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Old 08-17-2019, 07:14 PM
Matt Wiser Matt Wiser is offline
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Join Date: Sep 2008
Location: Auberry, CA
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And the flying day keeps on going:



335th TFS, 0930 Hours Central War Time:


The debriefing over, Major Matt Wiser was in his office. One thing he despised about being CO, was that the paperwork that accumulated in his absence wasn't attacked by the elves while he was gone, so after almost every mission, there was something in his IN box. He was actually following his own advice, for not only was he taking care of paperwork, a nearly-finished turkey sandwich sat on his desk, along with an empty bottle of water. The CO had just finished his paperwork when there was a knock on the office door. “Yeah? Show yourself and come in!”

Jena Wendt, their attached correspondent from both CBS and 9 News Australia, came in. “Major? Have a few moments for the media?”

“Not a problem, Ms. Wendt,” the Major said. “I've got a few minutes, so why don't you have a seat, and what can I do for you?”

The reporter smiled, then sat down in an office chair in front of the CO's desk. “Any chance of my doing a story on the Brits?”

Guru looked at her. “Any word from the PAO shop here?” He was referring to their temporary PAO, Marine Captain “Kodak” Griffith and recent arrival Lieutenant Patti Brown.

“No, and they did query Tenth Air Force, they did tell me,” Ms. Wendt replied. “No word as yet. Any chance you can do something?” The tone of voice the reporter had showed a little bit of frustration, and that was easily picked up.

Major Wiser thought for a moment. “Their message may be in a pile, and the folks at Tenth just haven't gotten to it yet. Give them twenty-four hours, and if they haven't heard back? I'll make a phone call and see what the deal is.”

“So I can go ahead and at least get the story ready?”

“Go ahead, but don't send it off until you hear either from the PAO Office or from me,” Guru said firmly. “You know, the Great God Security and all that.”

Ms. Wendt nodded. “Understood,” she said. “Oh, I'm flying with Captain Thrace on this 'check ride', so how do I get ready for that?”

Guru laughed, then he calmed down. “If you want to prep? Talk to Brainiac-he's her GIB, or Goalie. Goalie flew with Kara when we took General Olds up on his own 'check ride'.”

“And that draw with General Yeager's people,” the reporter answered, and from her tone of voice, that wasn't a question.

“The same. That's the best advice I can give you. Other than this: Kara flies the plane like she just stole it. It's the primary reason she's made it this far.” And for that matter,I do the same thing. It's why I'm still alive, along with Goalie, the CO thought, along with a good deal of luck.

“I'll keep that in mind,” Wendt said. “Thanks, Major.”

“Anytime,” Guru replied.

After the reporter left, Goalie came in. “Well, the Fourth Estate keeping tabs on you?” She asked. “I saw her leave.”

“She wants to do a story on the Brits,” Guru replied. “And the PAOs don't have any guidance yet.”

“Ivan already knows,” Goalie pointed out. “That shootdown on their first day.”

Guru nodded. “True, but you do know bureaucrats. They do things their own way. I did tell her to wait twenty-four hours, then I'd see what I can do.” He noticed a paper in her hand. “Got something for me?”

“Yeah,” his GIB replied. “Mark's getting ready to brief for a mission, so he gave this to me.” She tossed the paper on the CO's desk. “Two new birds from Japan are due in, day after tomorrow.”

“Any word on crews?” Guru asked as he scanned the paper. “Just in time for the stand-down.”

“Not yet,” his girlfriend said. “We may find out when the ferry crews deliver the birds.”

“True enough,” said Guru as he stood up and went to his office window.

Goalie looked at him. She could tell something was on his mind. “A penny for your thoughts.”

“Just wondering. We know what we're doing here. But, and this is a big but, how many of those on the other side of the fence are wondering what in the hell they're doing here, whether they're Russians, Cubans, East Germans, Nicaraguan, or whatever. Those people are a long way from home.”

“Some longer than others,” Goalie deadpanned. “But you do know that they'd better keep those thoughts to themselves.”

“IF they want to keep breathing,” Guru nodded. The tendency of the KGB, GRU, DGI, Stasi, and so on to ferret out “Counter-revolutionary and Defeatist Thought” was well known, even to Americans and their allies. Then there was another knock on the door. “Yeah?”

The office door opened and in came Kara. “Boss? We've got a mission.”

“When?”

“Briefing folder's being prepped right now. Our birds are locked and cocked,” Kara told her CO and flight lead.

“We getting the Brits?” Guru asked.

“Yep, and before you ask, the same crews as the first one.”

Guru nodded, for it was game time again. “Okay, you two? Round everybody up. Briefing room in ten. I'll head to the Ops Office.”

“Showtime,” Goalie said.

“It is that,” Guru nodded again. “Let's get moving.”

“I'm gone,” Kara said, heading on out.

“On my way,” Goalie added as she left.

Guru headed out of the office, nodding to his secretary, who needed no further orders. When she saw Kara and Goalie run out, that was a giveaway that there was a mission in the works.

The CO then went to the Ops Office, and found Don Van Loan there. “Don,” Guru said. “You have a mission for me?”

“I do,” the Ops Officer said, handing Guru a folder. “Here you are. Comanche County-City Airport. It's a helo and Frogfoot FOL.”

Guru opened the folder and scanned the map-and the intel cover sheet. “Where the hell is this?”

“Soviet 32nd Army sector, and don't look at me, Boss,” Van Loan replied. “I just put together what the ATO calls for.”

“HQ, 32nd Army, along with the HQ, 203rd MRD, and not only divisional level air-defense assets, but there's SA-4s from Army. Swell.” Guru scanned the mission brief. “And no Weasel or IRON HAND.”

Van Loan nodded understanding. “Sorry, Boss. All those people are pretty busy.”

“Ain't that the sorry truth?” Guru replied. “You going out?”

“Good,” the CO said. “Just remember our talk this morning. Right now, the last thing I want is Kara taking your job-under any circumstances.”

“And I sure don't want to be Exec,” Van Loan grinned. “With the same caveat.”

Guru nodded. “All right. Thanks, Don.” He then left the Ops Office and went to the Briefing Room his flight used, and when he got there, the rest of the flight was waiting, and, as usual, Buddy. The dog was curled up on the floor, asleep. “Okay, people, break's over. Time to go back to work.”

Sweaty asked, “Where to, Boss?”

