[Matt Wiser]

And the story picks back up after a hiatus:



335th TFS, Sheppard AFB, TX: 0530 Hours Central War Time, 21 November, 1987:


Major Matt Wiser left his tent and headed to the squadron office. He shot a glance to the east, where the first hint of dawn was starting to break, and the clear skies promised good flying weather. With a storm coming, today and tomorrow would be both maximum effort days, he knew, and that meant the usual of four strikes a day, with more if people started to holler for more CAS than the A-4s, A-7s, or A-10s could handle. Though the squadron had done its share of CAS runs, especially during PRAIRIE FIRE and after, to a man and woman, the aircrews in the 335th preferred to let the folks who lived and breathed CAS handle that, and let them concentrate on their BAI, Counter-air, and when the occasion called for it, hassling with MiGs.

The CO came up to the squadron office and went in. There, Digger, the night-shift SDO was behind the Duty Officer's desk. “Digger,” Guru nodded.

“Boss,” Digger replied. “Saw Doc yesterday.”

“And?”

“He won't clear me until after the stand-down. Swelling's almost gone, but it still hurts when I put some pressure on that ankle,” Digger said.

Guru nodded. Digger had sprained his ankle-good-somehow getting out of the back seat he had in Flossy's bird, and had been grounded since. “Remember that Doc outranks us in everything medical, and he's also just being cautious,” the CO reminded him.

“I know, Boss,” the SDO said. “Still, it's a bit frustrating.”

“Been there, done that,” Guru told him. Then a familiar song came over Digger's radio. “Well, now....I do love this song.”

“Boss?”

“Katrina and the Waves do a pretty good version of We Gotta Get Out of This Place,” Guru grinned. He stayed until the song was done, and Wolfman Jack's voice came over the radio. “XO in?”

Digger looked towards the CO's office. The XO was waiting outside. “Looks like he's waiting for you.”

“All right. When your shift's done, get something to eat, then find your rack. You'll be back flying before you know it.”

“I know, Boss,” Digger said, taking things in stride.

The CO went to his office, and found the Exec waiting. “Mark,” Guru said as he opened the door.

“Boss,” Capt. Mark Ellis replied. “Got a few things for you,” he said as he handed Guru a cup of cocoa.

The CO went to his desk first, checking the IN box. Empty, for once. That won't last long, he knew. “Okay, Mark, lay it on me,” he said as he began to drain the cup.

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

Guru nodded, scanned the papers, then signed them. “That's done. What's next?”

“Our two new guys should be here today,” Ellis reported. “No idea when, though.”

“One of'em isn't a real FNG,” Guru reminded the Exec. “Still, good to have an experienced hand coming, even if he's been at Clark since Day One.”

“It is that,” the XO agreed. “Next up: weather. No change, and the storm's due in day after tomorrow.”

“Today?”

“Temps in the low 60s, VFR all around, winds light and variable.”

“Good,” Guru said as he finished the cup. There was a knock on the door. “Yeah? Come in and show yourself!”

The door opened, and a blonde female in a flight suit with captain's bars on the shoulders and a cup in each hand came in. “Morning,” Goalie said. She was Guru's GIB-and girlfriend. “Ready to earn our flight pay today?” Goalie handed the CO a cup of cocoa.

“Always,” Guru said. “What's next, Mark?”

“Chief Ross is running down a couple of spare ejection seats, and Maintenance has a shopping list of other parts,” the XO replied. “He's also looking hard for a K-9 MOPP suit for Buddy.”

“Tell him to keep at it,” replied the CO.

Goalie looked at the Exec with a surprised look on her face. “They make MOPP suits for dogs?”

“They do, for working dogs,” Ellis said.

“And Buddy needs one,” Guru reminded both of them. “Anything else, Mark?”

“Our two new birds are still due in tomorrow,” Ellis said. “Nothing from Frank, and that's it.”

“No complaints?” Guru asked. “That's three days in a row.”

Goalie shook her head. “That won't last,” she said. “He'll find something and the shredder gets a workout again.”

“Right on both,” Guru said. Major Frank Carson's complaints about anything and anyone he viewed as unmilitary were well known to all in the squadron, and to many in MAG-11 as well as at HQ Tenth Air Force. “Now, it might not be too long until I get a message from Tenth AF calling me to Nellis to brief Tenth AF on our little plan for the Su-24s. General Olds told me to bring myself, my GIB-” he nodded at Goalie, then continued, “all our planning material, and proceed by 'fastest available transportation.”

“Which means 512,” Goalie said. It wasn't a question.

“Right on that, and that last phrase is open to the commander's interepetation.”

“Frank will complain, no doubt about it,” Ellis reminded them.

“Screw him,” Guru said.

“He's not my type,” Goalie laughed.

“Don't blame you,” Guru said. “When we do go, Mark, you'll be running the squadron for a couple days. I'll touch base with Dave Gledhill and make sure things run smooth.”

“Thanks, Boss,” the XO said.

“Anytime,” Guru nodded. He looked at the clock on the office wall. “0550. Let's go eat.”


Guru, Goalie, and Ellis went to the Officer's Mess Tent, and they found almost every officer on base-along with the news people, waiting for the Chow Tent to open. A few, like the Ops, Weapons, and Maintenance Officers for the various squadrons rose early, ate at the Early-Bird Breakfast, then got things ready for the flying day, but everyone else was here. Guru found Colonel Brady talking with Ms. Wendt, and she had just found out that, for the month she had been on base, the Marines didn't have any B model Hornets-the combat-capable two seaters, in the two Hornet squadrons. If she wanted a backseat ride with the Marines, she would have another trip in an F-4. “Colonel,” Guru nodded. “And Ms. Wendt.”

