[Matt Wiser]

After an untended delay, and RL, the 335th's adventures continue:



335th TFS, Sheppard AFB, TX; 1150 Hours Central War Time:


In his office, Major Matt Wiser scowled. He had just written two more condolence letters, for Tread's wife and Notso's parents, and one thought was running through his mind. It was what Colonel Rivers had told Guru when he became Exec. “It never gets easy,” the Colonel had said. Guru had found that out himself, writing a letter for the Colonel's widow, and the GIB's. Then had come Razor Gillette's parents, the two RAF aircrew who had gone down the previous day, and now two more. At least MIA letters give the chance their loved ones are still alive, Guru thought as he finished up Notso's letter, then he got up and left the office. He found his secretary, Staff Sergeant Trisha Lord. “Trish? I need these typed up before lunch.” He handed her the two letters.

“Not a problem, Major,” Lord said. She had been Colonel Rivers' secretary, and Lt. Col. Mark Johnson's before that. A prewar member of the 335th, she and the other admin people helped keep the squadron running while the crews were out on missions. She quickly went to work, and had the two letters typed up. “Here you go, sir,” she said, handing the CO the letters.

“Thanks, Trish,” the CO nodded. “You have a good lunch.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lord said. Like all the other admin people, she was in BDUs, not undress whites, and was packing a sidearm. She got up to go to the NCOs' mess, and saw Goalie coming in, plastic bags in hand. “Looks like Lieutenant Eichhorn's here.”

“What's on the menu?” Guru asked his GIB.

“Grilled Chicken Sandwiches, with macaroni and cheese and cole slaw,” Goalie replied. “But there were a few fools who were trying the Suggestion of Pork Tri-tip.”

“Either brave or foolish,” Guru observed.

“Or both, if you don't mind my saying, sir,” Sergeant Lord said as she was leaving her desk.

“Any of of those answers can be graded as correct,” Guru said. “Let's go eat.”


Over lunch, the morning's events were discussed, along with the CO having had to write two more letters to MIA families. “They won't go out until tomorrow, though,” Guru said in between bites.

Goalie nodded. “When's C.J coming back with Redeye?” She asked.

“Sometime this afternoon,” Guru said. “They're getting checked out at a MASH, and once that's done, they head back here.” The CO handed Goalie two papers. “And these got faxed to Tenth Air Force after the debrief.”

Goalie looked over the papers. One was a request for two new replacement aircraft, while another was for replacement aircrew. “Goes with the flow,” she nodded. “And all part of doing business in this line of work.”

“Sad, but true,” Guru said. “Now, I talked to Don Van Loan after the debrief. He's going to check future missions we get in the ATO. If the target looks too good to be true...”

His GIB knew right away. “It probably is,” she agreed. “So what do we hit instead?”

“Opportunity targets,” Guru said. “Say we get one of these 'FROG units' in the open near, say, Stephenville. I'll go in, then pull up, and call the abort for a flak trap. Then we go to Stephenville and tear up the airport-again.”

“Sounds good.”

“I'll have Sin Licon do a look-see for other opportunity targets,” said the CO. “It'll be up to the flight lead to make the call whether or not to abort and switch to an opportunity target.”

Goalie nodded again. “And Frank?”

“Forget him and anything he sends elsewhere. They shit-can that, and I shred anything he gives me.”
Guru was then interrupted was a knock on the door. “Yeah?”

Digger came in, still favoring his bad ankle. “Phone call, Boss. It's General Tanner.”

Guru nodded. “Thanks, Digger.” He picked up his office phone. “General? What can I do for you?”

“Major, good to hear your voice,” General Tanner said. “What happened out there?”

“Sir, we put the hurt on the bad guys who had the flak trap, and got some Libyan MiG-23s who invited themselves to the party,” Guru said. “No BDA on the strike yet, sir.”

“Major, I'm sending a couple of RF-4Cs to get just that. Send two of your birds to meet up at the Mineral Wells tanker track and provide escort,” Tanner said. “A tasking order's being faxed to your Ops Office right now.”

“Will do, sir, and General? Somebody in the Ops Office there needs to have some balls crunched, for they gave us a target that turned out to be a flak trap. If we get a similar target-a missile unit, or other high-value asset out in the open, my people will assume it's too good to be true, and we'll go fishing for alternates.”

“Major, I'll kick some asses in the Ops Office myself. Ran into some flak traps in Vietnam, and they were no fun,” said the General. “If you get a target that smells, use your best judgment.”

“Will do, sir,” Guru replied.

“All right, Major. You have yourself a good rest of the day, and I'll be in touch.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Major?”

“Sir?” Guru asked.

“Be careful out there,” Tanner said. “And good luck.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Guru. After the General hung up, Guru did so. “Well, now. Two RF-4Cs will be going to get BDA for the strike.”

“Anything from us?” Goalie asked.

“Two birds for escort,” Guru nodded.

Goalie looked at him. “Who's going?” She asked. “Sending Don and Rabbit out?”

The CO thought for a minute. “Either them, or Dave and Flossy,” he said. Then there was another knock. “Yeah? Show yourself and come in!”

It was Kara. “Boss, we've got a mission. Six-ship. Dave and Flossy are coming with us.”

“Where to?”

“Town called Walnut Springs, north of Meridian on State Route 144,” Kara said. “Regimental laager or assembly area.”

“Okay, anything calling for a two-ship?” The CO asked. “Recon escort, say?”

“Yeah. Two for escort of a pair of RF-4Cs,” Kara replied. “How'd you know?”

Guru tapped his phone.”General Tanner just told me,” he said. “Get Don and Rabbit. That's their mission, and have 'em loaded for air-to-air. No centerline stores, though.”

