[Matt Wiser]

First mission of the day:



Over Central Texas: 0750 Hours Central War Time:


Rambler Flight was headed south, having just crossed the FLOT into enemy territory. The pre-strike refueling had gone off without a hitch, and the refueling track was a busy one, with KC-135s, KC-10s, and Marine KC-130s serving strike flights, CAP F-15s and F-16s, and the occasional recon platform before going about their business. Now, they were going in at 450 feet AGL, following the Brazos River, and, as usual, just inside the Nicaraguan sector boundary. While the pilots maintained their visual scanning, and kept an eye on their instruments, the WSOs were handling the navigation.

Guru had his head on a swivel, as usual, watching for threats, checking his EW display, and then his instruments. “Granbury Bridge coming up,” he noted. The U.S. 377 bridge over the Brazos served both the Nicaraguans and the East Germans.

“Got it,” Goalie replied. She was using the INS and the ARN-101 DMAS, but was also doing things the old-fashioned way: with a stopwatch and map. “Flak at One,” she called.

Guru glanced to his One O'clock. Sure enough, the East Germans on the west side of the bridge were shooting, as usual. “East Germans are awake,” he noted. The 23-mm and 57-mm flak was close, but not dangerously so.

“And...now,” Goalie called. The flight came close to the Bridge, and this time, there was no traffic crossing the Brazos. “One minute thirty to Glen Rose Bridge.”

Guru nodded. “Roger that,” he replied. Then he checked his EW display. Sure enough, a strobe appeared, and the warning light SEARCH came on. “Red AWACS again.”

In her cockpit, Goalie shook her head. “Somebody ought to do something about those.”

“Maybe somebody's going to do just that,” Guru said.

“Hopefully,” Goalie replied. “Dam coming up, and flak ahead.”

The strike flight passed by the Lake Granbury Dam, and the AAA batteries on the west side of the river opened up. Again, those were East Germans, while the Nicaraguan gunners on the east side stayed quiet. Then they turned south for the Glen Rose Bridge. “How long until Glen Rose?” Guru asked.

“Forty-five seconds.”

“Copy.” Guru checked his EW display again, then called the AWACS. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

An AWACS controller came back to him right away. “Rambler Lead, Warlock. First threat bearing One-seven-zero for fifty-five. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-eight-five for sixty. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing Two-zero-zero for seventy-five. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Warlock,” Guru replied.

“Glen Rose Bridge at One, with flak,” Goalie called.

“Got it,” Guru said as the 23-mm and 57-mm sites on the west side of the bridge opened up. Again, the gunners were not accurate, but they did put a lot of flak in the air. “That's Glen Rose. How long to Brazospoint?”

“Forty-five seconds to Brazospoint,” Goalie responded. “One minute thirty to Route 174 and the north side of Lake Whitney.”

“Roger that,” said Guru. One thing about going in at 500 KIAS at 450 feet AGL, it gave the bad guys on the ground a hard time to aim at you.

When they got to the Brazospoint Bridge, the gunners on both sides opened fire, and that was a sign they were now in the Libyan sector. Though the East Germans were measured, the Libyans, when they started shooting, were wild with their fire. “Forty-five seconds to the 174 Bridge.”

“And more Libyans,” Guru said. A quick glance at the EW display showed the strobe still there, and the SEARCH warning light on. That Mainstay again....“Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler Lead, Warlock. Threat bearing One-six-five for forty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-seven-zero for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing One-nine-nine for sixty-five. Medium, closing.”

Guru replied, “Roger that, Warlock.”

“Still got that Red AWACS,” Goalie snorted. “Coming up on the 174 Bridge.”

Guru nodded, then shot a quick glance to the right. Kara in 520 was tucked right with him, and a glance to the left had Sweaty in at their Seven O'clock. That meant Hoser was in their six. “Copy that,” he replied. “And there's the bridge, with the flak.” Tracers and puffs of 57-mm fire came up.

“Right on time,” Goalie called. “Lake Whitney dead ahead. Starting the clock.”

“Turn point in when?”

“One minute thirty.”


