Semi-OT: Red Dawn fan fic

[Matt Wiser]

The F-8 Crusader's service in the Red Dawn timeline:


F-8 Crusader in World War III


The LTV F-8 Crusader had been largely retired from U.S. Navy service, and completely retired from USMC service, at the outbreak of the Third World War. However, RF-8G Photo-reconnaissance versions were still in U.S. Navy Reserve service with Squadrons VFP-206 and VFP-306 when hostilities began, and stored fighter versions were brought out of desert storage and issued to newly established U.S. Navy squadrons for both carrier deployments and for service from land bases. In addition, French Navy F-8E(FN) Crusaders saw service enforcing French neutrality rights at sea, and saw limited combat when NATO reformed in 1988-89 against Soviet forces. The Philippine Air Force's Crusaders had been largely in storage when the war began, and after the Marcos regime secured the continued presence of the USAF's 3rd TFW at Clark AB to defend against Soviet attacks staged via Cam Ranh Bay, the PAF's Crusaders were returned to the U.S. This work will only mention those Crusader variants that saw active service during the war.

F-8H: Rebuilt F-8D version with strengthened airframe and landing gear. In storage at war's outbreak, some returned to service for training with USN Squadron VF-121 det C (for Crusader), most used for parts, including returned Philippine AF aircraft.

F-8J: Improved E version with “wet” wings and BLC (Boundary Layer Control) similar to F-8E(FN), J-57P-20A engine, and improved radar. Carrier service off of U.S.S. Oriskany (CV-34) (VF-191 and -194) and U.S.S. Bon Homme Richard (CV-31) (VF-53 and -162). VF-191 and -194 became F-14D squadrons postwar, while VF-53 and 162 transitioned to the F/A-18.

F-8K:Upgraded F-8C with J-57P-20A and Bullpup AGM capability. Land-based service with USN only.

F-8L: Upgraded B with underwing hardpoints. Used for training only.

F-8E(FN): French Navy version for operations from carriers Foch and Clemenceau. Replaced 1999 by Rafale M.

RF-8G: Upgraded RF-8A photo-reconnaissance aircraft. Used by VFP-206 and VFP-306 from both carriers and land bases. A VFP-306 aircraft had the distinction of being the last USN aircraft shot down over the Brownsville Pocket in 1989. Replaced by RF-18A in USN service postwar.

[Matt Wiser]

Just letting folks know that the next story arc will begin to be posted shortly. Am taking a little bit of a break in posts at the moment due to Mom having passed away on Friday afternoon. Am busy writing, though, as it's therapy.

[Olefin]

My most sincere condolences on your loss Matt.

[swaghauler]

I'm so sorry to hear about your loss Matt. I hope you're doing ok man. I'm glad you find comfort in writing, I thoroughly enjoy your story. In fact, I believe Olefin SHOULD include it in the Fanzine.

[Olefin]

Originally Posted by swaghauler

I'm so sorry to hear about your loss Matt. I hope you're doing ok man. I'm glad you find comfort in writing, I thoroughly enjoy your story. In fact, I believe Olefin SHOULD include it in the Fanzine.

actually was thinking about something like that - possibly a couple of the first chapters if Matt wanted that

[Matt Wiser]

That would be fine with me: and if additional stories are put in the fanzine, I'm all for it.

Thanks for the best wishes: am staying busy, and am in the process of doing the next story arc: the RAF's first few days in Texas. Will begin posting when it's finished.

[Matt Wiser]

Olefin: if you want to have a couple of stories in the Fanzine, you have my permission to do so.

[Matt Wiser]

Fellows, the RAF comes to Texas. This first part was written by a friend of mine on the HPCA board. He's the author of The Last War timeline there, if you're familiar with that (Continued Cold War with WW III in 2005).


Coming to Texas: 74 Squadron to the Lone Star State


16 October, 1987. NAS Bermuda, Kindley Field, Bermuda.
Squadron Leader David Gledhill sipped on a cocktail and watched the bikini clad lovelies as he sat on the golden sands of a Bermudan beach. Well actually, no he was sat in the QRA shed drinking tepid, stale instant coffee. The cocktails and bikini clad lovelies were the products of his imagination, although everyone in the rest of the RAF believed that they were part of the normal day for 74 (Tiger) Squadron. He put down his coffee mug and looked around to see if there was anything to read. Gledhill spotted a couple of week old British newspapers, which he had already read a few times and the crosswords in them had been completed. Pre-war there might also have been some ‘adult publications’, however the arrival of female aircrew had seen them disappear to more private locations and in any case with shortages of paper no new ones were being published.

Despairing of anything to read Gledhill picked up a notepad and began to jot down a few thoughts. A couple of years back he had thought that perhaps he might one day write a book about his experiences as a navigator, or perhaps write a novel. When on QRA duty he had often taken the opportunity to record a few stories that he thought that people might want to read one day.

*

Despite preconceptions Bermuda was not a cushy ‘Club Med’ style posting. Until the Liberation of Iceland and the final destruction of the ‘Badger’ force in Cuba, the RAF and latterly USN fighters based at Kindley Field had been kept very busy. Not only had they had to face attack by Soviet bombers, but also the Soviet inspired ‘Bermuda Insurrection’, which had cost 74 Squadron three aircraft and several dead from mortar attacks.
As an island Bermuda had to import most things and in wartime that meant that almost everything was in short supply. There were no cocktails because there was very little alcohol (unless one risked home brew ‘hooch’) and certainly nobody on the beaches – they had been sown with landmines. On top of that hurricane season came around regularly to add to the misery of the servicemen and women cooped up on a relatively small island. That nobody had ‘gone postal’ was something of a minor miracle.

*

Gledhill was just on the point of dozing off when the alert hooter sounded. He was out of his chair and sprinting for his F-4J(UK) before he had time to consciously think about what he was doing. The two Phantoms in the QRA sheds were out and taxiing towards the runway within five minutes; Air Traffic Control held a USN P-3C and ordered an incoming Nimrod to go around.

*

“How did it go, Dave?” Wing Commander Paul Foster, O.C 74 Squadron asked just over an hour later.
“Nothing particularly exciting, Boss.” Gledhill replied. “Just an ancient 707 with wonky nav aids that had caused it to drift out of the Air Bridge Corridor. Think he had a brown trouser moment when we turned up.”
“Well I think I have something that may bring you a bit more excitement.” Foster told him. “As you know we’re going to be going home in the next couple of weeks to re-equip; Group still haven’t told me what with yet, but that’s another conversation. As part of the process we are going to be returning our remaining jets to the Septics.”
“So, I’m guessing I’m going to be leading a ferry flight then?” Gledhill asked.
“Well yes, and no.” Foster said enigmatically. “The ‘Box’ is currently considering sending a couple of squadrons of F-4Es to the Southern Front, a sort of token of solidarity with the Septics. So someone thought it might be a good idea to send a detachment to get some experience first. Some smart cookie spotted that we’d have some aircraft transiting through the area on their way to California and a light-bulb went off.
“You’ll be taking nine Phantoms, a couple of Hercules, a Tristar and a Belfast of all things with you. The ‘Brass Hats’ want our detachment to be as self-sufficient as possible. You’ll be working with either the USAF, or the Marines. I suspect the later because of the commonality between our J models and the Marine S.”

Several questions had been racing through Gledhill’s head and he asked the most important.

“How long is the det for, Boss? Do I get to pick who I take? What’s the weather like in Texas this time of year? Also there are going to be a whole lot of logistics issues to be solved.”
“The initial planning assumes a month to six weeks; the Septic navy is quite keen to get our jets back ASAP, so we don’t want to keep them waiting. Yes, you can choose who you want. I’ve spoken to the Boss of the ‘Red Rippers’, he’s from Lubbock. He tells me it can get pretty cold in November. Since we’re going to be guests of our American cousins we’re going to be bringing our own winter gear; we’ll be drawing on the stocks we have in Halifax. Once your time in Texas is over you’ll take the jets on to San Diego. It hasn’t been decided yet, but some of your det may stay behind and join the E model conversion course. Anybody who isn’t staying will either head back to Blighty, or will probably be posted to Canada.
“A small liaison team is already on its way to join the unit we’ll be flying with. They’ll find out what conditions are like on the ground and give us some last-minute tips.”
“I notice, Boss, you’ve not said where we’ll be flying from other than it’s in Texas.” Gledhill noted.
“Yes, sorry about that, Dave.” Foster said apologetically. “Fact is the Septics have not confirmed exactly where the unit we’ll be joining will be based in November. All we’ve been told is that it is in North Texas.”
“Ah, the Septics and their ‘need to know’.” Gledhill remarked. “And these are the people who give military operations obvious names too.”

The O.C nodded and smiled.

“Yeah, a funny bunch our American cousins.” He said, before turning serious. “However I expect they’ll let you know your final decision when you reach the States; you’ll be going through Dow in Maine, or Otis in Massachusetts. You’ll also meet your Rock Ape team there; Group has arranged for some experienced regiment gunners to be posted in from Canada. There’s a pretty serious Spetsnaz threat in the Southern Front, so make sure your det gets some small arms practice in before you head off.
“We’re being taken off QRA duty as from today, so you’ll have plenty of time to pick who you want to take with you and get the initial planning done. Let me know once you have a plan together; speak to Commander Metcalf if you have any questions about Texas.”
“Will do, Boss, and thanks for picking me for this job. I appreciate it.
“On the small arms issue, I take it we can, ahem, ‘borrow’ additional kit from the garrison?”

Foster nodded.

“Our own Rock Apes will help with brushing up your musketry and I’ve been told you can raid the Bermuda Regiment’s armoury for extra kit. They’re doing b*gger all with it these days.”
“Okay, sounds good.
“I do have one request though, Boss. I really don’t like the radar on the E model and I’ve no desire to start moving mud. Can I put in a request to be posted to either the Wattisham wing, or to the Tonka conversion course when the det is finished?”
“I’ll pass that up to Group, but I suspect you’ll be sent where you’re needed. However if you do a good job with this det I imagine you’ll be able to write your own ticket.”

12 November, 1987. Dow Air Force Base, Bangor, Maine.
“Anything to declare?” The US Customs agent asked. “Any knives, guns, bombs, fruit, vegetables, sandwiches, alcohol, cigarettes, any of that good stuff? “He continued.
“Well I think I may well have the odd gun or two, but I’ve none of the other stuff.” Squadron Leader Gledhill replied, very aware that he had a Sterling SMG in his kit and was wearing a Browning Hi-Power in a shoulder holster.
“Hm, okay.” The Customs agent replied, seemingly disappointed. “I’ll believe you although it’s my ass if you’ve brought in any fruit or vegetables. And I see you’ve completed your visa card; good to see you’re not planning to overthrow the United States Government.”

Gledhill was tempted to make a remark on the lines of ‘well, not on this trip anyway’, but thought better of it. American customs and immigration officials were not known for their sense of humour. Instead he passed through customs and immigration and waited for the commander of the RAF Regiment detachment that was supposed to join Tiger Flight. The experienced group of Gunners was supposed to be flying in from Western Canada.

*

In peacetime Dow Air Force Base had been Bangor International Airport, the only military presence being a wing of Air National Guard KC-135E tankers. Transatlantic airliners often stopped to refuel at Bangor so it had become a common port of entry for those traveling to the United States. Now it was serving in a very similar role for British and Canadian forces transiting to the USA and as in peacetime every non-US citizen had to go through Customs and Immigration, even though they might be servicemen and women.
SAC had also dispersed some of its B-52 force to Dow; several BUFFs were visible dispersed around the base sitting nuclear alert. NORAD assigned fighters from TAC and the RCAF were also frequent visitors.

*

After half an hour Gledhill spotted a group of tough looking individuals in DPM uniforms enter the terminal. They had evidently recently been issued new DPM uniforms by the looks of things, but their dark blue RAF berets and combat boots, none of which were issue Combat Highs, looked like they had seen a lot of service. The ‘Rock Apes’ were also carrying very full looking Bergens and several weapons each in addition to their issue firearm.

“Anything to declare?” The same, rather bored, Customs agent said to Flight Lieutenant John ‘Robin’ Sherwood, the detachment O.C. “Any knives, guns, bombs…”
“I certainly do.” Sherwood said interrupting.

He took out his bayonet and a fighting knife and laid it on the table in front of him. He next unslung what looked like an AR-15 carbine from his right shoulder and put it down.

“This is one of the new Colt Canada C8 carbines.” He said conversationally. “I won it in a card game with a bunch of Canadian Paratroopers; a really nice bit of kit too.”

Sherwood next took out his Browning from its holster and placed it on top of the growing pile. Remembering that he still had his issue Sterling sticking out of his Bergen he took the SMG out.

“Mustn’t forget Old Faithful…and oh yes.” He rummaged around in the pockets and produced a snub-nose Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver. “You’d be surprised what people will include in poker games.
“Now I think that is…no wait a moment, you’ll want to see these…”

Sherwood pulled four hand grenades from his load bearing equipment pouches and put them down on the desk casually as if there were everyday objects.

“Those two are High Explosive and that pair are White Phosphorous; one should never leave home without at least two of each. Don’t you think?”

Gledhill worked hard to stifle a laugh at seeing the pale, white face of the Customs agent. He could not help but notice that the other ‘Rock Apes’ who had reached the other desks were going through the same process of getting out a small arsenal.

“Would you like to see all the ammunition for my guns too?” Sherwood asked innocently.
“Ah…no, that’s fine…ah…err…you’re free to carry on.” The flustered customs man replied.

*

“Flight Lieutenant Sherwood?” Gledhill asked a few minutes later. “I’m Squadron Leader Gledhill, good to meet you.”
“Likewise, Sir.” Sherwood said, taking the navigator’s offered hand.
“Do you always go through Customs like that?”

Sherwood chuckled.

“Well he did ask…you know I think I forgot to mention the banana I brought for my lunch…oh and all the money I won in my last card game. Do you think I should go back, Sir?” He asked with mock concern.
“I…I wouldn’t think that would be a good idea.” Gledhill replied with a chuckle. “Oh, but if you do have a fair amount of cash, Flight Lieutenant I’ll tell you know that anything above a hundred dollars or so will be considered detachment funds.” He added with a wink.