Kara knew what her CO meant. “And they get told 'No trolling for MiGs.'”

“They do,” Guru said. “RAF coming?”

“Two birds, with the same crews as this morning.”

Good, the CO thought. “All right: round everybody up. Our briefing room in fifteen.”

“Already sent Preacher to do that,” Kara said.

“Good. I'll be in the Ops Office in a couple,” Guru said. “We're back in the game.”

Kara grinned. “As long as the bad guys lose,” she said. “I'm gone.” She headed back to the Ops Office.

Goalie got up. “Guess we have somewhere to be,” she said.

Guru nodded, then got up as well. “That we do.”


When the CO got to the Ops Office, he found his Ops Officer waiting. “Don,” Guru said. “Get your mission?”

“I did,” Van Loan nodded. “Escort for recon, and guess who the lead is?”

“No guess: Athena,” Guru replied. Capt. Sharon Valerri-Park had flown with them before, and wherever she and her GIB, 1st Lt. Karl “Helo” Agathon went, MiGs were sure to follow. He knew firsthand, when he and Sweaty had escorted her on a recon of Cannon AFB and Clovis, before PRAIRIE FIRE, and Guru had gotten a MiG-25 kill out of that.

“Four-oh, Boss,” the Ops said. “And Kara told me what you told her to relay: No trolling for MiGs.”

“Four-oh on your part,” the CO nodded. “No vendettas. Not today. And my mission?”

“Here you go,” Van Loan handed the CO the mission folder. “Kara told you the basics?”

“She did. Regiment-sized unit laagered around this town. And we're getting a six-ship.” said Guru. “Not counting the RAF.”

“True, and with the MiG activity you guys had, be glad they're coming with you.”

Guru nodded. “I am. Okay, anything else, other than 'be careful?'”

“Have a good one, Boss,” Van Loan said.

“You, too.” With that, Guru headed to the briefing room his flight used, and found his flight waiting, along with Dave Golen's element, and their new friends from the RAF. And Buddy, the squadron's mascot. “Okay, people, let's get the show on the road. We kicked some ass a little while ago, and had a break.” He looked over his crews. “Now it's time to get back in the game.”

“As long as the bad guys lose,” Kara said.

“That is rule number one,” Dave Golen said. “So, what kind of target calls for a six-ship?”

“Town called Walnut Springs, eleven miles north of Meridian on State Route 144. Intel says there's a regiment-sized unit laagered around the town. They're Soviets, and probably trying to rest and refit after the mauling the Army gave 'em last week. We get to interrupt that.”

“This place crawling?” Sweaty asked. “As in ZSU-30s?”

“As far as intel knows? No,” Guru replied. He passed out the recon imagery. “But...”

“Just because they're not on the photos,” Hoser said. “Doesn't mean they're not around.”

The CO nodded agreement. “Good call. If you see those basketball-sized tracers coming up? Abort. We'll go for Stephenville Municipal and pay the East Germans there another visit.”

“Anyplace where those aren't around is somewhere good to be,” Flossy said. “How are we getting there?”

'Ingress is as follows: After htting the tankers, we go in as usual, along the Brazos.”

“And the chumps we blasted this morning?” Kara asked.

“We give them a wide berth,” Guru said. “Stay on the east side until clear of the Brazospoint Bridge, then thread the needle, right down the river, past the 174 Bridge and Lake Whitney. Turn right onto a heading of Two-four-zero, until we get to a town twenty-four miles southwest of the lake, called Cranfills Gap. We turn due north, then head for the target. Twenty seconds prior to the target? We pull, clear a ridgeline, and pick out targets. These guys are laagered around the town, so dealer's choice.”

“And when we're clear, we head for the river,” Golen said.

“Right on that,” replied the CO. “Defenses are regimental level. And that means ZSU-23-4 or ZSU-30, SA-9 or -13, small-arms fire, and MANPADS.”

Brainiac scowled. “Hope those Army pukes, when they chewed these guys up, killed off their air-defense assets.”

“Here's hoping. Egress is simple: clear the town, then head northeast to the Brazos-north of the flak trap site this morning. Then we get our asses north to I-20.”

“Sounds good,” Sweaty said. “MiGs?”

“Same as this morning,” the CO replied.

Goalie nodded. “And ordnance loads?”

“No CBUs this close to a town,” Guru said. “Other than the usual air-to-air?” That meant four AIM-9Ps, two AIM-7Fs, full 20-mm, ALQ-119 or -101 ECM pod, and two wing tanks, people knew. “Everyone gets a dozen Mark-82 Snakeyes. Half with the Daisy Cutter fuze extensions.”

The 335th people nodded, then Dave Gledhill asked, “And what's our job? TARCAP as usual?”

“It is,” Guru said. “Kill anyone flying, and do the same for anyone crashing the party.”

“After this morning?” Flight Lt. Paul Jackson, Gledhill's pilot, said. “It'll be a pleasure.”

“Good. And no trolling for MiGs, mind,” the CO said flatly. “Let them come to you.”

“Understood,” Flight Lt. Susan Napier, who had made ace on the previous strike, said.

Guru nodded. “Okay, weather and bailout areas are unchanged. Anything else?” He asked as an Ops NCO appeared, waiting for the brief to finish so he could collect the briefing materials.

“What's after this one?” Flossy asked.

“Only the ATO knows for sure, you know that,” said the CO.

“Had to ask.”

Nodding understanding, Guru said, “Did that a few times myself as a wingie.” He looked around, and saw Buddy sound asleep. “And that's a good omen. Buddy's asleep. If that's it, let's gear up and get ready to fly. See you at 512.”


