergeant asked. “Hot steak and cheese sandwiches, burgers and fries, or fried chicken?”

The crews had lunch while sitting under a tarp that someone had strung up from the Hummer to a tie-down position. And to Guru's relief, no one asked about squadron business, only what they'd seen and done. So a lot of swapping stories, and comparing notes went on, and while that was going on, the turnaround process began. So far, the 335th had not lost any aircraft or crews, but since they had half a day to go, that could easily change. About halfway through the break, Colonel Rivers' flight landed. After he debriefed, Rivers and Dave Golen came over. “Guru,” Rivers said.

“Boss,” Guru replied. “How's it going?”

“Well, First Cav is in Santa Fe, and they're headed for Highways 285, and 84 if they can. They want to get to I-40 and pocket what's left of Albuquerque's defenders.”

“Then who's in Albuquerque?” Kara asked.

“That's 23rd ID and the 11th Airborne. Fifth Marine Division to the south, and the rest of Sixth Army. The Rio Grande line just collapsed, and the ComBloc is headed east. And we're right behind 'em,” Rivers said.

“Good to hear, Sir,” Goalie said. “What's going on to the north?”

“Denver's relieved, and the whole ComBloc line in Colorado's starting to come apart. Not as fast as here, but...” Rivers said.

“Yeah,” Guru said. “Boss, we still got half a day to go.”

“Right on that,” Rivers nodded. He noticed the ordnance crews bringing ordnance to Guru's flight. “And you guys are going first.”

Guru and his flight noticed the ordnance. Napalm tanks and Mark-82s with fuze extenders. The old Vietnam “Shake and bake” load. “Barbeque time,” he observed.

“Yep,” Rivers said. He turned to Dave Golen. “Look familiar?”

“Like the Yom Kippur War, as I said to the Captain, but with a difference,” Golen remarked.

“What's that?”

“You're winning.”

“Can't argue with that,” Kara quipped.

Master Sergeant Michael Ross, the squadron's senior NCO, came over. “Colonel,” he said to Rivers. “The power's back on. Along with the A/C.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Rivers said. “Now to see if Carson left anything on my desk.”

“If he did, Boss, may I suggest making good on that promise?” Guru asked. He was barely concealing his loathing for the overzealous Major.

“You may, Guru,” Rivers said. “And I'll make good on it.” He shook Guru's hand. “Good luck on the next one.”

“Thanks, Boss.”

Rivers then shook hands with the rest of the flight, and headed back to the squadron offices with Ross. Golen stayed, since he had his one mission for the day, and watched as the ordnance crews finished. “Your people are starting to slow down,” he observed.

“They were working when we got here,” Goalie said. “No wonder.”

Sergeant Crowley came over. “Captain Wiser, the birds are locked and cocked. Ready to go.”

Guru nodded. “Thanks.” He finished a bottle of water, then turned to the flight. “Hit the latrines, then come back here.”

Everyone headed off, did their business at the portable latrines, then came back to the Hummer. “What's next?” Sweaty asked.

“On-call CAS,” Guru replied. “Call AWACS, and they tell us which FAC to go to.”

“Great,” Hoser said. “No way to know where?”

“Nope,” Guru replied. “North or south, wherever the controller sends us.”

“Lovely,” Kara spat.

“I'd rather go and bust up an airfield-like Cannon or Holloman, but not our call,” Guru reminded everyone. “Anything else?” Heads shook no. He picked up his helmet. “Let's hit it.”

The crews headed to their aircraft, and though the walkaround was normal, the preflight in the cockpit was one that their flight instructors would have had fits over. After engine start, the tower cleared them to taxi, then the flight taxied to the runway. There, the armorers removed the safety pins on the weapons. After taxiing onto the runway, the tower flashed a green light, and the F-4s rumbled down the runway and into the air.

The day goes on.....


Over Central New Mexico, 1340 Hours:


Corvette Flight was orbiting just west of the Rio Grande, southwest of Albuquerque. With nervous Army air-defense units down below with HAWK and Patriot SAM batteries, everyone made sure their IFF was on, and that when they entered or left enemy territory, the safe-passage lanes were being used.
Then there was the sight down below, as the Army's 11th Airborne Division kept up the effort by helicopter, grounding down the defenders, who were half Soviet and half Nicaraguan. The latter had folded up pretty quick, but the Soviets had dug themselves into the northeastern part of the city, and had to be blasted out. It also meant that both Kirtland AFB and Albuquerque IAP were still not open for fixed-wing operations, let alone helicopters, because there were still shells landing near the runways, and the AF needed the RED HORSE teams to get in, assess the condition of the runways and ramp, before it could be opened, and the Army had to drive the Russians out of artillery range at least before that could happen.

Guru was looking down from 17,000 feet. “Man, that part of town's getting torn up.”

“Seen worse,” Goalie reminded her pilot. “Denver.”

“Yeah,” Guru said. “But a siege is different. Nobody going forward on either side. Today...”

Goalie smiled under her oxygen mask. “Lot different. Those guys down there don't want to give up.”

“Nowhere to go, and penned up against the Mountains,” Guru noted.

“Corvette Two-One, Aladdin,” the voice over the radio said. Aladdin was the call sign for an EC-130E Airborne Command Post (ABCCC). “We have tasking for you.”

“Aladdin, Corvette, “ Guru replied. “Go.”

“Corvette, we have a ground FAC along Highway 41, requesting CAS. Contact Covey Two-Six.”

“Copy, Aladdin. Covey Two-Six,” Guru replied. “Covey Two-Six, Corvette Two-One.”

“Corvette, Covey Two-Six.” Replied the FAC. “Say aircraft and type of ordnance?”

“Covey, we have four Foxtrot-Fours with a shake'n bake load.” Guru told the FAC.

“Roger, Corvette. Hostiles along the highway. Infantry and APCs. We are taking mortar fire.” The sound of an explosion came over the radio, clearly describing the FAC's situation.

“Copy that,” Guru replied. “Say surface-to-air threat.”

“Corvette, unknown Sierra Alpha threat,” the FAC responded.

“Roger that, Covey. Corvette Flight inbound.” Guru said. “Flight, lead. Follow me and let's go. Folks on the ground need some help.”

“Roger, Lead,” Sweaty called. And the flight of four Phantoms went in again into enemy territory. Though if things kept going the way they were, it wouldn't for long.

“Covey Two-Six, Corvette Lead. Say your posit.” Guru called, asking for the FAC's position.

“Corvette,” Covey replied. “Two miles north of Stanley on 41. We are on the east side. Bad guys to the west and along the road.”

“Copy,” Guru said. “Can you mark the target?”

“That's affirm,” Covey replied. “Will mark with Willie Pete.”

Down below, three puffs of White Phosphorous marked the target. And the F-4 crews could see them from their new altitude of 7,000 feet. “Have visual on Willie Pete,” Guru said. “How do you want it?' Shake first, or bake?”

“Corvette, Shake'em up first. Bad guys are Alpha Lima Alpha,” Covey replied. That meant ALA.

“Roger that,” Guru said. He did the switches himself. Centerline first. “Goalie, get set.”

“Ready back here,” Goalie replied. “Let's teach those scumbags a lesson.”

“Let's do it,” Guru agreed. “Flight, Lead. Follow me in. South to North.” Then he rolled in on the bomb run. “Lead in hot!”

“Lead, Two, right behind you,” Kara called.


Guru went down the chute, and lined up on the WP smoke. He pulled level at 700 feet AGL and released as he went over the WP smoke. “Lead's off target.”

Below, the ALA's 122nd Security Battalion was engaging what their commander called “bandits and counterrevolutionaries.” They had a KGB company with them, and not just to offer advice, but to “stiffen” their resolve. They had no air-defense weapons other than machine guns and a few Strela-2 (SA-7) missiles. And Guru's run had taken them by surprise as his F-4 flew over, then five-hundred pound bombs came off the aircraft, and exploded among the ALA troopers.

“Corvette, Covey,” the FAC called. “Good hits!”

“Copy, Covey,” Guru replied.

“Two's in hot!” Kara called, rolling in on her run. She had heard the target description, and these ALA scum fully deserved whatever came to them. Kara lined up on the northern WP smoke, releasing as she passed over. “Two off target.”

The ALA troopers had been caught by surprise, and a few of them saw Kara's F-4 rolling in. They took cover in a roadside ditch, but many of their comrade did not, or would not. The Mark-82s killed or wounded a number of ALA troopers, and flipped an old BTR-40 APC over.

“Three's in hot!” Sweaty called. She put her bombs to the west of the highway, and unknown to her, her aimpoint was where the mortar positions were. Sweaty saw the trucks as she leveled out, then released her bombs. “Three's off target.”

“Corvette,” Covey called. “Great hits! You got the mortars, fella.”

“You're welcome, buddy,” Sweaty replied.

“Four's in hot!” Hoser said. He came down onto the southern WP smoke, and the FAC-and the SF team he was with- watched as Hoser's bombs ripped into several of the ALA's vehicles, and tossed troopers' bodies like rags. “Four's off target.”

“Covey, Corvette Lead,” Guru called the FAC. “You want some barbeque time?” That meant napalm.

“Roger that,” the FAC replied. “Same target area.”

“Copy,” Guru replied. He came around for his second run. “Flight, Lead. Follow me and drop in trail.” Then he called Goalie. “Set us up.”

“Roger, Lead,” Sweaty replied.

:”You're set,” Goalie told her pilot. “Wing pylons armed.”

“Then let's fry these bastards,” Guru said with deadly seriousness. “Lead's in.”

Corvette Flight then came in trail, with Guru, Kara, Sweaty, and Hoser all in line. Each F-4 came over and released four BLU-27 napalm bombs, and many of the ALA (and some KGB) who had survived the first pass were incinerated by the second. And the strike took the fight out of the survivors, who began trickling away in both directions.

“Corvette, Covey,” the FAC called. “Good hits on target. Thanks, fellas.”

“Glad to be of help,” Guru called. And we gave those scum a taste of hell that's waiting for 'em, he thought. “Flight, form on me, and let's get out of here.”

Corvette Flight reformed and headed west, over the Sandias. They gave Albuquerque a wide berth, because not only were there helicopters in abundance, but also artillery shells, and a 155 shell in flight didn't care whether or not you were a friendly. The flight headed to the tanker track, and as they were waiting to refuel, heard something ominous over the radio. “Dodge Three-Two is down.”

“Oh, shit!' Guru said.

“Cory Hatcher and Bob Hall,” Goalie said. She knew Hall, he'd been in her WSO class at the RTU. Hatcher, though, was a new guy, and per squadron policy, had been teamed up with an experienced WSO.

“Dodge Three-Three, Crystal Palace,” the AWACS called. “Any chutes?”

“Negative,” Three-One replied. “Sierra Alpha one-one.” That meant the SA-11 Gadfly, and was usually bad news.

“Copy,” the AWACS controller said.

The tanker hookup was subdued, and there was hardly any banter as the flight returned to Williams. Two of their friends were gone, but there was nothing they could do about it. Fight now, mourn later, was the mantra, and there would be time later, if not that day, for them to mourn their lost friends.

After landing, their mood went from exuberant to quiet seriousness. Word had spread that a squadron plane was down, and that the crew hadn't gotten out. “Sir,” Sergeant Crowley said. “How'd it go?”

“Gave some ALA a shake'n bake,” Guru said as he got down from his aircraft. “Nothing wrong with the airplane, though.”

“That's good, Sir,” Crowley said. “Colonel's waiting by the Hummer.”

Nodding, Guru led the members of his flight to the Hummer they had been using in between flights as a rest area. “Colonel,” Guru said.

“I heard,” Colonel Rivers said. “Mike Engle and Joe Putnam called it in. They were near Las Vegas on I-25. First Cav found the crash site.”

“Only good thing about it,” Guru said. “They're not MIA.”

“Yeah. Doesn't make the letter-writing any easier, XO,” Rivers reminded him. “It's worse when both crew don't get out.”

“Was it like that for you when Tony Carpenter and I went down?” Guru asked.

“It was.” Rivers said. “Just hope this war gets over and done before you have to write any.”

“To be hoped for,” Guru said. “Anyway, this one went fine. Ground FAC wanted some ALA to go to hell and gone, and we sent them there.”

“Ground FAC?” Rivers asked, getting back into mission mode.

Guru and the other pilots nodded. “That deep, had to be SF,” Kara said.

Sweaty chimed in. “I'll go along with that.”

“Call sign?” Rivers asked. “I'll pass it along to Intel.”

“Covey Two-Six,” Guru said. “Had to be an ETAC.” That meant an Enlisted Tactical Air Controller.

“Don't forget about those STS guys,” Kara said. She was referring to the 24th Special Tactics Squadron, who were highly trained AF personnel who went in with SF teams to act as FACs if the mission called for it.

“Snake-eaters,” Hoser quipped.

“Be careful,” Guru reminded him. “Those 'snake-eaters' have brought quite a few guys out, so keep that in mind.”

“XO's right,” Rivers said. “Okay, ordnance will be here in a half-hour, and you guys go out as soon as they're done.”

“Where to this time?” Guru asked. “Uh...Sir?” Right now, he didn't care if he appeared to be insubordinate, because he was tired.

“Don't blame you at all, XO, if you're getting tired,” Rivers said. “You're headed to Estancia, south of Moriarty. Their Municipal Airport has some Soviet Hinds and Hips, and maybe even Su-25s, and we can't have that. The briefing packet has everything you need,” Rivers handed a packet of material to Guru. “Get something to eat, get some rest, because you're out again in an hour.”

“Got it,” Guru said.

“And good luck,” Rivers said as he went off to get ready for his next mission.

“You heard him,” Guru said.

And with that, the crews helped themselves to sandwiches and cold drinks. There was the usual griping about the “suggestion of meat” in some of them, but everyone had a good laugh about that. “At least it's not like one episode of M*A*S*H,” KT quipped.

“What do you mean?” Kara asked.

“Potter tells a friend, 'I had a hamburger last night that whinnied.', or something like that.”

“Remember the one where Hawkeye ordered ribs from Chicago?” Guru said. “The only thing Colonel Blake was upset with was that Hawk forgot to order the Cole Slaw.”

Goalie nodded. “Yeah, and there was another one where Hawkeye told a nurse how bad the food was: 'I wonder how the cook got off at Nuremberg.' Or the time when the whole camp came down with food poisoning?”

“Yeah, that was a good one, “ Guru said. “Winchester's doing laundry-which he thinks is beneath his stature, Hawkeye and BJ are lost, and a North Korean's trying to surrender to them, and follows them back to camp, and the only other staff members not sick are either Hot Lips or Father Mulchahy.”

