[Matt Wiser]

And going after the SS-23s...



Over Central Texas: 1320 Hours Central War Time:


Rambler Flight was headed south, having cleared the FLOT south of the I-20 and was now in enemy territory, south of Lake Comfort. They had met up with their tankers, and after topping up their tanks, had joined up with the promised F-4Gs. One of the Weasels had four HARM missiles, while the wingman had two HARMs and two Standard-ARMs, and both had CBUs on centerline. Seeing that made the strike crews wonder if the Weasels' intelligence people knew something that Sin Licon, the 335th's Intel, didn't. Guru made a mental note to ask Sin just that when they got back from the strike. But now, it was all business as the strike flight headed on south.

In the cockpits, the pilots concentrated on their instruments, then picked up their visual scanning. The GIBs, meanwhile, were busy with navigation, and in the Es, that meant the ARN-101 and INS, but also doing it the old-fashioned way with stopwatch, map, and compass. Not to mention checking the EW displays.

Major Wiser in 512 was concentrating on flying, when he glanced over to his EW display. Sure enough, there was a strobe there, and the SEARCH indicator was on. “Got a search radar again.”

“Mainstay?” Goalie asked. “Two minutes to Proctor Lake.”

“Copy that, and I think so,” replied Guru. “Either the Navy didn't get the Mainstay, or Ivan put an alert bird up.”

“Well, fuck that,” Goalie said.

Guru was in agreement. “Yeah. “Crystal Palace, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler Lead, Crystal Palace,” an AWACS controller replied. “First threat bearing One-five-five for fifty. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing One-seven-zero for sixty. Medium, going away. Third threat bearing One-eight-five for seventy. Medium, closing. Fourth threat bearing Two-five-zero for seventy. Medium, closing.”

Four groups of bandits? Ivan was up this afternoon. Especially if they'd lost a Mainstay... “Roger, Yukon. Say Bogey dope.”

“Rambler, first threats are Blue Bandits,” the controller replied. That meant MiG-21s. “Second and third threats are Floggers, and final threats are Fulcrums.” Which meant both MiG-23s and MiG-29s were out.

“Copy that, Yukon,” replied Guru.

“One minute to Proctor Lake,” Goalie said. She checked her own display. “Just the search radar.”

“So far,” Guru reminded her.

“Thirty seconds to the lake.”

It wasn't long until Proctor Lake appeared, and the strike flight thundered over the lake. Again, there were locals fishing to supplement the rations issued by the occupiers, and Soviet soldiers hoping for some fresh fish to add to their own food. The locals grinned, shook hands, and some even waved at the aircraft, while the Russians were shaking their heads. If American aircraft were coming over with impunity, that meant the Party line their Political Officers were feeding them wasn't exactly true.

“That's the lake,” said Guru. “Time to Route 36?”

“Thirty seconds,” was Goalie's reply. She added after taking a look at her EW display. “Still that search radar.”

“Maybe the Squids didn't nail that Mainstay after all.”

“Or they got another one up,” Goalie said. “Route 36 dead ahead.”

“Got it, and no traffic,” Guru replied. “Time to next turn?” That was the town of Center City.

“Twenty-five miles. One minute thirty-five.”

“Roger that.”


As the strike flight kept going south, more radars came up on the EW displays, and these were air-to-air. “Crystal Palace, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler Lead, Crystal Palace. First threat bearing One-five-zero for forty. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing One-seven-five for fifty-five Medium, going away. Third threat bearing One-eight-zero for sixty. Medium, closing. Fourth threat bearing Two-four-five for sixty. Medium, going away. Bogey dope same as before.”

“Roger, Crystal Palace.” Guru replied.

Goalie took a look at her display. “That Mainstay might have us.”

“Then let's not make it easy for him,” Guru said firmly. “Flight, Lead. Music on, now.” He turned on his ALQ-119 ECM pod.