The crews headed to their respective locker rooms to gear up, and when Guru came out of the Men's Locker Room, Goalie was waiting, as usual. “Here we go again,” he said. “Ready?”

“If you are,” Goalie replied. “One more after this one.”

“And we make Doc happy by getting a workout before that,” the CO said. “He's bored, so guess what he has to do?”

“Badger us?” Goalie shook her head. “He's flight-qualified, so maybe we should get him a check ride in exchange for laying off.”

“Down, girl,” Guru said as they went to the office, then outside. “He's doing his job, and he does outrank me when it comes to things like that.”

“I know,” she said as they walked towards the squadron's dispersal. “But the Reds have a say in the flight schedule at times.”

“They do,” Guru agreed as they got to 512's revetment, and the rest of the crews were already there. “Okay, people. Usual procedures on the radio.”

“Call signs between us, and mission code to AWACS and others,” Sweaty nodded.

“You got it,” the CO said. “We're still Mustang Flight. Meet up at ten grand overhead. Anything else?”

“Any word on C.J and Redeye?” KT asked. Redeye was a classmate of hers from the RTU.

“Should be back later this afternoon, and that's all I know. That it?” Heads nodded at the last. The CO clapped his hands. “Then let's hit it. Time to fly.”

The crews headed to their aircraft, and Guru and Goalie went to their bird, 512. Sergeant Crowley was waiting, and the Crew Chief snapped a perfect salute. “Major, Lieutenant? Five-twelve's ready to fly.”

Guru and Goalie returned it. “Thanks, Sarge.” He and Goalie did their preflight walk-around, then climbed the ladder, got into their seats, and got strapped in. Then they went through the preflight checklist. As they did, Goalie asked, “Worried?”

“About going out? No,” Guru said. “Going in? You might say that. Those guys we blasted might have a couple of guns or missiles left, and they're going to be pissed.”

Having been bombed herself on a few occasions, Goalie understood. “So would I. Ejection seats?”

“Armed top and bottom. Check yours,” said Guru. “Arnie?”

“Arnie's all set,” said Goalie. “And the INS.” That meant the ARN-101 DMAS and the INS system.
“Preflight complete and ready for engine start.”

“So we are,” Guru said. He gave Sergeant Crowley a thumbs-up, then got the “Start Engines” signal in reply. First one, then both J-79 engines were up and running. During the warm-up, Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Mustang Flight with eight, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

“Mustang Lead, Tower.” A controller told him, “Clear to taxi to Runway Three-Five-Charlie. Hold prior to the active, and you are number three in line.”

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

Guru taxied 512 out of the revetment, and as he cleared it, Crowley snapped a perfect salute, then gave a thumbs-up. Guru and Goalie returned the salute, then taxied to Three-Five-Charlie. They got to the holding area, and found the Ops Officer's element first in line, then a Marine four-ship of F/A-18s, then it was their turn. After Van Loan's element had left, the Marines taxied onto the runway, and Mustang taxied into the holding area.

There, the armorers removed the weapon safeties, and then it was time to taxi onto the runway. “Tower, Mustang Lead requesting taxi for takeoff.”

“Roger, Mustang Lead,” the tower controller came back. Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are Two-six-five for ten.”

“Roger, Tower.” Guru replied, then he taxied 512 onto the runway, and Kara followed in 520. A final cockpit check, then a glance at Kara's bird, where she and Brainiac gave thumbs-ups. Guru and Goalie returned them, and it was time to call the Tower. “Tower, Mustang Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

As usual, the Tower didn't come back on the radio, but flashed a green light. Clear for takeoff.

“Ready?” Guru asked.

“Let's go,” Goalie said.

“Canopy coming down,” Guru replied, pulling down and locking his canopy. Goalie did the same, and a quick look showed Kara and Brainiac had done the same. “And time to go.” He applied full power, released the brakes, and 512 rumbled down the runway and into the air, 520 was right with him, and thirty seconds later, it was the turn of Sweaty and Hoser. Then came Dave Golen and Flossy, followed by the RAF element. They met up at FL 100, then headed south for their tankers.




Over Central Texas: 1315 Hours Central War Time:


Mustang Flight was headed south, at low level. They had made their tanker rendezvous, and the two RAF crews, this time, had to tank up from a KC-10 instead of their Tristar, which had gone back for its own refueling and to change crews. Everyone also noticed the two F-15 and two F-16 flights orbiting nearby, for the tankers-and the AWACS, EC-130 Airborne Command Posts, and the RC-135s that everyone knew, but never saw, were in the area and were all high-value targets. The refueling went off without a hitch, and so did the penetration into hostile territory.

Now, they had passed the Granbury Bridge, and were flying just east of the Brazos River. Close enough to see the river, but not close enough they could draw fire-or so the crews hoped. As usual, the Nicaraguan gunners had stayed quiet, and though they were not quite out of range, the East German gunners on the west bank had spotted them, and sent several 57-mm rounds their way. It reminded several of the 335th crews of what they had seen on AFN during PRAIRIE FIRE, when a Nicaraguan unit had been trapped by the First Cav, and instead of fighting it out, the Nicaraguan battalion had surrendered without firing a shot. When asked why by a reporter traveling with that particular American unit, a Nicaraguan officer had replied, with quite basic civilian logic, “Because it would've been a mistake, Senor.”

Leading the flight, Guru had them down low, at 450 Feet AGL. While the pilots had their heads on a swivel, checking instruments, then having their eyes out of the cockpit to keep up their visual scanning, the GIBs were watching their own instruments and also handling the navigation. Though the ARN-101 system and the INS did the work, the backseaters were busy with stopwatch, map, and compass, doing things the old-fashioned way.