*

An hour later Gledhill had gathered the entirety of Tiger Flight, including its attached RAF Regiment and RAF Police personnel, in a large room that were part of the conference facilities of the former Bangor IAP. Quite who was going to hold a conference at somewhere that was essentially just a staging post was a question that nobody seemed to have bothered to have asked.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” Gledhill said to his flight. “Welcome to America. You have no doubt been in suspense as to where we are going, well our USAF liaison officer has just let me know that we will be going to Sheppard Air Force Base. Where the hell is that, I hear you ask; well it is in the great state of Texas, near somewhere Wichita Falls; no I hadn’t heard of it either. It’s up in the northern part of Texas, near the border with Oklahoma. The closest place we’ll have heard of is Dallas.”

He paused as he heard someone hum the theme from Dallas.

“No, we won’t have the chance to drop in on the Ewings, who I am told are soon to return to Southfork.
“Now to get back to Sheppard, it was home to a major training wing pre-war but it is now home to Marine Air Group 11, which has two fighter squadrons each of Phantoms, VMFA-134 and VMFA-333, and two of Hornets, VMFA-314 and VMFA-451. There is also a U.S. Navy A-7 attack squadron as well, VA-135 with A-7As. We are to be attached to the sole USAF Phantom squadron on base, the 335th Tactical Fighter Squadron. I understand they have been in it since The Day and are regarded as something of a crack unit, so we do have a lot to live up to. Not that I think any of you will let the RAF down. We’ll be staging through Grissom AFB in Indiana, where we’ll be overnighting before carrying on to Sheppard.
“The other side has pretty much every high end Mig and Sukhoi in the Soviet inventory and all their best SAMs. However I’m not going to stand up here and list everything, the briefing pack you have all been given covers all of that in detail. Read it and if you have any questions ask Captain Hagan from the USAF liaison team.
“Now I am going to shut up and let Mr. Watson say a few words. He has been with the advanced party in Sheppard and will fill us in on local conditions.”

Warrant Officer 2 David ‘Doctor’ Watson took to the stage. He had been attached to the advanced party with the eventual intention that he would command the small party of half a dozen RAF Police attached to the RAF Regiment detachment. Watson spoke for a few minutes describing in some details what Sheppard AFB and the surrounding area was like.

“As you will expect the local Texans are some of the most generous and friendly people you will find, but remember to not abuse their hospitality” He continued. “They are like us back in the last war – they’ll give you the shirt off their backs and go hungry to see visitors eat. If you get invited into a local home remember that they’ll be short of food, so don’t eat them out of house and home. It is also polite to ask whether you can bring anything.
“While in general local civilians are friendly remember that this area was occupied and that there are still former collaborators about, however most of them are either dead, fled or in the local slammer shortly to join the first group. However remember no to discuss any operational details with any civilians you might meet when out and about. Also stay away from anywhere that is marked as off-limits, unless you want to be blown to bits by unexploded bombs.
“No Spetsnaz threat has emerged, so far, but it is probably only a matter of time. Everybody at Sheppard takes a gun with them everywhere and I mean everywhere. Which reminds me, the local Resistance have not handed their weapons in, so remember, gentlemen that nice girl who you pick up in a bar will probably have a very angry husband with an AK47.”

Watson paused as a ripple of laughter made its way through the room, especially amongst the women.

“Don’t laugh too hard, girls, any bloke you might chat up will have a wife or girlfriend with a shotgun. So unless you want to get perforated it’s best to politely decline any approaches from civilians. You’ll find out pretty quickly that in general ‘companionship’ down there is fulfilled by fellow military. Nobody expects you to remain celibate for the length of the deployment, but remember to use your head and not some other part of your anatomy.
“Oh, and one last thing, if you’re going to gamble, don’t bet your kit. It doesn’t look good if you lose it that way and it’s a bit rude if you win our hosts’ equipment; that said, the M1911 I now own did once belong to a marine; but do as I say, not as I did.”

16th November 1987. Sheppard AFB, Texas.
If the morning’s weather was anything to go by it was going to be a fine day Major Matt ‘Guru’ Wiser thought as he waited for the latest nine aircraft that would be attached to his squadron to arrive. From what Colonel Brady had told him the detachment would only be with the 335th for a month before it moved on; Wiser’s squadron was to bring the detachment up to speed on all the peculiarities associated with operating on the Southern Front.

“Think I see them, Boss.” Captain Mark Ellis, Wiser’s X.O, said pointing.

Wiser followed his Executive Officer’s outstretched arm and his fighter pilot’s eyes immediately spotted the formation of F-4 Phantoms being trailed by what looked like an L-1011 Tristar. Unlike his F-4Es, which were painted in Vietnam era SEA colours, the new arrivals were painted a two-tone grey colour, similar to the marine fighters, as was the big jet-liner.
As the nine Phantoms broke formation and entered the landing pattern Wiser and Ellis spotted the pale blue and pink roundels on their wings for the first time; as the L-1011 passed overhead the words ROYAL AIR FORCE were clearly visible on the side of the fuselage.

“Wonder how we’ll get on with the Brits, Boss?” Ellis wondered. “Are they as stuffy and uptight as their rep says?”
“I’m sure we’ll get on fine, X.O; from what Colonel Brady has told me the Brits are all experienced aircrew, not an FNG amongst them.
“Will be interesting to see how they deal with Frank though.” Wiser added with a smile.
“Really takes me back, Major, seeing the RAF again.” General Robin Olds remarked. “Had some good times when I was an exchange officer with their No.1 Squadron. Last I heard they are flying Harriers these days; they were operating the Gloster Meteor when I commanded them; nice bird for an early jet.
“Major, I’ll let you and Captain Ellis introduce yourselves first before I say hello. I’m sure our Brit guests might be a bit overwhelmed to meet brass on stepping out of their jets.”

*

“Another nice landing, Snooty.” Squadron Leader David Gledhill, late of 74 (Tiger) Squadron and the RAF detachment commander said to his pilot as their F-4J(UK) came to a halt.
“I aim to please, Boss.” Flight Lieutenant James ‘Snooty’ Bruce replied. “Looks like the Yanks have a welcoming committee for us.
“We’ll have to stop calling them that.” Gledhill said absentmindedly as he put the pins into his ejection seat.

*

Major Wiser had first learned that a detachment of nine RAF fighters would be joining them when Colonel Brady had informed him that a four man British liaison team would be joining him.

“The Brits are returning their Juliet model Phantoms to the navy and since they are also considering sending down a couple of squadrons to work with us they figure it would be a good opportunity for them to gain some experience. The liaison team will bring you up to speed on how the RAF operates; two countries separated by the same language and all of that good stuff; but as I understand from what General Tanner has told me the Brits want to adopt our procedures.
“Anyway I’m sure you will make them very welcome.”

*

Wiser had spent some time studying RAF rank insignia so that he would recognise the British detachment commander, who, he had been told, was a Squadron Leader, which was their idiosyncratic name for a rank equivalent to a major. Why they couldn’t just use proper ranks he did not know, but who was he to argue with the rank structure of the world’s oldest independent air force?
As the first pair of Phantoms parked he could not help but notice the discrete dark grey kill markings under the cockpit. He could just make out the silhouettes of several different types of Soviet aircraft and the number of markings made whoever was flying this aircraft aces.

“Welcome to Texas, Gentlemen.” Wiser said as the senior RAF officer and his pilot approached. “I’m Major Matt Wiser, commander of the 335th.”
“Squadron Leader David Gledhill, Sir; this is my pilot Flight Lieutenant James Bruce.” Gledhill replied taking Wiser’s offered right hand.
“No need to ‘Sir’ me, Dave; it is okay to call you Dave?” Gledhill nodded so Wiser continued. “Boss or Guru are fine.
“This is Captain Mark Ellis my X.O and Master Sergeant Ross, my senior NCO. I’d introduce you to the rest of my senior team but they’re all out on ops.
“I assume you know Flight Lieutenant Lord though?” Wiser said indicating the senior RAF liaison officer.

Gledhill laughed.

“Oh yes, Jack and me are old friends; I hope he has not been telling you any of his lies has he?”
“Well I have been trying to keep that nickname quiet for one thing, Dave.” Flight Lieutenant Steven ‘Jack’ Lord replied with a chuckle.

Wiser turned to Ellis.

“Mark, can you and Master Sergeant Ross get all the new guys bedded down?”
“No problem, Boss; we should have space for them. Someone will need to bunk with Frank though.”
“We don’t want to impose, Guru.” Gledhill interjected. “I’ve got three more aircraft coming in with the rest of our ground-crew and ordnance, and they also have tents in them.”
“Can’t have you sleeping in tents, Dave; it’s just that Major Carson, our ordnance officer is…a bit peculiar, not that’s not the right word…a bit particular about who he bunks with.”
“I’ll share with him, Boss.” Flight Lieutenant Bruce offered. “I can get on with just about…wait did you say his name was Frank Carson?”

Wiser and Ellis exchanged looks; surely Frank’s reputation had not spread that far?

“Uh…yes.” Wiser said cautiously.

“Wait till Karen hears that.” Bruce said to Gledhill with a broad smile. “She does a passable impression of him.”

Who this other Frank Carson was would have to remain a mystery to Wiser, Ellis and Ross for the moment. At least until Flight Lieutenant Karen McKay started repeatedly saying “it’s the way I tell ‘em” in a broad Belfast accent every time Carson’s name was mentioned.

“If he’s particular about who he shares with, Guru, do you think he’ll mind sharing with the youngest son of an Earl?” Gledhill wondered.
“Well, I’m sure it will be an experience for him.” Wiser replied. “Now before we head off General Olds would like a quick word.”
“You mean the General Robin Olds?” Gledhill asked incredulously. “It would be an honour to meet the General, Guru.”

*

Several hours later

Once the RAF detachment had bedded down and the majority of the day’s operations were over Wiser gathered as many of his squadron as he could together for a briefing by Gledhill on the new arrival’s capabilities.

“Good evening, everybody.” Gledhill said cheerfully. “Can you all hear me at the back?” After several affirmative answers he carried on. “Major Wiser has covered why my detachment is here and for how long, but I’m going to talk a little about our capabilities. I’m also happy to try and answer any questions you might have, except maybe any on quadratic equations, or quantum physics; I don’t know anything about them and no, I don’t know the Queen.”

The USAF officers and Senior NCOs chuckled; Wiser was glad to see that the senior Brit had a sense of humour. None of the RAF detachment he had met so far seemed to fall into the ‘uptight, stuffy’ reputation.

“The F-4J(UK) is for all intents and purposes equivalent to the Sierra models that our marine neighbours fly; the main difference is that our aircraft don’t have the leading edge slats, so we are a bit less agile. However that has not been a major issue for us so far.
“What we can offer you capability wise are better medium ranged missiles; we have brought along our own Skyflash, which is a UK Sparrow upgrade equivalent to the Mike model. We also have Lima model Sidewinders and can carry a gun pod if we need to, which is most of the time. We also have a very capable pulse-Doppler radar, second only really to the F-15 and the Flanker.
“Air to air has been our speciality, but we do have some experience of air to ground, mainly just with dumb bombs and rockets. I don’t want to tell you how to do your jobs but if you want to use us best it will be in air to air taskings, or as escorts on your bombing missions.”

Gledhill paused for a moment to allow questions.

“What level of experience do your aircrew have?” Captain Don ‘Ops’ Van Loan asked.
“Karen is our newest pilot and she has been with our squadron for six months; she has four and a half kills. Karen used to be an air traffic controller, but as she told me ‘any idiot can be an air traffic controller, it takes a special kind of idiot to want to be a fast jet pilot’.
“The rest of us have several tours under our belt; I was in West Germany for a couple of years before we were kicked out. After that I was up in Goose Bay, which is where I was based when all this started. Other than that I’ve been based in the UK and Bermuda before joining you guys.”
“What was Bermuda like?” Captain Kara ‘Starbuck’ Thrace, the Assistant Ops Officer, wondered.

The British officer smiled before continuing; he was sure that Thrace had the pre-war image of Bermuda as a holiday island in her mind.

“Well it wasn’t all drinking cocktails on the beach I can tell you.” He replied. “When we weren’t protecting convoys and the island itself from ‘Backfires’ we were getting mortared by Communist insurgents and oh, yeah, there was the hurricane season too; so basically fun times.
“We lost three jets during the rebellion along with two good friends of mine, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about losing friends.
“Things got a bit easier when VF-11 joined us, especially since they had Tomcats; I know that only happened after you lost Forrestal, but we appreciated the reinforcements. We made some good friends in the Red Rippers.”
“Are your people all fixed for small arms, Sir?” Captain Ryan Blanchard, OINC, det. 4th Security Police Squadron, wondered.

Gledhill nodded.

“Jack, sorry Flight Lieutenant Lord let us know that we needed to bring along more than just side arms. You’ll find all our aircrew have at least a sub-machine gun as well as a pistol; I’ll need to introduce you to Flight Lieutenant Sherwood and his bunch of Merry Men from the RAF Regiment.”
“Sir, I noticed that you brought two Hercules with you.” First Lieutenant Sandi ‘Flossy’ Jenkins said. “But what was that larger aircraft? I haven’t seen one of those before.”

The Brit smiled before continuing.

“That, Lieutenant, was a Shorts Belfast; an example of one of life’s Great Procurement Mysteries. We bought them in the Sixties, sold them all off, or retired them in the Seventies, hired them back during the Falklands War at a cost that would have apparently kept them in service with the air force for the next ten years, and then requisitioned them when the latest fracas broke out. To cap it all we reformed the same squadron that had operated them; so yes, the Belfast saga is not exactly the RAF’s Finest Hour.”
“One other question, Sir.” Kara Thrace added. “Do any of you play pool?”

The somewhat left-field question threw the British pilot.

“Uh, no, not that I’m aware of…we did have a snooker table at Kindley though.”

The look on Thrace’s face reminded Gledhill of a hawk contemplating a field mouse, which was rather disturbing.

“Better make sure you have plenty of cash, Squadron Leader.” First Lieutenant Lisa ‘Goalie’ Eichhorn said with a laugh, which did nothing to reassure Gledhill. “Kara doesn’t take checks and you really don’t want to owe her anything!”
“Why is that?”
“Simple, Squadron Leader.” Guru said. “Our Kara has a system; if you can't pay what you owe her, she has an alternate payment plan available. Namely, the two of you, the supply tent, a sleeping bag, a radio turned to AFN's all-rock station, a camping lantern for ambience, and well.....”
“I get the idea.” Gladhill said. “She's a....”
“Board-certified nymphomaniac.” Major Wiser replied. “If they gave out such things. So take our advice: don't play pool unless it's a friendly, and unless they want to file for bankruptcy, don't play poker if she's at the table. Sure don't want any of your guys needing to use her, uh, alternative payment plan. Won't do good for Inter-Allied relations.”
“Noted, Guru.” said Gladhill. Then his stomach rumbled. It had been a long day, even with the RON at Grissom AFB in Indiana. “In any case I’m a happily married man.
“Karen plays poker, though, and can handle her drink better than anyone I know. She and Kara might get on well, apart from the nympho bit, of course.”