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

“One minute to turn,” Goalie called.

“Copy that,” Guru replied, maintaining his visual scanning. The strike birds were going in with their radars off, depending on the AWACS to give warning. It wasn't foolproof by any means, but it also meant one less EW signature for Ivan to pick up.

“Guru, Sweaty,” his second element lead called. “Got a prison compound dead ahead.”

“Then let's waggle our wings,” Guru replied, and he did just that. The others in the flight did so as they overflew the compound.

“Keep the faith, people,” Goalie muttered as 512 flew over the compound. “Your time's coming.”


At the camp, which was officially called Camp D-17, the inmates were going through their daily routine, and that meant hard labor. Most of the inmates had run afoul of the occupiers in the local towns, such as Lampasas, Brownwood, Stephenville, or Hamilton, but some had been brought in from cities like Waco, Temple, or Austin. Some of the latter from Austin had been working for the Quisling Government, only to be suddenly declared an Enemy of the People, and wound up in the camp. To the other prisoners, not only was it amusing, but it also showed the bad guys were having their own disagreements.

The prisoners were both male and female, and the Russian guards made no difference between genders when it came to physical abuse-though the women were often subject to casual rape by the guards. They had no real idea of what was going on in the war, with someone from the Quislings coming by once in a while to deliver a propaganda “lecture”, with the usual boasts of the “Final Victory of Socialism” and the bragging that the Soviet-bloc air forces and air defense controlled the skies in this part of Texas. Though aircraft had overflown the camp before, that had been at night, while in daylight, aircraft had been seen at a distance, with no idea whose they were.

For Leona Caldwell, the past two years had been a hell. She had been fresh out of college, working as a 911 dispatcher for the Hamilton County Sheriff's Department, until the invasion came. Since she had been a county employee, that had been reason enough for her arrest by the KGB, and she and most of the other county civil servants had been tossed into either this camp or another one. Two years of hard labor, beatings, and abuse by guards had worn many down, along with some who had been shot-for any reason or none, and the graveyard outside the wire was proof of that. She had been a cheerleader at Hamilton High, and she was wondering where her parents were, along with her classmates. If I get out of here, she vowed, I'm going to turn the whole state of Texas over to find out.

She glared at a guard, who had a fondness for blondes, as she was, and the Russian growled at her to get back to work-digging a dam just outside the wire. Someone had decided that a nearby creek needed to be dammed up, and the camp inmates were a logical choice to provide the labor. Leona had started to dig when the guards began shouting and pointing to the north. Specks at first, she then saw the specks become aircraft, and as the eight planes-jets of some kind, flew over, they waggled their wings. And that made them American.

“F-4 Phantoms,” the woman next to her muttered.

“How do you know?” Leona asked.

“My husband was ex-Air Force. He was at Carswell in Fort Worth, and they had a Reserve F-4 unit there.”

“And those planes mean they're getting close.”

“It does,” the other woman said.

A guard heard them talking, and prodded them with his rifle butt. Back to work. Still, seeing those planes come over made their day.


“Time to turn?” Guru called.

“Ten seconds,” Goalie said. “Center City ahead.” The little town on U.S. 84 was a speck on the horizon, but getting closer.

“Give me the count.”

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

Guru put 512 into a right turn, turning to a heading of Two-four-zero. Next up was U.S. 183. “Time to 183?”

“Forty-five seconds. One minute ten to the Colorado River,” replied Goalie.

“Copy that,” Guru said. He glanced at his EW display. Though the SEARCH and A/A lights were on, and the strobes signaling the radars were there, so far, so good. Still...The flight was going in at 500 Feet AGL, but a little lower couldn't hurt, so he dropped down to 450 Feet. “There's the road,” he called as U.S. 183 appeared. No traffic on the road this time....”Next up's the river.”

“Roger that. And....Mark. Twenty-five seconds to the river.”