Guru pulled out a JOG navigational chart. “Right here, forty-five miles southwest of Stephenville, and twenty-six miles northwest of Brownwood. This is in the Soviet 32nd Army's sector, folks, so expect divisional level air-defense assets, and possible Army level as well.”

“Any Weasels?” Kara asked.

“Negative.” Then there was a knock on the door. “See who that is, Brainiac,” the CO said.

Kara's GIB opened the door, and in came Dave Golen, Flossy, and their GIBs. “Guru, where are you going?”

“Commache airport, Dave. Why do you ask?”

“Because someone had a case of the stupids, and is sending us to a fuel dump just south of the town.”

Both checked their mission briefs, and found a nearly simultaneous time-over-target. “Not good, Dave. Okay, you guys are coming with us. We're RAMBLER Flight, and you guys are One-five and One-six, respectively,” said Guru. “Dave?” He turned to Dave Gledhill and the RAF guys. “You're One-seven and One-eight for this one.”

“Understood,” Gledhill replied, and the other RAF people nodded.

“So how do we get there?” Hoser asked.

“Good question. We go in low, as usual, following the Brazos to Lake Whitney. Short of the dam, we turn onto a heading of Two-six-five and stay clear of Meridian. Maintain that heading until we reach State Route 16, then turn north. The next town after that is Comanche.”

“And the IP?” Kara wanted to know.

“There's a ranch pond-more like a lake, south of the town. ID that, pop up, and make your runs on the airport.”

Sweaty then had a question. “Who gets what?”

“Good question.” He passed around some reconnaissance photos-some high level from an SR-71, while the others were low-level imagery from an RF-4C flight. “This prewar ramp area west of the runway? That's mine. Kara?” Guru had his wingmate's attention. “See this new one to the east? Ivan's using it for Hinds. They're yours.”

“Gladly,” Kara grinned.

“Okay, Sweaty? There's another ramp area just south of the prewar one. Either Su-25s or transports use it. That's for you,” the CO said, and he saw Sweaty nod. “Hoser? Fuel dump again. This one's just to the east of the field.” He tapped a photo showing fuel tanks, bladders, and fuel trucks.

“It'll go up, Major,” Hoser said.

“Okay.” Guru then turned to Dave Golen. “Where's your target?”

“Half a mile north of the town, and just east of Route 16,” Golen replied.

“How you and Flossy take it is up to you.”

“I'll take the east side of the dump, and Flossy gets the west, along with the parking area for the fuel trucks.”

“Fair enough,” Flossy nodded.

Guru nodded himself. “Good. Once you strike, everyone? Then get your asses back low and north to the I-20,” said Guru. “As for our British friends? Climb and assume a TARCAP, and you know the drill.” That meant kill anyone in the air, and also deal with anyone crashing the party. With the MiGs from Brownwood Regional only two minutes' flight time away, the latter was a real possibility.

“Got you,” Gledhill nodded.

“All right: those of us going for the airport? No CBUs on this one, so we get a dozen Mark-82s, and half of them will have the Daisy Cutter fuze extensions. Plus the usual air-to-air loadout.” Heads nodded at that. Four AIM-9Ps, two AIM-7Fs, a full load of 20-mm, and two 370 gallon wing tanks. With an ALQ-119 ECM pod for the element leads, and an ALQ-101 for the wingmen.

“Flossy and I have the same load,” Golen said, and he saw Flossy nod. Then she spoke up.

“Boss, what's the MiG threat?” .

“Good thing you asked,” Guru replied. “We'll only be twenty-six miles from Brownwood Regional, and that means a Soviet MiG-23 Regiment, and a East German MiG-21 Regiment. MiG-29s from either Goodfellow AFB in San Angelo or San Angelo are definite possibles, along with MiG-23s. The usual MiG threats from Waco, Temple, Gray AAF, and Bergstrom also are a factor.”

“Defenses at the target?” Hoser asked.

“Again, a very good question. It's not just a divisional HQ, but 32nd Army's there as well. So, there's an SA-8 regiment in the area, and they're the divisional-level SAM for these guys. And since the 32nd Army HQ's in the area, we also have SA-4s. At the airport? One battery of 23-mm, and another of 37-mm. Expect the usual guys with MANPADS, and watch for small-arms fire. This division is not shown to be equipped with ZSU-30, but we all know how Intel is-or isn't-on the ball at times.”

Heads nodded, then it was Sweaty who asked, “Boss, what do we do if we see those damn basketball-sized tracers?”

“Abort,” Guru said at once. “We regroup north of the town, then head towards Stephenville. We can tear up the airport again, or hit a couple of other opportunity targets.” He passed a sheet that the Ops people had prepared, showing such possible targets. “Either way, we're not bringing bombs back.”

“Not what we get paid for,” Kara noted.

“No,” said Guru. “By the way, no Weasels or IRON HAND coming along. Just us and our ECM pods. So make some 'Magnum' calls.”

“WHAT?” Both Kara and Sweaty said at the same time.

“No Weasels?” Hoser asked.

“Same old same-o, folks. Too many missions and not enough assets,” Guru replied.

“Don't like it, Boss,” Flossy added.

“I don't either, but that's the way it is. All right, bailout areas still unchanged, and no change in weather. Anything else?” The CO asked. Heads shook no, though he could tell that the crews weren't at all happy about going in to this place, as it crawled. He glanced to the door, and an Ops NCO was waiting. “That's it. Let's gear up, and I'll see you all at 512.”

As the crews got to leave, KT noticed something. “Buddy's still asleep,” she said.

“Good,” Kara nodded. “Every time he stays awake in a brief, something bad happens.”


The crews headed to the locker rooms to gear up. When Guru came out of the Men's, he found Goalie waiting outside as usual. “You ready for this one?”

“Not quite, but let's get it over with,” Goalie replied. “This place looks hairy.” She looked at her pilot and lover. “Who put this one together?”

“I'd like to know myself,” Guru said. “When we get back? I'm tempted to make that phone call to Tenth Air Force. And see if somebody's balls can get crunched.”

“You can have his balls. Just leave me his toes, so I can smash them with a hammer.”

“Down, girl.” Guru said as they headed out. As they did, a familiar-and loathed-face came in. “Frank,”

Major Frank Carson gave a nod-a barely polite one, the CO thought. “Major,” he said, with the barest hint of politeness and a good deal of contempt.

“Any problems this morning?” Guru asked.

“None at all,” Carson replied. Both Guru and Goalie could pick up the contempt in his voice-something that Carson had for both of them for over a year.