Brainac laughed. “One of my favorites? When Frank Burns took a tank for a ride.”

“That's a hoot!” Kara said. “Potter puts his jeep out of its misery after Frank runs over it. He also took out the Swamp and the Nurses' Shower.”

Prewar memories, several of them knew. “Wonder if someone will do a show like that for this war?”
Hoser asked.

“Somebody in Hollyweird's probably got story ideas,” Guru said. “When this is over, it won't take long.”

Goalie nodded, then she pointed. “Speaking of Frank Burns...here comes Carson.”

The despised Major came over, and he didn't like what he was seeing. Ground crew clearly out of uniform, and aircrews going around with their flight suits half off. Some of the male crews had taken off their T-Shirts, while the women had done the same, leaving their sports bras on. “Aren't you going to do anything?” Carson asked Guru.

“About what, Frank?” Guru replied.

“The airmen out of uniform!”

“So what?” Guru shot back. “If you're expecting me to side with you on this, forget it. Anything to keep cool and comfortable on a day like this. In case you're in a dream world, it's 115 here on the ramp.” And to punctuate that, he poured a bottle of water over Goalie's head. She grinned, and smiled her thanks.

“I'm taking this to a higher authority,” Carson grumbled.

“Can't be Tanner, or the Chief of Staff,” Kara grinned.

“He'll probably call his Mom or Dad again,” said Sweaty, and everybody laughed, including some nearby ground crew, who overheard the conversation.

“Oh, phoney baloney,” Carson grumbled as he sulked off.

“Don't know if I've said this before,” Kara said. “But he's as bad as Tigh.”

“Colonel Tigh up at Kingsley Field?” Guru asked. “I saw him once, the day I requalified after coming back from the E&E. Grumpy, coarse, and an all-around asshole.”

“That's him,” Kara smiled. “And Carson would fit right in with him.”

“Tigh didn't have anything to do with WSOs,” Goalie nodded. “If you didn't have pilot's wings, he didn't want much to do with you.”

“I'll go along with that,” KT said. “Navs, he hardly had much to say. Other than when you passed, 'Congratulations.'”

Nodding, Guru opened the briefing packet, as he saw the ordnance people arrive with their munitions. Six 750-pound M-117 bombs and six Mark-82s again. “Okay,” he said as he laid out the materials on the hood of the Hummer. “Here we go.”

“Same drill as that other field this morning?” Sweaty asked.

“Yep,” Guru said. “We go east along the Chupadera Mesa, pick up State Route 42. Once we do that, turn north to U.S. 60. One minute after passing U.S. 60, turn west, and that will take us to Estancia.”

“One pass, as usual?” Kara asked.

“Correct,” Guru nodded. “Once we're clear, head for the mountains due west. Clear those, then head right for the Rio Grande. Make sure your IFF is on once you clear the mountains.”

“You know those Army SAM guys: 'shoot 'em down and let God sort them out.'” Hoser said.

“No shock there,” Guru said. “Now, the threat is a mix of guns, either ZU-23s or 37-mm, plus MANPADS. Though watch out; with their lines breaking, anything's possible. Including SA-6, -8, or -11.”

“No flak or SAM suppressors?” Kara wanted to know.

“Right on that. They're all busy, so we have to use speed, surprise, and our ECM pods,” Guru told everyone.

“So,” Sweaty commented. “One pass, get out due west, clear the mountains, and head for the river?”

“That's it,” Guru said.

Then Sergeant Crowley came over. “Sir, your birds are locked and cocked.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Guru said. “Hit the latrines, and get ready to fly.”

After htting the latrines, and getting ready, Guru called them around. “Any last-minute questions?”

“Yeah,” Kara asked. “How many more today?”

“Who knows? Two, maybe three,” Guru said. “Any others?” There were none. “Okay, let's hit it.”

The crews did their preflight walkarounds, then after mounting their aircraft, ran through their cockpit preflights. Then came engine start, and clearance to taxi. They held short of the runway to allow the armorers to pull the weapon safeties, then the F-4s taxied to the runway itself. The tower flashed a green light, giving the Crews clearance to take off. Then Corvette Flight rumbled down the runway in pairs, and lifted into the air.



Over Central New Mexico: 1520 Hours:



Corvette Flight's four F-4s were headed east over the Chupadra Mesa, and to everyone's surprise, the only radars so far coming up were friendly. “Where is Ivan?” Guru asked his GIB. (Guy-or in this case, Girl, In Back) “No MiGs since this morning.”

“Damned if I know,” Goalie said. “I'm not complaining, though.”

“Me neither,” Guru said. “How long to turn?”

“One minute,”

“Roger that,” Guru replied. He was swiveling his head left to right, keeping an eye out for any threats. That had been drummed into his head at the RTU before the war, and no one got complacent in a fighter cockpit if one expected to come back from a mission. “Crystal Palace, Corvette Two-One. Any bogey dope?”

“Corvette, Crystal Palace,” the controller replied. “Negative bogeys.”

“Copy,” Guru replied.

“Stand by,” Goalie said. “And turn.”

Guru turned the F-4 to the northeast, headed for U.S. 60, and the others in the flight kept formation with him. “Time to the next turn point?”

“One minute thirty,” Goalie replied.

“Roger that,” Guru said. The four F-4s headed on, and as they approached U.S. 60, the crews noticed enemy traffic headed east, with some armor and APCs headed west. They blew over the road, and down below, the Cubans and Nicaraguans fleeing east were relieved that the four aircraft didn't attack them.

“And turn.” Goalie called as they reached the highway.

“Turning,” Guru said. They were now navigating by time and distance, classic dead reckoning, for there was no real landmark in this part of New Mexico, apart from a dry lakebed east of the target area.

“One minute, mark.”

“Mark, one minute,” Guru said. “Flight, lead. One minute to IP.”

“Two,” Kara.

“Three,” Sweaty.

“Four,” Hoser.

“Switches on, and set 'em up!” Guru called.

“You're set,” Goalie said. “Thirty seconds.”

“Copy,” Guru said. “Get ready.”

“Now!” Goalie called. “IP and turn.”

“Flight, Lead,” Guru said. “Pull, and turn. One minute to target.”

Corvette flight turned on its attack run, pulling up to 2000 feet AGL.

“So far, so good,” Goalie said. “Thirty seconds.”

“Copy,” Guru said. Then he saw it. “Flight, Lead. Target in sight. Lead is in hot.” He then rolled in on his attack run.


At Estancia Municipal, the commander of the 45th Independent Helicopter Regiment was having a fit. His unit had been established a year prior to the war, and two years of combat had taken its toll. His unit nominally had three squadrons, two of Mi-24V (NATO designation Hind-E) gunships, and one of Mi-8MT transport helicopters. But now, due to enemy action and accidents, he was down to one squadron of Mi-24s and a half-dozen Mi-8s, and two of those were down for battle-damage repair. Furthermore, four Su-25s had landed at the field, due to their own base having had its runways bombed, and one of those planes had run off the runway. A maintenance section and a recovery vehicle were now trying to get the aircraft out, so that it could be repaired. As for defenses.....all he had at the base was a battery of ZU-23s that were Cuban-manned, along with the Strela missiles that his ground staff had been trained to use. Then he noticed someone pointing to the northeast. Smoke in the air, coming closer. He knew right away what it was. “Air Raid warning!” He shouted, then he jumped into a slit trench.

Guru lined up on where two Su-25s were parked, along with a pair of Hinds. “Steady, steady,” he said, almost to himself. “HACK!” And six each of retarded Mark-82s and M-117s came off his Phantom. Then he turned west, and called, “Lead off target,” doing a low-level flyover of the town of Estancia as he did so.

Guru's bombs landed amongst the two Su-25s and the two Mi-8s, and all four were blown apart. A couple of the Mark-82s landed among some supply trucks, adding to the general destruction, and one bomb wrecked the communications tent.

“Two in hot!” Starbuck called. Kara saw where Lead's bombs had landed, and decided to walk hers to the left. She picked out where four Mi-24s were parked, and lined them up in the pipper. “HACK!” Was the call as her bombs came off her aircraft, and she turned west, following Lead over the town. “Two off target.”

Kara's bombs ripped apart two of the Hinds, and wrecked the other two. Her bombs also took out several fuel trucks, exploding them in fireballs, and two of her bombs also holed the runway, which meant that the Mi-24s could not use rolling takeoffs, as well as grounding any remaining Su-25s.

“Three's in hot!” Called Sweaty. She laid down her bombs to the right of where Guru's had landed, and she saw another pair of Su-25s, surrounded by vehicles, as well as a Hip helicopter. Lining them up, she called “HACK!”, and released her bombs. As she pulled away, she noticed tracer fire coming up; 23-mm by the looks of it, but it was falling behind her aircraft. “Three off safe.”

Sweaty's load blew the Su-25s and the servicing vehicles apart, and one of the bombs landed right on top of the Hip, obliterating it. Several of her Mark-82s landed in the tent area where the base personnel lived, blasting the tents apart, while two bombs landed in the motor pool, turning it into a junkyard.

“Four in hot!” Hoser called. He saw the fireballs erupting from Sweaty's run, and decided to put his bombs on the runway. So he made his pass from due east to west, and laid down a perfect pattern, putting multiple holes in the runway, and drawing some fire from the 23-mm guns on the way out. Unknown to him, one of his Mark-82s landed at the west end of the runway, where the last Su-25 sat, with the retrieval crew trying to pull the aircraft from its tail-high position. Hoser's bomb solved their problem, blasting both the recovery vehicle and the aircraft. “Four off safe,” he called as he buzzed the town.

“Copy, Hoser,” Guru replied. “Flight, on me, and let's get the hell out of here.”

All four Phantoms joined up and headed west. They got over the mountains between Bosque Peak to the north and Capilla Peak to the south. When they got into the Rio Grande Valley, Guru called. “Crystal Palace, Corvette Two-One, Corvette Flight across the fence.”

“Roger, Corvette Two-One,” the controller replied. “Do you need a vector to tankers?”

“Negative,” Guru replied. “We can make home plate.”

“Copy,” said the controller.

Once they cleared the valley, the F-4s climbed back to 12,000 feet, and headed for Williams. On the return flight, Goalie asked, “Where's the Soviet Air Force? Or the Cuban AF?”

“That,” Guru said. “Is a very good question.”




Alamogordo Regional Airport, New Mexico; 1550 Hours:


The SAF Colonel was practically in tears. Earlier that morning, his Regiment, the 190th Fighter Aviation Regiment (IAP), had three squadrons of MiG-23MF fighters. Now, he had at most, eight aircraft left in the whole regiment, and three of those were undergoing repair. He surveyed the wreckage around him, and thought, was it like this on the first day of the war against the Fascisti in 1941? He had good reason to think that.

That morning, at 0430, his men had been awakened by the sound of the alert siren going off, then explosions, as low-flying aircraft had bombed the runway. F-111s, he thought, but wasn't sure. His deputy commander had gotten the repair crews out, and they had started work on filling the bomb craters, when A-6s came over at 0600, laying down cluster munitions all around the ramp and the dispersal area, turning MiG-23s into burning wrecks as their fuel and ordnance exploded with the aircraft.

Finally, around midmorning, he had led a dozen surviving MiGs into the air, only to run into F-16s. Four of the MiG-23s were shot down, and two more damaged. After he landed, two more MiGs took off, but only one returned, as the flight had been jumped by F-5s, and though the wingman had returned with several 20-mm holes in his aircraft, he had not seen what happened to his flight leader, who had gone north, along the east side of the Sandias.

Then, that afternoon, several more A-6s had come in, again dropping cluster bombs, and adding to the misery of the repair crews. Now the runway was closed while explosives experts went around, marking the bomblets that hadn't gone off, and then a sharpshooter would go out with a rifle and shoot them until they detonated. Then his intelligence officer arrived.

“Comrade Colonel?”

“You told me this wouldn't happen! That most of their aircraft in this theater were sent to Kansas and Missouri! Now look at what they have done!”

“Comrade Colonel,” the intelligence man replied. “I was only passing what I received from higher.”

“I know, Comrade Major,” the colonel said. “Still, I have to blame someone. Any other news?”

“Nothing definite, but both Holloman and the Alamo Midway Airport have also been attacked and neutralized. Rumors are going around that American Rangers have seized the White Sands Space Harbor.”

“It won't be long until we get orders to leave,” the colonel replied. “Soon,the front will be in Texas.”

“I'm afraid so, Comrade Colonel,” replied the intelligence officer.

Several bomblets exploded off in the distance. Then a harried air force engineering officer came to the Colonel. “Comrade Colonel, the political officer-”

“What about our dear Party Comrade?” The Colonel asked.

“He's dead. The Zampolit was berating me and my men for not being energetic enough in clearing the area of munitions and debris, when a delayed-action bomblet exploded next to him.”

“No great loss,” the Colonel said. “People like him are what got us into this mess anyway. Get the runway operational as soon as possible.”

“Comrade Colonel.”


Near Williams AFB, AZ; 1600 Hours:

Corvette Flight was approaching the base, and Guru called for landing instructions. This time, the pattern was clear, and the flight was cleared for landing. After they landed, the flight taxied over to their dispersal area, and shut down. As he climbed down from the cockpit, Guru told Goalie, “Good one.”

“I'll take it,” she replied. “What happened to those SAMs the brief told us about?”

“Maybe the Weasels got there ahead of us?” Kara said as she came over. “Or they got jammed off the air?”

Guru nodded. “Whatever happened, I'm happy with it.” Then they walked over to the Hummer, where Colonel Rivers and Lieutenant Licon were waiting. “Boss.”

“How'd it go?” Colonel Rivers asked.

“Hardly any flak, and no SAM activity,” Guru said.

“How about the bombing?”

Just as Rivers asked that, Sweaty and Preacher came over, with Hoser and KT not far behind, though Hoser was limping, favoring his right ankle. “Sir.”

“What happened to you?” Rivers asked.

“Twisted my ankle getting down from the crew ladder,” Hoser said. “I'm fine.”

“Not until Doc Waters has a look. Consider yourself grounded for the rest of the day,” siad Rivers. “Now, how was the strike?”

“Tore that place up pretty good,” Guru said. “Intel was right about Su-25s; they had several there.”

“Choppers?” Licon asked. “Intel said Hips and Hinds.”

“They were there,” Sweaty said. “We took out most of them.”

“I'll check the strike footage and see what we get. BDA from other sources should be available tomorrow,” Licon said. “Any surface-to-air activity?”

“Except for light flak?” Kara asked, seeing the intel officer nod. “I didn't see any.”

“Me neither,” Guru said, and Goalie nodded. “Then again, we were first in and out.”

“No MANPADS that I could see,” Hoser said.

KT nodded. “I'll confirm that.”