The flight headed on course, and it wasn't long until they found it. A bend in the Colorado. “River coming up.”

“And turn in ten,....Five, four, three, two, one, MARK!” Goalie said.

Guru pulled hard right on the stick, and the big Phantom turned hard, before he settled on his new course of due north. “Mulin next?”

“In forty-five seconds,” Goalie acknowledged. “So far, so good.”

“So far.”

The flight kept heading north, then came up on the little town of Mulin. This town wasn't a collection of ruins, but had come through the initial invasion somewhat intact. With its location on U.S. 84-183, it had a company-sized detachment of Soviet Rear-Area Protection Troops to keep the road open, and these Russians, reservists from Donetsk and the 232nd Rear-Area Protection Division's 797th MRR, had that job. Most of the men were in their late thirties and early forties, unfit for front-line duty, but for rear-area security, they were considered adequate. They were also Eastern Ukrainians, and were trusted more than those in the western part of the UkSSR, especially those former Polish areas annexed after the Great Patriotic War. Their equipment left much to be desired, though, with no heavy weapons other than a mortar section from battalion and some AGS-17 grenade launchers.

The garrison commander, a Captain, wondered what in God's name had gotten him here. He had been wounded back in May, at a place called Ingalls in Oklahoma, and been evacuated south. When passed fit for duty, he had found out that his division-the 46th MRD from Lugansk, had been wiped out somewhere south of Oklahoma City, and thus he was in need of new assignment. A promotion to Captain (he had been a Senior Lieutenant and a deputy platoon commander in the 1215th MRR) gave him a company. When he arrived, though, the new Captain was appalled. Fat, overage, and out-of-shape reservists with no transport other than a few captured American trucks, no heavy weapons, and no air-defense assets other than a few soldiers with Strela shoulder-fired missiles. At least the local population isn't a problem. Here, the locals and their occupiers had a “live and let live” attitude towards each other, and there had been few incidents of underground activity. That didn't mean the Resistance was inactive, but he knew from his battalion commander that the bandits and counterrevolutionaries were simply laying low, biding their time, until the U.S. Army got close. Then things would be....interesting, the Captain knew.

Now, the Captain was coming out of his headquarters, what prewar had been a ranch supply store. He looked around, and saw some civilians milling about and pointing to the southern sky. Then he saw for himself, as eight specks grew larger. Aircraft. He dropped to the ground and looked up as eight F-4 Phantoms flew overhead, and to his disgust, not a shot had been fired at them. The Captain got up and shook off the dust, and noticed the civilians were cheering and shaking hands. Given the shape of the garrison, and the fact that his men were in no shape to put up a serious fight, he knew what would happen when the U.S. Army returned. Images of his men either taking to their heels, surrendering en masse, or being swept aside like so many flies came to him, and he shuddered.


“That was Mullin,” Guru said. “Time to pop-up?”

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie said.

“Set'em up,” Guru replied. “Flight, Lead,” he called on the radio. “Switches on, and stand by to pull.”

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

“Miller One-three, Rambler Lead. Time for you guys to go to work,” Guru called to the Weasel lead.

“Roger that, Rambler,” the Weasel replied. The two F-4Gs climbed up, and all sorts of radars came on. That was followed by “Magnum” calls as HARM and Standard-ARM missiles came off the rails.

Goalie had worked the armament controls in her cockpit. “You're set. All in one pass. Ten seconds to pull. Ready...Ready....and PULL!”

Guru pulled back on the stick, and as 512 climbed, he saw the target at his Eleven O'clock. “That's it.”

“Got it,” Goalie said.

“Flight, Lead. Target's in sight. Time to go to work.”

“All set.”

“Then let's go,” said Guru. He rolled in on the bomb run.