“Good. Keep it that way,” Guru told him, then he and Goalie went out. “When he transfers out, I'm dreading one thing.”

“And that is?” Goalie asked as they walked to the squadron's dispersal.

“Inflicting him on a fellow officer.”

“There's something else. He's a combat veteran, like it or not. So guess where they'll assign him if he transfers out?” Guru looked at her, and she continued. “RTU duty, and it's bad enough with Tigh.”

“Oh, shit,” Guru winced. “Totally forgot about that. So do me a favor.”

Goalie nodded. “Name it.”

“When I do kick him out? Remind me to put on the transfer form, 'Do not assign to RTU duty.'”

“Gladly.”

Pilot and GIB then arrived at 512's revetment, and the rest of the flight was there. “All right, people,” Guru said. He was ready to give his final instructions. “Usual procedures on the radio.”

“Got it,” Kara said, and the rest nodded.

“All right, and for our British friends? You guys make it through this one, and that's mission number ten in-theater. Your chances of making it to San Diego go up considerably.”

“Good thing to know,” Dave Gledhill replied, while Susan Napier had a grin from ear-to-ear.

“You still have to get through today,” Kara warned.

“That we do,” Gledhill said.

“We all do,” Guru said. “Okay, we've got a mission to fly. Anything else?” Heads shook no. “When we get back, it's chowtime. So let's get with it. Meet at ten grand.” Guru clapped his hands. “Let's hit it.”

The crews headed to their respective aircraft, as Guru and Goalie went into the revetment, and their mount, 512. Sergeant Crowley, the Crew Chief, was waiting as usual, and he snapped a perfect salute.
“Major? Lieutenant? Five-twelve's ready to rock. She's locked and cocked.”

“Thanks, Sarge,” Guru said, then he and Goalie went through with the preflight walk-around. That done, they went up the crew ladder and mounted the aircraft. After strapping in, they went through the preflight cockpit checks.

As they went through the check, Goalie asked, “MiGs coming to this one?”

“It's only a minute and a half flight time from Brownwood.” Guru reminded her. “So yeah, don't be surprised.”

“Thought so,” Goalie said. “Ejection seats?”

“Armed top and bottom, check yours, and wouldn't surprise me myself.”

“Looking to catch up to Kara?” Goalie asked, recalling that Kara had nine kills, and Guru only had eight.

“Maybe,” Guru replied. “Arnie?”

“Arnie's set, and so is the INS,” Goalie said, referring to the ARN-101 DMAS system and the INS. “Preflight checklist complete. Ready for engine start.”

“It is and we are,” Guru said. He gave a thumbs-up to his Crew Chief, and Sergeant Crowley gave the “Start Engines” signal. First one, then both, J-79 engines were soon up and running. After the warm-up, Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead with eight, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

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

“Roger, Tower. Rambler Lead is rolling.” Guru gave another thumbs-up to his Crew Chief, and Sergeant Crowley waved to the ground crew. The chocks were pulled away from the wheels, and Crowley gave the “Taxi” signal. Guru released the brakes, and taxied slowly out of the revetment. Once clear, Crowley snapped another perfect salute, and both pilot and GIB returned it.

The rest of the flight followed, and Rambler Flight taxied towards the runway. When they got to the holding area, there were four flights ahead of them. One from the 335th-that Rambler's crews recognized as being the XO's, two from the Marines, and both of those were composed of Hornets, and one A-7 flight from VA-135. After the three had left, Rambler taxied into the holding area, where the armorers removed the weapon safeties, and that made the ordnance “Live.”

Guru watched the armorers get clear, then he called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Flight requesting taxi for takeoff.”

“Rambler Lead, Tower,” the controller replied. “Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are Two-seven-four for five.”

“Roger, Tower.” Guru taxied 512 onto the runway, and Kara in 520 followed. A final cockpit check followed, and Guru turned his head to the right, seeing 520 tucked in 512's Five O'clock position. Both crews exchanged thumbs-ups, then Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

As usual, the Tower responded with a green light. Clear for Takeoff.

“Ready?” Guru asked Goalie.

“All set back here,” she replied.

“Canopy coming down,” Guru said, pulling his canopy down, then closing and locking it, and Goalie did the same. Guru then saw that 520's crew had done the same. All was ready.

“Let's go,” said Goalie.

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



Over Central Texas, 1040 Hours Central War Time:


Rambler Flight was heading south. They had made their tanker rendezvous, and after topping up from the KC-135s and KC-10s, they had crossed the I-20 and the FLOT, and were now in enemy territory. As usual, they were going in low, following the Brazos River, with East Germans to the west and Nicaraguans to the east.

In 512's cockpit, Major Matt “Guru” Wiser was concentrating on flying. His head was constantly on a swivel, either checking instruments, watching his EW display, or having eyes out of the cockpit, checking for visual threats. He scanned his EW display, and saw a strobe come up, along with the SEARCH warning light. “Got the Mainstay signal again.”

Lieutenant Lisa “Goalie” Eichhorn, his WSO, frowned beneath her oxygen mask. “Somebody really has to do something about those.”

“Maybe we can give somebody some ideas later on,” he said. “How far to Granbury?” They were flying over Lake Granbury, doing 550 Knots at 500 Feet AGL.

“Eight miles,” Goalie replied. “Thirty seconds.”

“Roger that,” Guru replied. It wasn't long until the Granbury Bridges appeared: first the old U.S. 377 bridge, then the newer multilane bridge. And as the bridges appeared, so did the flak. The East Germans on the west side of the river were shooting-as usual, while the Nicaraguan gunners on the east side stayed quiet-they usually did so unless they had been attacked earlier. The strike flight was low and fast enough to avoid the flak as they overflew the bridges.

“East Germans on the ball again,” Goalie observed. “Thirty seconds to the dam.” She meant the Lake Granbury Dam.

“Copy that, and they are, while the Nicaraguans are their usual selves,” Guru said. Then the dam appeared. “Visual on the dam,” he called, and the East German gunners at the dam also began shooting.

“Too late,” Goalie said as the flight passed over the dam, then Guru turned due south, still following the river, but just inside the Nicaraguan sector.

“They'll get lucky one of these days,” Guru said after completing the turn. Then he called the AWACS. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

A controller on the AWACS came back at once. “Rambler Lead, Warlock. First threat bearing One-six-zero for fifty. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing One-seven-five for sixty-five. Medium, going away. Third threat bearing One-nine-zero for seventy. Medium, closing. Fourth threat bearing Two-zero-zero for eighty-five. Medium, going away.”