In 512's front seat, Guru saw the flak off to the west as they flew past the U.S. 377 Bridge at Granbury. “East Germans again,” he noted. “Dam in thirty?”

“Thirty seconds to the dam,” Goalie replied. “One minute to Glen Rose Bridge and U.S. 67.” They had flown this route so many times they were getting to know it like the backs of their hands. Then again, the Brazos was the boundary between the Nicaraguan II Corps on the east side, and the East Germans' Army-sized group known as “Kampfgruppe Rosa Luxembourg,” to the west. “EW still clear.”

“So far,” Guru said. He looked around, then glanced at his EW display. Suddenly, a strobe appeared, and the SEARCH light came on the panel. “There they are,” he said.

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

“No taking that bet,” Guru said as the Lake Granbury Dam appeared. “Dam at One. And flak.” Sure enough, the East German gunners were shooting again. Again, the 37-mm and 57-mm fire missed, as the strike flight kept on its way.

“Right on time,” Goalie quipped. “They must get paid by the shell.”

“Maybe.” Guru glanced down at his own map, then focused straight ahead. There was a bend in the river, and when they got there, they would turn straight south. “Bend coming up.”

“Got it,” Goalie said. The bend went sharply into the Nicaraguan sector, and that meant the difference between a...tolerable occupation, they had heard, from a serious one. “Twenty seconds to Glen Rose.”

“Copy,” Guru checked his EW display. Still that one strobe. Time to call the AWACS. “Crystal Palace, Mustang Lead. Say threats?”

A controller came back at once. “Mustang Lead, Crystal Palace. First threat bearing One-six-five for forty-five. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-seven-eight for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing One-nine-zero for sixty. Medium, going away.”

“Roger, Crystal Palace,” Guru called back. “MiGs are up.”

“After this morning?” Goalie shot back. “You surprised?”

“No,” said Guru. He glanced to the right, then towards the nose. “Bridge at One.”

“Glen Rose Bridge,” Goalie called. “And there's the flak.” Though the flight was some distance from the bridge, they were still within 57-mm range, and the East German gunners on the west bank opened fire. The flak wasn't on target, bursting either above or behind the strike birds, as they headed south. “Thirty seconds to Brazospoint, and the chumps we hit last time.”

Guru nodded. '”It is that,” he agreed. Now, what would the reaction be when they got there? Would the East Germans, and the Libyans, be in a shooting mood? They'd find out soon enough-when they got there. It wasn't long, though. “Brazospoint coming up.”

“Got it,” Goalie said. “Flak on both sides of the bridge.” The AAA gunners on both sides-Libyans now on the east, East Germans still on the west, had started shooting.

“Roger that,” Guru said. Sure enough, there were puffs of flak, and some tracers from 23-mm. But no radar warnings, which was good. That meant the 23-mm and 57-mm were optically aimed, and they were going too fast to really track. A quick glance on the west side of the river showed smoke still rising from what had been the town, and either burning ruins-or vehicles-still in flames. Good for them, he thought as the strike flight flew past.


In Brazospoint, the East Germans were still cleaning up after the late morning air strike. The East German Captain who had been the special air-defense battalion's deputy commander had been busy supervising the cleanup, tending to the wounded, and recovering the bodies of the dead. Many of the wounded were horribly burned, and in peacetime, they would need treatment in special burn care centers, something that he doubted the liberated zone of Texas had, That meant being medically evacuated to Cuba, and the Captain doubted that many of the burn cases wouldn't get past the Kampfgruppe's medical facilities, much less to Cuba. The Captain went to his UAZ-469 jeep, and found the Libyan pilot he and his men had helped. The pilot's left arm was in a sling, and since he wasn't a priority case, had to wait until those more seriously-even critically-injured, had been tended to.

The Captain had just started to walk that way when there were shouts. Eight F-4s flew past, just across the river, and the anti-aircraft gunners at both ends of the bridge had started shooting. He watched the Imperialist aircraft fly past, and he didn't care to be visibly relieved as they didn't turn around and attack. The Captain then went to the Libyan, who had been calmly watching the whole thing. “Captain, is there anything you need? The doctors will be seeing you shortly.”

“Just get ready to get out of here,” the Libyan said. “You should be glad that wasn't a strike.”

“What do you mean?”

“They may come back to finish what they started,” replied the Libyan, as if such things happened regularly. Just then, two more F-4s came over at low level, with two more higher up. To him, it looked like a reconnaissance mission with escort. Hopefully, they'd all be out of there before a follow-on strike....


“That was easy,” Guru said after passing Brazospoint. “How far to the 174 Bridge?”

“Ten miles,” Goalie called back. “Forty seconds.”

“Roger that,” Guru said as he followed the twists and turns of the river. Just short of the State Route 174 Bridge, there was a bend in the river that went to the east, and he just led the flight across the bend, cutting for a few seconds into East German-controlled territory, before going back to the east side. So far, the Libyans, other than those at the Brazospoint Bridge, had been quiet. “Coming up on the Bridge,” he said as the bridge came into view.

“Roger that,” Goalie said. “And flak from both sides.”

Just as Goalie called, the guns on both sides of the river opened up as the strike birds became visible to the gunners. As Mustang Flight came by, there was a convoy on the bridge-and it looked like a good one, with tanks on transporters and other heavy equipment. Guru took a look, and said wistfully, “Too bad we're not on an armed recon.”

“Good targets,” Goalie noted. “Not their turn.”

“No,” Guru nodded in the front seat. “One minute to turn,” he noted as he took 512 down to 400 Feet AGL.