At the missile support facility, the technicians from the Support Battalion, 36th Missile Brigade, were at work. They had made the long retreat from Kansas and Oklahoma, supporting their brigade as it fired its OTR-23 missiles in support of Third Shock Army's rearguard actions. Now, though the Army was resting and refitting, the brigade was not, as it had largely made it to the Army's new positions intact. That meant fire missions, and a new shipment of OTR-23 missiles had arrived from the Rodina, though not as much as they had expected.

The commander of the facility, a Lieutenant Colonel, was actually surprised to have gotten the missiles, for he had heard from the Brigade Commander that the Navy was having trouble in the Atlantic, and not as much was getting across as had been expected. That also meant that needed spares for technical equipment, fuel, and other supplies his brigade needed were likely to run low, but no matter. They had the missiles, and were busy checking them out. At least they're not the chemical or nuclear versions, the Colonel thought. Just the HE and Cluster/FRAG warhead versions (the warheads were not interchangeable from missile to missile), he was glad to see. Once the missiles were checked out, they would be delivered to the firing units, and to preselected supply points, where the launchers would receive new missiles.

The Colonel looked around, and saw his air-defense battery. All he had under his direct command was a six-gun battery of ZU-23s, but Brigade had made arrangements with 10th Guards Tank Division's 248th Guards MRR, and a section of two ZSU-23-4s and two Strela-10 (SA-13) launchers was close by. In addition, Army had a battery of Krug (SA-4) missiles a few kilometers away, and the Colonel felt his battalion was safe. At least the Zampolit is a decent one, he thought. Smart enough to know that Party dogma wasn't going to get these missiles to fly, and the man had taken on the job of morale officer. Passing out letters from home, organizing some sports activities to keep the men occupied in their spare time, and reminding the men that, even though they were back in Texas, next spring, they'd be on the move north again.

Pleased with how things were going, the Colonel turned, intending to go to his headquarters and deal with some paperwork that, no matter what, seemed endless. He had barely taken a step when he saw his AA guns turning south, and specks in the air approaching. Having been bombed before, the Colonel knew what it meant. “AIR ATTACK ALARM!” He shouted, then jumped into a slit trench.


Guru rolled 512 in on its bomb run. “Lead's in hot!” He called. As he went down on the target, he noticed the tracers coming up, but none were too close. They were softball-sized, and that meant 23-mm. As long as they're that, and not those basketballs that the ZSU-30 puts out, he thought, that's good. Guru ignored the flak, and concentrated on the bomb run. He lined up the missile storage field in his pipper, selecting the northern half, as planned. Not today, Ivan.....”Steady....Steady.....HACK!” Guru hit the pickle button, and a dozen CBU-58/B CBUs came off the racks. He pulled up and applied power, jinking as he cleared the target area. Then he called, “Lead's off safe.”


“What the..” the Colonel muttered as he looked up, and saw Guru's F-4 come in. Then the aircraft released its bombs, and the Colonel saw the CBUs open up and shower his missiles with their bomblets. To him, it looked like a thousand firecrackers going off as the bomblets went off, then he ducked as at least one missile warhead went off, sending shrapnel in all directions.


“SHACK!” Goalie called from 512's back seat. “We've got secondaries!”

“How many and how big?” Guru wanted to know. He was still jinking, and watched as a missile-too big to be a shoulder-fired one, flew above and across his plane by about a hundred feet.

“Several, and they're big!”

“Good enough,” the CO replied as he turned northeast. Then he came back north.


“Two's in!” Kara called. She watched the CO's run, and noticed the results. Those CBU-58s were doing the job, as missiles cooked off, but there were several on the south side of the field that hadn't been hit. Time for you to go away, Kara thought as she came in, lining the missiles up in her pipper-and was that a transporter next to one of them? Bonus target, she knew. She ignored the flak as the target gew closer. “And...And......NOW!” Kara hit her pickle, and sent her dozen CBUs down on the missiles. She then pulled up and away, applying power and jinking as she did so. Kara winced as a spray of 23-mm fire flew beneath 520 as she cleared the target area. She exhaled, then made the call. “Two's off target.”