“Copy, Warlock. Do you have bogey dope?”

“Rambler Lead, Warlock. First threats are Fishbeds. Second and third threats are Floggers. Fourth threats are Fulcrums.”

“Roger that, Warlock.” Guru then dropped a little lower, to 450 Feet AGL.

“MiG-21s'll have a hard time picking us up,” Goalie said. “Thirty seconds to Glen Rose.” That meant the U.S. 67 bridge over the Brazos.

“They will, and copy,” replied Guru.

“Strobe's getting a little brighter,” Goalie noted as she checked her own EW display.

In the front seat, Guru nodded. He turned on his ALQ-119 ECM pod, and called, “Flight, Lead. Music on.” That call was for the flight to turn on their own ECM pods.

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

“Glen Rose straight ahead,” Goalie said.

“Got it,” Guru replied. The flak was already coming up from the west side. “And the flak.”

“Never fails,” Goalie observed. The East Germans were shooting, but the Nicaraguans stayed quiet.

“And the bridge..” Guru said as they flew past. A quick look showed no traffic. “And nobody using the bridge.”

Goalie said, “Too bad. IF we were on an armed recon....”

“Maybe later, girl,” Guru said as they kept heading south. “Brazospoint coming up.” That was where the squadron had taken a couple of hits to a flak trap, and Guru had led the strike that settled those scores.

“Nothing there...,” Goalie noted. “Flak from the east side this time. Libyans.”

Guru nodded as the tracers flew by harmlessly above. “They're up to their usual selves.” From Brazospoint south, the east side was in a Libyan AO, and their flak gunners acted as if the practice was going to be outlawed a few minutes from now, so they shot their AAA with reckless abandon, and very little aiming.

“They are,” Goalie said. “Seven miles to the Route 174 Bridge. Twenty-five seconds.”

“Roger that,” Guru said as the flak disappeared behind them. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say threats.”

The controller replied right away. “Rambler Lead, Warlock. First threat bearing Zero-eight-five for thirty. Medium, going away. Second threat now bearing One-six-five for forty-five. Medium, going away. Third threat bearing One-eight-five for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Fourth threat bearing Two-one-zero for sixty-five Medium, closing. Bogey dope is unchanged.”

“Roger, Warlock.”

“The 174 Bridge at Twelve,” Goalie advised.

“And the flak,” added Guru as Triple-A came up from both sides of the river. Libyans on the east, East Germans on the west. Then Rambler Flight overflew the bridge, and military traffic was visible. “Got a convoy down there...”

“Too bad,” Goalie said wistfully.

“Next time,” Guru replied.


On the bridge, A Soviet Major of Transport Troops was very nervous, sitting in his command vehicle, a BTR-60PB. He was leading a convoy of vehicle transporters delivering replacement armor to the 144th GMRD, and the trip from the Port of Houston had been a long one. Though there had been no serious attacks on the convoy, the trip up Interstate 45, then State Route 22, State Route 171, F.M. 67, and now, Route 174, had been a long one. This state, Texas, was vast, and though he'd been in America for two years, the size of the country still amazed him-and many of his men. That was one thing, though the attitude of the civilian population, though, didn't. No matter what, the vast majority of civilians loathed their occupiers, despite the best efforts of the “Liberation Government” and the Socialist Forces to convince them otherwise.

At least this isn't Colorado, he thought to himself. He had talked with an officer who had served there, and repeated a phrase that had been said by many: “Afghanistan with trees.” The Captain he had talked to had been through numerous ambushes on convoys, and even raids on truck parks and outposts, and the man was actually looking forward to an infantry job. When asked why, the reply was a simple one. “It's safer at the front,” the Captain had said.

Now, the Major's convoy of tank transporters had been given clearance from the Traffic Regulators to cross the bridge. A company's worth of T-72As was on its way to the 144th, and the Major dreaded something happening to the bridge as his vehicles crossed. Shouts, followed by anti-aircraft fire, followed, and his heart stopped as eight F-4 Phantoms appeared from the north. But they didn't attack the bridge or the convoy vehicles still waiting to cross, much to his relief. They kept on going south, intent on business elsewhere. The Major sighed with relief, then waved for his vehicles to continue forward.


“And here's Lake Whitney,” Guru said as the lake opened up, and the flight thundered down the lake.

“Roger that,” Goalie replied. “One minute to the turn point.”

“Copy,” Guru said as they continued down the lake. A quick look at the EW display still showed the Mainstay's radar, but another as well-smaller and not as large. “Looks like a fighter radar.”

“Got it,” Goalie said. If it was the MiG-23s that the AWACS reported, they should be all right-the Flogger's High Lark radar had real problems in the Look-down/Shoot-down mode. That, coupled with the ECM pods, ought to give whoever was driving the Floggers some fits.

Guru checked his map. “Time to turn?”

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie replied. “Eight miles.”

“Copy,” said Guru. He checked his instruments, then did a visual scan. “Give me the count.”

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

Guru then turned hard right, coming to a course of two-six-five, before rolling out and level. “Steady on Two-six-five.”

“Roger that,” Goalie said. She did some quick calculations in her head. “Three minutes thirty to turn.”

“Copy.”

Rambler Flight kept on its heading, heading over State Route 22, skirting the town of Meridian, and the Soviet division there, then overflying State Route 6. The only traffic seen on both state highways was military, but armed reconnaissance wasn't their tasking on this day. But....if they had to abort at the primary, the flight would still have some fuel to go hit some targets of opportunity. Then State Route 22 appeared again, as it headed from Meridian southwest to Hamilton. No traffic appeared, this time, as the flight continued on course.

“How far to turn?” Guru asked as SR 22 disappeared behind them.

“Two minutes thirty,” Goalie replied.

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

“Rambler Lead, Warlock. First threat bearing One-six-five for forty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing Two-five-zero for sixty. Medium, closing,” the controller replied.

“Roger that,” replied Guru.

“Two minutes to turn,” Goalie reported as U.S. 281 appeared. “Thirty-two miles.”

“Got it,” Guru said as they overflew the highway. They were still at 450 Feet and doing 500 KIAS. A quick glance at the EW display still had the Mainstay's radar, but no fighter radars-for now. “Still got Mr. Mainstay.”

“Lovely,” Goalie spat. “One minute thirty.”

“Copy.”