Rambler Flight flew past the bridge, then right over the lake. On both sides of the lake, locals as well as Soviet or East German soldiers were trying their luck at fishing. When the locals saw the F-4s go by, many waved, even if the crews couldn't see them doing so, while the Soviets and East Germans were wondering where their own air-defense people, and the Air Force for that matter, were. The sound of the aircraft thundered over the lake, and though most of the locals were happy to see the USAF over the lake, there were some who grumbled. Not that they weren't glad to see American aircraft, far from it, but the planes were scaring away the fish.

Oblivious to that, Guru and Goalie concentrated on flying as the turn point came up. They were short of the dam, as planned, and directly east of Long Branch. “Turn in when?” Guru asked.

Goalie gave the count. “Turn point in five, four, three, two, one, MARK!”

Guru put 512 into a hard right turn, then lined up on the new course of two-seven zero. “Time to Meridian?”

“One minute thirty.”

“Copy.”

The flight picked up State Route 22, and there was some military traffic on the road, but no one shot at them. They were too fast, and by the time several Soviet soldiers got their SA-7s or -14s out, Rambler Flight was gone.

“Meridian coming up,” Guru called.


In Meridian, the Soviets from the 254th Guards Motor-rifle Regiment were still busy, trying to get the Regiment ready to go back into combat. The Regimental Commander was furious at the delay, but that was the least of his problems. The Zampolit was still a pain in the ass, and the Major wondered why the man had the luck to survive, when most of the senior officers in the Regiment were either dead or in the hospital. Though not a religious man, he did remember the stories his grandmother had told him, and wondered if the God whose existence the Zamplolit regularly denied had a hand in keeping the man alive. Then the Rear-Area Protection troops were another problem. Fat, overage reservists with antiquated equipment-some of their artillery pieces were leftovers from the Great Patriotic War, the Major had found out, and were they interested in doing their mission? Not particularly, for they were mainly concerned with keeping the roads open, and content to do just that by sitting on their asses in the town, and any kind of serious anti-guerrilla missions were not on their agenda. Not that there was any serious Resistance activity to start with, but the occasional slashed tire, anti-Soviet grafitti, cut telephone lines, and so on were enough to show that there was underground activity, but that things could be more serious if the Resistance wanted to make it so. If the Americans came south, and the battle lines came closer, the Major thought, then the Resistance would come out of its lair and make their presence known.

The Major's thoughts were interrupted by the air raid alarm. He went to his office window at City Hall and looked outside, and saw four F-4 Phantoms in a diamond formation fly past overhead, followed by the rumble of their engines. Cheers came from some of the townspeople while his air-defense people tried to get their Strela shoulder-fired missiles into action. By the time the missile gunners were ready, the planes were gone. How many times had that happened? The Major decided to go find his air-defense commander, and give him a serious dressing-down. For if the Americans came again, it might not just be a flyby, and the regiment would pay for it....


“Ten miles to Walnut Springs,” Goalie called. “Forty seconds.”

“Roger that,” Guru replied. '”Set up the ordnance.”

“Got it,” replied Goalie as she worked the armament control panel. “All set: everything in one pass.”

“Good,” Guru said. “Flight, Lead. Music on, switches on, and stand by to pull.” That meant to turn on their ECM pods and arm weapons.

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

“IP in ten,” Goalie called. “Stand by.....and...and....PULL!”

Guru put 512 into a forty-five degree climb, and as he did, Walnut Springs appeared just ahead and to the left. And the signs of armored vehicles laagered outside town appeared. “Flight, Lead. Target in sight. Time to go to work.”

“Ready back here,” Goalie called.

“Time to go in.” Guru rolled in on his bomb run.