“Morning, Major,” Brady said. “I was just telling our guest here that she can't get a two-seat Hornet ride. Nearest place she can do that, I think, is NAS Lemoore.”

“And I was wondering where that was, and when he told me California,” Wendt added, “I was surprised. But a second trip in an F-4 won't be too bad.”

“Lemoore's practically in my stomping grounds,” Guru said. “My hometown's only about an hour and a half's drive from there. As for your trip in Kara's F-4? If we get some clearing on the stand-down day? You get your ride.”

The reporter grinned . “Looking forward to it.”

“Just remember to fill your flight suit pockets with airsickness bags,” Guru laughed. “Took an airman up on an incentive ride a month before the war started, and he didn't follow that advice. He puked all over the rear cockpit-and himself.”

“Just don't make that mistake, Ms. Wendt,” Brady said. The MAG-11 CO looked around, and saw the loathed Major Frank Carson talking with two officers from the air base group. “I see your Major Carson's up with his friends.”

“Don't be fooled by that facade of normality,” Mark Ellis said, jumping in. “Underneath that is a ton of pressure, and sooner or later, he'll pop.”

Wendt nodded. “He as bad as I've heard?”

“He is,” Goalie said.

“I can't show you his file or flight record,” Guru said. “But I can tell you that most of what you've heard is true. And the biggest thing I'm worried about is that if he does get a case of the stupids? Either he gets himself killed or gets other friendlies killed.”

Brady nodded sympathetically. “Major, I don't blame you one bit for that,” he said.

Just then, the Marine Mess Officer came out and flipped the sign from CLOSED to OPEN. “Breakfast is ready, people!”




After breakfast, crews went to their briefing rooms, while the flight leads went to the Ops Office to pick up their mission folders. The CO, naturally, was the first there, and found the Ops Officer waiting. “Don,” Guru nodded. “What's on tap for my bunch this morning?”

Capt. Don Van Loan handed the CO a packet. “Here you go, Boss,” the Ops Officer said cheerfully. “You've got a town down on U.S. 281: Hico. Somebody dropped the bridge over the Bosque River on 281 and there's a good chance there's traffic backed up north and south of the town. They want you to smash up some of that.”

“Or the traffic on the north side's in the town, using our civilians as human shields, and we won't bomb our own people,” Guru pointed out. “Any secondary targets, or do we go after anything that's a target of opportunity?”

Van Loan nodded. “Either one, Boss,” he said. “There's a list of possible secondaries, or you can go for opportunity targets. Armed recon is also authorized. And you do have the RAF for TARCAP.”

Guru opened the packet and found the list. There were several targets that were familiar, and some that weren't. All were either in the East German rear, or that of the Soviet 32nd Army. “Well, if the convoys aren't there, we'll find something,” the CO said. “Thanks, Don. You have a good one, and good luck breaking in Doucette.”

“Thanks, Boss,” Van Loan said, dreading the thought of breaking in Rabbit's replacement.

“Not the only one,” Mark Ellis said as he came in. “At least Cassidy's experienced, even if there's no combat in her log book.”

“Day one excepted,” Guru reminded them both. “Okay, you both have a good one, and I know, Mark doesn't want to be CO, Don doesn't want to be Exec, and we all don't want Kara as Ops.”

The XO laughed. “Four-oh on that, Boss.”

“Thanks,” Guru said. “Okay, a reminder: watch for those basketball-sized tracers. ZSU-30-2 is probably what got the one RAF shoot-down, and if you guys see those tracers, abort! Go for a secondary or opportunity target.”

“Gotcha, Boss,” Ellis said, and Van Loan nodded.

“Good. You all have a good one, and good luck with the newbies,” Guru said. He headed on out, and ran into Major Frank Carson on the way. “Frank,” he nodded politely, even though he loathed the man.

“Major,” Carson nodded in reply.

“Remember everything I told you,” Guru reminded him. “Or do I have to remind you?”

“No reminder is necessary.”

“Good. Keep that in mind,” Guru said, then he headed to his flight's briefing room. When he got there, he found his flight, plus Dave Gledhill's element from the RAF, and the squadron's mascot, who had found himself a comfortable place to lie down and take a nap. “All right, people! We've got our mission.”

“Where to?” Kara asked.

“Hico, and we've been there before. Someone-who they were isn't in the briefing material,” Guru said as he took the maps and photos out of the folder, “hit the U.S. 281 bridge over the Bosque River last night. There's likely traffic backed up in both directions, and it's our job to hit that.”

“Assuming that said traffic isn't in the town, using our own people for shields,” Goalie said.

“That is a logical assumption, and there's a list of possible secondary targets,” said the CO. “All in the East German rear, or the neighboring Soviet 32nd Army to the west.”

“And since we'll be in an Army-level formation's rear, that means SA-4,” Sweaty chimed in. “Nice.”

“The defenses haven't been beefed up,” Guru said, checking the intel sheet. “Two 37-mm batteries, two of ZU-23s, and whatever the convoy has. If we do go for secondaries? All bets are off, though. And if we do run into those damned basketball-sized tracers? We abort, no matter what the target is and go for something else.”

“What's our ordnance load, Boss?” Hoser asked.

“No CBUs this close to a town,” Guru replied. “Twelve Mark-82 Snakeyes, each airplane. Plus the usual air-to-air of four AIM-9Ps, two AIM-7Fs, full gun, wing tanks, and usual ECM pod for leaders and wingmates.”