Guru noted the time on the wall clock: 1715.

“All right, people! Unless there's anything else, we can adjourn to the Club. Give our RAF friends a Texas hello, get them started on some barbeque, and General Olds will be leaving tomorrow afternoon, so he can recount some of his stories for our Allies' benefit.”

As people got up to leave, Guru said.

“Squadron Leader? A moment, please.”

Curious Gladhill came over to the 335th's CO.

“Major?”

Guru waited until everyone else had left.

“Between you and me, for now, you guys may have a role to play in a mission we're planning. Right now, it's very preliminary. In a few days, my GIB and I will probably be going to Nellis to brief Tenth Air Force brass on the mission concept. If it's a go, then we start serious planning. But you will be filling a niche that we've been looking for: either dedicated strike escort, or BARCAP/TARCAP.”
“I see…”
“And once we get the go-ahead, you'll be involved in planning. The people who plan it are also going to fly it.” Major Wiser said. “Just as with Operation BOLO. That means you, your Exec, and your element leads are going to be involved. And speaking of BOLO? You'll hear General Olds talk about that tonight. Among his other stories-including finding out he's an ace in two wars-twenty years after scoring the kill in question.”

Gladhill nodded.

“BOLO? That's new, hearing it first-hand from the chap who came up with it.”
“It was for almost all of us.” Guru said. “Come on: I'll take you over to the Club. You just met everybody, but now? You'll see them as animals in the zoo.”
“Lead on, Major.”

[rcaf_777]

minor note the RCAF was called the Canadian Armed Forces, Air Command from 1968 to 2011

What the backstory on the Colt Canada C8 carbine? IRL the C8 was not adopted till 1994. The Canadian Armed Forces used British L2A1 Sterling FN C1 and FN C1A1 (FN FAL) 1955-1985. There is only on one factory in Canada that had the machines and experience to make assault weapons that was Diemaco of Kitchener, Ontario (Now Colt Canada) The C7 was adopted at new service weapon in 1984 and then the C8 in 1994

On a side note, although the C7 is a license-produced version of the Colt Model 715 (M16) assault rifle. Diemaco reviewed the design and made over 150 changes to this weapon before it entered production.

http://www.military-today.com/firearms/c7.htm

http://www.military-today.com/firearms/c8.htm

https://www.canadiansoldiers.com/weapons/rifles.htm

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colt_Canada_C7

https://www.canadiansoldiers.com/weapons/smgs/c1smg.htm

[Matt Wiser]

The RCAF resumed its pre-1968 title in 1986 ITTL.

[Olefin]

Matt was the Genie missile used in your timeline - it was still operational until 1988 with the F-106

[Matt Wiser]

No. Genie-armed F-106s did scramble on Invasion Day, but they were not cleared to use the weapons.

[RN7]

Frank Carson I remember him well, funny guy. Also Septic I seem to remember is a 'nice' Australian term for an American!

[Matt Wiser]

Next one: and the RAF guys meet General Olds:


Welcome to Texas



Sheppard AFB, Texas; 1720 Hours Central War Time, 16 November, 1987:


Major Matt Wiser and Squadron Leader Dave Gledhill were walking to the Tent that housed the Officer's Club at Sheppard. The CO of the 335th TFS was filling in his RAF opposite number on how things worked in the Southern Theater, and how a bunch of USAF types had wound up with the Marines. “Couldn't get back to our parent wing after the balloon went up, so they sent us to Williams AFB near Phoenix, and wound up under MAG-11.”

“And you've been with them since,” Gledhill said.

“That we have,” Major Wiser said. “We've moved three times since that summer offensive you probably saw on either CNN or the BBC. Williams to Cannon in New Mexico, then Cannon to Amarillo, and Amarillo to here.”

“How bad was it here?”

“Bad enough,” Major Wiser, call sign Guru, nodded. “The occupation around here was run by Cubans with some MVD types. Lot of mutual hatred because of Sheppard being here, and the Resistance was pretty active. You might be wondering why we're headed for a tent instead of the prewar club.”

Gledhill nodded. “That has occurred to me, Major.”

“Again, call me Guru for the most part,” Guru said. He saw Gledhill nod, then went on. “Somehow, and we don't know how, the Resistance got a bomb on base and into the prewar club building. Blew it-and a bunch of Russians and Cubans-all to hell. The reprisals were pretty severe.”

“How bad was it? We've heard our share of stories thanks to the BBC and CNN.”

“They took two hundred and fifty people at random from Wichita Falls and the nearby communities, and two hundred and fifty more from the local 're-education camp', made them dig a trench, and shot them all,” Guru said. “Just for that. There's a town near here-or there was-called Thornberry. In a field near the town is a mass grave, where they think everyone around here who 'disappeared' is. The Army's got investigators digging, along with the FBI. If you want to know what you're fighting against? Have a look at that.”

The squadron leader's face turned pale. “Might just have to,” Gladehill said. “And you've been with the Resistance. My predeployment briefing mentioned that.”

“Five months,” Guru nodded. “Saw and did a lot. And a few things I'm not that proud of,” the CO said, as memories of his time behind the lines came back-and many of them not very good. “And here we are,” Guru said as they got to the Officer's Club tent.

“Not bad,” Gladehill said. “And this place looks pretty busy.”

“It is, any given night. It'll be busier still tonight, and not just with you guys being here,” Guru said. He noticed Gladehill's curiosity. “Your weather brief may or may not have told you, but we're getting a storm in tonight and tomorrow. Rain, wind, you get the idea. Any kind of VFR flying is out the window. But at Angels Twenty, it's clear and sunny, so we and the Marines will have people on Zulu Alert-”

“What we call QRA,” Gladehill replied.

“So that's how you do it. Anyway, we'll have crews on alert, just in case we get party-crashers tomorrow. As in MiG-25RB or Su-24 kind of company. But both sides welcome the weather coming in. It's a chance to get caught up on maintenance, aircrew rest, and just plain get ready for the next round,” Guru said as they went into the tent and headed for the bar. “Smitty?” He asked the bartender. “Get that Sam Adams?”

“Came in today, Major,” Smitty said. “And you've got a Brit with you.”

“Smitty, meet Squadron Leader Dave Gladehill. Smitty here used to run the best off-base hangout for pilots from Sheppard before the war,” Guru said. “Sam Adams for me, and one for him. I'll pay.”

Gladehill shook the barkeep's hand. “A pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Smitty said. “Comin' right up.”

Smitty produced the two beers, and both Guru and Dave took a seat at the bar. “What's his story?” Gladehill asked.

“Came through the occupation okay,” Smitty said. “They didn't arrest me because my bar was family-owned and operated. Didn't have more than a dozen employees, so they didn't consider me a 'class enemy,'” the barkeep spat. “But those damned Cubans? They made my bar a strongpoint when the Army got close, and during the battle? The 23rd ID had to blast and burn them out. If I was twenty years younger, I'd be going down to the recruiting office-and they do have some here now-where I'd be signing up-again.”

“Vietnam?”

“Marine Corps, two tours,” Smitty said. “One in '66-67, then again in '69-70. Buried all that stuff-and my guns-in the back yard before the bad guys came, so they had no idea I was a vet.”

“And that, Dave,” Guru added. “Could've been trouble, knowing from experience.”

“You've got that right, Major.”

Gladehill nodded, then looked around. He noticed General Olds talking with both 335th and Marines, and even a couple of his own people. Clearly, ACM was the topic of discussion, as there was the usual waving of hands. He also noticed a civilian woman talking with two female crews from the 335th. “Who's the civilian?”

“Jana Wendt, who's an Aussie. She works for both CBS and a network down in Australia,” Guru said. “She's done a story about the squadron, then one on me and my GIB-and I'll formally introduce you to Goalie tonight-and she's also doing one on the Day One vets in this squadron. Of which there are ten, and you're looking at one of them.”

“How bad was it?” Gladehill asked.

“Well, when you're expecting to start your first day at a Red Flag, and wind up going to war instead? It was hairy. Lost two planes and a crew, and also lost the Exec. But we did our job. Namely, head down to the border and kill everything headed north painted green. Interstate 19 became a junkyard, thanks to us, the A-10s from Davis-Monthan, some A-7s from the Arizona Guard, and some Army Reserve Cobra drivers. Then the Mexicans and Cubans got sent back across the border. Got my first kill the next day.”

“Sounds hairy,” Gladehill nodded.

“It was, even with Weasels on most of the runs,” Guru said, pulling on his beer. “Hearing about D.C, Omaha, New York, and Kansas City on the radio was worse. Throw in watching a Cuban airdrop on the Phoenix area go bad-and that was a turkey shoot as the F-15s from Luke got into the transports and had a field day. But watching MiG-21s shoot down an airliner wasn't any fun. Top it off with a Cuban MiG-21 crashing outside the Vegas Hilton, where we were billeted, and having the pilot land right in front of the place.”

Colonel Allen Brady, the MAG-11 CO, came up to the bar. “I see Guru's talking about Day One, Squadron Leader.”

“Indeed he has,” Gladehill said. “He told me how many in the squadron are left from those days.”

“Ten,” Guru said. “You could say those who were flying-anywhere-on Day One and are still at it are this war's 'few,' as Churchill would say.”

The XO, Capt. Mark Ellis, another Day One vet, came up to the bar. “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,” he said, motioning for another beer. “Day one was no fun at all.”

“And Colonel Brady has some stories of his own,” Guru told Gladehill. “From the late and unlamented conflict in Southeast Asia.”

Brady nodded. “From the cockpit, Squadron Leader, and from Hanoi. Spent five years and two months in such lodgings as the Hanoi Hilton, Zoo, Zoo Annex, Dogpatch, and Plantation. Being at the Zoo Annex when the Dramsei-Atterbury escape went down was the worst,” said the Colonel. He was recalling an escape attempt in 1969 when two USAF officers went over the wall at the Zoo Annex, and the NVA had come down hard-not just on the two escapees, one of whom died under torture, but also on anyone even remotely suspected of involvement.

“One of these days, Colonel,” Gladehill said. “I'd like to hear some of those.”

“You will,” replied Brady. He then saw General Olds waving him over. “General Olds and I still have some talking to do. You two have a good evening.”

“Will do, Colonel,” Guru nodded. After Brady went to the General, Guru turned to Gladehill. “Come on, I'll introduce you to the rest of my flight.

“Lead on, Guru.”

When they got to the table the CO's flight shared, they found Goalie talking to Flight Lt. Susan Napier, call sign “Fat Albert.” “How'd you get that?” Goalie asked.

“I was in the Hercules, then when combat was opened to women, the Hawk squadron I was in gave it to me,” Napier said cheerfully. “Two kills in Hawks, then after coming to 74, got a third. Badger, that one.”

“You'll hear some C-130 stories, because I came out of the Herky-bird into F-4s,” Goalie said. “Try evacuating the Air Force Academy from Colorado Springs, then the Denver Airlift.”

“Denver?” Naipier asked. “Heard some horror stories about that,”

“A lot of 'em are true,” Goalie said. “But we did our job getting supplies in and getting people out. Then combat was opened to women, and I asked for F-4s. Showed up at the 335th in June of '86, and been flying with Guru ever since.”

Kara and Sweaty were talking with Flight Lt. Karen McKay, the other female pilot in 74, and were surprised that she had been, of all things, an air traffic controller before the balloon went up. “Four and a half kills?” Kara asked.

“Quite. Two Badgers, two Backfires, and half of a Bear-D,” McKay replied. “Had to share with one of your Tomcats, but we did our job.”

Kara nodded. “Well, you'll find things a lot different than chasing down bombers. Here, it's all tac air.”

“That it is,” Guru said, then everyone was introduced to the other. “Now, our allies will get a formal brief tomorrow, but here's a sneak preview.” Guru sat down, and the others did the same. “First, the MiG threat starts at -21 and goes up from there. Most common are -21s and -23s, but we have encountered -25s on one occasion, and there's also -29s.”

“And Guru and I splashed a couple, back in May,” Sweaty added. She recounted the squadron's only MiG-29 engagement, where both of them had run into a pair of Fulcrums. “And it ended the way General Olds described BOLO.”

“How's that?” McKay asked.

“Simple:” Guru said. “We tangled, they lost. Sweaty there nails the wingman with a head-on Sparrow shot, leader breaks. I went into the vertical, then pitched down, stomped on the rudder, and came down through the Mach and right behind him. Got Sidewinder lock, took the shot, and he pumped out flares and chaff. Took a second shot, and that smashed into his left tail and horizontal stabilizer. Canopy comes off, seat fires, and poof! Here's the guy in a chute.”

Preacher, Sweaty's backseater, added, “Going to tell them about the Foxbat?”

“What?” Gladehill said. “A MiG-25?”

“Got him on takeoff,” Guru said. “Cannon, before Wichita and PRAIRIE FIRE. We were escorting an RF-4, and buzzed Cannon. The MiG scrambled after the RF-4, and Goalie and I got behind him. Two Sidewinders and he cartwheels into the desert floor.”

“Only ways for a Phantom to get a Foxbat,” Sweaty said. “Either jump him on takeoff or get him on landing. Otherwise, they're just too damn fast.”

“Add to that,” Goalie chimed in. “Kara over there got a MiG-23 on her theater indoctrination ride. Only in the squadron all of an hour, and she gets a kill.”

“How'd that happen?” Karen McKay asked.

“CO was at a conference,” Guru said. “Kara reports in, and I decide to take her on that theater indoctrination ride, even though it was a stand-down day. We went to the Rio Grande in New Mexico-that was the front line then-and had two MiG-23s come to the party.”

“And?”

“Simple,” said Kara as she picked up the story. “We tangled, they died. Got one of 'em, and the CO got the other.”

“First flight in the squadron, and her first kill,” Brainiac, Kara's GIB, said.