“One minute,” Goalie confirmed.

Mustang Flight headed down Lake Whitney at low altitude, but not low enough to throw up wakes in the water. As they headed south, the crews couldn't help but think that there were eyes watching them, and they were right.

Along the lakeshore, there were locals who were fishing, hoping to catch some fish to add to the rations allowed them by the occupiers, while Soviet, Libyan, and East German soldiers were fishing as well, for they, too, wanted some fresh fish to add to their own rations. In addition, there was a Resistance group using a boat-in campground as a hiding spot, and all noticed the eight-ship of Phantoms headed south. For the locals and the Resistance people, it was a sign that there was a light-a strong one-at the end of the tunnel, while the Soviet and Soviet-bloc soldiers wondered if the line their Political Officers were feeding them about the “Socialist bloc controlling the air” was worth the hot air expended, or the paper such leaflets were printed on.


“Thirty seconds to turn,” Goalie called.

“Copy,” replied Guru. “Crystal Palace, Mustang Lead. Say threats?” He called the AWACS.

A controller came back at once. “Mustang Lead, Crystal Palace. First threat bearing One-six-five for thirty-five. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-eight-zero for forty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing One-eight-five for sixty-five. Medium, going away. Fourth threat bering Two-zero-zero for sixty-five. Medium, closing.”

“Mustang Lead copies. Say bogey dope?”

“Mustang, Crystal Palace. First and second are Floggers. Third threats are Flankers. Fourth are Fulcrums.”

“Roger that,” Guru replied. Su-27s? Lovely. “Hope the Flankers stay away,” he said over the IC. “Flight, Lead. Music on.” He turned on his ECM pod.

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

“Hope you're right,” Goalie said. “Next turn in ten. Five, four, three, two, one, MARK!”

Guru put 512 into a right turn, coming to a heading of Two-four-zero, and the flight copied him. “One more turn, then get ready for showtime.”

“Roger that,” Goalie said.

The rolling hills of this part of Texas flew by, and so far, so good. Guru took a look at his EW display, just to be sure. Only one strobe was there, and it was bright. He knew what it was. “Mainstay's still on.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Goalie asked. “Forty seconds to turn.”

“Somebody ought to shut him down, and for good,” Guru spat.

“Somebody may be thinking about that,” Goalie reminded him. “Twenty seconds.”

“Copy,” Guru said as hills appeared, and the small town of Cranfills Gap soon became visible between the hills. “Give me the count.”

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

Guru turned north, and when he was steady on the new course, called the flight. “Flight, Lead. One minute. Switches on, and stand by to pull.”

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

Without being asked, Goalie worked the armament controls. “Switches set. We're ready. Thirty seconds to pull.”

“Copy,” Guru said. He was maintaining his visual scanning. “Sky's clear so far.”

“For now,” Goalie reminded him. “Twenty seconds to pull,” she called as State Route 6 flashed by beneath them.

“Roger that!” Guru called. It was almost time. “Get ready,”

Goalie knew what that meant. Namely, get her shoulder straps tight, put the map away, and it would be showtime. “All set. Pull in ten....five, four, three, two, one, PULL!”

Guru pulled 512 into a climb, and as he did, the town of Walnut Springs appeared “No gun or missile radars,” he said, checking his EW display.

“Yet,” she said.

“Yet,” Guru replied, knowing she was right. “Flight, Lead, time to go to work.” With that, the two RAF F-4Js climbed to assume their TARCAP.

“Ready back here,” Goalie said.

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


In Walnut Springs, the locals had been pretty much left alone by the war since the initial invasion. Though the usual round-ups of those considered “Counterrevolutionary Elements” had taken place, after that, the garrison-in this case, East Germans, had left the local population alone for the most part. The East Germans were reservists, older ones not fit for front-line service, and the company's equipment showed it. A platoon of T-55A tanks, unmodernized, while there were BTR-152 APCs for a platoon's worth of men, the other two platoons having to make do with trucks. A battery of 82-mm mortars and several ZPU-2 AA machine guns rounded out their heavy weapons, and the Captain who was in command was hoping that when the U.S. Army returned-and word had it that the Americans were close-less than a hundred kilometers-the battle here would be over quickly. He had been wounded up in Colorado, before the Americans' Summer Offensive, and after recovery, he had found himself assigned here. The locals weren't any problem: it was the Stasi Lieutenant who was assigned here, along with the local PSD man-and he had a couple of toughs with him to give credence to his demands.
Fortunately for all concerned, the Stasi and PSD spent nearly all their time arguing with each other, and left the garrison and the locals to their own devices.

Things had been fine until a few days earlier, when a regiment of Soviet troops took up positions outside town. At first, there had been feelings that the fighting was getting closer, but seeing the Soviets digging only air-raid shelters, and some shelters for vehicles, meant that they were simply setting up shop. The Regimental Commander of the 482nd MRR, 144th GMRD, a Major, had called on him at the garrison's headquarters-the city hall, and informed the Captain that though the regiment would not interfere in the day-to-day affairs of the town, should there be any kind of a fight, the garrison would be under the Soviets' command. After the Russian left, the Captain wondered how much his men could do, if it ever came to that. Nearly all were family men, though a few had been wounded like he was, and any kind of a serious fight was not what his men were capable of. At least the Russians aren't in the town proper, the Captain thought. Their battalions were laagered around the town proper, and only the Regimental HQ and command group was in the town itself. But the signs were there that the Russians were refitting and rebuilding, for tank transporters with early-model T-72 tanks, BTR-60PB APCs, and other specialist vehicles had been coming in on a regular basis.