“And for us?” Dave Gledhill added, “Four AIM-9Ls, four Sky Flash, two wing tanks, and a SUU-23 gun pod.”

“Which you used yesterday,” said Kara. “Twenty mike-mike is a good way to shred a helo.”

“It is,” Guru said. “Nice work once again,” he added. “Now, ingress.” He had a TPC chart and a JOG map, along with a road map of Texas that showed the highway numbers. “We hit the tankers northwest of Mineral Wells, as usual. Then we go in low, just east of the Brazos in the Nicaraguan sector.”

“Close enough to the river to use it as a nav aid?” Sweaty asked.

“Right you are. Once we clear Glen Rose, then we go down the river proper, all the way to Lake Whitney. Short of the dam, we turn right to two-three-five and head to the town of Fairy. It's ten miles from the target, and that's not just a turn point, it's also our pop-up point.”

“Thirty-five seconds from the target,” KT said. She did the calculations in her head.

“Right on that,” Guru agreed. We go in just high enough to verify that the convoys are there, and if they are, we make our runs and get our asses north. If not, reform and I'll take you to a secondary target.”

“MiGs?” Kara asked. She was looking for a chance at her tenth kill and making double ace.

Guru checked the intel sheet. “Unchanged since yesterday,” he said. “Flankers were active last night, though. They're still at Bergstrom.” He meant Bergstrom AFB near Austin. “MiG-29s are still at Gray AAF at Fort Hood, in case you're wondering.”

“And the Floggers and Fishbeds at Waco,” Hoser nodded.

“They are,” Guru replied. “Bailout areas still unchanged, and so is the weather for the next two days. Then we get a storm coming in, and a stand-down for the better part of the day.”

“To be thankful for,” Preacher said.

“Agreed,” the CO nodded. He noticed an Ops NCO waiting by the door to collect the briefing material. “Anything else?” Heads shook no at that. “All right, let's gear up, because the sky awaits. I'll see you at 512.”

The crews went to their locker rooms to gear up, and when Guru came out of the Men's, Goalie was waiting outside, as usual. “You ready to start the morning?” She asked.

“By killing Russians or East Germans?” Guru replied. “A good way to start off the day.”

“Better yet would be kicking Frank out of the squadron.”

“It would. He's laying low, I think, then he's going to go off on his case of the stupids.”

Goalie nodded. “He's going to, and sooner or later, we'll be in a shit storm.”

“Yeah.”


Guru and Goalie left the building, and found Dave Golen and Flossy with their GIBs, and a bonus: the news crew was filming them. “Dave,” Guru said. “Looks like the Fourth Estate's interested in you guys today.”

“They are,” the IDF “Observer” nodded. “Flossy and Jang just happened to be available.” Golen gestured to Ms. Wendt, who was talking with the all-female crew. “And so...”

“And so, we'll be seeing them on the news in a day or two,” Guru finished.

“That's a given, Boss,” 1st Lt. Terry McAuliffe, who was Golen's GIB, said. “Said that just a minute ago.”

“Well...Okay, Dave, where you guys headed?”

“Chalk Mountain. There's a tank-repair facility there,” Golen replied.

“All right, we'll be about a minute's flight time south of there,” said Guru. “You hit MiG trouble, give a holler. We'll be there, and be bringing the Brits.”

“Sounds good to me. If you need help, we're Camaro Flight, and we'll come to the party.”

Guru nodded. “Mustang for us. I'll be listening.”

“So will I,” Golen said. They shook hands on that. “Good luck.”

“You too,” Guru said.

Guru and Goalie then walked to their squadron's dispersal, and found the crews gathered around at the entrance to 512's revetment. “All right, gather around.” It was time for his final instructions.

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

“You got it,” Guru said. “Now, we're Mustang Flight, and Dave Golen and Flossy are Camaro. They're going in about a minute's flight time north of us, and if we hit MiG trouble, they'll come to the show. IF they do? We crash Ivan's party.”

The RAF crews had evil-looking grins on their faces. “Sounds good,” Flight Lt. Susan Napier said. She was wingmate to Gledhill and Flight Lt. Paul Jackson.

“It is, Susan, unless it's those Flankers,” Gledhill reminded her.

“Just remember the anti-Flanker drill,” Guru said. That meant getting down low, doing a Doppler Break, and hollering for help from the AWACS, hoping that a “Teenaged” fighter was in the area.

Heads nodded at that. “Always,” Sweaty said.

“Good. Let's get Round One out of the way,” Guru said. “Any other questions?” Heads shook no. “Meet up at ten grand overhead, and it's time to fly. Let's hit it.” He clapped his hands for emphasis.

The crews headed to their aircraft, and Guru and Goalie went into the revetment, where their bird, 512, sat, armed, fueled, and waiting. They found the Crew Chief waiting, and Staff Sergeant Mike Crowley snapped a perfect salute. “Major, Lieutenant? Five-twelve is ready to go out and kick some more Commie ass.”

Guru and Goalie returned the salute. “Thanks, Sarge,” Guru said. He and Goalie did their usual pre-flight walk-around, then the CO signed for the aircraft. Both mounted the crew ladder and got strapped into their seats, then they went through the prestart checklist.

“Ejection seats?” Goalie asked.

“Armed top and bottom, and check yours,” Guru said. “Once more into the breach, dear friends.”

“Henry V,” Goalie said. “Just as long as we leave out that 'close up the walls with our dead,' crap.”

“Concur,” Guru said. “Arnie?”

“Arnie's up,and so is the INS,” She said, referring to the ARN-101 DMAS and the INS. “Preflight checklist complete and ready for engine start.”