“That she did,” Guru said. “As for the ground-attack side? Starts at Su-17 Fitter and goes up from there. The whole Fitter family-from -17 to -20 and -22. Nicaraguans and Libyans fly the -20s, but Ivan and the East Germans fly the others. Then there's Su-24.”

“Speaking of which,” Goalie chimed in, “We broke up an Su-24 raid here a few days ago. Kara there got one.” She then pointed to Cosmo and Revlon, who were talking with one of the RAF pilots. “And our first all-female crew got another. Marines did their share, and so did the guys on the ground.”

“Not bad, Squadron Leader,” Kara added. “Because Guru there ordered us up, ten minutes after landing from a strike. We had half our fuel, but full air-to-air.”

Guru nodded, then went on. “Better chances in the air, instead of on the ground. Anyway, after Fencer comes Frogfoot. And also Forger. Throw in the Hinds and Hips, and that's pretty much it. Other than Flankers, and they're in another category.”

“How bad?” Gladehill wanted to know.

“Simple,” Sweaty replied. “You have no business tangling with them in an F-4.”

“She's right,” Guru said. “Get down low, holler for help from the AWACS, do a Doppler Break, and hope a 'teenage' fighter-like an F-15, F-16, or F/A-18 is around.”

“Something to keep in mind,” Gladehill nodded.

“It is that,” Capt. Darren “Sin” Licon, said as he came by. Guru introduced him to the Squadron Leader.

“Sin's my intel, and he's pretty good at what he does,” the CO said. “What's up?”

“Dinner's about five minutes away-they're bringing that over, and the Eastbound C-141 was late. Got the papers.” Licon said, passing out some newspapers.

“Not much,” Guru said, scanning the L.A. Times. “Must be a slow day.”

“Same here,” Kara replied. She was scanning USA Today.

Goalie was going over the Orange County Register. “Says here they're still digging on Proxmire.”
She explained who the good (or not-so-good) Senator from Wisconsin for the visitors' benefit.

“And you people pretty much don't like him,” Susan Napier said. “I can see why.”

“Some have more reason to hate him more than others,” Hoser said. “Look over there at Cosmo,” he gestured to one member of the two all-female crews. “She was a Grad Student in Astronomy when the balloon went up, and people in that discipline don't like Proxmire.”

“He was anti-NASA,” Kara said. “He cut NASA's budget to the bone because he sat on that particular Senate Committee, killed NASA research into space colonies, and blocked NASA from doing any kind of SETI research.”

“SETI?” Napier asked, and Kara explained. “Anyone say this chap should get membership in the Flat Earth Society?”

“Cosmo told us a couple of her professors said just that,” Brainiac said.

Then the restauranteurs and Marine Mess people came in with dinner. “Folks, got some barbequed beef patties, or barbequed pork,” the ex-restaruanteur turned Marine Warrant Officer said. “Come and get it.”

After people got their food, the CBS Evening News came on AFN. This time, though, there wasn't much happening. “Just as with the newspapers,” Goalie said. “Slow day.”

“They probably had days like this in World War II,” Guru noted as he dug into the beef patties.

“No doubt,” Gladehill replied.

“In West Germany,” Walter Cronkite said on the broadcast. “Demonstrations against the Neutralist Government continue, with crowds estimated in the tens of thousands in Bremen, Hannover, and Cologne, while in Munich, over 100,000 people called for the Greens to step down and call for new elections. Former Chancellor Willy Brandt repeated his call for the Greens to step down, before, 'forces more considerable take matters into their own hands,' end quote. Informed sources in both Philadelphia and London have told CBS News that the chances of a coup are growing, and that the West German military has begun restricting military leaves and has begun an intensive period of 'unspecified training.'”

“They're going to do it,” General Olds said. “When that exercise ends, they won't go back to their barracks, but they put tanks in the streets.”

“You mean a coup, General?” Gladehill asked.

“That's right, Squadron Leader,” Olds said.

“About damned time,” one of the Marine F-4 pilots said.

“Send those Commie-lovers back to Moscow or East Berlin,” someone else said.

Sin Licon shook his head. “Not likely, guys. Anyone know Rule Number One in a coup?”

“The losers pose for rifle fire,” said Colonel Brady.

“Not quite, sir,” Licon replied. “First, they get interrogated. Find out who their contacts were, who recruited them, any links to the KGB or Stasi. Then get their passwords to any Swiss bank accounts. Then they pose for the firing squad.”

“West Germany's the big one,” Colonel Brady reminded everyone. “When they go, the others won't be far behind. Though the Dutch were the first.”

After a segment from a destroyer on a Norfolk to Alexandria convoy run, and a report on the likely Democratic candidates in the 1988 Presidential Election-and one possible candidate, Sen. Sam Nunn from Georgia, taking himself out of the running, came a Charles Kuralt On the Road segment. This one was from Parkersburg, West Virginia, and a look at Coal Country. Many homes had either yellow ribbons, often joined by Blue or Gold Stars. The mines were working three shifts, so that the coal could provide electricity to war plants and the cities, while many younger men who came from mining families were eschewing going down and were either waiting for their draft call, or just plain enlisting when they reached 18. Their sisters were doing the same, and it was men in their '30s and '40s, if not older, who were going into the mines. “We may have drills and hammers instead of rifles, but we're doing our part,” one miner said. “If they didn't need me down here, I'd re-up.”

“You're a vet?” Kuralt asked.

“Black Horse Cav in Vietnam, '70-71,” the miner replied. “If they didn't need me down here, I'd probably go and try to re-up. Even if they said no, at least I tried.”

Nearby, there was an apple orchard, and a farm growing corn. That wasn't unusual, but the workers cleaning up after the harvest were: Soviet and other ComBloc POWs. “And so, the war has touched West Virginia, in more ways than one. Charles Kuralt, CBS News, On the Road, in Parkersburg, West Virginia.”

“And that's the way it is,” Cronkite said as he signed off. “For all of us at CBS News, Good Night.”

After that, AFN started to show a rerun of a 1982 Baltimore Colts-New England Patriots football game. Some watched the game, others finished up their dinner. And Squadron Leader Gladehill turned to Guru. “Who's this Frank Carson we keep hearing about?”

Guru winced, but he knew that the RAF people would be working with Frank, like it or not. Might as well give them a short version. “Well, long story short, he's the most hated person on this base.” He pulled on his beer, then went on. “He's from an old Boston family that's filthy rich, but he didn't go to Harvard or Yale, but went to the Air Force Academy. Couple blue blood snobbishness and a big sense of entitlement from having graduated from the Academy partially explains his.....attitude.” Guru nodded at a table where the object of their conversation was talking with two other AF officers-both from the Air Base Group, and with Doc Waters, the 335th's Flight Surgeon. “Notice that Frank's the only one around here in undress blues-everybody else is either in flight suits or utilities. He is not willing to be 'one of the guys' after hours.”

“Add to that a big sense of entitlement,” Sweaty added. “He thinks that Academy class ring on his finger entitles him to whatever he wants in the Air Force.” She, too, pulled on a beer. “Including running this squadron.”

“So,” Gladehill nodded. “How'd you get the squadron?”

“I was Ops Officer for a while, then when the Exec got himself killed, I got the XO slot. Much to Frank's disgust, but Colonel Rivers, rest his soul, didn't trust him-for any number of reasons. Three weeks ago, Colonel Rivers bought that farm in the sky, and I moved up. Frank there felt since he was a Major and I was still a Captain, he should've been put in command.”

“Instead, you were confirmed.”

“I was, and two days later, General Tanner-who runs Tenth Air Force, by the way-came by and pinned on the oak leaves. Both he and General Olds have told Frank to suck it up and get on with it, but he won't listen,” said Guru. “He's too by-the-book, hates any officer who didn't come out of the Academy, ignores NCO advice, and treats enlisted like they're serfs and he's the lord.”

Gladehill winced at that. “He's too formal, in other words.”

“That, and he's too by-the-book,” Guru nodded. “If you talked to him, you'd get an earful about his talents not being recognized-”

“Especially since he didn't get into the F-20 program,” Kara grinned.

“That, too,” Guru said. “And throw in his feeling that a 'peasant' from some small town in California who went to what we call a 'hick' school and didn't even go through ROTC-I went to Officer Training School-got put in command instead of him. Took General Tanner and General Olds to give him a good tongue-lashing about that.”

“So, any advice?” Gladehill asked.

“Just be polite, be professional, and give him the polite minimum at the Club,” Guru said. “That's about it.”

“Good to know. I'll spread the word.”


A few minutes later, Guru and Goalie went to the bar for more beer and an order of nachos, while Kara got another beer, then went to the pool table. Squadron Leader Gladehill looked around, and noticed two pilots-a man and a woman, talking with General Olds and Colonel Brady. “Who's the fellow and girl with the General?”

Sweaty answered. “The guy's Major Dave Golen, IDF. He's officially an 'observer,' but he does more than just 'observe.'”

“He observes by participating,” Guru said as he came back. “Me and Goalie have had MiGs shot off our asses by him twice, and you, once,” the CO nodded at Sweaty.

Sweaty nodded. “That he did. As for the other pilot? That's Flossy.”

“Saw her earlier when she asked about the Belfast,” Gladehill said. “How'd she get that call sign?”

The 335th crewers laughed. “Long story short,” Goalie chuckled. “She has no noticable tan lines, and likes thong underwear.”

“Ah.”

“But Dave Golen's her older brother from another mother, and they've proven to be a good team,” Guru said. “Her regular GIB is grounded due to a sprained ankle, so she's got Jang there-” the CO pointed to 1st Lt. Chloe “Jang” Winters. “For a while. Which means we have two, well, 'unmanned' F-4s in the squadron. Probably in the whole Air Force for all I know.”

“Which explains the reporter,” Gladehill noted.

“It does.”

Kara, meanwhile, was holding court at the Pool Table, and she quickly dispatched two Marines who thought they could take her. Then came General Olds' aide, who had lost to her previously, and wanted his money back. A few minutes later, his wallet was lightened by $50.00. “Next!” Kara called.

“She always like this?” Karen McKay asked.

“You could say that,” Sweaty replied, pulling on a beer. “Now you know why we don't play with her unless there's no money at stake.”

“Uh-oh,” Guru said. “Guess who's headed to the Pool Table?”

Goalie turned and had a look. She replied simply, “General Olds.”

“I was hoping I was wrong.”

As both visitors and regulars watched, General Olds went to the table and laid down his money. Kara did the same, and both combatants went at it. It didn't take long for General Olds' skills to show, and Kara was soon out $50.00. She smiled, shook hands with the General, then went to the bar and got another beer. Then she went back to the table, and defeated a C-130 pilot who was doing an RON, then his female navigator.

Right at 1700, Doc Waters, the 335th's Flight Surgeon, rang the bar bell. “Twelve-Hour for those sitting alert in the morning!”


The 335th and Marine crews affected turned in their drinks, and that included Sweaty, Hoser, Preacher, and KT. “Luck of the draw,” Sweaty said, turning in her beer and getting a glass of club soda.

“How'd you choose who's sitting alert?” Gladehill wondered.

“Element leads drew lots,” Guru replied. “Doc Waters there supervised the drawing. I didn't draw alert, but if I had, I'd be sitting the first shift, along with Goalie, Kara, and Brainiac.”

“That we would,” Goalie said. “Wouldn't be the first time, but we've never had to scramble.”

“Yet.”


A few minutes later, it was time for General Olds' remarks, as it was his last night at Sheppard before going back to Nellis. Colonel Brady stood up and started things off. “People, as it's the last night here for General Olds before he moves on, I'd like him to say a few words, and maybe give our guests from the RAF some stories that the rest of us are familiar with.” He nodded in Olds' direction. “General?”

“Thanks, Colonel,” Olds said as he stood up. “People, for a mixed team, you've done one hell of a job. Most of you are Marines, but both the 335th and VA-135 have done more than their share. Now, with the RAF coming to town, you're proving that people who live, breathe, and speak tactical air can work as a team, and you can only get better. The battle lines are a little too far north for anyone's tastes, but if we're at this a year from now, let's get together at someplace like Laughlin or Laredo-and for the benefit of our British friends, those are bases in South Texas-on the Rio Grande!”

“Hear, hear!” Several people said at once.

“And two years from now? Let's all be where we belong: home, with our families.” Olds paused, letting the words sink in. “After a final stop in Mexico City!”

“Here's to that!” Guru said, and several others echoed him.

“All right!” Others added.

General Olds nodded, then turned to Squadron Leader Gladehill. “For our RAF friends' benefit, gather 'round, and you'll hear some World War II and Vietnam stories.”

Then the General started with his making ace in World War II, in a P-38, while going after a group of 60 Me-109s-with only his wingman for company. “Forgot to switch over to internal fuel, after getting rid of the drop tanks, and the engines cut out. Had a 109 lined up, so I figured 'what the hell', and shot anyway. He went down. And I still claim to be the only fighter pilot to shoot down an enemy in the glide mode.”

“Any one of us would've restarted the engines before shooting,” Karen McKay nodded.

Olds took a sip of club soda, then nodded. “You're probably right. Got the engines going, and hit those 109s like a pair of hawks into a flock of pigeons. Wingman got two, I got another one, then dove on two 109s chasing a P-51-and dove too fast. Couldn't pull up because of compressiblity.”

“What's that?” Flight Lt. Steve “Jack” Lord, who had gone ahead to the 335th as a liaison officer, asked.

“It happens when you approach Mach 1 in an aircraft not designed for it,” Capt. Don Van Loan, the 335th's Ops Officer, said. “The airflow over the controls is disrupted, a shock wave develops, and the controls freeze up.”

“How did you recover?” McKay asked. Nearing Mach 1 in a piston-engined aircraft had to be no fun at all....

“Got to denser air at lower altitude, and barely managed to pull out-and blew out my rear canopy-over a wheat field near Rostock. Headed west, and saw tracers coming by, and there's a 109 behind me, shooting. I want to get home, so I flat-planed, and forced him to overshoot. The 109 goes by, I roll wings level and let him have it. Had two kills prior, so these three...”

“Made you an ace,” Gladehill said. “Jolly well done, sir!”

“Thank you,” Olds said. “I had a total of twelve when my tour was over, all 109s or 190s. Went to jets postwar, and had an exchange tour with your No. 1 Squadron and Meteors. Actually commanded it.”

The RAF people looked at each other. An exchange officer commanding a squadron? “Never heard of that before,” Gladehill's deputy, Squadron Leader Paul Jackson, said. “That has to be a first.”