The Colonel heard Kara's run, and the hundreds of small explosions in her F-4's wake. A couple of sympathetic detonations followed, then came a couple more. He winced, and and muttered a few choice obscenities as shrapnel came down into the trench. A scream followed as one of his officers who had taken shelter in the trench with him, was hit by such a piece of shrapnel. The Colonel tried to get to him, but then froze. The AA guns were still firing. And that meant more aircraft incoming.


“GOOD HITS!” Brainiac shouted from 520's back seat. “We got the missile storage!”

“How many?” Kara replied. She, too, had a missile fly near her aircraft, and banked to avoid it.

“Enough!”

“Ivan's bad day,” said Kara as she jinked a couple more times, then picked up the CO's bird and began to follow.


“Three's in hot!” Sweaty called. She saw Kara's run, the CBUs going off, and the secondaries that followed. Her target was the ranch buildings, which the Russians were using for an HQ, officer quarters, and general storage. She lined up the ranch house, knowing that was the HQ, and like the others, ignored the flak coming up. The ranch house grew larger in her pipper as she got closer...”Steady....And...Steady.....NOW!” Sweaty hit the pickle button, releasing her dozen Mark-82 Snakeyes. Then she pulled up and away, applying power and jinking to avoid the flak and any possible MANPADS. “Three's off safe,” she called after clearing the target.


“Sookin sin!” Yelled the Colonel as Sweaty's F-4 came in. He saw the aircraft release its bombs, and he ducked back into the trench. The Colonel heard the bombs going off, and the rumble of the F-4 as it pulled away, then he took a look out of the trench. He looked around, and saw the ranch buildings had all been hit, with the ranch house blasted apart, along with a barn they had been using for enlisted quarters, and a couple of trucks and UAZ jeeps tossed aside like toys. Shaking his head, the Colonel was wondering how he'd report this when someone-who he didn't know-pulled him back into the trench.


“Righteous!” Preacher called from Sweaty's back seat. “You got the buildings!”

“Secondaries?” Sweaty asked as she jinked left, then right, avoiding some 23-mm flak coming up. This time, there was no missile to worry about.

“A couple. The man upstairs will be happy with that,” the ex-Seminary student turned WSO said.

“So will I,” Sweaty replied. She spotted Kara's bird, and turned to follow.


“Four's in!” Hoser called. He saw what the others had done, and the target area was full of smoke and flame. Even so, he saw that the vehicle park was still clear, and as Hoser came down on the target, the trucks and missile transporters became visible. Your turn now, Ivan....Hoser lined up several large vehicles that appeared to be missile transporter and reload vehicles, and selected them. He ignored the flak coming up, and even a SA-7 type missile that came head-on, but failed to guide for that reason. “And....And....Steady....And....HACK!” He hit his pickle button, sending his twelve Mark-82 Snakeyes down on the vehicle park. Hoser pulled wings level, then up and away, jinking as he did so to throw off the aim of the flak gunners and any missile shooters. “Four's off safe,” he called after clearing the target.


“Mother of...” the Colonel muttered as Hoser's F-4 came down on its run. Again, he heard the bombs going off, and this time, he knew what had been hit. After the last bomb exploded, the Colonel got up, and saw his vehicle park and motor pool area filled with wrecked and burning missile transporters, trucks, and other vehicles. Shaking his head, the Colonel turned and found his deputy, and his Zampolit. The former had gottten into the same trench as the Colonel, but the Captain who was the Zampolit found a different one-namely, a latrine trench, and was smelling like one. The Colonel asked his deputy. “The headquarters?”

“Blown to matchwood, Comrade Commander,” the Major replied. He, too, couldn't believe the destruction that had been visited on the battalion.

“All right: find a vehicle with a working radio, and report this to Brigade,” the Colonel said. He turned to his Political Officer. “Save what we can, and get first aid parties to the wounded.”