In Walnut Springs, the Acting Commander of the 144th Guards Motor-rifle Division's 228th Tank Regiment was not a happy man. He had been in command of the 3rd Battalion during the Regiment's, and the Division's, initial combat experience, he had thought all of his training and experience would have prepared him for that day. Actual combat had taught him otherwise. The regiment had deployed according to doctrine and battle drill, and had expected to be overruning scattered groups of American paratroopers, only to face an armored brigade, and then be taken in the flank by an Armored Cavalry Regiment. And that was just the enemy on the ground! For American aircraft and attack helicopters had raised merry hell with the Regiment, and finally, the order had been given to fall back. The Regimental Commander, his staff, and the entire Regimental Headquarters element, had been hit in an air strike, then by artillery, and were all either dead or in the hospital. The Major-a Beylorussian from Mozyr, was the senior surviving battalion commander, and had thus inherited command of the regiment. His own battalion's casualties had been serious-nearly fifty percent, and the other two were worse. First Battalion's losses were so high the senior surviving officer was a Senior Lieutenant who had commanded a platoon in the Third Company, and things were only marginally better in Second, where the acting commander was a Captain and had commanded the Second Company. The motor-rifle battalion had, for all practical purposes, been wiped out, with only a handful of BMP-2s left, and no surviving officers. The artillery battalion's commander had also been killed, and the air defense battery had been wiped out, with not a single 2S6 Tunguska gun/missile launcher surviving, and only one Strela-10 (SA-13) launcher left. Shaking his head, he got up from his desk in what had been, prewar, what the locals called a “Sheriff's Substation” and went outside. Though his reigment was just starting the process of reconstitution, he wondered how long it would be before new T-72Bs, BMPs, and air-defense vehicles would arrive, and not to mention what kind of replacements would the regiment-and the division for that matter, receive? New arrivals fresh from training, or, dared he hope, combat-experienced veterans from the hospitals or a division that had been too badly shot up to be reformed?

The Major took a look around. Though the Regimental headquarters, such as it was, along with support services, the engineers, artillery, and what air-defense assets they had, along with the few surviving motor-rifle troops, were in town proper, the three tank battalions, along with a truck park that didn't concern him, were all arrayed in a circle around the town. As for the garrison? A company of reservists from Minsk who had been out of uniform for twenty years, with old BTR-152 APCs and T-34/85s that, when he asked how old they were, the tank platoon commander had shown him a data plate. The tank had rolled out of the Chelyabinsk Tank Works in 1946! They had better hope the front doesn't move south anytime soon, for they would be swatted aside like so many flies, the Major knew. And the local population? A “live and let live” attitude had developed, and for once, the Major was glad that the Zampolit wasn't causing trouble. The man had been the artillery battalion's Zampolit, and who had been a newcomer to combat like everyone else, was more concerned with working among the men instead of giving the locals any problems, and for that, the Major was grateful.

Then a shout attracted his attention, and several soldiers pointed to the south. Specks in the sky, and they were coming closer and growing larger. He knew right away what that meant. Air attack. “AIR ALARM!” The Major shouted, then he ran for a slit trench and jumped in.


“Lead's in hot!” Guru called. As he rolled in on his run, a few tracers started to come up. Machine guns, most likely, or 23-mm. A quick glance at the EW display showed no radars, so it was optically aimed. No matter. Guru aimed at a field northwest of the town, where a dozen tanks and a few trucks had been spotted on the imagery. Sure enough, the tanks and trucks were still there. Good. Ignoring the tracers, and even an SA-7 type missile that flew past on the left, Guru lined up the tanks in his pipper. “Steady.....Steady......And.....NOW!” He hit the pickle button, and released his Mark-82s and M-117s onto the tank laager. He pulled up out of the dive and began jinking to avoid any flak. “Lead's off safe,” Guru called as he headed for the Brazos.


“Of all the...” the Major muttered as Guru's F-4 came over. Instead of releasing on the town, the aircraft dropped its bombs on the field where the remnants of First Battalion were laagered. The aircraft pulled up and away, and a dozen bombs exploded in its wake. Clouds of dirt rose, then a couple of fireballs as well, signaling the death of tanks. Then the Major ducked back into the trench, for he knew from experience that American aircraft didn't attack alone.


“SHACK!” Goalie called from 512's back seat. “Got a couple of secondaries!”

That meant a couple of tanks, or maybe ammo trucks, Guru knew. “How big?”

“Big enough,” Goalie replied as another missile flew down their right side by about a hundred feet.