“Has to be,” Gladehill admitted. “Then came Korea?”

“Nope,” Olds said. “Missed out on Korea, probably because of my wife-who was a movie actress-and she used some Hollywood friends to get the Air Force not to send me over there, though I was itching to go. Eventually wound up commanding the 81st TFW at Bentwaters with F-101s when Vietnam started. In '66, went to Arizona and took the F-4 conversion course.”

Guru then said, “Dave, want to know how long it took him to finish the course? It's a fourteen-part syllabus. He did it in five days.” And the regulars saw the RAF's people having to put their jaws back into place after they dropped.

“That I did, then went to Udorn, Thailand and the 8th Tactical Fighter Wing. Gathered all the guys in the briefing room and said, 'I'm the new guy here. But in two weeks, I'll be better than any of you. And I pointed to everyone in that room.”

“He was,” Don Van Loan said. “I have an Uncle who flew in the 8th, and that's a true story, folks.”

“MiGs got frisky over Hanoi, and I had an idea to do something about that. We would mimic F-105s, using the same approach routes, call signs, and radio frequencies, and even the same terminology over the radio. Even had the F-4s wired to carry ECM pods to complete the deception.”

“Did you plan it?” Gladehill asked.

“Nope,” the General replied. “I had some very smart junior officers flesh out the plan. Got Seventh Air Force approval for 1 Jan 67. Had a weather delay, so we went North the next day.”

“And you know the rest,” Colonel Brady said. “Seven MiG-21s for no losses.”

“Could've been more,” Olds nodded. “The GCI controllers told the remaining MiGs to get in the clouds and stay there.”

“So, how many in Vietnam?” Jackson asked.

“Four confirmed back then,” Olds replied. “Two MiG-21s, two MiG-17s-both of those in one day. Plus a probable MiG-17 on 2 June '67. Fast forward to a few days ago, and I found out that probable was upgraded to confirmed. Flew in two wars, and an ace in both.”

“Look at it this way,” Van Loan said. “Not just an ace in two wars, but also having Me-109s and Fw-190s alongside MiG-17s and MiG-21s in the kill sheet.”

“How many dogfights were you in over Vietnam, sir?” Paul Jackson asked.

General Olds took a slug of club soda, then nodded. “Fourteen. Four confirmed kills and a probable when I left Southeast Asia. But fast-forward to a few days ago, and Major Wiser and Captain Van Loan tell me that the probable got upped to confirmed, so...”

“It made you an ace, even if it was twenty years later,” Jackson said, a grin on his face. “Congratulations, sir!”

Olds nodded. “Thanks, and I'll tell everyone this: when I pass on, whoever goes through my personal papers and logs is going to find some interesting things. Because that Edsel Mechanic in the Pentagon wanted me sent home early if I made ace. They wanted me as a publicity asset. Didn't want to leave my men before my tour was up, so....”

“'Edsel Mechanic?'” Napier asked. “What do you mean by that?”

“MacNamara, the SECDEF, was with Ford when they rolled out the Edsel, and we know what kind of clunker that was,” Mark Ellis said. “That handle is what his detractors-and you can say that means every Vietnam Vet or service member since then-means about him.”

“I see...He's the same fellow with the 'Whiz Kids?'”

“The very same,” Olds nodded. “But....two weeks before I went home, got into a fight with MiG-21s. Was lined up on a MiG, ready to shoot-had Sidewinder tone-when an F-105 comes up off his bomb run, and I don't think he even sees me. Gets between me and the MiG, and guns the -21. Sent him down, and the Thud headed on out. Cheated me out of what would have been officially my fifth, and if that weasel MacNamara wanted to send me home then, well....”

Gladehill nodded. “You both get what you want.”

“That's it. But..” General Olds continued. “Whoever goes through my personal papers will find some interesting things, and only then will you hear about them.”

Guru turned to Goalie. “Any thoughts?”

“How about hot pursuit of a MiG into China before killing it?” Goalie asked in reply. “Or splashing a MiG inside the Hanoi Prohibited Area?”

Guru pulled on his beer, and nodded agreement. “I'll go along with either one, and add this: how about a low-level flyby of Hanoi on a no-strike day? Say, right over the Hanoi Hilton.”

Squadron Leader Gladehill overheard their conversation. “You two sure about that?”

Guru nodded again. “Neither one would surprise me,” he said, and Goalie nodded agreement. “You're in a room full of people, even though only two were there, who despise LBJ and MacNamara for the way the air war over North Vietnam was run.”

Don Van Loan came by. “I'd say that's the least offensive term,” he added. “'Loathe' would be more like it. My uncle spent five and a half years in Hanoi, Squadron Leader, going after targets picked in Washington, or tangling with MiGs-and he was shot down by a MiG-17-that should have been taken out on the ground.”

“Ah, because they were afraid that if you chaps did hit the MiG bases, you would've killed Russian advisors, and that makes things very sticky indeed,” replied Gladehill.

Goalie said, “As in Fulda Gap time.” She shook her head.

Then General Olds stood up. “One last thing, people! I'm leaving tomorrow afternoon, and when I get back to Nellis, I'm going to tell General Tanner at Tenth Air Force that you're all doing a hell of a job, and whatever you're doing? Don't change a damned thing!”

“Glad to know, General,” Colonel Brady said, and all of the squadron commanders echoed that.

“And you all have the same attitude I had with the Wolfpack, back in 1966-67. You're all concerned with accomplishing the mission and producing results. And if a few useless bureaucrats get in your way? You just go around, over, on top, underneath, or plain through them to get what's needed done, done. Same drill on regs-if they get in the way of achieving results? You fold, spindle, bend, or mutilate what's in the way to get the job done! And if we get together a year from now? Let's do it on the Rio Grande!”

“Hear, hear!” several voices yelled.

“ARF!”

Several people looked around, and found the 335th mascot, Buddy, there.

General Olds then raised his glass of club soda. “Here's to you. Keep it up, and keep ramming it to the bad guys.” After bottles and glasses were raised, Olds finished. “You all have a good night.”

“YES, SIR!” The room responded.


As things broke up, people went back to their tables, to the bar, or to hit the pool table or poker games. Guru and Goalie went to the bar. “Smitty, two more.”

“Comin' up, Major.”

As Smitty produced the beers, General Olds came to Guru. “Major, you don't need to see me off tomorrow. You've got more important things to worry about.”

“Thank you, sir,” Guru said.

“And don't be surprised if in a few days, you get a call to come to Nellis. Bring your briefing material, your GIB, and your bird.”

“General, can I ask when?” The CO wanted to know.

“Probably in a week. I'll brief General Tanner on your little plan, and he'll want to hear from you personally. You'll get the word as to when.”

Guru and Goalie looked at each other. “Yes, sir,” both of them said.

“You two have a good night,” Olds said, shaking both of their hands. “I'll see you at Nellis.”

“We'll be there, sir,” Guru said.

“All right, and remember what I said about not changing a damned thing, Major.”

Guru nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The General nodded, then said, “Have a good night, you two. I'll see you both at Nellis.”

“Yes, sir.”

After General Olds left, Guru and Goalie noticed Capt. Ryan Blanchard, their Combat Security Police detachment commander, and Capt. Kerry Collins, who was a flight lead, get up and leave together, with Ryan slinging her M-16. And by the expressions on both their faces and other body language, it was clear what they had in mind.

“Well?” Goalie asked, her expression a bit coy. “We need to get caught up.”

“On what?” Guru replied. Though he had a good idea of what she had in mind.

“Bedroom gymnastics. Haven't had any for a while.”

Just then, Don Van Loan and Sweaty Blanchard went by, and they, too, had similar expressions on their faces.

“Then let's go,” Guru said. He paid Smitty for the beers, and both left for the CO's tent.

Gladehill saw them go, as Mark Ellis came up to the bar. “Squadron Leader,” Ellis said.

“Mark, I can call you that?” Gladehill replied. “Since I've got my own Exec.”

“That you do,” Ellis laughed. “What's up?”

“I noticed Guru and his backseater. Plus Ryan Blanchard and one of your pilots-Kerry Collins, I think, and Sweaty Blanchard and your Ops Officer. Isn't that unusual?”

“Prewar, unheard of,” Ellis nodded. “These days? It's 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow they may not separate us from the rest of the aircraft.' And AF brass has passed the word that there are more important things to worry about than wartime romances. Though somebody around here hasn't gotten the message.” He nodded discretely in Frank's direction.

“Ah. There always is someone like that,” said Gladehill.

“There is,” Ellis admitted. He took a pull on his beer. “Frank there tried to have Guru and Goalie up on a fraternization thing, and Colonel Rivers tore up his complaint. Gave Frank the biggest dressing-down you ever heard. There's several very good reasons for Guru to despise and loathe Frank, and that is near the top of the list, he told me,” the 335th's Exec said. “And a word of warning: Frank got turned down for a transfer to the F-20 program a couple days ago, and sooner or later, he's going to pop. Just hope none of your guys are in the way when that happens.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Gladehill said. “Your CO told me about Frank being turned down for that, but thanks anyway.”

“Anytime. And welcome to Texas,” Ellis put out his hand, and they shook on it.

After Ellis went to a pool table not dominated by Kara, Jackson, Lord, and McKay, came to their CO. “Well, Skipper?” Jackson asked.

The CO for 74 turned to his own Exec and said, “It's been...interesting, you might say. Jack, you've been with these people a bit. What's your feeling?”

“They're good people, Boss, and dedicated. We'll get along just fine.”

“Good. Karen?”

“Had a talk with Sweaty, Flossy, Cosmo, Revlon, Goalie-even Kara, but not all at once. As for Susan and me? We'll fit in.”

Gladehill nodded. “Right, then. Tell the guys to sleep in tomorrow, and get plenty of rest. Because after this storm passes, it's 'game time', as our hosts like to say.”

“Will do, Boss,” Jackson said, and the others nodded.

And so, the RAF's first day in Texas came to an end when Last Call sounded at Midnight sharp.

[Matt Wiser]

The RAF detachment has further adventures in Texas....the story dealing with their first three days is almost finished. Will be posted when done.

[Matt Wiser]

The RAF's first days in Texas: Here's Part I:


Chiefs and Tigers


335th Tactical Fighter Squadron, Sheppard AFB, TX; 18 November, 1987, 0530 Hours Central War Time:



Major Matt Wiser walked from his squadron's Officer Country to the Squadron's Offices. The building had belonged to an Air Training Command unit prewar, when Sheppard had been a training base, and now housed his squadron. He noted the bullet holes scarring the outside, and had thought at first that those had best be patched over. But, since the base would likely revert to ATC after the war, it might be a good idea if some of those holes were kept as a reminder of the war, to impress upon student pilots what had happened here. Kind of like at Hickam AFB in Hawaii, he thought. Several buildings there still had scars from December 7, 1941, and those scars had not been repaired, as a reminder of the price of unpreparedness for war.

The 335th CO went into the office, and found the Night-shift SDO at his desk. “Hacksaw,” Major Wiser nodded.

“Boss,” Hacksaw replied, and sneezed just after that. “Damn cold.”

“Still?” The CO asked. Hacksaw had been grounded for five days with a bad cold.

Hacksaw nodded. “I'm a lot better, Boss, but still.....I see Doc tomorrow and he should clear me.”

Major Wiser knew the feeling. He'd been grounded himself for two weeks back in March with a cold-and the same bug had bitten his GIB. Being out of the cockpit had been frustrating for both of them. “Hate to remind you, but listen to Doc. He outranks us in anything medical, so you'd best pay attention.” Doc Waters was the squadron's flight surgeon.

“I know, Boss.”

“And remember: if you're fretting about missing out? You're not missing a damned thing,” the CO reminded his SDO. “XO in?”

“He's in your office,” Hacksaw said. “Got in about five minutes ago.”

“All right, thanks,” Major Wiser said. “Wolfman Jack up to the usual?” He glanced at the radio on the SDO's desk.

“He is, and just played Don't Bring Me Down.”

“ELO,” the CO nodded. “Haven't heard that in a while. Thanks, and when Digger comes in? Get him up to speed, get some chow, then find your bunk.”

Hacksaw nodded. “Will do, Boss.”

Major Wiser then talked to the night-shift admin people, and they always appreciated hearing from the CO, then he went to his office. There, his Exec was waiting. “Mark.”

Capt. Mark Ellis stood up. “Boss,” he said. “Got a few things for you.” He handed his CO a clipboard and a cup of cocoa.

“Let's see...” Major Wiser said, scanning the clipboard. “Morning report for both Tenth Air Force and MAG-11.” The CO signed the forms. “What's next?”

“Aircraft status report,” Ellis replied as the CO found the paper. “Twenty-one aircraft as of now, and should have twenty-two before 0700.” He noticed his CO's upraised eyebrow. “Dave Golen's bird. He and his GIB-along with Flossy and Jang, ate at Early-Bird, and they're penciled in for a check flight.”

“When?”

“Now,” Ellis said, and the rumble of jet engines punctuated the XO's remark. “Should be back in thirty to forty minutes.”

Major Wiser nodded. “Good. Then his bird's back on the schedule. What's next?”

“Supply requisitions,” the XO replied. “We need to trade with a MASH, though. Someone confused us with a medical unit, and sent us 5,000 specimen cups.”

The CO's jaw dropped. “You are shitting me.”

“I kid thee not, Boss-man,” Ellis said.

Major Wiser sighed. “Okay, there's a MASH around here. Tell Chief Ross to find out what they can give us in exchange.”

“On it,” Ellis said. “Weather update.” He handed his CO the weather information form.

“A few lingering clouds, and morning ground mist, which should burn off,” Major Wiser noted. “Other than that, VFR all around.”

“That's good to know. The RAF guys will like that. Big difference than the Atlantic this time of year.”

“Or anytime,” the CO pointed out. “This is their first day of fighter combat in the tactical arena. Air defense of Bermuda and chasing down Backfires or Bears is one thing. Hassling with MiGs is a whole new ball game.”

“We'll find out, won't we?” Ellis asked. “Think they'll lose people?”

“Wouldn't surprise me at all,” the Major said. There was a knock on the door. “Yeah? Come in and show yourself!”

A blonde female First Lieutenant with wavy hair just long enough for the regs came in, with two cups of steaming liquid in hand. “Morning, Guru, and XO,” First Lieutenant Lisa “Goalie” Eichhorn said. She was Major Wiser's GIB, and “Guru” was his call sign.