Both nodded. “Yes, Comrade Commander,” the deputy said.


“SHACK!” KT called from the back seat. “Multiple secondaries!”

“Define multiple,” Hoser said as he avoided some tracer fire, then jinked back before getting on course north.

“At least one hand multiple.”

“I'll take that.”


“Four in and out,” Goalie said in 512's back seat.

“Not quite,” Guru replied. “Rambler One-five and One-six, get your asses down and away.”

“Roger, Leader,” Jackson in One-five replied, and he and Napier in One-six dropped from their TARCAP orbit and followed the strike birds out.

“Miller, Rambler. Strike birds on their way out.”

“Roger that,” the Weasel leader called. “SA-4 up, and MAGNUM!” He sent his last missile-a HARM-after the SA-4 radar, killing it. “Weasels now Winchester,” Miller One-three called. “We're coming out.” The two F-4Gs dropped down and followed the strike flight, living up to the Weasel motto of “First in, last out.”


“How far to the fence?” Guru asked as he headed north.

“Forty miles,” Goalie replied. “Two and a half minutes,” she added.

“Copy that,” Guru said. “Two, you on me?”

“Right with you, Boss,” Kara replied.

“Roger that, and got eyeballs on you,” Guru said. “Sweaty?”

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

“One-five and One-six have visual on Sweaty,” Jackson added.

Guru nodded to himself. They were now flying for themselves. “Crystal Palace, Rambler Lead. Say bandits?” Forget threats this time, he thought as he called the AWACS.

“Rambler, Crystal Palace. Bandits bearing One-six-zero for fifty. Medium, closing. Second bandits bearing One-eight-five for sixty-two. Medium, going away. Third bandits bearing Two-three-zero for sixty-five. Medium, closing,” the AWACS controller called.

“Rambler Lead copies,” Guru said. He dropped back down to 450 feet AGL. A quick glance at the EW display still had that damned SEARCH radar and strobe up. And one other strobe with a “21” next to it and the A-A light on. That meant MiG-21s. And that strobe matched the first group of bandits. “Blue Bandits out there,” Guru called to Goalie, giving the old Vietnam-era code for MiG-21s.

“Floggers and Fulcrums there, I'd bet,” Goalie added.

“Crystal Palace, Rambler Lead. Any Floggers or Fulcrums?” Guru asked the AWACS.

“Rambler Lead, Crystal Palace. That'a affirm. Bandits now bearing One-eight-eight for fifty are Floggers. Medium, closing. Bandits now bearing Two-four-zero for fifty-five are Fulcrums.”

“One minute thirty to the Fence,” Goalie said.

“Crystal Palace, Rambler,” Guru said. “Could you get a reception committee on the bandits.”

“Better than that, Rambler.” The controller grinned to himself. Two F-14s had just checked in. “Lightning One-zero-four, Crystal Palace. Multiple bandits inbound on a strike flight. Can you take?”

“Affirmative,” the Tomcat leader replied. “Can take.”

“Roger, Lightning. Bandits bearing One-seven-zero for fifty. Kill. Repeat: KILL. Clear to arm and fire.”


“Lead, Starbuck,” Kara called Guru. “Bandits getting close.”

“Pick up your visual scanning,” Guru replied. “If they get to twenty miles, we turn on 'em.”

“One minute to the fence,” Goalie chimed in. “Seventeen miles.”

Then they heard the call. “Lightning One-zero-four, FOX THREE!” Then another. “FOX THREE AGAIN!” Two AIM-54C Phoenix missiles were now in the air.

“Lightning One-zero-six, Double FOX THREE!” A second Tomcat had shot two more Phoenix missiles.

Goalie then called, “Thirty seconds.”

“SPLASH!” One-zero-four called. “SPLASH TWO!”

A quick glance at the EW display told Guru that the A-A strobe had weakened considerably. Then it went out, and the A-A light went off. “Got two.”