“We are,” Guru said. He gave his Crew Chief a thumbs-up, and Sergeant Crowley gave the “Start Engines” signal. First one, then both, J-79 engines were soon up and running, and as they warmed up, both pilot and GIB noticed Marine F-4s already taxiing to the runway. The jarheads were first out of the gate this morning. Then he called the Tower. “Tower, Mustang Lead with six, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

“Mustang Lead, Tower,” a controller came back. “Clear to taxi to Runway Three-Five-Lima. Hold prior to the active, and you are number four in line.”

“Roger, Tower. Mustang Lead is rolling.” Guru gave another thumbs-up to Crowley, who waved to the ground crew. The wheel chocks were pulled away, and Crowley gave the “Taxi” signal.

Guru released the brakes, and taxied out of the revetment. After clearing the revetment, Crowley gave another perfect salute, and Guru and Goalie returned it. Guru then taxied out of the dispersal, as the rest of the flight fell in line behind him. He led the flight to Runway 35L, and found three Marine flights-two of F-4s and one of F/A-18s, ahead of his own.

The Marines took their turn, and when the Hornet taxied onto the runway, Guru taxied into the holding area. There, the armorers removed the weapon safeties, making the ordnance “live.” When the Hornets took off, he called the tower. “Tower, Mustang Lead requesting taxi for takeoff.”

The controller came back right away. “Mustang Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are two-eight-zero for five.”

“Roger, Tower, and thank you,” Guru replied. He taxied onto the runway, and Kara followed in 520, tucking in right at his Five O'clock. They exchanged thumbs-ups, then a final cockpit check. Everything was ready. “All set?” Guru asked his GIB.

“Ready back here,” Goalie replied.

“Okay,” Guru said. “Tower, Mustang Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

As usual, the Tower flashed a green light. Clear for takeoff.

“Canopy coming down,” Guru said, pulling down and locking his canopy. Goalie did the same, and a quick check showed Kara and Brainiac's canopies down as well. “And let's go.” Guru firewalled the throttles, released the brakes, and 512 thundered down the runway and into the air, with 520 right with them.

Thirty seconds later, it was Sweaty and Hoser's turn, followed by the two RAF F-4Js. Once airborne, they met up at FL 100 and headed south for their tanker rendezvous.


Over Central Texas: 0735 Hours Central War Time:


Mustang Flight was headed south, barely a half-mile east of the Brazos River, and just inside the sector of the Nicaraguan II Corps. No one had hit the Nicaraguans this morning, and thus their air-defense people were quiet. No flak, no SAMs, and no MiGs. And that, to the strike crews going in, was always a good thing. The Nicaraguans' enthusiasm for the war had cooled considerably since PRAIRIE FIRE, and it showed in their not shooting at aircraft not striking their forces.

In 512, Guru wondered how long that would last, for sooner or later, the KGB or DGI might force the Nicaraguans to start being more reactive. No matter: they'd pick out another good ingress route, and start using that instead. For now, the Brazos suited their purposes, though the East Germans on the west bank always shot at them, and the Libyans further south did the same.

Now, Mustang Flight was just east of Lake Granbury, and approaching U.S. 377. The bridge over the Brazos was just to the west. They were going in at 450 Feet AGL and doing 500 KIAS.

“Granbury in when?” Guru asked his GIB.

“Fifteen seconds,” Goalie replied. She checked her own EW display. “And still clear.”

“For now,” Guru muttered, loud enough for her to hear. “Mr. Mainstay's going to come up sooner or later.”

“Bridge off to the right...now!” Goalie called, and sure enough, the bridge flew past to their right, and though nearly out of range, the East German gunners on the west bank started shooting. The 57-mm flak fell short, as the strike flight headed on south.

“Gunners are awake,” noted Guru. “They're on the ball this morning.”

“No surprise,” Goalie said. She checked her EW display again. “Got something.”

Guru checked his own display. Sure enough, a bright strobe appeared to the south, and the SEARCH warning light was on. “Mr. Mainstay's active.”

“Wish somebody would take those bastards all the way out,” Goalie said. “Dam coming up.” She meant the Lake Granbury Dam.

“Got it,” said Guru as the dam flew past on the right. Again, the East German-manned guns on the west side of the river opened up, while the Nicaraguans stayed quiet. The strike flight easily avoided the flak, and kept on course. “How far to Glen Rose?”

“Twenty seconds,” Goalie advised.

“Roger that!” Guru said as he put 512 into a right turn, cutting across a bend in the river and heading due south. Then he called the AWACS. “Yukon, Mustang Lead. Say threats?”

A controller came back to him. “Mustang Lead, Yukon. First threat bearing One-one-zero for forty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-four-five for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing One-eight-zero for sixty-five. Medium, going away. Fourth threat bearing Two-one-zero for seventy. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon. Say bogey dope?”

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

“Copy that,” Guru replied.

The strike flight approached U.S. 67. “Glen Rose Bridge off to the right,” Goalie said.

“Got it,” Guru acknowledged, as the flak came up again from the west side. They flew past the flak, then Guru took the flight right back down the river once clear of the bridge. For they were leaving the Nicaraguan sector and approaching the Libyans' AO.

“Brazospoint Bridge coming up,” Goalie called. “Flak on both sides.” Both the East Germans and the Libyans were shooting.

“I see it,” Guru replied, leading the flight right down the middle of the river, flying over the bridge and threading the flak from both sides. Once clear, a glance to the rear showed the East Germans had stopped shooting, but the Libyans were still at it-as usual. “How long to the 174 Bridge?”