“Okay,” Licon said. “I'll pass that all up the line. Thanks, everybody.” Then the intel headed on to debrief another flight.

“Good run,” Rivers said to everyone. “Now,” he said, pointing to Hoser. “As for you....” He pulled from a flight suit pocket a walkie-talkie. “Doc, come over to 512's dispersal.”

“On the way,” a voice responded.

“Colonel...” Hoser said. “I can manage.”

“Not if you have to eject,” Rivers said firmly. “No flying until Doc has a look and clears you. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Hoser replied, though none too happily.

A Dodge Crew-Cab pickup came over to the Hummer, and both Doc Waters and one of his medics came over. “You asked for me, Colonel?” Doc asked.

“Hoser twisted his ankle getting out of his plane,” Rivers said. “Take him and check him out.”

“Come on, Lieutenant,” Doc said. “No more flying today, and maybe tomorrow as well.”

“Okay, Doc.” Hoser said. He walked to the truck, but he was clearly favoring his right ankle.

Watching that, KT said, “That leaves me without a pilot.”

Rivers nodded. “Any suggestions, XO?” He asked Guru.

“Haven't seen him in the air,” Guru said. “But this might be a good time to find out. How about Dave Golen?”

“Done. I'll send him over here,” Rivers said. “Anything you want to know about him?”

“Only one thing,” Guru said. “Any problems flying with KT, or flying as Sweaty's wingman? The IDF doesn't allow female aircrew..”

“I don't think he'll have any,” Rivers said. “I'll get him over here. You're going out again in forty-five minutes. This will be your last one of the day.”

“What's the mission?”

“CAS. On-call again,” said Rivers. “You know the drill. I'll get Dave over here, and you guys can hash it out.”

“Roger that, Boss,” Guru said.

“Good luck,” Rivers nodded, then he headed off to the squadron offices.

After Rivers left, the crews grabbed some more food from the cooler, and found that more drinks had been added to the ice chest. Bottled water and iced tea were preferred, as no one wanted to have gas from a Coke or Pepsi while in the air. While they ate and drank, Dave Golen came over in a USAF flight suit, and with helmet and G-Suit. “Guru,” he said.

“Dave,” Guru said, remembering the Israeli habit of calling officers by their first names. “You know everybody?”

“I do, and nice to be flying with you,” Golen said. He shook hands with KT, and said, “A pleasure to be flying with you.”

“Thanks, Major,” KT replied. “Hope you don't mind a girl in back, instead of a guy.”

“Not at all,” Golen replied.

Guru nodded. “Good, Dave, because you're flying as Sweaty's wingman.”

“Experience leads,” Golen nodded. “Just as we do it.”

“Actually,” Goalie said. “Just as Robin Olds did it in Southeast Asia.”

“I see...the legendary Robin Olds has a continuing legacy.”

Both Guru and Kara nodded. “He does,” Kara replied with an evil-looking grin.

Golen nodded himself. “So, then. What's the mission?”

“CAS, on call,” Guru said. “We check in with AWACS and they pass us on to a C-130 ABCCC, then they hand us off to a FAC.”

“Understood. Anything else I should know?”

“Only this: unless the FAC asks for it, one pass only.” Guru said. “We learned that the hard way.”

Golen nodded. It was the same thing in the Israeli AF. “Ordnance?”

“To be determined,” Goalie said. “They bring us whatever's available.”

The crews were talking and trying to stay cool when the ordnance crew arrived. This time, the crews noticed the load before the arming process began. All CBUs, and they were Rockeyes. “Looks like we may be going after armor,” Sweaty observed.

“We'll know, only when we get there,” Guru said.

It took twenty minutes to arm the flight. Then Sergeant Crowley came over to the Hummer. “Captain,” he said to Guru. “Birds are locked and cocked.”

“All right,” Guru said. “Hit the latrine, and then get ready to fly.”

After the crews did their business there, they gathered at the Hummer again. “Where to this time?” Kara asked.

“AWACS or ABCCC tells us,” Guru said. He turned to Golen. “Any special questions?”

Golen shook his head. “None.”

“Good, Dave. Just follow Sweaty's lead, and you'll be fine.” Guru said. He turned to the rest of the flight. “Any other questions?”

“This our last one, right?” Sweaty asked.

“It should be,” Guru nodded. “Anything else?” There wasn't. He grabbed his helmet. “Let's hit it.”

The crews went to their aircraft, and did a quick walk-around, then got into their planes. The cockpit preflights were rushed once again, and then it came time for engine start. After run-up, it was time to taxi. As usual, once they got to the runway, the armorers pulled off the arming pins, then the flight was cleared to taxi onto the runway. The tower again flashed a green light, and the flight took off by elements, rumbling down the runway and into the air.

The last mission of the day:



Over Central New Mexico: 1705 Hours:


Corvette Flight had come in just north of Albuquerque, and after checking in with AWACS, had been told to wait. They were high enough that, as they orbited, could see the Northeastern part of Albuquerque rapidly turning into a mini-Stalingrad, as the Soviet defenders made their last stand. Penned up against the Sandia Mountains, with no way out now that I-40 was under American control, and so they were fighting it out, with the 11th Airborne and parts of the 23rd ID having a real fight on their hands, while two brigades from the 23rd were pushing east along I-40. With all the artillery in the air, fixed-wing aircraft were staying clear, and even the Army helicopters from both divisions were keeping south of I-40 and west of I-25.

“One thing,” Guru said to Goalie on the intercom. “When the Russians run out of ammo...”

“They surrender,” she replied. “They're not the Japanese from World War II, or the North Koreans up in Canada.”

“Yeah,” Guru said. Then the C-130 ABCCC came on the line.

“Corvette Flight, Hillsboro,” the controller called. “Proceed heading Zero-nine-zero, then contact Nail 41.”

“Roger, Hillsboro,” Guru called. He led the flight due east, giving the battle area a wide berth. He then contacted Nail 41. “Nail Four-One, Corvette Two-One.”

“Corvette, Nail,” the FAC replied. “Say type of aircraft and ordnance.”

“Nail, four Foxtrot-Fours with one dozen Rockeye CBUs and full load twenty mike-mike,” replied Guru.

“Roger, Corvette. I see you,” the FAC responded.

As they came in, the flight could see yet another A-7K orbiting. “Nail, Corvette, what have you got for us?”

“Corvette, we have troops in contact, Highway 285 south of the Highway 41 intersection. Enemy armor and APCs headed their way. Can you make those go away?”

“Nail, Corvette,” Guru replied. “Roger that. Say Sierra-Alpha threat?”

“Corvette, Nail. Expect regimental air defense threat,” the FAC said. That meant SA-9s or -13s, and ZSU-23s, plus whatever MANPADS that the infantrymen were carrying.

“Copy,” Guru replied. “Can you mark the target?”

“Stand by, Corvette,” the FAC responded. “Steer One-Five-Zero.”

“Roger that,” Guru replied. “Flight, Lead. Stick with me.”

All four F-4s made the turn, and they were headed southeast, parallel to U.S. 285, and they could see the road below. The WSOs were scanning with binoculars, and they could see the elements of the First Cavalry Division spreading out on both sides of the highway. And about two miles south of them, White Phosphorous exploded along the breadth of the road. “There's your target area,”

Guru nodded in his cockpit. “Flight, Lead. One pass, south to north. Come around, and follow me in.”

“Roger, Lead,” Sweaty called.

“Nail, Corvette,” Guru said. “One pass is all we can give you. Can you ask the ground pounders to take out any air defense assets?”

“Wait one, Corvette.” the FAC said. Then he came back. “Corvette, Nail. That's affirm.”

Down below, several vehicles exploded in fireballs. That should make things a little easier, Guru thought. “Nail, Corvette, we're headed in. Flight, Lead. Time to go to work.”

“Right with you, Lead,” Sweaty replied.

Guru brought his F-4 around, and started his run in. “Goalie,set things up. Everything in one pass.”

“Gotcha,” she said. “You're set.”

Guru took a last look at his EW repeater. Still clear. He switched on his ECM pod. “Music's on. Lead in hot.” He rolled in on his bomb run. As he lost altitude, he could see T-72 tanks down below, and BTR type APCs. Your bad day, Ivan,.....”HACK!” Guru called as he pushed the pickle button.

Down below, the 363rd Independent Motor-Rifle Regiment was moving north on Route 285. The Regimental Commander had received orders from what was left of the 13th Army HQ to stabilize the Army's right flank. With no other information, the Colonel moved his regiment north, past the wreckage of American air attacks, and to his surprise, his regiment had not been hit by American aircraft. Then, all of a sudden, white phosphorous burst around his regiment, and he ordered his battalions to deploy and move north along the road. He was caught totally by surprise as several of his vehicles took American fire and exploded, and clearly, the Americans were closer than Army thought. The howl of an aircraft came over him, and he saw an F-4 moving north at low level. Then CBU bomblets began to explode, and then his BTR-60 command vehicle exploded around him....

“Lead's off target,” Guru called.

“Two's in,” Kara said. She went in to the left of the road, picking out what looked like a battalion's worth of APCs. She hit the pickle button. “HACK!”, she called, and a dozen Rockeye CBUs came off her aircraft, exploding a number of BTR-70s, and she egressed north. “Two's off target.”

“Three's in hot!” Sweaty called. She decided to hit the right of the road, and she, too, picked up some BTRs. As she rolled in, Sweaty noticed some tracers going up after Kara's F-4, but the tracers fell away No SAMs, Sweaty was pleased to see. She lined up the BTRs in the pipper....”HACK!” And a dozen more CBUs came off her Phantom, and a number of BTRs exploded. “Three's off target.”

“Four on target,” Dave Golen called. He'd done this quite a few times in Sinai in '73, and to him, it was like old home week. As he came in, he could see the Soviet artillery battalion deploying, and to him, that was a worthy target. He picked out a battery, and lined them up. “Now!” He called to KT, and again, Rockeye CBUs exploded on target, knocking out several of the 2S1 artillery pieces, and also exploding several ammo trucks. Golen buzzed the regiment on the way out, and as he came out, there was tracer fire coming up not only after his element leader, but around his aircraft. But the plane wasn't hit, and as he pulled up, KT in the back seat dumped some flares to confuse any MANPADS. Then he banked hard and headed west. “Four off target.”

“Copy, Four,” Guru said. “Nail, Corvette Two-One. How'd we do?”

“Corvette, Nail. Good bombs on target. Watch for Warthogs coming in from the west,” the FAC said. “The Army says thanks.”

“Tell 'em 'You're welcome,'” Guru replied. “Flight, Lead. Form on me and let's head home.”

The other three Phantoms formed on Guru's bird, and all four headed west. They managed to get to the tanker track without any help from the AWACS, and after refueling, headed back to Williams. As it turned out, they were the last flight to return, period, for the last Marine F-4 or Hornet flight had returned a good ten minutes earlier. The sun was beginning to go low on the horizon when Corvette Flight came in and landed. After they taxied to their dispersal and shut down, Guru said to Goalie. “That's a record. Seven missions in one day. For us, anyway.”

“Want to bet those Hog drivers had more?” She replied. “Let's get this debriefed, then get something to eat.”

“Always listen to your WSO's advice, my RTU instructor once said.” Guru replied. “Seems like a lifetime ago.”

“Yeah,” she said as the ground crew brought the crew ladders and the crew popped their canopies. Then they got out of the aircraft, dead tired.

“How'd it go, Sir?” Sergeant Crowley asked.

“No holes,” Guru said. “Made a bunch of tanks and APCs go up.”

“All right! Uh, Sir,” Crowley said. “CO and Lieutenant Licon by the Hummer.”

Guru nodded, and led his crews back to the Hummer. “Boss,” he said, sketching a salute.

“Welcome back,” said Colonel Rivers. “How'd Dave do?”

“Did all right,” Guru said. “Isn't that right, KT?”

“He did,” KT replied. “I'd have him in the cockpit again anytime.”

“If you want him, you got him,” Rivers said. “Hoser's grounded for at least another day.”

“Then we'll take him,” Guru said. “How's that sound?”

“Sounds good to me,” Golen replied.

“What was the target?” Licon wanted to know.

“Regimental-sized force on 285,” Guru replied. “Tanks and APCs.”

“Any SAMs?”

“None that we could see,” Sweaty said. “There was some tracer fire coming up, though.”

“No heavy stuff, not even MANPADS,” Kara nodded. “The Army did take some of that out, though.”

“Major?” Licon asked Dave Golen. “Did you see any?”

“None at all,” Golen replied. “Just some tracer fire, and that was all.”

“What did the FAC say?” Rivers asked.

“He said we had good bombs on target,” Guru replied. “Some A-10s were coming in as we left, and that was all.”

“I'll check your strike camera footage,” Licon nodded.

“Lots of secondaries on a couple runs,” Sweaty noted. “Guru and Starbuck had some.”

“And so did you,” Golen said.

“All right,” Licon said. “Thanks, everybody.” He then went off to the intel office.

“Okay,” Rivers said. “Dave, you fly with these guys tomorrow.” He saw Golen nod. “Get something to eat, and get over to the Sheraton. Wake up is at 0400, with first wheels up at 0600.”

“Boss,” Guru said. “Almost like today?”

“Not as much,” Rivers told the flight. “If the ComBloc hadn't collapsed as much as they did, yeah, but..”

“But this whole part of the front's coming apart,” Goalie noted.

“That's right,” Rivers admitted. “Get out of your gear, get some food, then over to billeting. Curfew is at 2100.”

“And the twelve-hour rule's already in effect,” Kara noted sourly.

“It is,” Rivers said. “Sorry, Captain.”

“All right, people,” Guru said. “You heard the CO. Get something to eat, and get to the Sheraton.”

As the flight broke up, Goalie noted that her pilot was hanging back with Colonel Rivers. “You're coming, right?”

Guru nodded. “In a minute.” He turned to Colonel Rivers. “Glad I didn't have to use that packet.”

“So am I,” Rivers said. “But keep in mind, it's still going to be a long war. You might need something like that later on.”

“Let's talk about that later, Boss,” Guru said. “I need some food, and then some shut-eye.”

“You're not the only one, XO,” Rivers nodded. “Come on and eat.” He pointed to the Marines' mess tent.

After eating, the aircrews headed back to the Sheraton, and they found their beds. Because it wouldn't be long until 0400, and they would do it again on the second day of PRAIRIE FIRE......

A couple of notes:

1) This is Dave Golen's first appearance. He has been in the squadron for two weeks, and has been taking his role as an observer seriously. His orders, though, let him fly at his discretion, and this day is his first mission with the squadron. He wears a USAF flight suit, has a USAF ID, and so on, so that if he's shot down and captured, for all intents and purposes, he's an American.