The Captain got up from his desk and left the City Hall to get a breath of fresh air. A propaganda banner just put up by the PSD people earlier that morning had just been defaced, and the Captain was wondering why it had taken the culprits that long to do it. He saw the Stasi officer arguing with a couple of Soviets if they had seen anything, when there was shouting, and soliders on rooftops pointing to the south. The Captain had been under air attack before, and knew what was coming. “AIR ALARM!”


Guru rolled in on his attack run and made his call, “Lead's in hot!” He came down onto the town, and as the defenders began shooting, he picked out his target. There were several laagers around the town, and he picked out one south of the town proper, at the F.M. 927/F.M. 2580 intersection. As 512 went down, Guru saw they were tanks, and he grinned beneath his oxygen mask. Okay, Ivan.....you're about to have a bad afternoon. Guru saw tracers start to come up, and even a MANPADS-probably an SA-7 or SA-14, but he ignored it as he came in on the bomb run. He centered a half-dozen tanks in his pipper, and selected them. “Steady.....Steady....And.....HACK!” Guru hit the pickle button, sending his dozen Mark-82 Snakeyes down on the tanks below. He then pulled wings level, applied power, and then pulled up and away, jinking as he did so. Only when clear of the town and its defenders did the CO make the call, “Lead's off target.”

“What the...” the Captain said as Guru's F-4 went on its run. His men were running to their air-defense posts, and several of the ZPU guns on rooftops were already firing. The Captain saw the bombs come off the F-4, then the aircraft flew right over the town as it headed to the north. More tracers, and even a shoulder-fired missile followed the aircraft, but to no avail. Then the sound of explosions came, and two oily fireballs. Something had been hit....


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

“How big?” Guru wanted to know as he jinked left, then right, then left again. As he did, a couple of missiles-small ones and thus MANPADS, flew past him on the right.

“Big enough,” said Goalie. “Were those tanks we dropped on?”

“They were,”

“Then scratch two.”

Then it was Kara's turn in 520. “Two's in!” She rolled in on her bomb run, and saw the CO make his. Kara saw the fireballs, and as she came down, also saw the tanks. Can't have Guru have all the fun, she said to herself as she, too, selected the armor. A couple of tank transporters with tanks on the trailers attracted her attention, and she lined them up in her pipper. Your turn, she said to herself as 520 approached the release point, with flak coming up. “Steady...And...And....NOW!” Kara hit her pickle button, and her dozen Mark-82s came off the racks. She, too, pulled up and away, and began jinking to avoid ground fire and missiles. Kara cleared the town, and called, “Two off target.'

“Gott in...” The Captain muttered to himself as a second F-4 came in and dropped near where the first one had done so. As the F-4 pulled away, he could see townspeople clapping and waving as the Fascist aircraft flew by. Explosions sounded to the south, and the Captain turned in that direction. He saw three more oily clouds of smoke coming up, and knew something had been hit. He ran to City Hall, and as he got in, heard more shouting. The Captain turned to the south, and saw another aircraft coming in.

“GOOD HITS!” Brainiac shouted from 520's back seat. “And you've got secondaries!”

“Good,” replied Kara as she pulled away. “How many?”

“Two or three, and they're good ones!”

Kara grinned beneath her oxygen mask as a missile flew past on her left side. She jinked right, then left again to pick up the CO. “Good enough,” she said, then she came up alongside the CO's bird.


“Three's in!” Sweaty called as she came in on her run. She watched as Kara pulled up and away, and the bombs going off on whatever she and the CO had hit. As Sweaty came in, she picked out another laager to hit, this one northwest of the town. As she got closer, she picked out camo netting concealing vehicles, and those were good targets, she knew. Tanks or APCs? No matter, Ivan....Sweaty, too, had flak coming up, and she ignored it as she concentrated on her bomb run. Nothing heavy, she saw, and no radar-guided flak or missiles. That's good, she thought as she selected several vehicles and lined them up in her pipper. “Steady....And....Steady.....HACK!” Sweaty hit her pickle button, and released her dozen Mark-82s onto the Russians below. She then pulled up and away, and as she did so, began jinking to avoid flak or missiles. “Three's off safe,” Sweaty called as she cleared the target area.

“Schisse!” The Captain said as he saw Sweaty's F-4 make its run. He saw the bombs come off the aircraft, then he ran inside and climbed two stories to the roof. When he got there, he found several of his men with Strela-2 (SA-7) shoulder-fired missiles, along with a ZPU-2 gun, trying to track the aircraft. The gun then began firing, but the gunners failed to give sufficient lead, and the tracers fell behind the aircraft. A soldier fired a missile, but the missile failed to guide, and on a nearby roof, another soldier tried to fire, only to have the missile explode in the launcher, killing the man and causing other casualties. The Captain cursed as the F-4 cleared the area, leaving several clouds of smoke and flame in its wake. Then the ZPU gunners turned their weapon back south. Another F-4 was coming in....

“BULLSEYE!” Preacher called from Sweaty's back seat. “Good hits, and we've got secondaries.”

“How many and how good?” Sweaty asked as she jinked to avoid flak.

“Got a few, and they're good enough.”

“Works for me,” Sweaty replied as she jinked left, then right, then left again, before picking up the CO's and Kara's smoke trails.


“Four's in!” Hoser called as he came in on his run. As with the others, there was flak coming up, and he ignored it as he came down on the target area. Hoser saw where Sweaty had made her run, and knew from photos there was a laager to the east of the town, and he spotted it. He adjusted his run, and as Hoser came in, he picked out vehicles-some in the open, some in revetments, and camo netting that was concealing others. No matter, Ivan....Hoser picked out a cluster of what looked like APCs, A couple of shoulder-fired missiles came up his way, but they failed to track. Nice try, Ivan....Hoser lined up some APCs in his pipper and waited. “And....And....And....HACK!” He hit his pickle button, and sent his dozen Mark-82s onto the Russians below. Hoser then pulled up and away, jinking all the way to give the gunners and missile operators down below a hard time. “Four's off safe,” he called.