“Have to take what we get,” said Guru as he picked up the river.

“Two in hot!” Kara called as she took 520 in on her bomb run. She saw where the CO had placed his bombs, and picked up some tanks in a field to the southwest of the town. Your turn to die, Kara thought as she came down on the target area. She, too, ignored the light flak coming up, along with a couple of shoulder-fired missiles, and centered some tanks in her pipper. None of the tracers were the basketball-sized ones, and that was a good thing.....“Steady.....And...And.....HACK!” Kara hit the pickle button and released her bombs, sending them onto the Russians below. Pulling up and away, she, too, began jinking to avoid any flak. “Two's off target.”

“Not a good day,” the Major said to himself as Kara's F-4 came in and released its bombs. Second Battalion was there, and right away, the Major knew that they would get a pounding. A dozen more bombs exploded, and there were a couple of fireballs, then came another, larger one. Fuel truck, the Major thought. This is not good, he knew. He stepped out of the trench, had a look around, then someone, who he didn't know, pulled him back into the trench. Before the Major could say a word, that someone said, “More aircraft, Comrade Commander.”

“GOOD HITS!” Brainiac shouted as 520 pulled away. “And we got a big secondary!”

“How big?” Kara asked as she jinked left, then right, then picked up the CO's trail as she headed north.

“Fuel big,” the GIB called.

Kara grinned underneath her oxygen mask. “Hot damn!” Then she added, “Pardon the pun.”

“Hot for somebody back there.”


“Three's in!” Sweaty called as she came in on her run. She picked out a laager to the northeast of the town, where some tanks were parked in a field near a ranch pond. Okay....your turn to burn, bleed, and blow up, Sweaty thought as she lined up a dozen tanks in her pipper. She, too, ignored the flak coming up, and even a missile-this one larger than an SA-7, which, thankfully, didn't track. The tanks grew larger in her pipper......... “And...Steady....Steady......HACK!” Sweaty hit her pickle button, and sent her bombs down on the Russians below. She pulled up and away, jinking as she did so. No sense in giving the gunners down below an easy shot, she knew. Then she made the call. “Three's off.”


“Sookin sin,” the Major muttered. Son of a bitch. He glanced up from the trench to see Sweaty's F-4 pulling up from its run, and he felt the concussion of the bombs going off. The Major lifted his head to see several smoke columns rising, which meant more tanks had been hit. That had been where his former battalion had been laagered, he knew. Shaking his head, he ducked back into the trench as the anti-aircraft gunners kept firing. More Americans coming in.....


“SHACK!” Preacher yelled. “Good secondaries!”

“How many?” Sweaty asked as she jinked to throw off any flak gunners.

“A few good ones,” replied Preacher as an SA-7 type missile flew above their aircraft.

“Their lucky day,” Sweaty grinned beneath her oxygen mask, then she leveled out and headed for the Brazos.


“This can't be happening,” the Major overheard someone say in the trench. He turned, and found the Political Officer for the Regimental Support Battalion there. The Major said nothing as he stood up in the trench. A quick look around revealed the single Strela-10 launcher vehicle rolling up, and swiveling the missile launcher. Then the anti-aircraft gunners turned their ZU-23s to the south, and kept firing. Another American, the Major knew, and he ducked back into the trench.

“Four in hot!” Hoser called as he came down on his run. He saw where the others had made their runs, and also knew that dropping on the town, where the Reds had their Regimental HQ, was not an option. But some trucks in a field southeast of the town, though.....You saw your last sunrise, Hoser said to himself as he came down. The trucks grew larger as he dove,and Hoser centered several in his pipper. Like the others, he ignored the flak and the shoulder-fired missiles that came up. “And.....And.....And....NOW!” He hit the pickle button, and released his Mark-82s and M-117s onto the truck park. Hoser pulled up and away, jinking to avoid flak. “Four's off target,”

“NYET!” The Major shouted as Hoser's F-4 made its run. He watched as a dozen bombs came off the aircraft, and he knew that the truck park was the target. Thankfully, none of the vehicles from the regiment's support battalion were there, but some supply officer wasn't going to be happy that some of his trucks had gone up. Sure enough, the bombs went off, and several fireballs came up as cargoes were hit. And to his dismay, none of the anti-aircraft fire came anywhere near the aircraft. The gunners in the material support battalion were the least trained, he knew. When the guns fell silent, the Major got out of the trench. His Chief of Staff-who had held the same job in Second Battalion, turned to him. “Get medical parties to the battalions. Contact them and find out how many tanks we've lost. Time to get some order out of this mess. And this may just be the first one.”