2) The ALA (American Liberation Army) is the Collaborationist Government's own army. They are raised from people who are literally press-ganged into service, those who join to get more food for their families, criminals looking for reduced sentences and a lot of power, and the true-believers, of course. After the war, the first two groups are pitied, and given amnesty. The last two are viewed with nothing but contempt, and many are still in prison for collaboration, Treason, and war crimes convictions.

Questions or comments before the next one?

Well, being a former infantryman, I'd like to see more of what's going on on the ground.

have you thought about a POV of the SR-71 or U2 Pilots. also maybe from the POV of a US sub off cuba?

Here's one for Paul: not quite a grunt's point of view, but more T2K in style. Downed aircrew getting back to friendly lines with some help from guerillas. And a cameo from a character from the original movie....read and enjoy!


Out of the Mountains



1420 Hours Mountain Time: 8 May 1986; The San Isabel National Forest, Northwest of Walsenberg, Colorado:


It wasn't much to look at, but to the camp's occupants, it was home. Sort of, anyway. Several parachutes had been converted into tents, and others had made shelters out of pine boughs and branches, just like what the survival school instructors had taught. For the camp's military and guerrilla occupants, it had been enough, though higher up in altitude was a camp that was more secure. At that camp were wounded guerillas, families who had fled the Soviet-bloc invasion, and even some hikers who'd been up in the high country, and had been shocked to find that the worst had happened, and the Russians had come.

To the military personnel there, though they had helped the guerillas the best they could, all were anxious to get to the other side of the Rockies as soon as the weather and melting snow permitted. Of the camp's fourteen military personnel, a dozen were downed aircrew members from all four services, and the other two were escaped POWs. The rumor mill had said that there were Army troops somewhere to the northwest, along U.S. Highway 50, and all were hoping to get there, find friendly troops, and somehow, get back to their squadrons and back in the air.

For Air Force Lieutenants Matt Wiser and Tony Carpenter, five months with the Resistance was more than enough. They had been shot down in their F-4 near Walsenberg, to the southeast, back in January, and had been lucky enough to find a rural church, where the preacher was willing to hide them in a tornado shelter. Then they'd been passed along to the Sheppard Ranch, west of Walsenberg proper, where the family had sheltered them for a few days, until their eldest daughter Lori could take them into the mountains. They had been in the mountains all of two days when Lori came back, tears running down her face. After they'd left, the Soviets had come to the ranch. Someone, somewhere, had either been caught and broken, or the escape line had been betrayed. Lori had ridden down from the Mountains to find the ranch house and barn burned to the ground, the animals taken away, and in the driveway, the bodies of her parents, younger brother, and younger sister. All had been shot in the back of the head, and both her mother and sister had been.....used, so to speak, by the Russians before they had been killed. She had buried her family, and ridden back into the hills, and bringing with her a desire for revenge.

Over the past few months, the guerillas had made themselves known to the Russians and their Cuban and Nicaraguan lackeys, ambushing convoys, raiding outposts, cutting phone lines, and so on. Not only had they lived off the land, but also off of the enemy, taking whatever they could find, whether it was food, weapons, ammo, medical supplies, or whatever. But now, with the spring melt, Lori knew that she needed to do two things: first, get the downed pilots over the Rockies to friendly lines, and second, see if the rumors were true, and that there were Special Forces teams helping guerrilla bands with supplies, advisors, and so much else. For up in the high country there was a family camp, with refugees who'd fled into the hills, some family members of guerrillas, some escapees from labor or “re-education” camps, people who really needed to be on the other side.

Lori gathered the downed pilots around a campfire. All were dirty, grubby, and showed the effects of living in the wilderness. But all had taken part in raids against the invaders, even if the two Marines and the single Army aviator had any kind of infantry training. They had gotten to be good at it, the hard way. “OK, good news. Mike Jensen just rode down from the Family Camp. They say the snow melt's made a trip over the pass a lot easier. So we're leaving today.”

“About time, Lori,” Major Mark Adams said. He was one of the two Marines there: an A-6 driver who'd gone down the same time as the two F-4 crewers. He'd been in unofficial command, though he deferred to Lori, as she was the leader of the band. But he was the senior ranking military officer there.
He, like the other military evadees, had his flight suit, but worn over that was a Soviet airborne camo outfit, and then on top of that was a Soviet winter camo suit. And given how cold it got at night this high up, everyone was glad to have the multiple layers of clothing.

“I'll second that,” Capt. Bill Andrews quipped. A former member of the Thunderbirds, he had been shot down the previous December, and had escaped from the Cubans after a week in their custody. Given what he saw during his brief captivity, he had no qualms about killing Russians or Cubans, period.

“How far to friendlies?” Lieutenant Wiser asked.

“Good question,” Adams said. “Best guess it that it'll take a week or so. On foot the whole way.”

“Lovely,” Tony Carpenter said. “At least we'll get out of here and back to our units. If I wanted to be SF, I would've joined the Army.”

Adams nodded. He knew the feeling. Even though he'd been trained as an infantry officer before going to flight school, being a grunt was the last thing he expected. “Any other questions?” There weren't any. “That's it, then. Grab your weapons, get your gear, and we're gone.”

The two AF Lieutenants went to their tent. Though they had buried their chutes after bailout, they had found chutes belonging to downed pilots who hadn't survived: a parachute landing in the forest was a dicey proposition, and several airmen had died in their landings. The two gathered up their tent, and picked up their rifles. Both had AKMs, but Wiser also had an AK-74 that he'd picked up off a dead Soviet recon trooper, and wanted to keep it as a souvenir. Tony Carpenter also had a war trophy he wanted to keep: an SVD sniper rifle that he'd killed a Cuban to get. Like the others, they had made homemade packs from parachute harnesses, just like they'd been taught in SERE.

The party made their last-minute checks. For food, they had home-made deer or elk jerky, and some civilian canned goods that they had found when cleaning up a supply convoy they had ambushed. However much they had, it would have to last a week.

It wouldn't just be the evadees going out: Lori was coming with them. Not only as a guide, but she wanted to find out for herself if the rumors were true, and there were SF operating in the area. Not only did she want an SF Team to come into the area, with weapons, ammo, food, and above all, medical supplies, but to evacuate the family camp. That place had been an old logging camp in the 1920s, and though the civilians and others hiding there had food and shelter, they really needed to be evacuated. Not to mention that their doctor, who prewar had been a dermatologist from Denver, was really in over his head for the most part. He'd been on a hiking trip when the invasion happened, and the only medical supplies he had were what had been “acquired” after an ambush. If a helicopter pickup to get the civilians out could be arranged, she was all for it, and was eager to get going. She not only had an AKMS rifle, but she also had a Winchester Model 70, and that .270 slug could take down just about anything: and they had seen just how good a shot Lori was. Not only had she shot some deer or elk, but in raids, she used that rifle as a sniper rifle, and Lori had killed her fair share of Russians and Cubans with the weapon.

The evadees and a few guerrillas who'd be coming along were all set to go, and a few minutes later, Lori and Major Adams came up. “Everybody set?” Lori asked. Though Adams was the senior military officer, she ran the guerrillas, and was in charge. “OK, let's go.”


Somewhere in the Rockies: 10 May 1986: 0730 Mountain Time:

The first day and night had passed quietly for the most part, though most of the evadees were too keyed up to sleep. The prospect of freedom, and being able to climb back into a cockpit, meant that hardly anyone got more than four hours' sleep. As for breakfast, some Elk jerky and a raw pop tart, along with a canteen of water, had to do.

“Another week of this,” Tony Carpenter grumbled. “And I'm an outdoors type.”

Lieutenant Wiser looked at his WSO. “Where?”

“Oregon. Some little town between Salem and the Cascades. Got an appointment to the Academy, which kept me from being a logger, and look where I am now.”

“Let me guess: a lot of hunting and fishing?” Wiser asked.

“Yep. Never thought all of that would come back.” Carpenter said.

“You must've breezed through the field portion of SERE.”

“I did. And the instructors didn't like that at all.”

Major Adams came up. “All right, people, fill your canteens from the spring, and let's get going. If anyone gets winded, call out. We're getting into higher elevation today.”

There was the usual grumbling, but everyone got ready, and moved out. Lori wanted to bypass the family camp, and Adams had agreed wholeheartedly. If anyone was following them, best to stay away.

Five hours later, there was a break. As they got higher up, there was still snow on the ground, though it was patchy. Some places still had several inches of snow on the ground, while others, more exposed to the sun, had spring plants in full bloom. But there was one thing everyone was noticing: the lack of forest sounds. It was quiet. Lori, for all her time in the woods prewar, had never experienced anything like this, and neither had Tony Carpenter, or the other guerrillas. “I don't like this, Major,” she said.

“Neither do I.” Adams agreed. He motioned to Army WO Kyle Lewis. “Drop back about a hundred yards, and bring up the rear. See if anyone's following us. Take one of the guerrillas with you.”

“Gotcha, Major,” the UH-1 pilot said. He'd been an enlisted solider for five years before going to Fort Rucker and getting his wings as a Warrant Officer. Not to mention that he was Ranger qualified, and that experience had come in very handy, not just in teaching ground tactics to the guerrillas and most of the airmen, but in combat.
Adams then turned to his B/N, First Lieutenant Neal Brandon. “Neil, take point.”

He nodded, and headed on out. After he'd gone about fifty yards, the rest of the group followed.

A couple hours later, Lori called a halt. Neal had found nothing up ahead, but he couldn't shake a feeling that they were being watched. Major Adams felt the same way, along with Lori, and for that matter, everyone else. Someone was watching them, but who? If it was Spetsnatz, they might be following them until they made camp, then attack. “Two hours of daylight left.” Adams said. “We'd better find a spot to make camp.”

After a half-hour of searching, the party found a nice campsite, only a hundred yards or so from a small lake. After getting a fire going, and boiling some drinking water, everyone sat down to eat. The canned goods that the ComBloc had looted came in handy, for canned beef stew, pork and beans, or raviolis had to make do. But as the party ate, everyone still had the sinking feeling that someone was watching them.

“Major, I think we'd better have a patrol-just to look around,” Lori said to Major Adams.

“I think you're right,” Adams agreed. “Guru, Neal, Tony.”

Wiser's head shot up. Guru was his call sign. “Major?”

“You three, have a look around. No further than a thousand yards. Check around the lake, and down the trail. If you find anyone, fire a few shots into the air, and try and hold 'em. We'll be there ASAP.”

“Will do, Major,” Guru said. Brandon was the Marine, so he led the little patrol. They checked out the lake, and went back down the trail. They found nothing, but still.....the hair stood up on the backs of all three. Something was in the forest, off the trail somewhere, and watching them. They saw nothing, and returned to camp just as twilight was coming.

“What'd you find?” Lori asked. Major Adams was with her.

“Nothing,” Neal Brandon said. “We checked around the lake, no tracks, other than animals. They were old, by the way.” He went on, “And we went down the trail a ways. Didn't see anything, but....”

“But what, Lieutenant?” Adams asked.

“But, Major,” Guru said. “Something's there, because we all felt like we were being watched. And my hair stood up on the back of my neck.” And the other two nodded affirmatively.

“Mountain Lion, maybe?” Adams wondered aloud.

“Could be, and the other animals know there's a predator around, so that's why they're quiet,” Lori commented. “Major,if there is a big cat nearby, we'd better have two or three on watch, instead of one.”

“Agreed. Two on watch at all times. I'll take the first, with Neal.”


That night, everyone went to sleep-or tried to, anyway. The possibility of a mountain lion or a bobcat coming into camp had everyone nervous. Spetsnatz or other Soviets, they could deal with. But a big cat coming in and trying to drag one of them off? That was something else entirely. Even if one was sleeping in a parachute tent or just spread the chute on the ground, no one went to sleep without weapons close at hand. There being a full moon didn't help one's nerves any, for a shadow in the moonlight could be an enemy-or a big cat looking for a meal.

Guru had taken the 10-to-12 watch, along with Tony, and they had turned things over to Capt. Mark Bailey, an AF F-16 pilot from the 388th at Hill, and Joel Wambach, one of the guerrillas. The two F-4 crewmen then went into their tent, and after checking for snakes, went to sleep.

It was just after 0300 when it happened. The two on watch, one of the ex-POWs and a guerrilla, were sitting by the fire, trying to stay warm in the cold night air, when one of them heard something. They were footsteps-big ones. The two decided not to wake anyone, and simply waited by the fire for the intruder-whoever or whatever it was, to go away.

In their tent, Guru and Tony were sleeping when Tony suddenly woke up. He shook his pilot awake. “Guru, wake up!” Carpenter hissed.

“Huh,? What?” Guru said, “Tony, what the...”

“Something's out there,” he said. “Smell that?”

“I don't...wait. Now I do. Rotten-egg smell?”

“Yeah.”

Then the two felt footsteps on the ground. Big ones. “What the hell...” Guru said. He poked his head out the tent, and saw the two on watch huddled around the fire, looking very afraid. Then they got up and slipped behind the tent Major Andrews and Neal Brandon shared. Then he-and Tony-saw it.

In the moonlight, and the firelight, a large shape came walking into the camp. In the moonlight, they couldn't see much, but the creature, whatever it was, was at least eight feet tall. It strode into camp, and started looking around. It found Lori's tent-a prewar dome-style camping tent, and seemed to be looking inside. Then a tent flap opened, and two of their fellow airmen looked out. And Guru heard safeties being clicked off. “Oh, shit!'” He whispered to Tony, reaching for his own AKM.

Before anyone could shoot, Lori woke up and saw the huge shadow looming over her tent. She didn't make a sound, but reached for the first weapon she could-her Winchester rifle, and took the safety off. Then all hell broke loose as Neal Brandon came out of his tent and saw the creature looming over Lori's tent. “The hell is that?” Then the shooting started.

Nobody remembered who started firing, but once someone started to fire, everyone did. The creature turned and ran off towards the lake, waving its arms as if to repel a swarm of bees, as shots flew all around it. Even after the creature was out of sight, there was still shooting. “CEASE FIRE! CEASE FIRE!” Adams yelled.

“What the hell was that?” Several people asked at once.

Tony Carpenter knew, or thought he did. “If we were in the Pacific Northwest, I'd say that was a Bigfoot.”

“Well, we aren't in the Pacific Northwest,” Lori Sheppard quipped. “And that sure as hell looked like a Bigfoot.”

Mike Jensen, one of the guerrillas, nodded. “They call it the Snowbeast. At least that's what I heard before the war. He's our Bigfoot. And he's a lot bigger and meaner than the one in the Northwest.”

“Snowbeast or Bigfoot, or whatever that...thing was,” Adams said, “Soon as we can after first light, we're getting the hell out of here. No telling who heard all that shooting.”