State Route 36 appeared, and as Rambler Flight flew by, no traffic was visible.

“One minute to turn,” Goalie advised. “Sixteen miles.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. Then he took a look at the EW display. A new radar had just appeared-and it was a fighter, for the A-A warning light came on. “Warlock, Rambler Lead. Say closest threats.”

“Rambler, Warlock,” the controller replied. “First threat bears Two-five-zero for forty. Medium, now going away. Second threat bears Two-seven-five for fifty. Medium, closing.”

“Copy, Warlock,” Guru replied. “Say bogey dope?”

“Rambler, First threats are Fulcrums. Second threats are Fishbeds,” the controller came back.

“Roger, Warlock.” A lot of good you'll do, Guru thought. Hopefully, we'll be off target before you get word of what's gone down.

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie said.

“Ready,” Guru called back.

“Fifteen seconds...now ten....and five, four, three, two, one, MARK!” Goalie called as State Route 16 appeared.

Guru turned right to follow the highway, and the rest of the flight followed. “How far?”

“Ten miles,” Goalie replied.

“Set 'em up,” Guru said. That meant for her to work the armament control panel in the back seat.

Goalie worked the switches. “All set back here. Everything in one pass.”

“Good girl,” Guru said as a ranch pond showed, and Comanche was directly ahead. They would have to overfly the town before hitting the airport. Nobody said Ivan was dumb, he knew. The town being next to the airport, meant no CBUs, and for sure, any night strikes meant PGMs.... “Flight, Lead. Switches on, and stand by to pull.”

“Roger, Boss,” Kara called back, and the others did the same.

“Stand by...” Goalie said. “And PULL!”

Guru pulled back on the stick, and 512 gained altitude. He saw the town appear beneath him, and as he rolled level, then dove, the airport was right in front of him. “Flight, Lead. Target's in sight, and time to go to work.”

“Ready, Boss,” Kara said.

“All set back here,” Goalie added from the back seat.”

Guru nodded in his cockpit, then rolled in. “Then let's go,” he called as he put 512 onto the bomb run.


In Coleman, it was a normal day-or as normal as it could be with the recent arrival of 32nd Army Headquarters and the 203rd Motor-Rifle Division's own HQ elements. The new arrivals had made the local garrison-Cubans who were reservists not fit for front-line duty, very nervous, for since the invasion, there had been hardly anything going on. Oh, there was some Resistance, or “Bandit” activity, such as snipped telephone lines, a power pole being blown down, shots fired at passing patrols, and the occasional land mine, culvert bomb, or roadside bomb to round things out. The Army's intelligence officer had consulted with the Chief of the Rear, and assessed the Resistance threat as “Minimal”, though the Intelligence Officer felt that the Resistance-and he did use that term, much to the displeasure of the Army's Zampolit-was simply laying low, and biding its time until the Americans resumed offensive operations, and only then would the guerillas make their presence felt.

For Major General Pavel Sisov, the Army Commander, that was one more thing to worry about, and he had plenty. His Army, which hailed from the Central Asian MD, had been in America since 1986, and had fought in the Spring-Summer Offensive that year, and had played a supporting role in the Battle of Wichita, before fighting the rearguard on the long road south. Now, back in Texas, General Sisov was hoping that he would have time to rebuild his weary divisions, absorb replacements of both equipment and personnel, and get ready to either resume the offensive north-and at a conference called by the Front Commander, that was seen as highly unlikely, or defend against the Americans' own offensive, and all signs pointed to such an offensive come Spring. It should come earlier, Sisov thought, but given the damage to road and rail infrastructure, the Americans were having their own supply problems, just as the Soviets and their allies had-though any American supply issues were likely to be pale in comparison to the Soviets. For at that conference, a Navy officer, who was a Rear Admiral, had informed the attendees that the sea lines of communication were getting worse with each passing day, and that attrition on the convoy routes was going to get worse. They would be lucky if they got half of what the Soviet and Soviet-allied forces needed. Enough to defend, but not enough to conduct major offensive operations, no matter what Moscow said or wanted.

At least nothing serious is happening here, General Sisov thought, despite the newly-arrived IV Corps to the north. Even the American Resistance was not a major concern, though he did know that the underground was laying low, and biding its time. Right now, his main concerns were with the local garrison, and those useless Cubans who made up the garrison. They didn't report to him, unless it was an emergency, and they reported to the Front's Chief of the Rear otherwise. Their battalion commander was a decent enough fellow, but the other officers left much to be desired. And the state of the men was another matter! Either overage reservists or wounded men unfit for front-line service. One company was known as an “ear” company, for it was made up of NCOs and soldiers who had lost hearing in one ear, while another was known as the “Stomach Company” for the men had all suffered stomach wounds. As a result, they had their own field kitchen, for their bad stomachs required bland foods. Sisov had talked to the battalion commander, and he knew full well that sooner or later, the Soviets would soon be in the same position, passing men for combat when they had no business being at the front.

At least relations with the local population are all right, the General thought. After the initial invasion, and the usual round-ups of those deemed “Enemies of Socialism”, things had settled down. With no guerilla activities in the town proper, the locals had tried to get on with their business, though the collaborationist government had imposed a PSD detachment, and they were loathed by not only the locals, but also the garrison, and the Soviets had quickly shared in that loathing. Sisov had told not only his Political Officer, but also the Commander of the 203rd MRD, not to get involved if any of the PSD men, or the handful of collaborators, died violently and prematurely. “If any of them are killed,” Sisov had said, “the killers will be doing all of us a favor.”

Now, General Sisov was going to inspect the 203rd MRD's 51st MRR. The 203rd was one of the few Motor-Rifle Divisions equipped with the T-80, and how that happened was anyone's guess. No matter, the division had fought well, and now was licking its wounds and getting ready for the next round. Though Sisov was worried. There was talk that the division would receive either T-64Bs or T-72s to replace the T-80s, which would then be passed to the nearby 3rd Shock Army, and the divisional commander had protested vigorously. As he left his office in the City Hall, and headed outside, Sisov vowed that that brute Starukhin would not get any of his tanks, even if he had to go to the Front Commander to do so. He was walking across the square in front of City Hall, and going to his staff car when shouts attracted his attention, followed by machine guns and shoulder-fired missiles firing from rooftops. Then an American F-4 flew right overhead, heading north and for the airport. Air strike, he knew, as he flattened himself on the grass.