“Twenty-five seconds,” Goalie replied.

“Roger that.” Guru continued his visual scanning, then checked his EW display. Just the Mainstay's radar was showing, but he knew there were fighters to the east and southeast, thanks to AWACS. Then he checked his instruments. Keeping his head on a swivel had been drummed into his head at the RTU at Homestead AFB prewar, and that was one of the reasons he was still alive and flying.

“Bridge coming up,” said Goalie. “Flak's on both sides.”

“Got it,” said Guru as the strike flight approached the bridge. “There's some traffic.”

“Not their turn to die,” Goalie remarked coolly.

“This time,” Guru replied as the flight overflew the bridge, then he went down to 400 Feet AGL as Lake Whitney opened up. “Time to turn?”

“One minute fifteen.”

“Roger that,” Guru said as the strike flight thundered down the lake. A quick glance at the EW display still showed the Mainstay's signal. “Damned Mainstay's still there.”

Goalie shook her head in the back seat. “You'd think somebody by now would've taken them all the way out.”

“You'd think,” Guru said, a tinge of disgust in his voice. Then he called the AWACS. “Yukon, Mustang Lead. Say threats?”

The same controller he'd talked to earlier got back to him. “Mustang Lead, Yukon. First threat bearing Zero-four-five for forty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-seven-zero for forty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing One-eight-five for fifty-five. Medium, going away. Fourth threat bearing Two-one-five for sixty-five Medium, closing.”

“Copy, Warlock. Say bogey dope?”

“Mustang, First threats are Fishbeds. Second and third are Floggers. Fourth threats are Fulcrums.”

“Roger that.”

As the strike flight kept on course, eyes were watching, both friendly and hostile. Some of the former were locals, out for a morning's fishing to hopefully catch some fish to supplement the rations allowed them by the occupiers, while others were inhabitants of several boat-in only campgrounds, and those were Resistance groups. They were glad to see the Air Force making regular appearances, for not only did it signal that there was light at the end of the damned tunnel, but that the front lines weren't that far away. Among the latter, there were Soviet, East German, and Cuban soldiers who were also fishing themselves, for given the quality of their rations, some fresh fish would go to help add to that, while others, in two lakeside towns, were stationed there.

In the town of Lakeside Village, there was an uneasy peace between the locals-and the town was unincorporated, so there were no town officials-and the East German 18th Independent Motor-rifle Regiment. The East Germans had been roughly handled up north, and had been in the town for several weeks, resting and refitting. The Regimental Commander, a Major, knew full well that the local resistance was around, but the absence of activity meant that the underground was laying low and biding its time until the front lines moved closer. To the Major, the resistance wasn't the problem, but his Political Officer and Stasi Security Officer were, along with a PSD officer. All three were insistent on having his men search for “Bandits and Counterrevolutionary Elements”, and there had been nothing to show for it. All the searches did was make the locals angry, and the Major and his deputy both knew that such activities on the part of the occupiers didn't quench any underground, but merely fueled it.

Shaking his head, the Major was more concerned about his command. The Regiment was still in need of APCs-his regiment had given up its remaining BTR-70s, and had only a battalion's worth of BTR-60PBs, while his tank battalion was in good shape, with two companies of T-55AM2Bs, with the horseshoe armor, upgraded engine, Kladivo fire-control system, laser rangefinder, and a few other extras. The tankers were convinced they had a vehicle equal to the M-60A3, but they knew that if they went up against the M-1, or worse, the M-1A1, it was a different matter. The artillery battalion was in fair shape, with a dozen D-30 122-mm howitzers and prime movers, while the reconnaissance and air defense elements were in worse shape, with the recon company the size of a platoon and the air-defense company only having two ZSU-23-4s and no missile vehicles. The Major had inquired about when his replacement vehicles and personnel would arrive, and was told that the naval situation would dictate that. When he inquired further, the Kampfgruppe's Chief of Staff had told him, “It's bad and getting worse.”

With that, the Major got up and left his office in what had been a local real-estate agency before the war, and went outside. What he saw didn't surprise him in the least. Six F-4 Phantoms thundered by as they flew down the lake, and the Major knew that the local civilians would be clapping and cheering. That meant that the propaganda line the Political Officer had been feeding both the men and the local population wasn't worth the paper it was printed on, and it also meant that the front lines would be getting closer when spring came around.


“How long to turn?” Guru asked.

“Fifteen seconds,” Goalie said. “Dam coming up.”

“I see it,” Guru said. “No flak yet.”

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

With that, Guru put 512 into a hard right turn. “Coming onto Two-three-five.” He steadied the Phantom on the new course, and the rest of the flight did the same. “Steady on Two-three-five.”

“Copy that,” replied Goalie. Though she was using the INS, she was also keeping up with the navigation the old-fashioned way: with a map and stopwatch. “One and a half minutes to Fairy.”

Guru did the math in his head. Twenty-four miles at this speed. “Got it,” he said, then he kept up his visual scanning. Bypassing Meridian to the north and Clifton to the south, the flight maintained its course. Guru took a quick look at his EW display and scowled beneath his oxygen mask. The Mainstay's strobe was bright as ever. Well...let's make it a little harder. “Flight, Lead. Music on,” he called, turning on his ALQ-119 ECM pod.

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

“Forty-five seconds,” Goalie advised. '

Guru acknowledged the call. “Copy that.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Flight, Lead. Switches on, and stand by.”

“Copy, Lead,” replied Kara, as did the others.

“Set 'em up,” Guru told Goalie.