The party had passed a sleepless rest of the night. As dawn broke, two of them went to the lake with a couple of buckets to get water to boil to fill their canteens with, while everyone else was busy breaking camp. The two returned with the water, but were shaken. They had found tracks by the shoreline-big ones. Eighteen inches long, they thought, and very deep. “I'll take your word for it,” Andrews said. “Let's get that water boiled, and eat. Then we're getting out of here.”

Part II:



14 May 1986: 1400 Mountain Time:



Three days had passed since the encounter with, whatever that beast had been, and everyone had settled down. They had to stop more often, as the party was getting higher and higher, then they had passed the treeline into open ground, which didn't make anyone comfortable. Anyone on high ground could be watching them, and there wasn't a thing they could do about it. But the pass was just ahead.

“Finally!” Guru said. He'd been on point with Neal Brandon.

“Oh, yeah,” Brandon agreed. “Cross that, and it's all downhill.”

“I'll stay here, Neal.” Guru said. “Go get the Major and Lori.”

Brandon nodded, and went back. A few minutes later, the party was with him. Adams was checking his map-an old U.S. Forest Service map that Lori had loaned him. “That the pass?”

“That's it, Major,” Lori said. “Another three or four days, then maybe we can find some civilization.”

“Not today: we've only three hours or so of daylight. Let's get back to the treeline, and make camp. We'll cross in the morning.”


The next morning, the party was fed, rested, and ready to go. As they approached the pass, everyone was keyed up. If there was going to be an ambush, this would be a good spot to spring one: the group out in the open, and whatever attackers would have high ground and concealment among the rocks.

The party approached the pass, and Navy Lt. Lyle Branson, an A-7 pilot, glanced to the right. “I'd swear there was something up there.”

“Still jumpy after that...thing, Lyle?” Neal Brandon kidded.

He shook his head. “No, but I thought I saw sunlight reflecting off of something.”

“If somebody was up there, they would've opened fire by now.” Lori said. “I would, if I were up there.”

“Don't worry about it, Lyle,” Adams said. “Let's get to the other side of the pass, then we're in the homestretch.”

As the party approached the pass, and crossed it, they were being watched. Unknown to them, a Spetsnatz team was watching the pass. They were under orders to observe and report, and one of the Soviets, the team's second-in-command, had a 35-mm camera with a telephoto lens. He was snapping pictures of the party as they moved to the pass. He was certain that he got faces, but would have to wait until the photos were developed to make sure. The team commander knew he could have set an ambush here, and wiped out the guerrillas, but those were not his orders. The Front intelligence directorate wanted to know who was using the mountain passes and how often, to determine guerrilla supply lines, as well as to identify particular individuals. He'd been told to stay hidden, observe, take photographs, and report. And to give a detailed report to the local commander upon extraction.

On the other side, it was level for a bit, then it was downhill, just as had been hoped. They camped for the night about three miles from the pass, and for the first time since setting out, everyone was relieved.


17 May 1986: 0930 Mountain Time:

It had been a relatively easy two days since crossing the pass, and Lori's map showed several hiking trails that led down the west side of the mountains. Though the trails were obvious, and if one wanted to set ambushes, there would be no better place to set some, it beat using game trails or just plain going through the woods. Not to mention the fact that after nearly a week on the trail, people were getting tired. Breaks were more frequent, much to Major Andrews' displeasure-and Lori's for that matter, but there was no getting around it.

The party had stopped for a break, having been on the trail for two hours, when the point element, Neal Brandon and Mike Jensen, went on ahead. They thought they'd seen something, and went to investigate. They came running back, breathless. “Major, Lori, you'd never guess what we just found.”

“What?” Lori asked.

“There's a Forest Service station. Nobody's there, but there's a garage, and what looks like an office.”

Lori checked her map, and Andrews did too. There was a dirt road nearby, and they had been hoping to get to that road and follow it. It would be a lot easier to just follow the road, even if it exposed them to ambush. But there had been no sign of enemy-or friendlies for that matter. “Major, if there's a garage, there might be a truck or two there. If it hasn't been looted, there's probably gas there, too.”

“And just drive on out of here?” Adams asked. “We'd be easy targets.”

“Got a better idea?” Lori shot back. “At this rate, we'll be out of food before we can walk out.”

The Major knew she was right, and simply nodded. The group headed on to the station. And both were surprised: the station wasn't on their map. Lori checked the date of issue on the map: 1974. “Great. How many other surprises are there?”

“Let's check this out first,” Adams said. “Guru, Neal, Tony: Check this place out. Give a wave if it's clear.”

“Right,” Guru said. He collected the other two, and the trio headed to the station. The station looked deserted, but the doors were locked, and the windows shut. “Guru, I don't like this.” Neal Brandon said.

“Think it's a trap?”

“Yeah, I do. But whose?” The Marine asked.

“Let's check it out. Go on ahead, Neal. Tony, cover the both of us. I'll be right behind Neal.”

Both nodded, then the Marine went in, and Guru, his AKM at the ready, was right behind him. Neal went around the building, checking for any booby traps or mines, and finding nothing obvious. Still suspicious, he decided the best way to get in was to break a window. “Guru, I think we can get in by a window.”

“Break a window?” Guru asked. “Still think there's a reception committee around?”

“Don't think so now, but if there's something rigged on the doors.....”

“Say no more.” Guru nodded. “Do it.”

Neal took his AKM and broke one of the rear windows, and Guru helped him in. Neal looked around, and found the place musty, damp, and abandoned. He tried flipping a light switch, but nothing came one. “No power.”

“This far back?” Guru asked. “They probably have a generator. Anything on the doors?”

Neal went to the back door, and checked it. Nothing. He opened it, and waved to Guru. “Clear back.”

Guru went on in, and headed straight for the front door. Nothing. He opened it, and waved to Tony. Then he went into the garage, while Neal checked the office. Inside the garage, he found two Ford King Cab pickups, and then went into one of the trucks. There was a two-way radio, and he looked around for the keys. Sure enough, tucked in the driver's side sun visor, the keys came out. Then he went to the other truck, and found the other set of keys. He went back into the office, and found Neal waiting for him. “What'd you find?”

“There's a break room, but the refrigerator's empty, and the vending machines look OK.” Brandon said.

“All right. This place is clear,” Guru said. He went and waved Tony over. “Tony, wave the others in.”

“Gotcha.”

Carpenter walked into the road and waved the party in. Lori and the Major were surprised to see the two trucks. “These two have gas?” Adams asked.

“There's a gas tank in the back, but I haven't started the trucks,” Guru said, handing Major Andrews the keys. “We'll have to open the garage doors.”

Nodding, Adams told two of the other evadees to open the garage doors, which could be done without power. Then he started one of the trucks. It turned over easily, and the same went for the other.
“The tanks are full. Now I wouldn't mind riding out of here.”

Lori was inside the office, checking the desks. The calendar said September 5, 1985. The day after the invasion had begun. “Someone was here. They must've just closed up shop and left in some other vehicle,” she observed.

“Any supplies? Food, or whatever?” Adams asked.

“Nothing, Major.” Guru said. “They cleaned the place out before turning off the generator.”

Adams nodded. “See if there's any empty gas cans here. Check the big tank, see if it's got gas. If it does, fill those gas cans, then we're taking these trucks.”

Guru nodded, then collected a couple of the others, and sure enough, there was gas in the big tank behind the station. After filling the cans, he asked, “What about this place?”

“Leave it,” Lori said. “There might be someone else who can use this, even if it's just for shelter.”

“Check the desks,” Adams ordered. “See if there's a better map.”

A search of the three desks and their drawers found nothing useful. Though a search of a storage shed found several tarps, along with some tools: axes, shovels, Ponderosas (a combination of ax and scraper-used by woodland fire-fighting teams), and so on. Andrews ordered the gear brought along, just in case, then he had the gas tank behind the garage punctured. “No sense in leaving that gas for Ivan if he comes this way.”

After that had been taken care of, the group piled into the two trucks and pulled out of the station. In the lead truck, Neal Brandon was driving, with Lori beside him, two guerrillas in the back seats, and half of the party in the bed of the truck. “Follow the road, Neal. There's another forest road about five miles away, then we take that. Then that should lead us to a county road, then that takes us to State Highway 69.”

“Just hope Ivan doesn't have any Su-25s doing armed recon on the roads.”

After two hours of driving, and two roads later, they came to Colorado Highway 69. The sign at the intersection said “Westcliffe 20”, and Neal knew to take the right. Turning left only took them back towards enemy territory.

In the second truck, Guru was driving, with the Major beside him. Tony Carpenter and Mike Jensen were in the back seats, and the others were in the bed of the truck. “Ever think we'd be driving out of here, Major?” Guru asked.
“No, but right now, I'm not complaining. We just covered in three hours what would've taken a day on foot.”

Guru nodded. “Major, neither am I.”

Thirty minutes later, they rolled into Westcliffe. Or what had been Westcliffe. The town had been hit from the air, apparently, and there was nothing but burned-out buildings, wrecked cars and pickup trucks, and rubble. They stopped at the intersection of Highway 69 and State Route 96. A sign was still standing: it said, “Hillside 14; Texas Creek/Jct. U.S. 50 25”. The party got out to search the nearby buildings. Nothing was salvageable, and there were remains of bodies all over. The town still smelled of death, even though they had no idea of when the town had been attacked. “No sign of anything military around: no wrecked vehicles, nothing,” Tony Carpenter noted when he came back to the Major. “What'd they hit?”

“Want to bet there was a guerrilla band out of here, and Ivan decided to hit the town in reprisal?” Adams said.

“No takers,” Lori said. “This place is giving me the creeps.”

“You're not the only one,” Mike Jensen said. “I say we get the hell out of here.”

Adams nodded. “Okay, people! Mount up and let's go.”


Twenty minutes of driving, and they came to Hillside. That town, too, had been hit, and there was nothing standing. Lori and the Major talked over the truck radios, and decided not to stop, but keep going. A few miles down the road, they came to a local road. The sign there said, “Cotopaxi 6; TO Jct U.S. 50 West.”

They stopped, and everyone got out to stretch their legs. It had been so long since anyone had been in a car or truck, and they were unused to being in a vehicle. Lori was checking her map. “That's a dirt road, and want to bet it hasn't seen a repair crew in ages?”

Most everyone nodded, but one of the guerrillas, Sean Weston, who'd been a Colorado Department of Transportation road engineer prewar, went over to the road. He could tell someone had been working on the road. “Somebody's been here. There's dozer tracks, and they're about a week old. And the road looks like it's been worked on.”

“Got to be friendlies,” Brandon said. “Has to be.”

“Yeah, but that road likely doesn't have bridges: there's a couple of creeks on the map, and that road crosses them,” Lori said, pointing at the map.

“If someone's been working on the road, they've probably taken care of that,” Adams said. “All right: let's take the short cut.”

Part III:



17 May 1986: 1500 Mountain Time, Calumet, CO

Colonel Ernesto Bella was sitting in his office at the City Hall. He'd been the local military governor since the invasion, and though the first month had gone well, those infernal Wolverines had been a major problem. Not only had they repeatedly struck at the liberating forces, but had inspired others to begin their own guerrilla activities, and this sector of Colorado, which for a month had been considered pacified, was now a mess. Though the Wolverines had been dealt with after their final attack on the town, other bands had not ceased their depredations. It didn't help matters that his second-in-command, a Nicaraguan Captain, had been killed in the attack, along with a Soviet Spetsnatz Colonel, who'd been brought in to deal with the guerrilla problem once and for all. The only bright spot had been the death of his superior, General Vassily Bratchenko, in the attack, and though Bella had to sing the General's praises at the memorial service, privately, he, and a number of other officers, had been glad that....butcher had met his end.

Colonel Bella had submitted his resignation, but he'd heard nothing so far, and given the war “emergency”, his request was likely to be denied. So, he'd been gathering material, for he'd made a decision that he knew was the right one: when the opportunity came, he would defect. Then there was a knock on the office door. He had taken over the Mayor's office, and was actually glad that he no longer had to deal with that man. What was the American term? “Ass-kisser”, someone had said. Well, a month after the Wolverines' attack, there had been one more attack on the town, only this time, it had been swift and silent. A number of those who'd been cooperating with the liberating forces had met with violent ends, and among them had been the Mayor. Bella now dealt with the civilian population through the prewar City Manager, and the fellow, though he could tell was not too thrilled about cooperating with the Socialist Forces, did what was necessary to keep the population under control. There was a second knock. “Come in,”

“Comrade Colonel,” his new deputy, a Cuban Army Captain, said. “Major Volshov is here.”

“Volshov?”

“Spetsnatz, Comrade Colonel,” the Captain said.

“Ah, yes. Send him in, please, Ricardo.”

Nodding, the Captain ushered in the Soviet officer. He had been Colonel Strenlikov's deputy commander, until the man's death, and now ran the 779th Independent Spetsnatz Battalion. “Comrade Colonel.”

“What do you have, Volshov?” Bella asked. “Your men knew their orders, correct?”

“Absolutely, Comrade Colonel!” Volshov said. “They avoided contact with the enemy, and brought back some photographs. The patrol only saw one party going through the pass, headed west.” The Spetsnatz officer opened a manila folder and showed Bella the photos.

“Hmm....Good enough to identify people,” Bella was impressed. “Any idea who these....people are?”

“No, Comrade Colonel. My intelligence officer has access to records on known guerrillas, and none of them are familiar to him,” Volshov told his superior.

“What were the patrol leader's observations?”

“He noted that most of those observed seemed to have a military bearing. They may have been downed airmen, perhaps?”

Bella nodded. “Still, Major, once one becomes a guerrilla, they develop a military bearing very quickly. But, given the number of aircraft that have gone down in this area, you may be right.”

“Yes, Comrade Colonel,” Volshov said.

“You do have copies of these photographs?” Bella asked.

“Of course, Comrade Colonel,” nodded Volshov. “Your own military intelligence people may be able to make use of them. As would the DGI.”

“Thank you, Comrade Major,” Bella said. “They certainly will. That'll be all.”

The Spetsnatz officer saluted and left the office.

Bella took the photos and scanned them once more. Yes, some of them looked like they were downed pilots. What was the term? A “rat line?” Yes, this might be such a line, where the guerrillas conducted downed pilots and others who were escaping the Soviets over the Rocky Mountains and to American lines. It was more of an outpost war on the other side, his intelligence briefings said. Soviet-bloc outposts on the other side were few and far between, and often could not be held. Bella took the photos, and put them back in the folder, before putting them in his briefcase, where they joined a number of other documents that the Americans would clearly love to get their hands on.