“Lead's in hot!” Guru called as he rolled 512 in on the bomb run. He picked out the airport, and as he went in, guns on the rooftops-and there were several, opened up. A quick glance at the EW display showed no Surface-to-air radars, but he wasn't taking any chances. “Miller One-one, MAGNUM!” he called, and hopefully, that would keep any SA-4 or SA-8 operators quiet. He picked out the ramp area that was his target, even as the flak around the airport opened up. Guru ignored the flak puffs and tracers, while concentrating on his bomb run. As the ramp area grew in his pipper, he noticed a parked An-26 transport and a couple of Mi-8 helicopters. You'll do, he thought as he lined them up in the pipper. “Steady...And...Steady....And....HACK!” Guru hit his pickle button, releasing his twelve Mark-82s onto the ramp area. He then applied power and pulled up and away, jinking as he did so, and noticed an SA-8, probably launched in optical mode, fly past 512 on the right side. Then a second SA-8 came up, and Guru had to pitch up, then roll and break hard right to avoid this missile. He and Goalie saw the missile fly by on the left, and only then did he go back to the left. A third missile came up, and Guru had to pop chaff on this one, and broke right again. Both he and Goalie saw this third missile fly into the chaff and explode. Then he came around on a 180, then turned north. “Lead's off target.”


“Sookin sin!” General Sisov muttered. Son of a bitch....

His ADC overheard him. “Comrade General?”

“They've got balls, coming in over the town,” Sisov replied. “This doesn't happen much in daylight.”

The young Captain was not willing to disagree with his General, though he had been under air attack numerous times. “Yes, Comrade General.”

More shouting, and anti-aircraft fire, followed. More aircraft coming in.


“BULLSEYE!” Goalie shouted as Guru jinked to avoid not just flak, but another missile. “We got the ramp, the transport, and the helos!”

“They went up?” Guru asked as first an SA-4, then a fourth SA-8, flew over the aircraft.

“In pieces,” Goalie said. “And in no particular order,” she added.

“We'll have to take that,” Guru said as he got back down low and headed north. This time, it was 400 Feet AGL.

“Two's in!” Kara called as she took 520 down on her bomb run. She saw the results of Guru's strike, and the parked transport and helos going up in fireballs. She picked out the East Ramp, and though there were no Hinds, the choppers looked like a couple of Hips. No matter, Kara thought as she lined the ramp area up in her pipper. You're gone, Ivan. She, too, made a “Magnum” call as she rolled in, and also ignored the flak and the MANPADS that were coming up. The EW display clear, she steadied on the run. “And...And...And....NOW!” Kara hit her pickle button, sending her dozen Mark-82s onto the Russians below. She, took pulled up and applied power, and as she did, Kara noticed an SA-4 fly beneath 520, and an SA-8 flew down the right side of the aircraft as she jinked. Once clear of the defenses, she was able to pick up the CO's smoke trail and only then called, “Two's off target.”


“Mother of..” General Sisov said as Kara's plane came over. The General watched as the bombs came off, but he didn't see the weapons impact due to the buildings. Two fireballs coming up did give him an idea of what had been hit, and hoped that was it. He got up, only to have his ADC pull him back down. Rolling on his back, the General saw why. Amidst all the anti-aircraft fire and the missiles being launched, was another American aircraft. Like the first two, it was an F-4, and it looked as if it was coming at him.


“SHACK!” Brainiac called from 520's back seat. “Got two secondaries!”

“Helos?” Kara asked as an SA-4 flew by along the left side. She then broke right, expecting a second missile, and an SA-8 came by, following the SA-4. Kara pitched up and rolled left after the SA-8, and another SA-8 flew past on the right. She then jinked back right, then got back low, picking up the CO's smoke trail, before getting eyeballs on her flight lead.

“Got two, I think,” Brainiac said, relieved that the hard Gs were over.

“Good,” Kara muttered as she formed up with the CO.


It was now Sweaty's turn. “Three's in!” She called as she went in on her run. She watched as Kara pulled off of her run, and the fireballs that 520 left in its wake. Sweaty, too, ignored the flak coming up as she picked out the ramp area that was her target, and noticed that at least two fighter-type aircraft parked on the ramp. MiGs or Sukhois, no matter. She lined up the ramp in her pipper, and winced as a missile-probably an SA-7 or SA-14, flew past down the right side. Head-on, those two missiles didn't have a chance unless it was a freak hit, she knew. Sweaty then got ready. “And...Steady....Steady..HACK!” She hit the pickle button and released her bombs, then she pulled up wings level, applied power, and began jinking. Sweaty, too, had an SA-4 fly over her aircraft, but no SA-8s, though there were plenty of tracers that followed her out. “Three's off target.”

General Sisov watched as Sweaty's F-4 flew over the town, then released its bombs. The F-4 left a dozen bombs going off, followed by a pair of fireballs as those bombs had evidently found targets. He saw the tracers going up, shoulder-fired missiles being launched from the rooftops, and even a couple of heavy SAMs, but the air-defense troops didn't find their mark. He started to get up, then he froze. Another F-4 was coming in....

“BULLSEYE!” Preacher shouted from Sweaty's back seat. “We got two secondaries!”

“Any idea what they were?” Sweaty asked as she jinked right, avoiding an SA-8, then she jinked back to the left and got down low. Then an SA-4 flew above the F-4 by about two hundred feet, and she got lower-to 400 feet AGL. Sweaty then pitched back up, clearing the area.

“Maybe Frogfoots,” Preacher said. “Not sure, though.”

“Good enough,” Sweaty replied as she picked up the CO and Kara.


Next, it was Hoser's turn. “Four in hot!” He called as he went in on his run. Hoser, too, ignored the flak that was coming up, as he identified the airport's fuel dump, east of the runway. The vehicle tracks and the camouflage netting that covered the fuel tanks were a giveaway, and he recognized them from the reconnaissance imagery. Tracers and MANPADS flew past his F-4 as he concentrated on the bomb run. “Steady....Steady...And..And...NOW!” Hoser hit his pickle button, releasing his twelve Mark-82s onto the fuel dump, then he pulled up and away, jinking as he did so, and both he and KT winced as an SA-8 passed above their aircraft. Hoser then got down low, still jinking as he cleared the area. “Four's off safe.”


“Mother of....” General Sisov muttered as Hoser's F-4 came down on its bomb run. He watched as the bombs came off, and the aircraft, chased by tracers and at least one missile, pulled away. Then he saw the orange and black fireballs erupt in the aircraft's wake, and the General knew what had been hit. Fuel depot, he said to himself. Oh, well, that particular one was the Air Force's problem, and at least the 203rd's dump was still intact. General Sisov got to his feet and was preparing to go to his staff car when the ADC shouted.