“Comrade Commander?” The junior Party Hack asked. The man still seemed too eager, the Major thought. Maybe going back to the front might cure him of that.

“This might just be the beginning. We may have air raids all day,” the Major said. He turned back to his Chief of Staff. “Pull the battalions back. Closer to the town.”

“Right away, Comrade Commander,” the Chief said.


“SHACK!” KT said. “Got some secondaries, and you might have gotten a couple of fuel trucks!”

Hoser smiled beneath his mask. “How big on the secondaries?”

“Big enough.”

“Good for a wake-up call,” Hoser said as he picked up his element leader, and formed up with Sweaty.


“Four in, four out,” Goalie called as Hoser's call came over the radio.

“Still got a game going,” Guru reminded her as he picked up the Brazos River. “Two, where are you?”

“Right with you, Boss,” Kara replied.

Guru glanced to his right, and Kara was right with him in Combat Spread. “Copy, Two, and where's Sweaty?”

“On your six,” Sweaty called back. “Got Hoser with me.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. He glanced at his EW display. That Red AWACS still had them, and a faint strobe came up to the southeast. Too weak to show what it was, though. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler Lead, Warlock,” the AWACS controller replied. “Threat bearing One-seven-zero for forty. Medium, Closing. Second threat bearing One-eight-five for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing Two-one-zero for sixty. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Warlock,” said Guru. “Do you have bogey dope?”

The controller came back at once. “Rambler, Warlock. Closest threats are Floggers. Second threats are Fulcrums.”

Whoa....MiG-23s and MiG-29s. “Copy,” Guru replied. “Floggers and -29s.”

“Glen Rose bridge in thirty,” Goalie said. “They cared to send the very best with the Fulcrums,” she added.

“Flight, Lead,” Guru said. “Get down lower, and follow me,” he called. He took 512 down to 350 feet AGL, and the others followed.

“Bridge at Eleven,” Goalie called. The Glen Rose Bridge appeared, and the East Germans opened up as usual, though the strike birds were too fast to really track visually. The 23-mm and 57-mm fire was too late as Rambler Flight flew past. “One minute to the Dam, then thirty seconds to Granbury.”

“Got it,” Guru said. He glanced at the EW display again. The Red AWACS still had them, and the strobe to the southeast was a little stronger. Then the A/A light came on. Air to air radar, he knew. Then a “23” appeared next to the strobe. MiG-23s with High Lark radar were looking for them. No way...too low, and too fast....

“Dam coming up,” Goalie called. “Flak at Eleven.” The flak gunners around the Lake Granbury Dam started shooting again. “They don't give up.”

“They've got to earn their pay,” Guru quipped as the strike flight flew past the dam. “Thirty seconds to Granbury?”

“Roger that,” Goalie said.

“Rambler Lead, Warlock,” the AWACS called. “Bandits bearing One-seven-zero for thirty. Medium, still closing.....Wait....Now turning away.”

“They don't want to play, Boss,” Kara quipped. She was looking for her tenth kill, and that would make her a double ace. First female in the squadron to get that, and maybe the Tenth AF, for all she knew.

The CO knew Kara wanted a fight with MiGs....“Day's still young,” Guru reminded her. “Flak at Eleven,” he added as the East German gunners at the Granbury Bridge opened up.

The flight blew past, and the Red search radar dropped off the display as they headed north. Then the twin ribbons of concrete that were I-20 appeared, and as a rule, everyone turned on their IFF transponders. The I-HAWK battery defending the Brazos River Bridges on I-20 was very trigger-happy, or so it seemed to the fast-jet people. “Crossing the Fence....now,” Goalie said.