He made his decision. Then and there. “Ricardo!”

Bella's deputy came in. “Comrade Colonel?”

“Get my driver and jeep. I'm going to one of the outposts.”

“Is that wise, Comrade Colonel?”

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Still, I need some fresh air. Being stuck in this office for a while makes one long for the outdoors.” Bella said.

“Comrade Colonel,” the man said.

A few minutes later, Bella's UAZ-469 jeep pulled up to City Hall. He took his briefcase-which his deputy was curious about, but said nothing. The ways of Field-grade officers were a mystery to him, just as they were to junior officers the world over. “When will you be back, Comrade Colonel?”

“A few hours, Ricardo. I may even have dinner with the men at the outpost. A gesture of solidarity with the men on the line, you might say,” said the Colonel. Bella got into the jeep. “Keep things going here until I return.”

The deputy clicked his heels and smartly saluted. “Comrade Colonel!”



17 May 1986, 1545 Mountain Time: County Road 85, near Cotopaxi, Colorado:


Guru was driving the second truck, keeping his eye on the first, and trying to avoid bumps and dips. “Major, whoever worked this road hasn't been here in a while.”

“No kidding!” Adams responded. “If it was the Army, they just did the bare essentials.”

Then the radio crackled to life. “Major, this is Lori.”

Andrews picked up the talker. “Go ahead.”

“Looks like a military camp up ahead. There's a flag flying, but I can't tell whose from this distance.” At the same time, her truck stopped.

Guru stopped behind Lori's truck and everyone got out. Several pairs of binoculars were soon in use. “Looks like ours,” Tony Carpenter said.

“I'll go along with that,” Guru said.

“Problem is, that collaborationist force, the ALA, has a flag similar to ours,” Lori said. “Someone's got to get close and see who they are.”

“I'll go,” WO Kyle Lewis said.

Adams nodded. Lewis was the best of the aviators, and was Ranger-qualified. “All right, we'll cover you.”

Lewis took off his Soviet gear, taking only two things: his AKM rifle, and his winter camo suit. If need be, he'd wave it at whoever it was to ID himself.

The party watched through binoculars as he approached the camp. “If they're hostiles?” Lori asked.

“If they are, we get in those trucks and hightail it out of here. Then we find some other way around that location,” Adams decided.


Lewis took his time in getting close. He could see that the brush had been cleared away to give the outpost's defenders a clear field of fire, except where they hadn't. And a trick he'd been taught at Ranger school came back. If grass wasn't being cleared, that was a sure sign there were mines around. He looked at the flagpole: it was the Stars and Stripes, but was it the good guys? Those ALA scum had a variation of it that you needed to get real close to see. He crept in closer, taking care to check for booby traps. If they're ours, there's Claymores around, and he didn't want to trip one if he could help it.


In the outpost, a very bored soldier was standing watch. He was wondering what his platoon was doing here, watching a road that no one had traveled on for months, apart from those engineers who took their heavy equipment there for a couple of weeks. Rumor had it some kind of push might be happening and the higher-ups wanted the road in at least passable shape. He shouldered his M-16 and took off his helmet. When are we getting those Kevlar helmets? The airborne mafia has theirs, so when do we get ours? Then he heard something. He raised his rifle, and called for his squad leader.

“Damn it!” Lewis whispered to himself. He'd found some wire, and attached to the wire were cans of varying types and sizes. An old Vietnam trick to alert bases that there were intruders in the wire. And that meant that this camp had friendlies. Then he heard a shout:

“HALT! Identify yourself!”

“You Americans?” Lewis yelled.

“Who are you?” The voice yelled back.

“Make sure you're Americans,” Lewis yelled. “Where did the Dodgers play baseball before going to L.A.?”

“Brooklyn,” the voice said. “Now, how many Oscars did John Wayne win?”

They were Americans, Lewis knew. Though he didn't know himself, he did have a ready answer. “Not enough!”

“Well, Sarge, do we shoot him or not?”

“He's right, though,” A soldier stood up. “Stand up and come on in.”

Lewis stood up and waved his camo suit. The soldiers waved him in, though he was careful to keep his hands visible, and nowhere near his rifle. Then he saw the flag. The genuine article. “WO Kyle Lewis, United States Army,”

“Staff Sergeant Clay Haswell, 2-17 Infantry, 7th ID,” the solider said. He pointed to a gap in the wire, and Lewis got into the camp. “Where did you come from, uh, Sir?”

“Been on the other side with the guerrillas,” Lewis said. He pointed to the specks in the distance where the party was. “There's a whole bunch of us: downed pilots and guerrillas. We've been looking for friendlies for over a week.”

“Well, Sir, you found 'em,” Sergeant Haswell replied. “Carter, Walsh! Go with Mr. Lewis, and escort the rest of his party in,”

Two soldiers nodded, while Lewis shook Haswell's hand. “Where's your platoon leader?

“Dead. Got himself killed on a patrol a week ago. And they haven't sent us a new shavetail yet.”

Nodding, Lewis told the two GIs to follow him back down the road.


“He's coming back,” Tony Carpenter observed. “And he's got two people with him.”

Everyone reached for their rifles, and took cover beside the road. “Don't fire unless I give the word,” Adams ordered.

People nodded, as they raised their weapons. Then Kyle yelled. “Major! We've got friendlies!” He motioned the two soldiers to go ahead of him.

Major Adams and Lori stood up. “What's your unit?”

One of the soldiers responded, “7th ID. 2-17 Infantry, 2nd Brigade.”

“Major Mark Adams, United States Marine Corps,” Major Adams said. “Lori, here, she's in charge of the guerrillas.”

The two soldiers saluted, then Carter, a Spec 4, said. “Sir, let's go.”

Nodding, Andrews ordered everyone into the trucks, and they drove to the outpost. And for the first time in months, the evadees saw an American flag flying, and by habit, they saluted. Then Sergeant Haswell came in. He saw Major Adams and saluted. “Major,”

“Sergeant,” Adams said, glad to return the salute. “Are we glad to see you.”

“Sir.” Haswell said. “I've called my company commander, and we should have vehicles coming to take you guys and gals”-he saw Lori Sheppard and two other female guerrillas-”to the rear.” He looked at the USFS trucks. “Guess you won't be needing those anymore, Sir.”

Both Adams and Lori tossed him the keys. “If you can use 'em, Sergeant, they're yours.”

“Yes, Sir,” Haswell said. “We'll find a use for 'em.”

A few minutes later, a pair of 6x6 GMC trucks arrived. An Army Captain climbed down from one of them. “Major Adams? I'm Captain Dale Logan. These trucks'll be taking your party back to Division.”

“Where's that?” Adams asked.

“Salida, Sir. If you and your party will get on the trucks, Sir.”

Nodding, Adams waved to the group. “Let's go, people!”


1610 Mountain Time. County Road 44, west of Calumet, CO


Colonel Bella's UAZ-469 jeep headed west, towards one of his forward outposts. A Soviet motor-rifle brigade, one that had been pulled from Afghanistan and sent here, had the outpost line in this area. He knew the brigade commander, and both knew that there wasn't much chance of a push over the mountains in force. Now, guerrillas sallying from the mountains to raise whatever hell they could, that was a totally different story, and the guerrillas knew full well not to attack the company-sized outposts. Shooting up patrols, or ambushing supply convoys, now, that was a different matter. But Bella knew, though his driver didn't, that they'd never get to the outpost. Knowing the dispositions of the Soviet and Cuban forces in the area, he knew where to cross into No-Man's Land and then get to American lines. The jeep pulled up to an intersection, complete with STOP signs.

“Almost there, Comrade Colonel,” the driver said.

“Yes,” Bella agreed. He took out his service pistol. “Now, Corporal, you will get out and walk, back the headquarters,” he said, pointing the Makarov in the driver's face. “Get out and start walking. NOW.”

Thoroughly frightened, the driver got out, and tried to take his weapon.

“Leave your weapon in the vehicle,” Bella said, and the driver left his AKM in the jeep. Bella then got out himself, still covering the driver, and pointing the pistol at the driver, ordered him to get going. And the man ran away. Smiling, Bella got back into the jeep, pulled out his own map, and started taking back roads. It would be a day, maybe two, before he found a road across the mountains, but, even if he had to take logging roads or what the Americans called “four-wheel drive trails”, he'd get to where he was going. And he knew of a couple of caches that he had put there: he'd found a couple of isolated, but abandoned, cabins that would be perfect for his purposes. Bella had placed the caches shortly after the Wolverines' final raid, stocking them with food, fuel, and ammunition. Even a couple of AK rifles in each. Now, he thought as he headed towards one of them, did the guerrillas find the caches first?


1750 Mountain Time: Salida, CO:


The two GMC trucks bringing the evadees to Salida pulled into town. The canvas covers on the trucks hadn't been put on, and everyone had a view. As they got closer to Salida, the number of outposts increased, and a couple looked like Vietnam-era firebases, even. When they got into town, seeing armed troops on the streets, along with armed locals, was no surprise. The trucks pulled up to City Hall: it was Division HQ. Several officers, and a number of soldiers, were waiting. One of the officers came up to Major Adams.

“Major Adams?”

“That's right.”

“I'm Colonel Mitch Drummond, G-2, 7th ID. Welcome back to Free America.”

Adams saluted. “Sir, glad to be back.”

“Now, we'll have to verify the evadees' identity, just to make sure. The air liaisons have all of the aircrews' personal verification questions,” Drummond told the Major. The aircrews overheard that, and knew why. With the ALA, and Soviet intelligence probably inserting agents disguised as either refugees or evadees, verification was a necessary part of life.

“After that?”

“You all can get cleaned up, and something to eat,” Drummond said. “Then my intel people want to have a talk with all of you.”

“Colonel, with all due respect, after we eat, we need to sleep. We've been running on adrenalin for over a week, and, Sir, we need to crash someplace.”

The intelligence officer nodded understanding. “All right, Major.” He looked at the aircrew and the guerrillas, and all were clearly tired. “The debriefs can wait until morning.”


After the aircrews' identities had been verified, and they had vouched for the guerrillas, the party was taken to a reception center set up at the local High School. There, they were able to get out of their dirty clothes, and have a hot shower and decent shave for the first time in months. The chow hall was open, and the Army mess people told everyone that there was more variety there than at the cafes in town. Knowing mess people, the military evadees took that with a grain of salt, with more than one “Yeah, right,” being uttered. Since classes were still being held at the school, there were tents set up, and the party, in clean Army OD fatigues, but still keeping their weapons, fell down on the cots and went to sleep.


The next afternoon, Colonel Drummond came by the tents. He was wondering why no one from the group had shown up at Division HQ to talk with his people. The Officer-in-Charge of the reception center simply took the Colonel to the tents, and showed him why. All were still asleep, nearly twenty-four hours after their arrival. The Colonel nodded. “Anyone try to wake them, Captain?”

“No, Sir,” the officer replied. “They've all got their weapons with them, and if we try to shake one of them awake, they might shoot one or two of my people.”

Drummond laughed. “Well, we can't have that, can we, Captain?”

The captain smiled. “No, Sir. I'll just notify you when they wake up.”

Part IV:


19 May 1986, 1530 Mountain Time, 7th Infantry Division, Salida, CO:


Guru and Tony came out of the Division's G-2 shop. They had spent several hours with not only the Army intel people, but an Air Force Intelligence Officer had also debriefed them. Everything had been gone over, from shootdown, to those who had helped them, to their time in the mountains, and the trip out. It wasn't enough that they had told the same story to the Army pukes, but the AF wanted it firsthand from them as well. And that intel weenie was going to be busy, for there were six AF evadees in all, and he'd be busy into the night and the next day.

Glad to be out of the intel weenies, and dressed in new BDUs, Guru turned to Tony. “Want something to eat? There's a cafe not that far away.”

“Yeah, a late lunch sounds good,” Tony said. “Hey, there's Lori.”

Lori Sheppard came towards them. She waved them over. She was in new BDUs as well. She had spent the morning not with the Division's intelligence people, but with Special Forces. There was a Special Forces Base nearby, and she had been anxious to talk to the Green Berets. “Hey, guys!”

“Lori, how's the Army treating you?”

“Couldn't ask for anything more. They'll be sending some SF in, and my people as well, to the Family Camp. We'll evacuate those people by chopper, and they're going to be with us the rest of the way,” she said. “However long that is.”

“One thing my Squadron CO told me, Lori, on Day Two: 'It'll be a long war.'” Guru said.

Tony Carpenter nodded in the direction of the cafe. “Lunch?”

“Yeah,” Lori agreed. “I can use a late lunch.”

“Where's your .270?” Guru asked. He saw that she had her AKM instead.

“Oh, the SF guys are taking care of it. Their gunsmith was practically in heaven. He's drooling at the thought of customizing it for me, but I told him no. It's a family heirloom, and right now, it's my only family connection.”

Guru and Tony knew all too well what she meant. “Sorry...”

“Don't be,” Lori replied. “Not your fault. And if someone talked, I'll find whoever it is. And kill them myself.”

The two pilots understood, and they also knew that she meant what she said. Then they walked to the cafe. A sign at the entrance asked that all civilians check their long guns at the door, but military personnel could keep theirs. And they saw several of their fellow evadees sitting down at a table. “Guys, come on in,” Neal Brandon waved.

“Thanks,” Tony said. And the trio joined their friends. The waitress came over with menus for the new arrivals. “You guys just ordered?”

“Yeah,” Bill Andrews said. “Most of the beef, though, it's unavailable. Even if they do have it, you need a ration coupon to order.”

“Let me guess: chicken, pork, elk, deer?” Lori asked.

“You got it,” Neal Brandon said.

“I've had enough deer and elk that if I ate one more bite,I'll start growing antlers,” Guru quipped. “Pork chops and eggs is good enough for me.”

“Same here,” Lori said. “I can do without for a few more days. Remember, prewar, I hunted a lot.”

“Seconded,” Tony said.

After the new arrivals had ordered, Guru noticed something. He saw a very healthy looking busboy cleaning up a table. “Shouldn't he be in uniform?”

“We asked the waitress that same question when we got here,” Bill Andrews said. “He can't join up.”

“What?”

“He's diabetic, she said. Needs insulin every day, and the Army's the area's only supply.” Andrews said.

“Oh, boy.” Guru sighed. Then he noticed the boy was packing a Colt .357 Magnum in a shoulder holster. “Everybody's carrying.”

“Yep,” Brandon said. “And that kid does his part: they have a mounted posse, and he rides with 'em. He may be diabetic, but he still does his part for the war effort.”

“Sorry to change the subject, but did you guys hear about when we're leaving?” Bill Andrews asked.