“More aircraft, Comrade General!”

Sisov took cover behind the car and looked up. Another F-4 was coming in.


“SHACK!” KT said as Hoser pulled away. “We got the fuel dump!”

Beneath his oxygen mask, Hoser grinned. “How big are the secondaries?”

“Righteously big, as Preacher would say,” KT said, ducking involuntarily as an SA-4 flew close to the aircraft. “Get us down and our asses out of here.”

“Going low,” Hoser said, dropping to 400 feet AGL and increasing speed as he jinked. An SA-8 flew by to the left, and he broke left, and another SA-8 flew by to the right. He then rolled level, and picked up Sweaty's bird as he cleared the area.

“Five in hot!” Dave Golen called as he came in on his run. He spotted his target, the fuel dump north of the town, that, unknown to him or to Flossy, was the divisional fuel dump for the 203rd MRD. Golen, like the others, ignored the flak that came up, and concentrated on his bomb run. As the fuel dump grew larger in his pipper, the tracers got thicker, but Dave was able to concentrate on the run. “And...And......And....NOW!” He hit the pickle button, releasing his load of a dozen Mark-82s, then pulled up and away, jinking like the others. Dave evaded an SA-4, then had two SA-8s, one after the other, fly past his aircraft as he jinked. Then he got down low and away before he made his call. “Five off target.”

General Sisov was speechless as he watched Golen's F-4 come in on its run. He watched as the bombs came off the aircraft, and multiple fireballs erupted in its wake. Right away he knew that the 203rd's fuel dump had been hit, and that meant more headaches for not just the division's staff, but his own. If the Americans started hitting their fuel supplies, things might get....rough, at best. As the fireballs came up, the General heard cheering. He knew that the locals, despite wanting to go about their business, retained the loathing for their occupiers that he expected, and expecting them to do nothing when American aircraft were overhead was wishful thinking. Sisov started to get up, then saw the guns on the rooftops swing back south. That meant another American was coming in....

“GOOD HITS!” Terry McAuliffe, Golen's backseater, called. “We have secondaries!”

“How many?” Golen asked as he got down low and stayed low, but was still jinking. He watched as an SA-4 passed overhead by about a thousand feet, and an SA-8 flew harmlessly by on the right.

“Lots.”

“Good to know,” said Golen as he picked up Sweaty and Hoser and headed north.


“Six is in hot!” Flossy called as she took 1569 on its bomb run. She saw where her element lead had put his bombs, and spotted some undamaged fuel tanks and trucks, with some of the latter trying to get away. Not so fast, Ivan..... Flossy, too, ignored the flak that was coming up, while Jang winced as an SA-7 or -14 flew by on the left, and an SA-8 did the same on the right. Flossy applied some left rudder, and lined up the truck park in her pipper. “And...And...Steady....And....HACK!” She hit the pickle button, and a dozen more Mark-82s came off the racks. Flossy then pulled up and away, applying power and jinking as she did so, avoiding the flak and giving the SAM operators a harder target. She jinked right, and watched as an SA-8 flew by on the left, then a pair of SA-4s flew over 1569. Flossy winced, then got down low, copying what her element lead had done, and going to 400 feet. She then called, “Six off target.”


“Goddamn it,” General Sisov shouted as Flossy's F-4 made its run. He watched as the bombs came off, and the fireballs that came up were easily visible. As the oily columns of smoke and flame came up, the General got up and dusted himself off. He heard the cheering from the locals, and waved his Chief of Staff over. “Don't bother with these people. They're acting the same way we would in the same position. Understood?”

“Completely, Comrade General,” the Chief, a Major General, replied. “I'll get a report on the damage inflicted as soon as possible.”

“Do that.”


“SHACK!” Jang yelled from 1569's back seat. “Multiple secondaries!”

“How many?” Flossy asked as she jinked, first left, then right, before doing a barrel roll and dropping chaff to deal with a pair of SA-8s. She glanced at the EW display and only the Mainstay's radar was there. Optical mode, she thought.

“Over a dozen, and more going,” Jang said. “BREAK RIGHT!' She added.

Flossy broke, and avoided an SA-4 that had come up. She did a full 360 and got back on course north. “That was close,” she said, then added. “Good secondaries?”

“Damn good,” Jang said.

“We'll take those,” Flossy said as she picked up her element lead, then joined up with Major Golen in Combat Spread.


In 512, Guru heard Flossy's “Off target” call. “That's it.”

“Six in and out,” Goalie said.

“Not quite,” Guru said. “One-seven and One-eight, get your asses down and away.”

“Roger, Lead,” Flight Lt. Paul Jackson, Dave Gledhill's pilot, called. “Susan, on me,”

“Roger, two,” she called back, as both RAF F-4Js dropped from their TARCAP orbit, and thundered over the town just above rooftop level, jinking as they did so, before clearing the area. “Have visual on One-five and One-six.”

“Roger that,” Guru called. “How far to the Fence?” Guru asked Goalie.

“Two minutes at this speed,” Goalie replied. They were doing 550 KIAS at 450 Feet AGL.

“Copy that. With me, Starbuck?” Guru asked his wingmate.

“Right with you,” Kara replied.

Guru turned his head right, and a quick glance showed her right with him in Combat Spread. “Gotcha,” he called back. “Sweaty?”

“On your six, and Hoser's with me.”

“Roger that, Sweaty. Dave?”

Dave Golen came back right away. “Coming up behind Sweaty, and Flossy's with me.”

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

The AWACS controller responded, “Rambler Lead, Warlock. First threat bearing Two-four-five for forty. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing Two-four-zero for forty-five. Medium, closing. First threats are Fishbeds, second threats are Fulcrums.”

MiG-21s and -29s, Guru thought. Lovely. He took a look at the EW display and saw no fighter radars. They must be coming with radars off, he said to himself. “Warlock, can you have a reception committee in case they get too close?”

“Can do, Rambler,” the controller replied. “Showtime, Penguin, Warlock. Bandits bearing Two-two-five and Two-two-zero for sixty and sixty-five. Medium, closing. KILL. Repeat: KILL.”

“Roger, Warlock,” Showtime Lead replied. Four F-15Cs broke from their CAP orbit and headed in the direction of the bandits.