“On it,” she replied, setting up the armament controls so that the bombs would all be released in one pass. “You're set. All in one go.”

“Roger that,” Guru said as Fairy-more a spot on the map than a town, appeared. “Turn point coming.”

“Copy. Turn in five, four, three, two, one, NOW!”

Guru turned right, following F.M. 1602, and gradually climbed as he did so. Not knowing if the advertised targets were there, he decided on the gradual approach. He pulled up, as Goalie scanned the fields along U.S. 281 with binoculars as they approached the town. “Anything?”

“You bet!” Goalie replied. “Convoy backed up along 281, and two more in fields right and left of the highway.”

“Flight, Lead. Multiple targets south of the town. Take your pick, make your runs, and get your asses north,” Guru called the flight, as he pulled up.

“Roger, Lead!” Kara called back.

“All set here,” Goalie said, tightening her straps and getting set. The bomb run was next.

“Then let's go,” Guru said, rolling 512 in onto the bomb run.


In Hico, the East German Major who commanded the garrison-also East German, was cursing whoever had decided to route a large supply convoy through his town the previous night, and though some of the convoy had passed over the U.S. 281 bridge over the North Fork of the Bosque River, most had not-and some had been caught on the bridge when an air strike went in-either F-111s or A-6s, and four well placed laser-guided bombs had dropped the bridge. The area within a ten kilometer radius around the town was his responsibility, and the convoy elements who were stuck south had been directed to into two nearby fields while he notified the Kampfgruppe's Chief of the Rear, and requested engineers be sent to erect a temporary span while the bridge was rebuilt.

Much to his disgust, the engineers, who had been promised to arrive at 0700, had not arrived, and the convoy commander was also getting on his nerves. He was a major like himself, only this one seemed to be dismissive of the possibility of air attack, even though, as the garrison commander felt, a blind man could see it. The convoy elements backed up south of the river were a tempting target, and it was only a matter of time, the Major felt, before someone came to finish what the night strike had started. The convoy had a couple of ZSU-57-2 AA guns, which were equally useful in breaking up ambushes, along with a couple of gun trucks-ZPU-2 14.5-mm guns mounted on the backs of Ural-375 trucks, and soldiers armed with Strela-2 (SA-7) missiles. His own air-defense guns had been hit hard in previous strikes, and only a few individual 23-mm and 37-mm guns remained.

With those happy thoughts in mind, the Major was at his desk at his headquarters in City Hall, thankful that the civilian population was not giving him any problems. He knew the Resistance was laying low, biding its time, and once it was clear the U.S. Army was approaching, then things would get....interesting. He started to examine some papers when he heard shouts, followed by a siren.

“ALARM! AIR ATTACK!”


Guru rolled in on 512's attack run. “Lead's in hot!” He called, and as he came in, Guru spotted trucks parked in fields on both sides of U.S. 281. “We've got targets, both sides of 281, and dealer's choice,” he added. Ignoring the flak that was starting to come up, he selected a group of trucks parked in a field on the west side of 281, and decided they would go away. Your turn, Franz, he thought as the trucks grew larger in the pipper. Guru spotted what looked like a tank transporter with a tank and right there centered it in his pipper. “Steady...Steady...And..And..HACK!” The CO hit his pickle button and pulled up and away, as a dozen Mark-82s came off the racks. He applied power and pulled up and away after weapon release, jinking as he did so. “Lead's off target.”

“Schisse,” the Major muttered. Shit....The Amis are back. He watched from his office window as the anti-aircraft fire started, then ran outside just in time to see Guru's F-4 fly past, and hear the bombs going off. The Major ran back inside as others on the staff were running to the basement, but he went to his office, grabbed his binoculars, and went upstairs to the roof, where several soldiers with Strela shoulder-fired missiles and a ZPU-2 AA gun were busy. Several columns of smoke rose from south of the river, and the Major knew the convoy had been hit. Then the ZPU began firing again, as another aircraft was coming in....


In 512's back seat, Goalie had her neck turned to watch as the bombs landed on target. “SHACK! And we've got secondaries!”

“How many?” Guru asked as he jinked left, then right, then left again, dodging a pair of SA-7s as he did so.

“Several, and we've got a big one.”

“Sounds good to me,” the CO said as he made one last jink, then headed north.


“Two's in hot!” Kara called as she took 520 down on its bomb run. She saw the CO's run, and the secondaries that he left in his wake. She picked out the trucks in the field on the east side of the highway, and came down on them. Kara saw the flak coming up-including at least two SA-7s, and ignored it. Even an SA-7 flying just past 520's left side didn't faze her. Not today, Franz, Kara thought as several trucks-fuelers by the look of them-grew larger in her pipper. “And....And...And.....NOW!” She hit her pickle button, sending her Mark-82s down onto the parked vehicles. Kara then pulled up and away, applying power and jinking as she did. Then she made the call, “Two's off target.”


“Of all the...” the East German Major muttered. He was watching through his binoculars as Kara's F-4 made its run, and saw the bombs going off-as well as the fuel trucks going up in sympathetic detonations. As he watched, the AA gun on the rooftop fired, as did its counterparts, but the tracers fell short, and as for the missiles? Two soldiers fired their Strela missiles, but the missiles failed to guide. Grimacing, the Major turned, and saw his Political Officer there, watching. “Well, Gunter?”

“Comrade Major, you should get to a shelter,” the Party man replied. “It's dangerous out here.”

“Oh, you noticed?” the Major shot back, then he saw the AA gun turn back to the south. More aircraft coming in.