“The AF liaison said we'd have something in a day or two. Family notifications have to go first,” Tony Carpenter said. “Then we get two weeks' leave, then refresher training, and back to our original units.”

Andrews smiled. He raised his glass of ice water. “Here's to that,”

Clink

The waitress brought the original party's order, and said to the new arrivals, “Your meals are coming. Be a few more minutes.” And Guru, Tony, and Lori watched with envy as their friends tore into their food. Lori was drooling, and looked at Neal Brandon as if possessed. Then she saw him jerk his head up with a start. “What's up?”

“The front door.”

“What are you..” Lori asked, turning to look. Guru and Tony turned as well, just as a Cuban Colonel, in full uniform, came into the cafe. And everyone at the table, not to mention several Army personnel at other tables, reached for their rifles. And as safeties were being clicked off, an Army officer came running in.

“Hey, don't shoot! He's a defector.”

“Prove it,” An SF trooper at a nearby table said, pointing a CAR-15 at the Cuban.

Everyone at Guru's table had their AKMs out, waiting. Then another officer came in-a light colonel, this one, and said, “People, he's a defector, it's OK.” And weapons began to be lowered. As the Cuban entered, it was obvious that he was what they said he was. Several SF officers were right behind him, and in plain BDUs, a couple of others, who looked to be “OGA” types, followed the officers. The party sat down at another table, and after ordering coffee, started to talk to the Cuban. He took one look at Guru's table and asked, in English, “Is this how you welcome guests?”

One of the officers laughed. “Colonel, with that group, it probably is. They just came out of the mountains a few days ago.”

“I see...” the Cuban said. Then he switched to a language that no one, other than the SF men, could understand.

Unable to follow the conversation, Guru's party ate. As they got up to leave, the Cuban was still at it. “Want to bet they'll be at it all night?” Neal Brandon asked.

“No takers,” Tony said. “Maybe they'll be so busy with him, they'll tell us, 'We're done with you guys.'”

After paying for his meal, Lori's, and Tony's, Guru went outside. There, he found an AF Sergeant, part of the liaison team, waiting. “Sergeant?”

He turned. “Lieutenant Wiser?” Then he saluted.

Guru returned it. “That's right.”

“Sir, I've got movement and travel orders for you and Lieutenant Carpenter.” He looked behind Guru. “Is Captain Andrews in there? I've got something for him as well.”

Tony came out, with Lori right behind him . “Who's asking?”

“He is,” Guru pointed to the Sergeant. “He's got one for you, Tony,” Guru said as he opened the envelope. “Two weeks' leave. Movement and travel to Castle AFB is authorized, civilian train transportation to Fresno....” Home for two weeks, Guru noticed. “Can't beat that.”

“Same here,” Tony said. “Two days on a train to Oregon, though,” he saw.

Lori shook their hands. “At least you guys have a home to go back to. When this is over, I have to start all over.” She looked at them “And so do a lot of others.”

“Yeah.” Guru knew full well what she meant. He held out his hand “Lori, when this is all over, you're welcome at our unit reunions. You've earned it.”

She shook his hand, then embraced Guru. “Thanks, Matt.” Then she did the same with Tony. “You guys take care, and do me, and all of us up in the hills a favor.”

“Just say it, Lori,” Guru said.

“Kill as many of those bastards you want. Shoot them down or blow 'em up on the ground, I don't care.” Lori told both of them with all seriousness.

“We'll do that.”


24 June 1985, 1400 Mountain War Time; Williams AFB, AZ.


Lieutenant Matt Wiser got off the C-130 that had flown him, via Beale AFB and Nellis, from Kingsley Field to Williams. Just as he'd hoped, he was rejoining the Chiefs, the 335th TFS, and getting back into the fight. He looked around, and saw the familiar: F-4s, painted in either SEA camouflage or or Navy/Marine Corps grey, A-4s and A-6s, AF Jolly Green Giant rescue choppers, and a couple of other C-130s. Just another day.

He'd enjoyed the two weeks at his home in Auberry, in the Southern Sierra Nevada foothills. His family was doing OK, and rationing, though it had bitten, wasn't hitting rural folks as hard as it did in cities, for nearly everyone who could had a garden. Though trips to Fresno were still common, people knew to combine trips, and shop for a neighbor if that person only needed one or two things.

Word had gotten around that he was back, and he'd been asked to talk to school assemblies, the local VFW, the Shaver Lake Chamber of Commerce, and so on. Recounting his experiences, some of which he still didn't want to talk about, went easier than he thought, and he wished he had more time at home with his mom and grandparents, but the two weeks went by fast, and it was time to get to the Fresno Air Guard Base. There, he'd gotten his travel orders to go to Kingsley Field, and that meant space-available again on a C-130. When he got to Kingsley Field, to his surprise, he had very little to do with Colonel Saul Tigh, the CO of the RTU there, but things he'd heard about the man came back: he was stubborn, irascible, grumpy, and just an overall asshole. When Guru had said as much to one of his instructors, the man-who had flown with Tigh in Vietnam before going to the Reserves, simply said, “You only have him for two weeks. I put up with him in SEA for a year.”

His RTU time went by fast, and on his final check ride, he'd maxed the flight. His instructor was beaming on landing, and was ready to pronounce Guru requalified. Tigh was on the ramp, and when the instructor brought Tigh the form to sign, with Guru there, Tigh had simply signed it, made some kind of grunt, then went off. Guru turned to the instructor, a Captain, and said, “That's it? No 'Welcome back to the Air Force?' Or 'Glad to have you back in the fight?'”

“That's it, Lieutenant.”

The only down side: Tony Carpenter, once he requalified, was being kept on as an instructor. When they were in the O-Club that afternoon, Guru was celebrating, while Tony was drowning his sorrows. “Tony, it won't last forever. You'll be back in the fight.”

“Yeah, but for at least a year, I have to put up with this asshole.” Carpenter grumbled.

“Well....what else can I say?” Guru held out his hand. “I'm glad to have flown with you, and see you at the reunion.”

“Guru, I'm glad to have known you,” Tony said, shaking his hand. “I'll see you around. Take care, and check six.”


Now, as he got off the C-130, a wave of heat hit him. He was in his dress blues, as per regs, and it was hot on the ramp. Guru looked around, and saw the 335th was still in its old location. He went to check back in with his squadron, glad to be back. He opened the door to the old T-37 flying training squadron offices that the 335th had taken over, and he saw a few familiar faces. And one of them recognized him: Captain Tim Cain, one of the backseaters left from Day One. “Guru!”

“Tim,” Guru said. “Glad to be back.”

“We heard you were coming back, man. How bad was it with the Resistance?”

“Don't ask. It was bad enough,” Guru replied. “If you want to know, it should be in the SERE Bulletin.”

“Yeah,” Cain responded.

“Colonel Rivers still the CO?” Guru asked.

“He is. He'll want to see you.”

Guru nodded. “All right.”

He picked up his bag and went to the CO's office. Several of his friends had recognized him, but there were more than a few unfamiliar faces. And he knew why. People he'd flown with were KIA, MIA, POW, or were in the hospital. Or worse: they might be going through what he'd experienced. Shaking his head at the thought, he knocked on the CO's door. “Come in.”

Guru went into the office and saluted. “Colonel, one lost sheep back to the 335th.”

“Guru!” Lt. Col. Dean Rivers said, getting up and shaking his hand. “Glad to have you back.”

“Good to be back, Sir.” Guru replied.

“Before you have a seat, you're out of uniform,” Rivers told Guru.

Guru was confused. They'd reoutfitted him at Castle before he went home, and he found out the AF had sent his personal belongings home after he'd been reported MIA. “Sir?”

Rivers gave him a small case, like a jeweler would use. “Open it.”

Guru did. “Captain?” He stared at the CO with a dumb look on his face. “Sir, I don't have enough time in grade.”

“Things are different in wartime, Guru. Lot of things happened while you were doing the SERE course for real.”

“We heard. Some botched counterattack, then Ivan pushed north again, and they got stopped short of the Mississippi and I-90.” Guru replied. “We saw Stars and Stripes when we came out of the mountains.”

Rivers nodded. “Yeah. And we just started pushing them back. Chances are, we go right back to where they were in January.”

“Lovely,” Guru said.

“Anyway, sorry about Tony not coming back. I asked for both of you, but they wanted an Academy grad as an instructor there,” Rivers admitted. “But I've got you a new WSO. A week out of the RTU, but no combat yet.”

“Captain's bars and a new WSO in the same day,” Guru noted. “Be careful of what you ask for, because you might just get it.”

Rivers let out a laugh. “There is that. Ready to meet your new backseater?”

“Might as well,” Guru said. Not that he had much choice.

Rivers went to the office door and motioned for someone to come in. A female 1st Lieutenant came in, with wavy blonde hair as long as regs permitted, and even in a flight suit, she was a looker. “First Lieutenant Lisa Eichhorn reporting, Sir.” she said, saluting.

Rivers nodded and returned the salute. “Lieutenant,.” He turned to Guru. “Lieutenant Eichhorn, meet Captain Matt Wiser, your new pilot.”

Guru was surprised. This had to be a welcome-back joke. But what if it wasn't? When had they tossed the ban on women flying combat? “Sir?”

“Guru, they tossed the ban on women flying combat in November, but we were all too busy to notice,” Rivers reminded the new Captain. “She's in the first crop of female pilots and WSOs to come out of the RTU.”

Well, then, that answers that. “Just like Ivan did, forty years ago,” Guru observed. He put out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Eichhorn replied.

“How'd you do at Kingsley Field?”

“First in my WSO class,” Eichhorn said with pride.

Guru noticed her Academy ring. “Any problems flying with an OTS grad?”

“Not at all,” Eichhorn replied. “Right now, the only thing I care about is my pilot wearing Air Force Blue.”

Guru nodded, then turned to Rivers, who made a habit of not wearing his class ring. “Boss, I think we'll get along just fine.” He turned to Eichhorn. “What's your call sign?”

“Goalie,” she replied.

“A guru and a goalie,” Rivers observed. “You two will make a good team. Now, Guru, I'll want a check ride with you in the morning, then you two can fly a fam hop to the Goldwater range to shake down. Because in three days, we're back on the firing line.”

“Yes, Sir.” Guru said.

“All right, find Mark Ellis, Guru, and see about billeting. We're still in the Mesa Sheraton, but he'll find you a roomie.”

Guru nodded.

“Anything else?” Rivers asked. Both shook their heads. “Dismissed.”

Back in the squadron offices, several old hands welcomed Guru back. And they reminded him of the obligatory promotion party! “Tomorrow night, guys,” Guru said. He walked out of the building, with Goalie right behind him. He turned to her. “Let's say we go to the Club, and talk things over. I think we'll make a good team.”

She nodded. “Suits me just fine. As long as the new Captain is paying.”

Guru laughed. “You know what? We'll get along just fine. And I am.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Then let's go.”

Epilogue:


14 October, 2011. Victory Day Air Show, Scott AFB, IL.


Colonels Matt Wiser and Lisa Eichhorn were sitting in the shade, which their F-15E Strike Eagles could provide. He had flown his Wing King bird from Hill AFB in Utah, where he commanded the 419th TFW of the AF Reserve, while Colonel Eichhorn flew her Wing King bird from Mountain Home AFB in Idaho, where she ran the 366th TFW “The Gunfighters.” They were the first married couple in the Air Force to be wing commanders at the same time, and flying the same aircraft, so there was naturally some publicity. They had been specifically requested by the Air Force to bring themselves and their aircraft to the show, and to have one other aircraft from their unit come, flown by veterans of World War III if at all possible, or the recent Baja War if not. Colonel Wiser had brought his WSO, who was too young to be in the Big War, but had flown with him in Mexico, and Colonel Eichhorn had done the same. But their wingmates had been in the big one: Colonel Wiser's was Lt. Col. Kelly Ann Ray, who had been a POW in Cuba during the war, while Colonel Eichhorn had brought along Lt. Col. Kara Thrace, who had been in the 335th during the war, and was now commanding the 390th TFS. All of their respective WSOs had flown in Mexico, when both units had deployed to Baja for that brief war.

This year's Victory Day Air Show was big, and for two reasons. First, it was the biggest show of the season, and all of the military's demonstration teams participated: the Thunderbirds from the Air Force, the Blue Angels from the Navy, the Army's Golden Knights parachute team, and the services' respective Heritage Flights. Second, it was the final Victory Day show to be held at Scott, because the following year, Andrews AFB would formally reopen, along with the rededicated and rebuilt Washington, D.C, and the show would move to Andrews on a permanent basis, much to the disappointment of the Greater St. Louis area, which looked forward to the show visitors pumping a lot of money into the local economy every year.

That was not a concern to the two colonels, who noted that a lot of vets were in attendance. Though this day was more of a practice day, with the teams having practice runs, it was also the day when VIPs could attend, without the extra security, and it was also the day that civic and veterans' organizations, as well as special needs visitors, could be there as well. The “Make-a-wish” kids often came on the practice days, and these days were less crowded.

Looking around, Guru saw the F-15Es from Seymour-Johnson, and he had a soft spot for his old wing, and the 335th, which was still part of the 4th TFW. Then there were the F-22s, and he knew full well that Kara and Kelly had a score to settle with the CO of the 357th TFW, who had “shot down” both of them in a Red Flag, and they had promised revenge, even if he was a one-star. The bombers were out, with B-52s and B-1s on the ramp, with the B-1C known as Cleopatra and its all-female crew being spotlighted, and a B-2 flyby from Whiteman was on the agenda. Just about every type of fighter, bomber, or transport was represented, and that was just the AF! All of the other services were well represented, with Navy, Marine, and Army aircraft and helicopters there, and the RCAF also came down as usual.

Guru and Goalie were talking with some cub scouts, signing autographs, and showing the kids around the F-15Es, while Kelly Ann Ray was signing books: her book Down in Cuba had become a best-seller, and had been made into a movie that had done well on Showtime, and was coming to DVD. Then Goalie looked around. “Where's Kara?

“She went to put some decals in the wheel well of that one-star's F-22,” Guru said. “Notice I said the wheel well. She knows full well not to put it on the outside.”

“Does she?” Goalie asked her husband. “I don't want my pay docked to pay for the paint job.”

Kara then came back. “Mission accomplished.”

“Youdid did put them in the wheel well?” Goalie asked.

“Yes, Ma'am,” Kara said. “I may be crazy but I'm not stupid. Besides, I want that one-star's crew chief to have a coronary-along with said one-star.”

“That's our Kara,” Colonel Ray quipped. And everyone knew she wasn't kidding.

The cub scouts had just gone on, when a Cuban-accented voice spoke up. “Colonel Wiser, we meet at last.”