“SPLASH!” One-zero-six added. “SPLASH ONE!”

“Roger, Lightning. Return to station,” Crystal Palace called. “Floggers and Fulcrums turning away.”

“Fence coming up....Should have visual....NOW!” Goalie said in 512.

The twin ribbons of Interstate 20 appeared, and the flight cleared the FLOT and got back into friendly territory. But the danger wasn't over....”Flight, Lead. Verify IFF is on, out,” Guru called, turning on his IFF as he did so. Whose side were those Army HAWK pukes on, he wondered.

After clearing the FLOT, the flight climbed to altitude, and headed to the tankers. After drinking enough fuel to get home, the Weasels headed for Reese, while Rambler went for Sheppard. When they got there, there were two other inbound flights-one Marine and one Navy, ahead of them, along with the eastbound C-141. When it was their turn, Rambler came in and landed. As they taxied in, canopies up, no fingers came up to show MiG kills, and those watching, whether USAF or RAF, were disappointed. But the crews noticed not just the C-141, but a C-130 had also arrived just before, and it was still on the transient ramp, engines just shutting down.

The flight taxied to their dispersal area, and the respective pilots found their revetments. Guru taxied 512 into its revetment, and after getting the “Halt,” and then, “Shut down,” signals from his Crew Chief, he took a big sigh of relief. “Now we can say we're done.”

“Still got one more,” Goalie reminded him. Then they went through the post-flight checklist. While pilot and GIB were busy with that, the ground crew did the chocks around the wheels, and lowered the stepladder.

“After the debrief?” Guru asked. “We need a workout.”

“Now you're talking. Just as long as Kara doesn't slug anybody staring at her in a sports bra.”

“Need to remind her about that,” Guru joked as he climbed down from the aircraft. Goalie followed, then both did the post-flgiht walk-around. Then Sergeant Crowley, the Crew Chief, came with two bottles of water for both pilot and GIB. “Thanks, Sarge.”

“Major, how'd it go out there?” Crowley asked. “And how's my bird?”

“Made some missile support guys-and their missiles-go up,” Guru said.

“In tiny pieces,” Goalie added as she drank from a bottle.

“And Five-twelve's working like a champ,” Guru told his CC. “Got time for one more strike.”

“She'll be ready, sir,” Crowley said. “All right, people! Finish the post-flight, then get the CO's mount ready for one more.”

Guru and Goalie then headed for the revetment entrance, and found Kara and Brainiac, along with Dave Gledhill and his people, already there. “Well, did you make some missiles go away?” Guru asked Kara.

“That we did, and so did you,” Kara grinned. “Those SS-23s won't bother anybody.”

“Except the Russians who have to clean up that mess,” joked Brainiac.

Guru nodded. “Dave? You guys can't get the MiGs every time,” the CO said.

“Can't have them all, and we know it,” Gledhill said. “Those were F-14s we heard, right?”

“They were.”

Susan Napier grinned. “Glad to know they're around. Just like old times.”

“That it is,” Razor Wilkinson, her GIB, added.

Sweaty, Hoser, along with Preacher and KT came up. “Boss, good one. You and Kara took care of the missiles,” Sweaty nodded.

“How'd you guys do?” Guru asked his second element lead.

“No more HQ and support buildings,” Preacher said.

Hoser added. “Or vehicle park. Those missile transporters won't be hauling any missiles-again.”

“They sure won't,” KT said.

Guru nodded. “Okay, let's get debriefed, then if you don't have any paperwork, get on over to the fitness tent. Doc's still on my ass about people not getting their workouts in. You may not have time for a full one, but at least get some treadmill time.”

“That we do,” Kara said.

The RAF people nodded. Their own Flight Surgeon had been nagging them about the same thing on Bermuda. “And then?” Gledhill asked.

“We got time for one more strike,” Guru said. “Come on. Let's get the debrief done, then hit the treadmills.”