“Morning, Goalie,” Guru said. “Ready to get back at the game?”

“Just as long as Ivan strikes out,” she grinned. “And we bat at least .500.”

“At least,” Guru said. “Mark, anything else?”

“Chief Ross is running down Airman Kellogg's family. The Red Cross is involved, and he's running down the brother and sister. No replies yet, though,” reported Ellis. “And nothing yet about his parents.” Ellis paused. “They may very well be in that mass grave.”

Guru nodded. “Okay. Tell him to keep looking.”

“Will do.”

“Goalie?” Guru asked his GIB-and lover. “Any issues with your RAF counterparts?”

“Nope,” she replied. “Though a couple of 'em were surprised to see a First Lieutenant as senior WSO. But they smiled, shook hands, and said 'That's how it is, so let's get with it.' They've got a lot of instrument time, I can tell you that.”

“Given where they were, and being on alert twenty-four hours a day? Not surprised at that,” Guru said. “They'll find things are very different here, on that first mission. He glanced out his office window and noticed the first brightness of dawn starting to show. Then he looked at the clock on his office wall: 0550. “Let's go eat.”


When the trio got to the Officer's Mess Tent, the usual line was already forming, and it was a little strange, not seeing either Major General Robin Olds-who had returned to Nellis the previous afternoon, or Brig. Gen. Chuck Yeager, who had moved on to Carlsbad in New Mexico and the ROK Air Force contingent for the next stop of his F-20 demonstration tour. But Marine Colonel Allen Brady, the CO of MAG-11, was there, and he was talking with Squadron Leader Dave Gladehill, the OINC of the detachment from 74 Squadron, the RAF contingent that had come to their little corner of the war. “Morning, Colonel,” Guru said. “Squadron Leader.”

“Major,” Brady nodded. “Seems strange, doesn't it? Not having General Yeager or General Olds around.”

“Well, sir, had to get back to normal, or something close to it,” replied Guru. “Dave? You guys ready to get with it?”

“Quite,” Gladehill said. “The first missions will be interesting.”

“Remember what we told you guys in the brief yesterday,” Guru said. “Seventy percent of our losses are people who don't make it to ten missions. You're not combat virgins, but what you've done is a whole different league than what we play in.”

Gladehill nodded. “We'll find out soon enough, and we're as ready as we can be.”

“Fair enough,” replied Guru. He took a look around, and saw Capt. Kara “Starbuck” Thrace talking with some of the people from 74, and to the CO, it looked as if she was measuring people up-for potential victims at the pool table later. “I see Kara's up this morning.”

“She was here when I arrived,” Gladehill said. “I did warn her about our RAF Regiment people. They're pretty good at the pool table, and might give her a good run.”

“Just as long as your people know what they're in for, and pray none of them need to use her, well, 'alternative payment schedule.'”

“I did warn them,” replied Gladehill.

“Good. Just as long as they've been warned.”

Then one of the Marine Mess Officers came out, and flipped the sign on the door from CLOSED to OPEN. “Chow's on, folks.”


After breakfast, the strike leads went to the Ops Office to get their mission packets. As CO, Guru was first, and found the Ops Officer, Capt. Don van Loan, waiting. “Have a good breakfast, Don?”

“Sure did, Boss, and ready to go earn my flight pay-of which forty-five cents goes back to the government,” Van Loan replied. He handed his CO a packet. “Here's your first mission.”

Guru took the packet and opened it. He skimmed over the mission summary, then looked at his Ops Officer. “And whose bright idea was this?”

“Don't look at me, Boss,” the Ops Officer replied innocently. “I just put'em together from the ATO.”

“Brownwood Regional Airport. Well, at least we've got Weasels coming, and two of the RAF birds are going with us,” Guru said. “Strike flight is a six-ship.”

“That it is,” Van Loan said. “Dave and Flossy are going with you.” Just then, the subjects of their conversation came in. “Dave,” Van Loan said to IDF Major Dave Golen. Who came in with 1st Lt. Terry McAuliffe, his GIB, and his wing crew, First Lieutenants Sandi “Flossy” Jenkins and Chloe “Jang” Winters.

“Guru,” Golen said. “And Ops. No problems or issues, so the bird's back on the schedule. And maintenance and armorers were waiting when we taxied in.”

Guru showed him the mission summary. “That's because you guys are going with us,” the CO said. “And the Brits. Two of their Js are coming along. Get to the briefing room ASAP.”

“On our way,” Golen said, and his people left the Ops Office.

Squadron Leader Gladehill came in. “Got anything for us?”

“Dave,” Guru said. “Round up your GIB and your wing crew. My flight's briefing room, in ten. We've got a strike coming, and you're in the tasking.”

“Right!” Gladehill replied. “Be right there.”


“He too eager?” Van Loan asked.

“No,” Guru said. “I think they want to show they're good at not just bomber interception or chasing down strays from the Air Bridge. They'll work out fine.” The CO glanced at the summary again, then shook his head. “Been there at least twice before.”

“And back again.”

“And back again,” Guru acknowledged. “Thanks, Don.” He headed for his flight's briefing room, and when he got there, he found not only his flight, plus Dave Golen's element, but Gladehill's element as well. And the squadron's mascot, Buddy. “All right, people, it's the first one of the day, and it's a doozy.”

“Where to?” Kara asked.

“Brownwood Regional Airport,” Guru said. “F-111s or A-6s hit it last night, and we get to do the follow-up.”

“This place swarms, Boss,” Sweaty added. It wasn't a question. She was recalling previous strikes.

“It does, and for the benefit of our British friends, this place has two MiG regiments. One East German with MiG-21, and a Soviet MiG-23 Regiment also. MiG-29s have also used it as a FOL, so they may be there as well.”

Gladehill and his people looked at each other. MiG-29s? First mission in Texas and they throw this at us....”Where are the Fulcrums usually based?” Gladehill asked.

“Usually Gray Army Airfield at Fort Hood, but they've also been reported at Bergstrom AFB by Austin, and the old James Connolly AFB by Waco, though it may be an FOL. Last time we hit this place, there were Fulcrums, and we got some on the ground,” said Guru. “Goodfellow AFB by San Angelo is a possible as well. Ivan's had two years to get the runways operational again, and they are considered as such. There are -21s and -23s also at Connolly, Waco Airport, Temple Airport, and Gray AAF. Flankers are at Bergstrom, and as you all know, they are bad news. And it's confirmed that Mainstays are in theater-we've known before, but this is for our RAF friends' benefit.”

“Bad guys there same as last time?” Hoser asked.

“Yep,” replied the CO. “Not just the Soviet 32nd Army, but in and around Brownwood proper? It's the baddest of the bad from the GSFG days: 3rd Shock Army.” Guru paused, then went on. “Which means not just the defenses at the base, but Army-level air defense assets. SA-4, guns, and MANPADS.”

“Lovely,” KT spat.

“As for base defenses, the SA-3 site is listed as possibly operational, and there's three 57-mm batteries. No dedicated flak suppressors, but we'll be getting Weasels.” Guru turned to Gladehill. “A two-ship of F-4Gs will be joining us at the tankers.:

The RAF officer nodded. “Good to have, that.”

“They are,” Guru said. “Okay, there's also going to be ZU-23s and guys with MANPADS at the base as well, so be careful, people!”

Flossy asked, “What's the ingress route, Boss?”

“We hit tanker track ARCO north of Abilene, and though Dyess is open, it's listed for C-130s and as an A-10 FOL. But it's there in case you need to put down with battle damage. Head south from the tanker track, cross the I-20 and the FLOT. Follow U.S. 283, and again, that's a Main Supply Route, for said 32nd Army, so watch for traffic on the road. Convoys usually have their own AAA, so be careful. Once we hit the Colorado River, turn east. Follow the river to U.S. 377, then go north. The city of Brownwood is the pop-up point. The target's eight miles northeast of the town. Make your runs, then get your asses north for I-20.”

Kara nodded. Nothing new here. “Aimpoints?”

“You and I have the ramp area,” Guru said, tapping the ramp on the photos. “We both get Rockeyes, and kill anyone parked on the ramp.”

“Sounds good. After last night, those bastards ought to be still on the ground.”

“No guarantees,” Guru reminded her. “Sweaty? You and Hoser take the runways. You get same one as last time: Runway 17/35. Hoser? You're on Runway 13/31. Both of you have Mark-82 Snakeyes.”

“Got it,” Sweaty nodded, and so did Hoser. Nothing new here.

Dave Golen then asked, “And us?”

“You and Flossy have the GATOR Mines. Two centerline, two on each inboard wing station. Put them around the runways, and maybe those repair crews will stay away for a day or two,” Guru said.

“Until they're cleared,” Goalie muttered.

“Until they're cleared,” Guru admitted. “As for the grey Rhinos?” Guru nodded at the RAF contingent. “When I call PULL? You guys assume a TARCAP. Kill anyone on CAP, and get rid of any party-crashers.”

“Sounds good,” Flight Lt. Susan Napier, who was Gladehill's wing pilot, nodded.

“Once Flossy there calls off target,” Guru said. “You guys get your asses down low and headed north.”

“Will do,” Flight Lt. Paul Jackson, Gladehill's pilot, replied.

Guru nodded, then went on. “Ordnance loads: Kara? You and I have Rockeyes, as I said before, plus full air-to-air. Sweaty and Hoser have Mark-82s with the same. And Dave and Flossy have the GATOR mines and air-to-air. That means, for our RAF friends' benefit, four AIM-9Ps, two AIM-7Fs-and be glad we have the Fs now, full 20-mm, two wing tanks, and an ECM pod. That's ALQ-119 for element leads, and ALQ-101 for the wingmen.”

Gladehill then jumped in. “For us, that will be four AIM-9Ls.” He noticed the 335th crews looking at him. AIM-9Ls? Only the F-15s, F-16s, and F/A-18s had those around here. Usually. “Four Sky Flash, two wing tanks, and a SUU-23 pod centerline.”

“Sounds good,” said Guru then he turned to the next subject. “Okay, bailout areas. Anyplace rural and away from the roads. Find a place to hole up and Jolly Greens will come for you, but it'll be at night. Ninety percent of the rescues here take place at night, people. As for the locals? This isn't good Resistance country, but ninety-nine percent plus of the citizenry will help. Even if they don't want to get directly involved, they will pass you on to those who will. This was in the SERE briefing our RAF friends got yesterday, but I do want to repeat it.”

“Got you,” Gladehill said. “And how many today?”

“Chances are, three more,” Guru replied. “Weather is going to be good. Some ground mist, but it should be burn off by the time we're on target. Other than that? Some lingering clouds around 15,000, but nothing at low level.” He looked at those in the room. “As far as mission code goes? We're RAMBLER Flight. Anything else?” Heads shook no. “All right! Let's gear up and get ready to fly. Meet at 512's revetment.”

As people got up to leave, Brainiac, Kara's GIB, noticed something. “Hey, Buddy's fast asleep.” He was referring to the squadron's mascot.

“What does that mean?” Susan Napier asked.

“It means,” Kara replied. “If he sleeps through a brief? We're due for an easy mission. If he wakes up and pays attention? Watch out.”

“So he's an omen? Dave Gladehill said.

“He can be,” Guru replied as he gathered up his briefing materials. An Ops NCO came by to collect them, then headed to the Men's Locker Room to gear up. After getting into his survival vest, G-Suit, and picking up his helmet, he went out, and found Goalie waiting, geared up and ready. “All set?”

“This is going to be interesting,” Goalie said. “We'll see how our friends do in our league.”

“And let's hope they pass,” Guru replied. “Let's go.”


When the two got outside, the sun was just peeking over the eastern horizon. “Good day to fly,” Guru commented.

“It is that,” Goalie said. “Just as long as we all come back. Going skydiving is not in my plan for today.”

“At least we see eye-to-eye on that.”

Pilot and GIB walked to the revetment of their aircraft, 512, and found their flight waiting for them. “Okay, people. Gather 'round.” It was time for Guru to give his final instructions.

“Usual on the radio?” Sweaty asked.

“It is,” Guru said. “For our new friends' benefit, that means mission code to AWACS and other interested parties. Call signs between us.”

“Understood,” Gladehill nodded, and so did the other RAF crewers.

“Okay, if you pick up a SEARCH radar on your EW displays and we've barely crossed the fence? Watch out. That means a Mainstay.”

“Somebody needs to do something about those,” Kara spat.

“Maybe somebody will,” Guru said. “Anything else?” Heads shook no. “All right,” he clapped his hands. “Meet up at ten grand overhead. Time to go get 'em. Let's hit it.”

The crews headed to their aircraft, and Guru and Goalie went into the revetment and their bird, 512. Their Crew Chief, Staff Sergeant Mike Crowley, was waiting, and he snapped a perfect salute. “Major, Lieutenant? Five-twelve's ready to go out and kick some more Commie ass.”

Both Guru and Goalie returned the salute. “Good work, Sarge,” Guru said. They went over the aircraft and did their preflight walk-around. After Guru signed for the aircraft, he and Goalie mounted the aircraft and got strapped into their seats. Then they went through the preflight cockpit checklist.

“Worried?” Goalie asked as they went through the checklist.

“No,” Guru replied. “Just wondering how they'll do,” he said.

“You're not the only one,” Goalie said. “Ejection seats?”

“Armed top and bottom,”said Guru. “They'll do fine, I think.”

“Same here.”

“Arnie and INS?” Guru asked. He meant the ARN-101 DMAS system and the INS.

“Both check out,” replied Goalie. “We're set. Preflight complete and ready for engine start.”

“That we are,” Guru said. He gave a thumbs-up to his Crew Chief, and Sergeant Crowley gave the “Start Engines” signal in reply. First one, then both, J-79 engines were up and running. As they warmed up, Guru called the tower. “Tower, Rambler Flight with eight, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

“Rambler Lead, Tower,” the controller replied. “Clear to taxi to Runway Three-three-Lima. Hold prior to the Active, and you are number two in line.”

“Roger, Tower. Rambler Lead rolling.” Guru gave another thumbs-up, and Sergeant Crowley waved to the ground crew. The chocks were pulled away from the wheels, and Crowley gave the “Taxi” signal. Guru taxied out of the revetment, and as he cleared the revetment, Crowley snapped another perfect salute. Guru and Goalie returned it, then 512 taxied to the holding area, with the other seven F-4s in the flight following. A flight of Marine F-4s was ahead of them, and after the Marines taxied for takeoff, Guru taxied into the holding area. There, the armorers removed the weapon safeties. Then Guru called the Tower.