“Huh?” Guru turned and saw someone he hadn't seen personally since that long-ago day in that cafe in Colorado. But he'd seen the man on Larry King Live, being interviewed along with Erica Mason, one of the two surviving Wolverines, and now Governor of Colorado. “Well, now. Not every day you see a man you almost shot.”

“What?” Goalie asked. And the expressions on Kara's face and Kelly's were just as surprised.

“Ah,” Colonel Ernesto Bella, Cuban Army (ret.), said. “Yes, your Colonel here almost shot me in a cafe after my defection.” He explained the event to the Eagle crews.

“Ernesto, you didn't tell me about this?” a woman's voice said.

“Forgive me,” Colonel, meet my wife, Manuela, and my children, Jose, Pedro, and Sofia,” Bella said, introducing his wife, teenage son, and year-old twins.

“Pleased to meet you,” Guru said, and the other Eagle crews were just as pleasant.

“Now, what's this about nearly shooting him in a cafe?” Mrs. Bella asked.

Guru nodded. “Well, Ma'am, your husband came into the cafe still in his Cuban Army uniform, complete with beret, and everyone reacted out of reflex. It wasn't just us; almost everyone in there was carrying a weapon of one sort or another.”

Bella laughed. “Yes, and I remarked to one of the intelligence officers that 'Is this how you welcome guests?'”

“That I heard,” Guru said. “What brings you here, Colonel?”

“I have something for you,” Bella said. He motioned behind him, and a young woman came and handed him a folder, and getting by the bodyguards that always accompanied Bella. “My publicist. After my book's success, hiring one was mandatory.” He handed Guru the folder. “I suggest you have a look.”

Guru opened the folder. Several photos came out. They showed a party walking single-file, towards a mountain pass. All were dressed in Soviet winter suits, and had AK rifles at the ready, except for one, who had a hunting rifle. “I recognize the one with the rifle. Lori Sheppard: that's a .270 Winchester she's carrying.”

“Yes, I saw her at the cafe,” Bella said. “Now,look at the close-ups.”

Guru flipped through the photos. There were several 8x10 close-ups, all clearly enlargements. “OK, Neal Brandon, Lori Sheppard, and....” He looked at Bella. “This isn't possible.”

“It is, Colonel,” Bella replied.

“Let me see,” Goalie asked. She looked over Guru's shoulder. “What?! Guru, that's you!”

“Yeah,” Guru said. He looked at Bella. “Who took these?”

“A Spetsnatz team. They had orders to observe and report about whoever was using the pass. The Front intelligence directorate wanted to know about possible guerrilla supply lines, escape routes, that sort of thing. They had orders to observe and report only, and to avoid combat,” Bella said, matter of factly.

“How'd they know we were there?”

“They didn't,” responded Bella. “They had been up there for nine days, and were on the last day of their mission,”

“God...they're good enough to recognize everybody,” Guru noted. “Excuse me, Colonel, but I need to make a phone call.” He reached into one of his flight suit pockets and pulled out his cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” Goalie asked.

“Sheriff Lori Sheppard.” was the reply. Guru had her number, and he made the call.

“Sheriff Sheppard,” Lori said after picking up. “What's up, Colonel?”

“Lori,” Guru said. “I'm at the Victory Day Air Show, and there's a certain former Cuban colonel who's got some nice pictures. They're of us, going over the pass.”

“WHAT?”

“Colonel Bella says there was a Spetsnatz team keeping tabs on the pass. They got some nice pictures of all of us. Good enough to get ID on everybody.” Guru told the Sheriff.

“Who talked? Colonel, if someone was a rat, they'll wish they had never been born!” Lori was practically shouting into the phone.

“Nobody talked,” Guru said. “Bella said they were watching the pass, and we just came into range of their camera...”

“NOT GOOD ENOUGH!” Lori yelled. “I'll find the snitch, whoever it was, and watch as the Feds hang him or her! Colonel, I'll call you back. My chief of detectives is going to be busy for a while.” And with that, Lori hung up.

Guru went back to where Goalie was, with Colonel Bella. “Well?” Goalie asked.

“Great. Lori's gone ballistic. I told her about the Spetsnatz team and the photos, and she went ape. She's convinced someone was a traitor, and she's going after someone who doesn't exist. I do not want to be her chief of detectives right now.”

“Ah,” Bella said. “She has to satisfy herself that there wasn't a traitor, but will make life miserable for her subordinates in the meantime.”

“Exactly,” Guru said.

“Well, then.” Bella said. He turned to Colonel Ray. “Colonel Ray, I have read your book.”

She was surprised. “And how did you like it?”

“A very harrowing read, I must say.” Bella said. “Your treatment was most unforgivable, and totally reprehensible. I trust the guilty parties will pay?”

“A couple have, Colonel. The rest, well once the appeals are done, it's time to measure them for the correct drop,” replied Colonel Ray.

“Quite so,” Bella agreed. “Please accept my apologies as a Cuban. You and your fellow prisoners deserved much better treatment.” He put out her hand.

“You're not one of them, Colonel.” Ray said. “So you're okay in my book.” And the two of them shook hands.

“Ernesto, we should be going,” Mrs. Bella reminded her husband. “There's a lot more to see.”

“Yes, we should.” Bella turned to Guru. “You may keep the photographs, Colonel. Consider them a gift. And a reminder of a close shave.”

Guru nodded.

Bella then shook hands with the Eagle drivers, then he and his party-bodyguards included, moved on.

“Well....” Goalie said. “Not every day you meet someone like him.”

“Yeah,” Kara said. “He's still in shape, though: I read his book: the man's ex-Cuban SF. Experience in Nicaragua, Angola, Cambodia, El Salvador, and Mexico. He probably doesn't need the bodyguards.”

“There's enough ex-DGI types around who might still try to whack him,” Capt. Jody Tucker, Kelly Ray's WSO, commented. “He'll have them for a while longer.

Kelly nodded. “You know one thing?”

“What?” Guru asked.

“He's the first Cuban to actually apologize for what happened to me, personally,” Kelly replied. “He's okay in my book.”

Nodding, Goalie looked at the photos again. “Man, they were close.”

Her husband nodded. “Yeah. Now I have to do one more thing. But not until Monday.”

“What's that?” Kara asked.

“See if Lori's climbed down from the ceiling and calmed down,” Guru remarked dryly.

“Why Monday?” Goalie asked.

“It'll take her that long to settle down,” Guru said.


And with that, the show went on, for the rest of the day, and the whole weekend.

Guys, here's the first fact file. In tribute to Satellite Down, it's about the Virginia-class CGNs:



The Virginia Class Cruisers in World War III



The Virginia class guided-missile cruisers were the largest class of nuclear surface combatants built for the U.S. Navy, until the postwar Puget Sound class strike cruisers. At the outbreak of war, they were the most capable nuclear cruisers in the U.S. Navy, primarily being employed as escorts for carrier battle groups. Planned as a five-ship class, only four were built, while the fifth, which was hoped to be equipped with AEGIS, was never funded.

The ships had an active war, escorting carrier battle groups, protecting their charges from air and submarine attack, and all four survived the war.


U.S.S. Virginia (CGN-38): Commissioned in 1976, she was active in the Atlantic Fleet at the beginning of the war, she had escorted the Eisenhower battle group on its last peacetime deployment. She remained with Eisenhower throughout the war, seeing combat during raids against Soviet-occupied Iceland, the liberation of Iceland, the Kola Raid, and operations in the Gulf of Mexico (GULF HAMMER and the reduction of the Brownsville Pocket). A brief yard period in 1986 had the “Fem Mods” (accommodations for female officers and crew) added. Virginia participated in the sinkings of three Soviet submarines: the Victor-I class SSN K-147 off Norfolk on 27 November 1985, the November-class SSN K-60 during the Liberation of Iceland in May, 1987, and the Tango-class SS B-319 on 8 June 1989, during the transit from Norfolk to the Gulf of Mexico. Virginia, during Gulf of Mexico operations, also took SAM shots at Soviet aircraft engaged in the airlift to Texas and Mexico, scoring several kills in the process. She was overhauled and refueled from 1994-1997, and after routine deployments with both the Sixth Fleet and the Fourth Fleet in the Caribbean, Virginia was decommissioned and stricken in 2014, and has been sold for scrap after defueling and all nuclear components removed.


U.S.S. Texas (CGN-39): Commissioned in 1977, she was active in the Pacific Fleet at the outbreak of war, as part of the Carl Vinson Battle Group. The group had returned from a WestPac deployment when war began, and as soon as war began, deployed to protect the California coast, and conducted carrier air strikes against targets in Baja California. Later, Texas participated in operations against Soviet convoys on the Alaska run, and in strikes against occupied Alaska and the Kamchatka Peninsula, protecting the carrier from Soviet air, submarine, and missile attack on several occasions. A brief yard period at San Diego followed, with the “Fem Mods” being added. Later, as part of the Vinson group, Texas also participated in the final reduction of the Soviet base at Cam Ranh Bay, before taking part in further raids against Kamchatka, the Kuriles, and Alaska, as well as covering the movement of forces into Alaska after the Soviet surrender in the Northern Theater in October, 1989. During the war, she sank three Soviet submarines: an unknown Whiskey-class SS on 24 March, 1986, the Juliett-class SSG K-63 during the Cam Ranh Bay strike, and the Charlie-I class SSGN K-25 on 6 October, 1989. (This was the last Soviet submarine sunk by USN surface vessels in the war) Overhauled and refueled in 1995-98, Texas resumed WestPac and Indian Ocean deployments with the Abraham Lincoln carrier group, before being decommissioned and stricken in 2015. She will be scrapped after defueling and all nuclear components have been removed.


U.S.S. Mississippi (CGN-40): Commissioned in 1978, she was part of the Nimitz carrier battle group in the Mediterranean when the war began, and she, along with the other escorts, was able to successfully defend the carrier against a “First Salvo” attack by the Soviet Mediterranean Squadron. The battle group then attacked the Soviet squadron, sinking several ships, before being diverted to attack targets in Libya, after the Soviet/Libyan occupation of Gibraltar. Mississippi then participated, with the battle group, in operations in the Eastern Atlantic and Mediterranean for much of 1986-7, taking part in the Liberation of Gibraltar and strikes against Libya and Soviet naval facilities in Syria. She also participated in strikes against both Cuba and Occupied Iceland, before the Liberation of Iceland and the Kola Raid, serving as AAW “Gatekeeper” to Nimitz. After Kola, a brief yard period followed, where she received the “Fem Mods” for female officers and crew. Mississippi then served with the carrier during operations against Cuba, before the Nimitz shifted to the Pacific Fleet, but she remained in the Atlantic Fleet. During her time with the Nimitz group, she sank three Soviet submarines: the Juliett class SSG K-67 on 6 September 1985, the Echo-II SSGN K-22 during the Iceland campaign, and the Foxtrot-class SS B-2 on 7 August 1987. She next provided AAW cover for the amphibious force in Operation GULF HAMMER, and again during the reduction of the Brownsville Pocket. After supporting the Cuba Blockade, she was part of the Theodore Roosevelt battle group, before her nuclear refueling and overhaul from 1997-2000.

After her yard period, Mississippi became part of the America battle group, seeing combat in the Cuba intervention and in the Baja War, supporting operations against the Mexican Gulf Coast. During the fall of the Rump USSR, the America battle group went to sea after DEFCON-3 was called, but saw no action. Mississippi is expected to decommission in FY 2017, and then she will be defueled, have her nuclear components removed, and then scrapped.


USS Arkansas (CGN-41): Commissioned in 1980, she was active in the Pacific Fleet as part of the Carl Vinson battle group. She participated in all of the Battle Group's actions in the initial part of the war, before being shifted to the Enterprise Battle Group in 1987, and the “Fem Mods” added during a brief yard period in San Diego. Arkansas participated in operations against Alaska, Kamchatka, and the Kuriles, and also covered the movement into Alaska after the Soviet surrender in October, 1989. The Enterprise group then participated in Operation FORAGER II, the Liberation of Guam from North Korean occupation in November-December, 1989. After the war, she resumed normal deployments to WestPac and the Indian Ocean, with occasional anti-piracy operations in both Indonesian and Chinese waters. During the war, she participated in the sinking of two Soviet submarines: the November-class K-11, on 5 June 1987, during a raid on Alaska, and the Echo-I class SSN K-259 during the Kamchatka Raid. Arkansas also fired Tomahawks in that operation, and during FORAGER-II, sank an unidentified North Korean Romeo-class SS.

After her refueling and overhaul from 1998-2001, she returned to the Pacific Fleet, joining the Nimitz Battle Group. Arkansas participated in the Baja War in 2010, supporting the blockade of Mexico's Pacific Coast, and firing Tomahawk Cruise Missiles against targets in Mexico. The battle group put to sea during the fall of the Rump USSR, but saw no action. Arkansas is expected to decommission in FY 2018. She will be defueled, have all nuclear components removed, and then scrapped.


Class statistics:

Displacement: 11,300 full load

Length: 585 feet

Beam: 63 feet

Draft: 29.5 feet

Propulsion: 2 steam turbines driving two shafts for 60,000 shp

Reactors: 2 GE D2G Pressurized Water Reactors

Speed: 30+ knots

Crew:

CGN-38: 565 (45 Officers and 520 Enlisted)

CGN-39: 572 (39 Officers and 533 Enlisted)

CGN-40: 613 34 Officers and 579 Enlisted)

CGN-41: 562 (39 Officers and 523 Enlisted)

Missiles:

2 twin Mk 26 launchers for Standard-MR SAM

2 quad Mk 141 Harpoon SSM launchers

2 quad ABL launchers for Tomahawk SSM/TLAM

Guns:

2 single 5-inch 54 Mk 45 guns

2 20-mm Phalanx CIWS

Several pintle mounts for .50 caliber machine guns or Mk 19 AGL

ASW Weapons:

ASROC fired from forward Mk 26 launcher

2 triple Mk 32 torpedo tubes for Mk 46 torpedoes

Radars:

SPS-40B air search

SPS-48A 3-D search in GGN-38, 39, SPS-48C in CGN-40, 41

SPS-55 surface search

Sonar: SQS-53A bow-mounted

Helicopter: VERTREP area only: helicopter hangar with elevator originally provided. Issues with elevators and keeping the hangar watertight resulted in the hangar being sealed, and Tomahawk ABLs installed.

Fire-Control:

1 SWG-2 Tomahawk FCS

1 Mk 13 Weapon-direction system (replaced by Mk 14 WDS)

1 Mk 86 GFCS with SPG-60 and SPQ-9A radars

1 Mk 74 Missile FCS

1 MK 116 ASW FCS

2 SPG-51D radars

EW:

SLQ-25 Nixie

SLQ-32 (V)3 EW