The East German Captain muttered a few curses as he watched Hoser's F-4 on its run. He saw the bombs come off, and the explosions that followed as the F-4 cleared the area. Several APCs were tossed like toys, he saw, though several soldiers there also fired missiles at the departing aircraft. Only one missile seemed to track, but it burned out and fell away, much to the Captain's disgust. He turned back to the south, and saw another F-4 coming in. How many were there?


“GOOD HITS!” KT called as Hoser's F-4 cleared the area.

“Secondaries?” Hoser wanted to know. He was busy jinking, and for good reason, for a missile had flown past the F-4 by about a hundred feet above his canopy.

“A few,” KT replied.

“Have to take 'em,” Hoser said as he picked up his element lead's smoke trail, then her aircraft.


“Five in hot!” Dave Golen called as he came in to make his run. He noticed that no one had yet hit a laager to the east of the State Route 144/F.M.927 intersection, and Golen decided to strike that. He recalled the photos in the brief, and there were artillery pieces there, so he decided to pay the Soviet artillerymen a visit. As he got closer, he spotted some guns and prime movers under the netting, and selected those as his target. “Not a good day, Ivan” he muttered aloud as he lined them up in his pipper. Golen, too, ignored the flak coming-and at least two shoulder-fired missiles fired head-on, but they failed to track. “And....And....Steady...And...NOW!” Golen hit his pickle button, releasing his dozen Mark-82s onto the Soviet artillerymen below. He then pulled up and away, jinking all the while to avoid flak and missiles as he did so. “Five's off safe,” he called.


“This can't be...” The Captain heard a voice say, and he saw his own Political Officer beside him. He ignored the man for the moment, and heard an explosion on the street below. The Captain went to the edge of the roof and looked down below. A solider had tried to fire another Strela-3 missile, only to have another round explode in the launcher. The Captain shook his head, and as he turned to look around, the ZPU gunner cranked his weapon back to the south. Another Fascist F-4 was coming in....


“SHACK!” Terry McAuliffe, Golen's GIB, called. “Multiple secondaries!”

“How many?” Golen asked as he, too, had a missile fly by, this time to the right. He then jinked to the left, then to the right again.

“Enough!”

“They'll do,” Golen replied as he picked up Sweaty and Hoser.


“Six in hot!” Flossy called. She brought 1569 down on its bomb run, and as she did, the defenders kept up the shooting. She ignored the flak coming up, and settled in on a field to the south of the town, near where several smoke clouds were rising. As Flossy came in, she spotted vehicles, some moving, while others were stationary, and she selected what looked to be several APCs in a horseshoe-shaped group. Your turn to die, she thought as she came down, and the APCs grew larger in her pipper. “Steady....And...Steady.....HACK!” Flossy hit her pickle button, sending her Mark-82s onto the Russians. She pulled up and away, and was jinking as she did so, to throw off the aim of the flak gunners and the missile operators. When she cleared the target, Flossy made the call, “Six off target.”

The Captain was watching, dumbfounded, as Flossy's F-4 made its run. He shook his head, and wondered who had fucked up, allowing so many Fascist aircraft to make their attacks and get away. Where were the MiGs, he wondered. The Captain turned to his Political Officer, who was standing next to a Strela-3 operator when the launcher suddenly exploded in the tube. Both the soldier and the Political Officer were killed in the blast, and the others on the roof were showered with bits of flesh and blood. This has not been a good day, the Captain mused. Even if the Fascists have done me a favor and gotten my Political Officer out of the way. Then his training took over, and he shouted down to the streeet below, summoning medical orderlies to the roof. While waiting for the medics to arrive, the Captain wondered what was coming next, as two more F-4s flew over the town, not bothering to attack anything. A reconnaissance flight?


“GOOD HITS!” Jang shouted from 1569's back seat.

“How good?” Flossy asked as she dodged a missile, again a shoulder-fired one, and jinked back to the right, then to the left.

“Good enough,” was Jang's reply.

“Have to take it,” Flossy said as she picked up her element lead and joined up on him.


“Six in, six out,” Guru said. “And we still got a game on,” Guru added as he turned northeast for the Brazos.

“We do,” replied Goalie. “Nothing yet on the EW.”

“One-seven and one-eight, get your asses down and clear,” Guru called the RAF element.

“Roger, Leader,” Flight Lt. Paul Jackson said in One-seven. “Coming out now.”

“Copy,” Guru replied. He checked his EW display. The SEARCH warning light was on, and the strobe that was likely the Mainstay was still there. Then another strobe came on, this one to the east, followed by the A-A (Air-to-Air) warning light. “Got a MiG radar. Crystal Palace, Mustang Lead. Say bandits?”

“Mustang Lead, Crystal Palace,” a controller replied. “Bandits bearing Zero-eight-five for fifty. Medium, closing. Bandits are Floggers. Repeat: Bandits are Floggers.” That meant MiG-23s.

“Roger, Crystal Palace,” Guru replied. He got down lower, for after pullup, he had gotten back down low, to 550 Feet AGL. Now he got down lower, to 450 Feet. “Two, you with me?”

“Right with you, Boss,” Kara called.

Guru glanced to his Five, and saw 520 right with him in Combat Spread. “Got eyeballs,” he replied. “Sweaty?”