Once clear of the FLOT, the flight climbed, and turned off their ECM pods. Then they met up with the tankers for the post-strike refueling. Things were busy, as usual, as the tankers topped off strikes headed south, and gave those headed back what they needed to get home. Then Rambler Flight headed for Sheppard.

When they got to Sheppard, two flights, both Marine, were ahead of them in the pattern, along with a vanilla C-130 and what looked like a Special-Ops Herky-bird. Then it was their turn to come in. After landing, the crews noticed one thing. The news crew wasn't filming as they taxied back to their squadron dispersal. “Must be a slow day,” joked Guru. “That, or they've got enough footage of us going out and coming back.”

“What'll they do with all that?” Goalie wanted to know.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Guru said. “Probably sell it for use in documentaries-and any generic footage of F-4s might be good enough for somebody.”

The flight taxied into the squadron dispersal area, and found their revetments. After taxiing in and shutting down, Guru and Goalie popped their canopies. “One and done,” Guru said. “Three more to go.”

“We hope,” Goalie added as they went through the post-flight checklist.

“Yeah,” said the CO. “A no-CAS day would be good.” And those, everyone knew, meant at least four, and up to six, missions in a day. Even as the days grew shorter, CAS meant rapid turnarounds.

The ground crew brought the crew ladder, and both pilot and GIB climbed down. Sergeant Crowley, the Crew Chief was waiting. He handed both crewers a bottle of water, then asked, “Major, how'd it go?”

“Gave some Russian tankers a morning wake-up call,” Guru told his Crew Chief.

Goalie added, “The ones who survived, that is.”

“Good for them, sir, and ma'am,” Crowley said. “How's my bird?”

“Five-twelve's working like a champ, Sarge,” Guru replied. “Pull the strike camera footage, then get her ready for the next one.”

“Yes, sir!” Crowley said. “You heard the man,” Crowley told the ground crew. “Let's get the CO's bird ready for another round.”

Guru and Goalie then headed for the entrance to the revetment. “Remind me today to bump him up in the R&R Rotation,” Guru said. “He deserves some time off.”

“You still serious?” Goalie asked. “First time I can think of where you say, 'Take two weeks, enjoy yourself, have time with family if you can. By the way, that's an order'?”

“Something like that,” said the CO. They got to the entrance, and found Kara and Brainiac waiting, as usual. “How'd it go for you guys?” Guru asked.

“Gave those Red tankers a nice wake-up call,” Kara grinned. “Got some secondaries, and you did, too,”

“Their lucky day,” Guru nodded as Sweaty, Preacher, Hoser, and KT came over. “Well?”

“Got some tanks,” replied Sweaty. “Maybe a supply truck or two.”

“Truck parks still blow up good,” Hoser added.

Then Preacher added, “And they weren't shooting well.”

“No, but they could have gotten lucky,” Kara replied. “Some grunt Ivan might be a crack shot with an SA-7 for all we know.”

“Maybe they had one, and he got himself killed,” Brainiac added.

“Save it for the debrief,” Guru reminded them. Then he took a look at the revetments where the F-20s were parked, and the activity within, as the Tech-Reps were busy about the aircraft. “Looks like the F-20 folks are getting ready to leave.”

“Any idea when?” Kara asked. “Good to see them go.”

“Sometime before noon,” Guru said. “Then the RAF comes tomorrow.”

Kara nodded back. “As long as those RAF guys speak Phantom,” she said.

“Amen to that,” Preacher added.

“Not arguing with you two,” Guru said. “Let's go. We need to debrief, then if the armchair warriors have anything for us, take care of that. Then we get ready to go and do it all over again.”

“Maybe we'll get some MiGs,” Sweaty said.

“You're not the only one thinking that,” Guru smiled. “Come on: let's get back to the office. The morning's still young.”

“And some Russians and East Germans need to have seen their last sunrise,” Hoser said. He'd been shot down once, and that was enough, he thought.

“True enough,” Guru replied. “Let's go.”