“Tower, Rambler Lead requesting taxi for takeoff.”

“Rambler Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are two-six-nine for five.”

“Roger, Tower,” Guru replied. “Rambler Lead taxiing for takeoff.” Guru taxied onto the runway, and Kara followed in 520, tucking in at his Five O'clock. A final cockpit check followed, then Guru and Goalie glanced in 520's direction, where Kara and Brainiac gave the thumbs-up. “Ready?”

“All set back here,” Goalie said.

“Time to go,” said Guru. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

As usual, the Tower didn't reply by radio. A flashed green light gave clearance.

“Canopy coming down,” Guru said. He pulled his canopy down and locked it, and Goalie did the same. A quick look had 520 just as squared away. “Let's go.” He firewalled the engines to full power, released the brakes, and 512 rumbled down the runway and into the air, with 520 right with her. Thirty seconds later, it was the turn of Sweaty and Hoser, then came Dave Golen and Flossy. After that, it was Gladehill and Napier. The flight met up at FL 100, then set course south for the tanker track.

[Matt Wiser]

The RAF's first mission, and MiG-29s come to the party:



Over West Central Texas, 0745 Hours Central War Time:


Rambler Flight was headed south, having cleared the I-20, and headed into hostile territory. They were flying parallel to U.S. 283, which was a Main Supply Route for the Soviet 32nd Army in this part of Texas, and everyone knew that supply convoys or units doing a road march had their own Triple-A and SAMs, so the flight was giving the road a decent enough berth, but still close enough to use the road for visual navigation. But the crews weren't just relying on visual, but the GIBs were keeping track of the INS, as well as doing things the old-fashioned way, with a map and stopwatch.

Up front in 512, Guru was concentrating on flying, keeping his head on a swivel. He was checking his instruments, then keeping an eye out for any threats. So far, so good. A quick glance at the EW display still showed clear, then, as if on cue, a strobe appeared, and the SEARCH light came on. “Search radar at One,” he called. “No ID yet.”

“Got it,” Goalie replied from the rear cockpit. It was showing on her display as well. “Looks like a Mainstay.”

Guru took another glance at his EW display. No additional radars were coming up-yet. “Roger that.” Then he called the AWACS. “Yukon, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler Lead, Yukon,” the AWACS called back. “Threat bearing One-eight-one for forty. Medium, going away. Second theat bearing One-five-five for sixty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing One-four-zero for seventy. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon,” Guru replied. “Do you have bogey dope?”

“Stand by, Rambler,” the controller said. After a moment, he came back. “First threats are Fulcrums. Second and third threats are Floggers.”

“Copy,” Guru said. MiG-29s? Okay......those birds had problems with their radars in the look-down/shoot-down mode, so the intel weenies said. They just might slip through the MiGs. Besides, hassling with MiGs was not on the agenda-until after bomb release. “Fulcrums are close.”

“Hope not,” Goalie said. They'd had one encounter with MiG-29s back in New Mexico, and had come out on top. “He's going away.”

“For now.” Guru checked his EW display again. No additional radars, then another strobe came on at their Nine O'Clock, and the SEARCH light came on again. “They're active.” He looked ahead, and the two F-4Gs were still ahead of them, just above. They were at 450 feet AGL, and the Weasels were at 500. “Weasels still quiet.”

Goalie nodded, then checked her map. “Lake Coleman dead ahead.” The lake was a convienent navigation checkpoint, coming or going. “Watch for flak at the dam.”

“Got it,” Guru said as the flight crossed the north shore of the lake. A quick look at their Eleven O'clock revealed the dam, and sure enough, the flak gunners on both sides of the dam came alive. The gunners started shooting, but the 37-mm fire was not well aimed, and the gunners failed to lead their targets.

Once clear of the lake, the town of Coleman was next. “Twenty miles to Coleman. One minute fifteen,” Goalie called.

“Roger that,” Guru replied. He took a look at the EW display. Still just the two strobes signaling search radars, and one of them dropped off-the one off to their right. Good. “Lost one of the radars.”

“Saw that,” said Goalie. “Just the Mainstay. One minute to Coleman.”

The flight maintained course, and the town of Coleman appeared off to the left. The strike flight flew past, and no fire came from the town. “How far to the river?” Guru asked. That meant the Colorado River.

“One minute twenty,” was Goalie's reply.


In Coleman, the Soviet 32nd Army had its headquarters. The Army had not fought at Wichita proper, but had been in Western Kansas when that disaster had happened, and had found an open right flank, and American forces pouring into that flank. The Army had fought in First Central Front's rearguard, all the way from Kansas through Oklahoma, and had nearly been trapped at a place called Vernon, just south of the Red River, before fighting its way south. Now, the Army had two missions. Namely, hold the line south of Interstate 20, and as divisions were pulled off the line, rebuild them for the battles to come.

Major General Pavel Sisov walked down the steps of City Hall in Coleman. The Army had originally been using Brownwood as its headquarters, until that brute Starukhin and his 3rd Shock Army had shown up-by TVD order no less, and he'd been forced to move. Here, the presence of his headquarters had displeased the local garrison, who happened to be a battalion of Cuban reservists-the equivalent of his own Army's Category III, and while the battalion commander seemed a charming enough fellow, more than willing to take orders from Sisov, the other officers were not so....positive. From their point of view, they had a comfortable assignment in the rear, and the presence of the 32nd Army-and not just the headquarters, mind, meant that there would be American attention in the future-namely, air attack and likely activity from the American Resistance. He'd never served in Colorado, Eastern Oklahoma, or the Ozarks in either Missouri or Arkansas, where the terrain was ideal for guerilla warfare, but had heard from those who had. “Afghanistan with trees,” one officer, who was moving up to command a motor-rifle division after service in Colorado, had told him. Here, there wasn't that much activity from the Resistance, or, as the Political Department called them, “Bandits”, but he knew from his own intelligence officer that the underground was laying low, content to snip the occasional phone line, spray some grafitti, set some roadside bombs, and ambush the occasional patrol. For the U.S. Sixth Army had been reinforced, with IV Corps having come down from Colorado, and was helping fill the gap between III Corps and the ROK Expeditionary Force to the west.

Today, he was waiting on a visit from Marshal Kribov, who was coming to the area on an inspection tour. The Marshal was known for wanting to get up as close to the front as possible, and find out from his commanders what was going on, what their needs were, and even talk to some of the men. His Army was still in good shape, though some of the personnel replacements were not to his liking. The 32nd Army was originally from Kazakhstan, and though many of the veterans had served in the 32nd prewar, the replacements were either new draftees with six months' training-if they were lucky. Or if they weren't, only had a months' basic training and a month's orientation at a training center on what to expect in America, before being shipped over. And he'd just gotten two drafts of replacements that fit neither category. One was a group of former Voyska PVO missile operators, either on S-75 or S-125 SAMs, and someone thought they might be useful in SAM units at Army and division level, or in artillery fire-direction teams. Both of which were desperately needed, he knew, but theory was one thing. How it would work in practice, though....Another-and more numerous-draft consisted of several hundred former Strategic Rocket Forces personnel who had served in guard units around missile sites. Now wearing Army uniform, they were going into motor-rifle units as infantry, which appalled several regimental and divisional commanders-and Sisiov shared that view. The Front Commander had listened to his concerns-and those of the other Army commanders, but had told them to get on with it. As for replacement equipment, it was mixed. Oh, the SAMs were being replaced with comparable systems, or more advanced ones-his old division, the 78th Tank Division, had just received the Buk (SA-11 Gadfly) SAM, but as for armor? While the 78th had received new T-72Bs that were equal to the M-60A3, the nearby 155th MRD had been issued replacement T-62s that had been in storage for years, and as for APCs? The 78th had brand-new BMP-2s from the production line in Czechoslovkia, while the 155th had been issued BTR-60Ps with open tops, and the BMP regiment had some of the oldest BMP-1s on inventory sent to them. Shaking his head, General Sisov wanted to make his case to the Marshal that if they were expected to hold their positions against the American offensive that many expected come Spring, he'd need top of the line equipment, not twenty-year old castoffs. And he wasn't the only Army-level commander with those views, Sisov knew.

Now, as he stopped outside City Hall, General Sisov looked for his staff car. He knew Marshal Kribov would fly in later, and going over to the municipal airport to personally oversee preparations for the Marshal's arrival was a good thing. At least it would get him away from the annoying Zampolit he had-one who took the “Political” side of his duties way too seriously, and had become loathed by not just the local population, but also the Cubans in the garrison and the air force personnel running the airport. Maybe an “inspection” trip to the front offered a way to get the man out of his hair, and if the Party hack got himself killed, well and good. His thoughts were interrupted by shouting. General Sisov turned to the west, seeing several soldiers-and locals-pointing in that direction. A group of American aircraft were flying past the town, and he could hear some applause from the civilians. The planes didn't turn to attack the town or the airport, he was relieved to see. Clearly, they were headed for some target to the south, and what they were going after was likely not going to be his problem. Shrugging his shoulders, he called for his ADC, then summoned his staff car.


“That's clear,” Guru said as Coleman disappeared in the flight's wake.

“One minute to the river,” Goalie called. She, too, was also maintaining her visual scanning.

“Got it,” Guru replied. He glanced at his EW display, and that Mainstay radar was still there. But nothing else. Still, someone could be stalking them with radar off. “Yukon, Rambler Lead. Say threat.”

“Rambler, Yukon. Threat bearing One-nine-one for thirty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-six-five for fifty. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing One-five-five for sixty-five. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon,” replied Guru. “So far...”

“So good,” Goalie finished. “Forty-five seconds to the river.”

“Copy.

The flight continued south, and it wasn't long until they got close to the U.S. 283 bridge over the Colorado-and where there were bridges, there was flak.

“Time to turn?” Guru asked.

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

Guru put 512 into a hard left turn, just short of the bridge, and the rest of the flight followed. They didn't notice the gunners at the bridge shooting with their 23-mm and 57-mm guns, for none of the fire came too close. “How far to the next turn?”

“One minute fifteen,” Goalie replied. “Twenty miles.”

“Copy.” The strike flight headed east, and just before the turn at the U.S. 183 bridge which was their next turn point, another radar came up on Guru's EW display. Then another....and the strobes came up as A/A, which meant Air-to-air. “What are those?”

“Fulcrums,” Goalie said. “Want to bet? Turn point in ten.”

“No bets,” Guru replied. “Give me the count.”

“Coming up in five, four, three, two, one, MARK!”

Guru turned north, just short of the bridge, and it, too, had flak gunners. This time, by the time the gunners were ready to fire, the flight was already gone.

“How far to Brownwood?” Guru asked, shooting a glance at the EW display. All three radars were still there, then, one after the other, the Air-to-air radars dropped off the display.

“Twenty miles,” replied Goalie. “One minute fifteen,” she added.

“Got it,” Guru said as he glanced at the display. Still clear apart from the search radar. “Damned Mainstay.”

“If he had us, those MiGs would have been on us,” Goalie reminded him. “Forty seconds.”

“Set 'em up,” he replied. “Everything in one go.” Guru meant the armament controls. He also turned on his ALQ-119 ECM pod.

Goalie worked the switches. “You're set.”

“Flight, Lead. Switches on, Music on, and stand by.” The call meant to arm weapons and turn on their ECM pods.

“Roger, Lead,” Kara replied, and the other strike birds followed suit.

“Fifteen seconds,” Goalie said. “Brownwood dead ahead.”

“Confirm visual,” Guru then called up the Weasels. “Coors One-three, Rambler Lead. Time for you guys to go to work.”

“Roger that!” The Weasel leader replied, as two F-4Gs climbed to start their SAM-suppression work, and all sorts of radars came up, followed by “Magnum” calls. HARM and Standard-ARM missiles left the rails, and two of the radars went off the air.

The EW display was still lit up, as Brownwood appeared dead ahead. “Flight, Lead. PULL.” Guru put 512 into a climb, and as he did, the town passed beneath his bird, the SA-3 site came up, only to go back off the air as a HARM smashed into the battery's Low Blow radar. “Got some flak.”

“All set back here,” Goalie said as Guru climbed past 2,000 feet. Then there it was. “Target at Eleven.”

“Got it,” Guru replied. He leveled out, then began to nose down. “Flight, Lead. Target in sight. Rambler One-seven, take care of any party-crashers.”

“One-seven, roger,” Flight Lt. Paul Jackson replied.

“One-eight copies,” Flight Lt. Suan Napier added.

“Going in,” Guru said as he rolled 512 in onto his bomb run.



At Brownwood Regional Airport, there was a bustle of activity. Not only had there been an American air strike the previous night, which had knocked out Runway 13/31, and had also holed Runway 17/35, and thus the repair crews had been hard at work, filling in the bomb craters and making sure the runways were ready for operations. Then there was the usual hustle and bustle of combat operations, for both the Soviet 92nd IAP and the East German Air Force's JFG-1 were based there, and MiG-23s and MiG-21s were going in and out on operations. There was also some transport activity, as An-24s and 26s came in and out, and a VIP Yak-40 had come in.

Lieutenant General Vladimir Starukhin, the Commander of Third Shock Army, awaited his Theater Commander-in-Chief. CINC-AMERIKA was responsible for the war in what was the Continental United States, and Starukhin had fought in that war from the first day. He'd led Third Shock through Texas and Oklahoma, then Kansas and even up towards Lincoln in Nebraska in 1986, before pulling back south to Kansas. Then had come the disaster at Wichita, where his Army had gone up against the Americans' VII Corps at a town called Newton, and had been shredded. Starukhin had led his Army in the painful retreat through Oklahoma and into Texas, and now that the front had finally stabilized, his Army had been pulled off the line for rest and refit. He, like General Sisiov, had wanted his Army refitted properly, with new T-80s fresh off the production lines, new BMPs and artillery, and most important of all, newer SAMs and antiaircraft guns to defend against American air attack. He'd seen several strikes aimed at Brownwood Airport before, and his own Army's SAM Brigade, the 49th Guards Anti-Aircraft Missile Brigade, along with the Voyska PVO-manned guns and S-125 battery, had trouble fighting them off. The Americans' antiradar missiles were too good, and often, the aircraft were too fast for guns-and, to use last night's strike as an example, if they came in at night, the gunners had trouble picking them up visually.