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

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

“Seven and eight with you,” Jackson said.

“Mustang, Crystal Palace,” the AWACS came back. “Threat bearing Zero-eight-one for forty. Medium, going away.”

Guru checked his EW display. The strobe that signaled the MiG-23s had gone off, and so had the warning light. “Roger that.”

“Libyans, maybe?” Goalie ventured. After the drubbing they got earlier in the day.....

“Maybe,” Guru replied as the Brazos River appeared ahead of them. They were five miles south of the Glen Rose Bridge. He led the flight across the river, then to the Nicaraguan side, before turning north. “Wouldn't surprise me at all.”

“Glen Rose ahead,” Goalie advised. Sure enough, the Glen Rose Bridge appeared, and the East German gunners, as usual, opened fire. The strike flight blew past as they headed out. “Forty-five seconds to Granbury, with one minute forty-five to the Fence.” That meant the I-20.

“Copy,” Guru acknowledged. He glanced at his EW display. The Mainstay's radar still was showing. He shook his head, then concentrated on the task at hand. Now, they weren't flying for Uncle Sam, but for themselves. It didn't take long to reach Granbury, and again, the East Germans were shooting, but the Nicaraguan gunners stayed quiet. “That's Granbury.”

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

“Copy.” Guru said. He checked the EW display, and the Mainstay's radar still showed. Guru frowned, then kept going north. The twin ribbons of I-20 soon appeared, and Guru knew the Army air-defense pukes at the I-20 bridge had a habit of shooting first and asking later. “Flight, lead. Verify IFF is on, out.” He turned on his IFF transponder, but he knew that hadn't deterred the I-HAWK clowns from shooting in the past. This time, they flew past the bridges, and climbed to altitude. As the flight did, the Mainstay's radar signal went off, along with the warning light. “No more Mainstay.”

“For now,” Goalie spat. She, like the others, wanted the offenders taken out.


The flight climbed out, then headed for the tanker track. After meeting the tankers, and noting the F-15 and F-16 CAPs, the post-strike refueling went off without a hitch, then it was back to Sheppard. When Mustang Flight arrived, they were third in line, behind a 335th flight and a Marine four-ship of F-4s. After landing, they taxied in, and this time, to the disappointment of the ground crews and the news media, no one held up fingers to signal MiG kills. The flight then taxied in to their dispersal area, and found their revetments. After Guru taxied 512 into its revetment, and got the “Shut down” signal from his Crew Chief, only then did he take a deep breath and relax for a moment. Then he and Goalie went through the post-flight checklist, while the ground crew put the chocks around the wheels, and prepped the crew ladder.

“Three and done,” Guru said after popping the canopy and standing up in the cockpit to stretch.

“Normally, I'm the one saying that,” Goalie quipped.

“Not a normal day,” Guru said as he got down from the cockpit.

Goalie followed, and Sergeant Crowley, the CC, was waiting. “Major, Lieutenant? How'd my bird do?” Crew Chiefs never forgot that they “owned” the aircraft, and that the crew merely “borrowed” it. He handed the CO and GIB each a bottle of water.

“Made some tanks go away,” Guru said, downing half the bottle.

“As in up and in pieces,” Goalie added. She, too, drained most of her bottle.

Hearing that, Crowley was pleased. “How's my bird, sir?”

“No problems or issues,” Guru said. “And no battle damage, either. Get her turned around, Sergeant, because there's time for one more strike.”

“You got it, Major!” Crowley said. “Okay, you guys. Get the CO's bird ready for the next one.” And the ground crew went to work with a will.

Guru and Goalie walked to the entrance of their revetment, and found Kara and Brainiac waiting already. “How'd things go?” Guru asked his wingmate.

“Made some tanks go away, and so did you,” Kara said.

“At least there wasn't that much flak,” Brainiac added.

Sweaty and her element came up. She had caught Brainiac's remarks. “For which we should be grateful. Did we shoot up those guys enough that they don't have their air-defense assets?”

“Good question,” Guru said as Dave Golen, Flossy, and their GIBs came up. “Dave, how'd things go with you guys?”

“Put the heat on their artillerymen,” Golen replied. “And Flossy made some APCs go up.”

“Came back down in pieces,” Flossy added. “So, Boss, what's next?”

Guru nodded. “Take care of the debrief, check your desks, because the elves never take care of the paperwork while we're out, and find a half-hour or so to spend in the fitness center.”

“Doc checking off names again?” KT asked. “He was doing that yesterday.”

“Wouldn't surprise me at all,” Sweaty said. “He that bored?”

“Just like our sawbones,” Dave Gledhill said as he and his people came up. “So, what's next?”

“Dave,” Guru said, shaking the RAF leader's hand. “Debrief, check your desks, get some fitness center time, then we've got enough daylight for one more strike.”

“Ever do night ops?” Gledhill asked, “Just asking out of curiosity.”

Guru nodded. “Rarely, but we've done a few. Last time? Denver siege perimeter, back in April.”

“Even then,” Goalie added. “We flew behind some F-111s, and they told us 'Drop on our call'. We did, and that was it. One mission for each flight, and did it for three straight nights. Never did tell us what we were supposed to do other than 'interdiction.'”

“If it helped the folks in Denver, it was worth it,” Sweaty said.

“It did and it was,” Guru said firmly. Then a pair of Dodge Crew-cab pickups pulled up, and Chief Ross and Buddy got out of the lead truck. “Chief,” Guru nodded.

“Major, Captain Licon sent me to get you all. He wants you in for a debrief,” said the Chief.

“Then let's go and get it over with,” the CO said. “Because in an hour and a half, we're back at it.”