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

“Good hits?” Kara asked as she jinked to avoid the flak, not even noticing a pair of SA-7s that flew past on the right side of the aircraft. Though some puffs of 57-mm fire below and to her left did catch her eye. Not aimed right, and too low, she thought.

“Some big secondaries,” said Brainiac. “Big and good.”

“I'll take those,” Kara replied as she spotted the smoke trail, then 512 itself. Time to join up with the CO, she knew.


“Three's in hot!” Sweaty called as she came in on her run. As she came in, several undamaged trucks on the west side of the highway caught her attention, and Sweaty selected those as her target. As the trucks grew larger in her pipper, she was hoping they were ammo carriers, though a tank transporter also caught her eye. You'll do, she thought as the flak came up. Ignoring the 23-mm and 37-mm fire, she lined up between the trucks and the tank transporter. “Steady....And...And...Steady.....HACK!” Sweaty hit her pickle button and her twelve Mark-82s came off the racks. Once the ordnance was gone, she pulled up, applied power, and pulled away, jinking all the way to avoid flak and missiles. When she was clear of Hico, she called out, “Three's off.”


“DAMMNT!” Damn it, the Major yelled as Sweaty's plane made its run, and as the bombs went off, several ammunition trucks went off as well. The sympathetic detonations rained shrapnel-and the occasional unexploded shell, down, and then some of the ordnance went up. Cursing at the air force-and where were the “Comrades of the Air” as the Political Officers called their comrades in the Fraternal Socialist Air Forces? The Major saw Sweaty's F-4 make a clean getaway, and to his horror, soldiers on a nearby rooftop fired two Strelas-and one of them exploded in the tube, killing the operator and two nearby soldiers. Stepping away from a missile operator, he watched as the AA gun tracked back south. If three aircraft had come in, there was bound to be a fourth.


“GOOD HITS!” Preacher shouted from Sweaty's back seat. “We've got good secondaries!”

“How good?” Sweaty wanted to know as she jinked right, then left, then right again, dodging some 57-mm fire and even an SA-7 as she did so.

“Big and good! Righteously good!” Replied the ex-seminary student.

“Good enough for me,” Sweaty said as she headed north, picking up the CO's element as she did.


“Four's in hot!” Hoser called as he came in on his attack run. He saw the explosions left in Sweaty's wake, and thought, Nothing left here.. He then decided to take the east side as a result, and as he did, he spotted several more fuel trucks east of Highway 281. Selecting those as his target, he lined them up, and as he did, noticed the flak. Hoser ignored it, concentrating on the bomb run. The trucks grew larger in his pipper, and he lined up a pair of tanker-trailers. “And...And...Steady....And...NOW!” Hoser his his pickle button, releasing his dozen Mark-82s, and after the last bomb came off, he pulled up and away, applying power while doing so. He began jinking to throw off the flak gunners and SAM operators, and as he cleared Hico, Hoser called out, “Four off target.”


“Mother of..” the Major muttered as Hoser's plane came off its run. He saw the bombs go off, and the sympathetic explosions in the F-4's wake as several fuel trucks exploded. Grimacing, the Major watched as a soldier tracked the F-4 with his Strela missile launcher, and then there was an explosion. The Major was thrown back by the shock wave, and staggered to his feet, covered in blood. The missile had exploded in its tube, killing the operator and the Political Officer, who had been standing next to the missile operator. This has been a bitch of a morning, the Major thought as he reached for a field phone to summon medics, for several wounded were screaming at the tops of their lungs. And what will the rest of the day bring, he wondered as the Medical Section came on the line. As he was talking to the Medical Officer, two more F-4s thundered past, but dropped no bombs. Were they reconnaissance aircraft? No matter, the Major thought as the door to the roof opened and medical orderlies appeared.


“SHACK!” KT called as Hoser pulled off. “We've got some secondaries!”

“How many?” Hoser asked as he kept jinking. He dodged some 37-mm and 57-mm flak, and a pair of SA-7s-one flying down the left side of the aircraft, the other on the right.

“Several, and they're big!” KT said.

“Their happy day,” Hoser replied as he picked up his element lead. “Sweaty, Hoser on your six.”

In 512, Guru heard that. “That's it.”

“Four in and out,” Goalie confirmed.

“Roger that. One-five and One-six, get your asses down and away.”

“Roger that, Lead,” Flight Lt. Paul Jackson replied as the two RAF F-4Js broke off from their TARCAP and headed north to join up.

“Kara?” Guru called his wingmate.

“Right with you, Boss,” she replied.

Guru and Goalie took a look, and 520 was tucked right there with them in Combat Spread. “Got you, and Sweaty?”

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

“Roger that,” Guru said, then he called the AWACS. “Yukon, Mustang Lead. Say threats?”

A controller got back to him right away. “Mustang Lead, Yukon, Threat bearing One-zero-five for fifty. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing One-six-five for fifty-five, Medium, going away. Third threat bearing Two-two-five for fifty-five. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon. Say bogey dope?”

“Mustang, first and second threats are Floggers. Third threats are Fulcrums. Wait one. There is a fourth threat. Bearing Two-four-five for sixty, climbing and closing. Threats are Fishbeds.”

“Mustang Lead copies,” Guru replied. “How long to the Fence?” He asked Goalie.

“Two minutes,” was Goalie's reply.

“Copy,”

The strike flight headed north, threading the boundary between the East German 9th Panzer Division and the 20th MRD, and as they did, drew no fire. Then the AWACS called.

“Mustang Lead, Yukon. Bandits inbound, bearing Two-four-five for forty. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon,” Guru replied. “How long to the fence?” He asked Goalie.