“Penguin Lead copies,” a female voice came over the radio, as four F-16Cs also headed towards the bandits.

“One minute thirty,” Goalie advised. That meant twenty-four miles.

“Roger that,” Guru said.

Rambler Flight kept heading north, as the MiG-21, and then the MiG-29 radars appeared on their EW displays. Then the F-15 leader made a call.

“Showtime, clear to engage. FOX ONE!” Four F-15Cs fired four AIM-7M missiles, and three scored. The fourth MiG, seeing his comrades blotted from the sky, did a 180 and turned for home. The four MiG-29s closed, and drew a second volley. Two MiGs fell to Sparrow shots, and the remaining MiGs, now warned of four F-16s closing, also did an about-face and turned for home.

“Eagles are mighty good today,” Guru observed as he heard the radio calls.

“They always are,” Goalie said. “Thirty seconds to the fence,” she added.

“Roger that,” Guru said. It wasn't long until the twin ribbons of I-20 appeared, and as the flight crossed the freeway, the EW displays cleared up as the Mainstay radar strobe faded, and the SEARCH warning light went out. “No more Mainstay. Flight, Lead. Verify IFF on, and Music off.” Guru said to the flight, telling them to turn off their ECM pods and turn on their IFF.

“About damned time,” Goalie said.


Once clear of the Fence, Rambler Flight climbed to altitude, and headed for the post-strike refueling at the tanker track. Once refueled, the flight headed to Sheppard, where the Tower told them that the flight was fourth in the landing pattern, behind the westbound C-141, two Marine flights, and a 335th flight. Once it was their turn, the flight came in and landed. As they taxied off the runway, the crews noticed the news crew at work, filming as they taxied by.

“More stock footage for after the war?” Guru asked as he popped his canopy and raised it.

“Which means their network gets more money from anyone who wants to use it,” Goalie said as she did the same.

“Hadn't thought about that,” Guru said as he taxied towards the squadron's dispersal.

Once clear of the runway, the flight taxied to their respective dispersal areas, and Guru taxied into 512's revetment. After shutting down, the ground crew brought the chocks for the wheels, and deployed the crew ladder, while Guru and Goalie did their post-flight cockpit checks. Once finished, Guru and Goalie dismounted the aircraft, then went about their post-flight walk-around. Only then did the Crew Chief, Sergeant Crowley, come up, with the usual bottle of water for both crew. “Sarge,” Guru said as he took the bottle.

“Major,” Crowley nodded. “And Lieutenant,” he added. “How's my bird?”

“Still truckin', Sarge,” Guru said after downing half of the bottle. “Get some chow if you haven't already, then get her ready for the afternoon.”

“Will do, Major,” Crowley said. “And how'd you guys do, sir? Saw everybody come back.”

Guru winced. “It was a hairy one, with all those SAMs,” he said. “But that airport's out of action for a few days.”

“I'll second the SAMs,” Goalie added. “Haven't seen that many in a while.”

Crowley winced himself. “I'll take your word for it, Ma'am.”

“Could've been worse, but we all made it back,” Guru said. “Get her ready for the next one.”

“You got it, Major!” Crowley said. “Okay you guys! You heard the Major! Get this bird prepped and ready.”

Guru and Goalie left the ground crew to their work, and went to the revetment's entrance. Kara and Brainiac were there, having just arrived. “Well? That had a few close calls,” said Guru.

“More than a few, I'd say,” Kara replied. “Haven't seen that many missiles since PRAIRIE FIRE.”

“Not arguing that,” Brainiac said.

“And you two got a couple of helos and an An-24,” Kara added.

Guru smiled. “That's good to know. How'd you do?”

“Got a couple of Hips, I think.”

Sweaty and her element came up next. “God, Boss! When's the last time we had that many SAMs?”

“I'll second that question,” Hoser said, while the GIBs nodded. “Who thought we didn't need Weasels or IRON HAND?”

“Some clown at Tenth Air Force,” Guru spat. “Need to call them and find out what the hell someone was thinking in the ATO shop.” He finished the water bottle. “What'd you guys do?”

Sweaty grinned. “Got a couple of fast-movers. Su-25s maybe.”

“Strike camera footage should tell,” Preacher nodded.

“And the fuel dump there went up,” Hoser added. “Lots of fireballs going up.”

KT let out a grin of her own. “There were quite a few.”

Dave Golen, Flossy, and their GIBs came up next. “What the hell?” He asked. “Guru, that place was bad. We could've lost people there.”

“First time in someplace that could be SAM city,” Flossy said.

“Consider ourselves lucky we didn't lose anybody,” Guru replied. “Dave, this remind you of Sinai in '73?”

The IDF Major nodded. “Only this time, no one was hit. But there were plenty of missiles in the air. And no radar warning.”

“Which means those blokes were shooting with the optical backups,” Dave Gledhill said as his element arrived. “They must've been reloading, because we had no missiles shot, and only flak.”

“At least we didn't lose anyone,” Karen McKay added. “But we saw all those missiles going up.”

“Be glad for that, all of you,” said Guru. Just then, a Dodge Crew-cab pickup arrived, and Chief Ross was in the driver's seat. “Chief,” Guru nodded.

“Major,” Ross said. “Captain Licon and the RAF intelligence officer want you all for a debrief.”

“Got to make the intel weenies happy,” Kara spat. “You do know their motto?”

Sweaty was the first to reply. “Yeah, 'We're betting your life'”

Guru nodded. “Right on that. Okay, let's get the debrief out of the way, get some food, and maybe some rest, because in an hour and a half, tops, we're at it again.” He turned to Dave Gledhill's people. “And you guys just cleared your tenth mission.”

“Something to celebrate tonight,” the RAF Squadron Leader replied. “But we do have to get through the rest of the day.”

“There is that,” Paul Jackson said.

“True,” Kara replied.

Flossy then said, “And the endless cycle repeats.”

“It does,” Guru said. “This is too much like Southeast Asia for my taste. But until the battle lines move south...”

Goalie added, “And that won't come 'til Spring, probably.”

“Hope not,” Hoser said. “Sooner we're on the Rio Grande, the better.”

“No arguing that,” the CO nodded. “Okay, let's make the intel folks happy, get some food inside us, and get ready to do it again.”

With that, the crews piled into the pickup, and Chief Ross drove them back to the Squadron's office.
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Treat everyone you meet with kindness and respect, but always have a plan to kill them.

Old USMC Adage
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