“One minute,” she replied as U.S. 377 flew by below.

“Yukon, can you get a welcoming committee onto the bandits?” Guru called the AWACS.

“Roger that. Yukon can do. Brenda One-one, Yukon. Bandits bearing One-eight-two for forty. Medium, closing. Clear to arm, clear to fire. KILL. Repeat: KILL.”

“Brenda Lead copies,” an F-16 flight lead replied. Four F-16Cs turned south and crossed the Fence, fangs out.

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie advised.

“Copy,” Guru replied. He had his eyes on a swivel, checking outside, then his EW display. The Mainstay's radar was still there, then another strobe appeared at his Seven O'clock, and the A-A warning light came on. “Got a fighter radar.”

“Brenda Lead has four hits at twelve,” the F-16 lead called out.

“Bandits are Fishbeds,” Yukon advised.

“Copy,” Brenda Lead said. “Let's go get 'em.” Four F-16s charged into the MiG-21s, which were East German. All four went down for no F-16 losses, as Brenda Flight covered the outbound strike flight.

“Time to the Fence?” Guru asked.

“Coming up on the Fence....now.” Goalie said as I-20 appeared. The twin ribbons of freeway marked the front lines for operational purposes, though the actual FLOT was a few miles south.

“Got it,” Guru said as they overflew the Interstate. “Flight, Lead. Music off and IFF on, out.” That meant to turn off their ECM pods and turn on their IFF transponders.

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

Guru acknowledged, then he noticed the EW display. The Mainstay's signal had gone off, and the SEARCH warning light was out. “Mainstay's off the air.”

“For now,” Goalie said.

Mustang Flight climbed to altitude, and joined up with the tankers. The USAF F-4s plugged in with a pair of KC-135s, while the RAF was glad to get service from their own Tristar. The flight then headed back to Sheppard, where they were third in line for the landing pattern, following a 335th flight and two flights of Marine F/A-18s. When it was their turn, the flight came in and landed. As they taxied off the runway and towards their dispersal, the crews popped their canopies, but to the disappointment of those watching, no fingers came up to signal kills.

Those disappointed included the Aussie news crew. “No kills for the CO's flight,” Trevor Scott, the cameraman, observed.

“This time,” Jana Wendt, the correspondent, said. “Maybe the next one.”

The flight taxied into their dispersal, and the individual pilots found their revetments. Guru taxied 512 into its revetment, and after getting the “Shut down” signal from his Crew Chief, said to Goalie. “First one in the logbook.”

“And three more,” she reminded her pilot.

“Unless someone screams for CAS, then we get that again.”

“Don't say it,” Goalie replied. She, like the rest of the 335th's crews, loathed the CAS mission. Oh, they did it, and did it well, but preferred to leave it to those in the A-4, A-7, and A-10 communities who lived and breathed that mission.

“My lips are sealed,” Guru said, then they went through the post-flight checklist, while the ground crew brought the crew ladder. After taking off their helmets and climbing down, both Guru and Goalie did a post-flight walk-around, then the Crew Chief, Sergeant Crowley, came over with a bottle of water each for both crewers. “Sergeant.”

“Major,” Crowley said, handing Guru and Goalie their water. “How'd it go out there, and how's my bird?”

“Tore up a supply convoy, and Five-twelve's working like a champ,” Guru said after downing half the bottle. “She's still truckin' and keep doing whatever you're doing.”

“Shit hot, sir!” Crowley said. “We'll get her ready for the next one.”

“Do that, Sarge. Won't be too long until the next mission comes down.”

Crowley nodded. “She'll be ready, sir. All right you guys!” Crowley shouted at the ground crew. “You heard the Major! Let's get this bird ready for the next strike!”

Guru and Goalie left the ground crew to their jobs, and walked to the revetment's entrance, where Kara and Brainiac were waiting. “How'd it go for you guys?” Guru asked his wingmate.

“Got some fuel trucks on mine, and saw you got some ammo trucks and a tank transporter,” Kara grinned.

“Good to know,” Guru smiled back. Then he noticed Sweaty and her element coming. “Sweaty? How were things with you?”

“Ammo trucks for me, along with a tank transporter,” replied Sweaty. “Hoser got more fuelers.”

“We did,” Hoser said, and KT nodded.

Then the RAF crews came. “Guru,” Dave Gledhill said. “Too bad a MiG-21 didn't get past those F-16s.” He sounded disappointed that the F-16s had nailed all four MiGs.

“That's what the BARCAP's there for,” Guru reminded everyone. “If they'd gotten closer, say twenty miles? I would've called the break, and it would've been fight's on.”

“Maybe next time,” Flight Lt. Karen McKay said. She was Gledhill's and Jackson's wingmate.

“Maybe,” Kara said. It was no secret in the squadron that Kara was looking for kill number ten, and that would make her the squadron's first double ace, at the least, if not the first female USAF double ace.

“Down, girl,” Guru said. “Can't hog the MiG show, and we all know it. All right, let's get the debrief out of the way, get your IN boxes empty and OUT ones full, and by the way, something in your stomachs as well. Because in an hour or hour and a half, we're back at it.”

Paul Jackson nodded. “No rest for the weary or the wicked, I take it?”

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

Gledhill and his people nodded at that. “Which one's true?” McKay asked.

“Either one can be graded as correct,” Guru said as a pair of Dodge Crew-cab pickups came to pick up the crews. “Let's go. Get the debrief done, the same with the paperwork, and get ready for the next one.”

With that, the crews piled into the trucks to go back to the squadron office. For the CO was right, and it wouldn't be long until time to go back out.