His divisional commanders were just as loud, screaming for tanks with reactive armor to defeat American anti-tank missiles, improved BMPs and BTRs, and, of course, newer SAMs and artillery. All resented having someone else's castoffs forced upon them, and Starukhin also knew that the Marshal was thinking of forming a Tank Army Group, and having the Tank Armies fully equipped meant that their hammer would be a strong one. Not to mention that the Marshal was also considering prospective commanders for a TAG, and his name, along with Suraykin at 4th Guards Tank Army, was on that list.
Now, Starukhin and his staff waited as the Marshal's Yak-40 transport taxied up to what had been prewar, the airport terminal building. The door opened, and the Marshal, accompanied by his ADC, who Starukhin recognzied, disembarked. The Soviet Air Force Colonel who commanded the operation at the airport greeted the Marshal, then Starukhin and his staff approached. “Comrade Marshal,” Starukhin said, saluting.

Marshal Yevgeni Kribov returned the salute. He had been the theater commander for two years, and had seen the highs-running wild through Texas, New Mexico, and Colorado, and the lows-the Denver Siege dragging on, the horrible war in the swamps and bayous of Louisiana, the guerilla war waged in Colorado, parts of New Mexico, East Texas, the Ozarks and the Quachata Mountains, and then the failure of the Spring-Summer 1986 Offensive, then Wichita and the retreat that had followed. Kribov's staff had feared for his life, but,as Defense Minister Akhromayev had assured him in a phone call, the only alternatives were either Marshal Orgakov-and he was in disgrace. Having planned the invasion, he had been put to pasture as CINC-WEST when the invasion had failed, and the alternative? Marshal Yazov was CINC-FAR EAST, and it was the conensus of the General Staff that Yazov wasn't fit to command anything higher than a division, and only the staff work in Chita and capable subordinates kept things from getting worse. And CINC-KANADA? Three full Generals had held command successively, and all three had been “retired.” The new commander, General Nikolai Ulanov, was only just settling into the job, and Kribov didn't envy him a bit-inheriting a stalemate and an outpost war for the most part.

Now, the front had stabilized, though this Dallas business-though not quite Stalingrad, was a festering sore. Both sides hadn't wanted to get drawn into a city fight, but they had, and though it was a stalemate here, that wouldn't last come Spring. The front was largely parallel, but a bit south of, Interstate 20 for the most part, then up to Interstate 30 to Texarkana, then ran on a line due east to the Mississippi, while in West Texas, the line ran from the I-10/I-20 junction to Mile Marker 65 on I-10, then to the border. The Americans actually held El Paso and the freeway to the east, and the Mexicans were begging him to please, send one division to Juraez, because now they suddenly feared an American invasion-not that after Juraez, there was nothing from Juraez until Chihuahua City-some 380 kilometers south of the border.....let the Mexicans have their panic, for the real war would resume come spring-and he knew full well that it was likely the Americans who would be the ones resuming the offensive.

Such happy thoughts were in Kribov's mind as he went down the stairs of the aircraft, received the salute of the base commander, then noticed Starukhin and his staff waiting. Accompanied by his aide, Colonel Vassily Sergov, Kribov went to see the General who many considered an unimaginative brute and thug, but no one could deny his aggressiveness as a field commander. “General,” Kribov said, returning the salute.

“Comrade Marshal,” Starukhin said. He noticed Colonel Sergov, but was looking for Kribov's Chief of Staff, Lieutenant General Pavel Chibisov. The two cordially despised each other, for Chibisov was a Jew, and Starukhin distrusted-no, despised-him for that very reason. It was an open secret among the staff that both wished the other dead, and if the Americans managed to kill one of them, the other would actually send a thank-you card to the Americans. But since Chibisov wasn't here....”How was the flight?”

“Routine,” Kribov said. “You do know Colonel Sergov?”

“The Colonel and I are...acquainted, Comrade Marshal,” Starukhin replied. “May I introduce my staff?”

Both the Marshal and his aide recognized it at once. Starukhin was playing the charming host, for the command of the Tank Army Group was still open, and both he and Suraykin were the two finalists for the job. Assuming, of course, that Moscow-and that meant the Defense Council-approved the proposal. “Of course, General. Then I want to speak with you with only our respective aides present.”

“As you wish, Comrade Marshal,” Starukhin said. He had just started when sirens began to sound. But it was Colonel Sergov who actually said it.

“Air raid, Comrades!” He pointed to aircraft coming in, and missile trails also inbound.

Kribov turned to the base commander. “Where's the nearest shelter?”

“There's only slit trenches, Comrade Marshal. Come with me,” and the SAF Colonel led the whole party to the trenches as the American aircraft came in.


“Lead's in hot!” Guru called as he rolled 512 in on the bomb run. He noticed the flak starting to come up, but that the SA-3 radar that had come-briefly-had gone off the air, and that an SA-4 had also gone quiet. Good for them, and none of the flak seemed to be radar-guided. As Guru came down, he noticed not only the prewar ramp area, but the ramp areas that the Soviets had built-and the bomb craters in one runway as well as the attempts by the Soviets to expand two old World War II era runways and make them operational. Tough luck, Comrades.....he lined up on the East Ramp, and not only saw MiG-23s and An-24 transports, but also a Yak-40 VIP transport. Somebody big was there.....your bad day. “Steady...Steady....And....HACK!” Guru hit the pickle button, and his twelve Mark-20 Rockeye CBUs came off the racks. He pulled wings level and headed north, jinking as he did so, and all the while the Weasels were doing their job. “Lead's off target.”


In the trench, Kribov, Starukhin, and the other officers huddled. Nothing new here, for all had been under air attack before. Kribov glanced upwards, and saw Guru's F-4 pulling up, followed by what seemed like thousands of firecrackers exploding as the CBU bomblets went off. That was followed by several larger explosions, and Kribov's Yak-40 went up in a fireball. That was a surprise, though several MiGs and an An-24 transport had also fireballed. Shaking his head, the Marshal ducked back down as a second aircraft came in.

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

“How good?” Guru asked. He was jinking to avoid flak and missiles,

“Does a couple of transports and a couple of MiGs sound good enough?” She replied.

“Good enough for me.” Guru kept heading north.


Kara was next down the chute. “Two in hot!” She called as 520 went down on the target. Kara saw the CO make his run, and the secondary explosions that followed in his wake. The ramp areas that had been built since the war started were her target, and there were MiG-21s sitting on the ramp. Those were the East Germans, she knew. Not a good morning, Franz.....Ignoring the flak coming up, and at least one SA-7 type missile that flew past her left side, several MiGs grew larger in her pipper as she came down. “And...And....Steady...And....HACK!” Kara hit her pickle button, and her dozen Rockeyes came off the racks. As she pulled wings level to head out, she glanced to the right, and saw at least one MiG-23 starting to taxi. Somebody might get a kill was Kara's thought as she pulled away, jinking to avoid flak. “Two's off target.”


“Sookin sin!” Son of a bitch, was Starukhin's chosen phrase as the second F-4 came in. Kribov looked at him, and nodded. This was shaping up to be a bitch of a day, and only two Americans had come in. He heard, then saw, two MiG-23s taxiing. Gutsy move, he thought. Still, not a good day to be an aviator. Then he noticed a third aircraft coming in, and ducked.

“GOOD HITS!” Brainiac shouted from 520's back seat. “Multiple secondaries!”

Kara grinned beneath her oxygen mask. “How good?”

“MiGs and maybe a fuel truck good.”

“I'll take those,” Kara replied as she headed out.


“Three's in!” Sweaty called as she went on her run. She, too, ignored the flak as she went down the chute, and to her surprise, saw two MiG-23s taxiing onto Runway 17/35, which was her target. “MiGs on the roll!” she added as the MiGs lit their burners and headed down the runway. No more, Sweaty said to herself as she approached her release point. “And...Steady....And...And.....HACK!” She hit her pickle button, sending a dozen Mark-82 Snakeyes down onto the runway, though as she pulled up and away, she was wishing for Durandals or the Israelis' “Dibber” bombs. The two MiGs were nowhere to be seen as she cleared the target, jinking as she did so. “Three's off target.”

Marshal Krobov heard both the MiGs' takeoff roll and Sweaty's run. “Damn it!” he muttered as first, the two MiG-23s, then the F-4, rumbled past. Unlike the MiGs, the F-4 left explosions in its wake, as the bombs it had deposited on the runway went off. Kribov stuck his head out of the trench to have a look, and saw his personal transport now a burning wreck. He shook his head as two more MiGs-these East German MiG-21s, began to taxi to another runway, then ducked back into the trench.

“SHACK!” Preacher yelled from the back seat. “We got the runway!”

“How many bombs?” Sweaty asked. She was jinking, and also keeping an eye out for MiGs. Where were those two Floggers?”

“Enough!”

She grinned beneath her oxygen mask. “That'll do,” Sweaty replied. “Where's those two MiGs?”


“Four's in hot!” Hoser called as he came in. He, too, saw the MiGs do their takeoff roll just as Sweaty made her run, but knew enough not to go after them. That was someone else's job, he knew. Ignoring the 23-mm and 57-mm flak, he came down on Runway 13/31. Two East German MiG-21s were taxiing onto the runway, he saw, and Hoser also noticed the smoke and flames coming up from both ramp areas. Your turn, Franz...he said to himself as he got ready to release. “Steady....And.....HACK!” Hoser hit his pickle button, releasing his dozen Mark-82s. He pulled wings level and headed out, and like the others, was jinking as he did so. Clearing the target, he called, “Four's off safe.”


In their trench, both Marshal Kribov and General Starukhin took a look as Hoser's F-4 came by. They watched the two East German MiG-21s try a takeoff roll just as the F-4 released its bombs. One of the MiGs aborted its takeoff, but the leader kept going-and a bomb went off right ahead of him. Shrapnel from the explosion tore into the MiG's fuel tanks, and the MiG-21 caught fire-then crashed into the bomb crater and exploded. Kribov grimaced, then turned to the hapless SAF Colonel who ran the base. “Does this happen every time?”

“It can, Comrade Marshal,” the Colonel replied. He got up to look around, then noticed another F-4 coming in. “More incoming!” Then he ducked back into the trench, and the others followed his example.


“GOOD HITS!” KT shouted from Hoser's back seat. “And we got a secondary!”

“What kind?” Hoser said as he jinked-and a stream of 23-mm tracers flew past his right side.

“I think a MiG taxied in front of a bomb,” said KT. “He blew up!”

Hoser sighed. Ground kills in this war-unlike in WW II, weren't officially considered a part of one's tally. Still....”His bad day.” Hoser pulled away, trying to pick up his element lead.


“Five's in hot!” Dave Golen called as he came down on his run. He easily picked out Runway 17/35, and lined up the runway in his pipper. Unlike the others, he and Flossy wouldn't know how they did, for they had the GATOR mines-a mix of antitank and antipersonnel mines, and those were the perfect things to harass repair crews, wreck some of their equipment, and generally put the fear of God into them. It would take a day, maybe two, to clear the mines and get the runways back operational, and that was the point of the exercise. Though he wouldn't mind a fight with MiGs-and two MiG-23s had managed to scramble. Dave put those thoughts aside as he lined up on the bomb run. “Steady...And....NOW!” He hit his pickle button, and his eight CBU-89s came off the racks. Golen pulled wings level and headed clear of the target, jinking all the way. “Five off target.”


In the trench, the base commander heard Golen's F-4 come by, and, glancing up, saw the CBUs fall away. But there were no explosions in its wake. Having had previous strikes, the SAF Colonel knew right away what had happened. Mines. Right away, he knew that this field was now closed, and would be for at least a day. He glanced to the south, and saw another F-4 coming in. Another mine drop, he knew.


“SHACK!” Terry McAuliffe, Golen's GIB, said. “Good pattern.”

“What do you think?” Golen asked as he jinked-and an SA-7 type missile flew down his left side. He also armed his Sidewinders, for there were two MiG-23s out there.

“That runway's closed.”

“Hope you're right.” Now, Golen wondered, where were the MiGs?


“Six in hot!” Flossy called as 1569 came in on its run. She, too, spotted the flak, and glanced at her EW display. Other than that Mainstay, it was clear. Good. Those Weasels were doing their job. Flossy ignored the flak coming up, and a couple of SA-7s fired head-on, which didn't guide, and lined up Runway 13/31 in her pipper. She, too, had the GATOR mines, and held steady as she approached the release point. “Steady....Steady.....HACK!” Flossy hit the pickle button, and eight CBU-89s came off the racks. She, too, pulled wings level and pulled away, As she got clear, Flossy called, “Six off safe.”


In the slit trench, Marshal Kribov looked up, and saw Flossy's F-4 make its run. He, too, noticed the CBUs, and at first, wondered if the bomblets had been set for delayed detonation. Then, after the F-4 cleared the airport, he realized what had been dropped. Mines....He shook his head.

“Good hits!” Jang shouted from 1569's back seat. “You got the runway!”

“How good?'” Flossy asked, arming her Sidewinders as she jinked.

Jang grinned beneath her oxygen mask. “Good enough.”


“Rambler One-seven,” Guru called. “Get your asses down and away.”

“Roger, Leader,” Jackson replied. He and Napier in One-eight dropped from their TARCAP and overflew the field. Just as they did, Gledhill in the back seat saw them. MiG-23s. Jackson saw them as well, and called a warning. “Flossy, break right! Floggers Six O'clock, coming down.”

Without thinking, Flossy broke right, hard. As she did, she saw the two MiG-23s, and the two F-4Js coming in behind them. “Thank you, whoever you are.”

“My pleasure.”

Just then, AWACS called. “Rambler Flight, Yukon. Bandits, bandits, bandits. Two bandits inbound. Bearing One-eight-one for twenty-five. Medium, closing fast. Bandits are Fulcrums. Repeat: Bandits are Fulcrums.”


Guru heard that. “Kara, Lead. On me, and tanks.” He meant the wing tanks, which he immediately jettisoned, and Kara did the same.

“With you, Lead,” Kara replied.

“Rambler One-seven, Lead. Take the Fulcrums, we'll handle the Floggers,” Guru called Jackson and Gledhill. Then he and Kara charged back south, fangs out. Sweaty and Hoser overheard the calls and did the same thing.

“Roger, Lead,” Jackson replied. He and Napier broke off from the Floggers, who had just seen the RAF Phantoms behind them and had themselves broken off from Flossy.

Flossy, meanwhile, had done a 180, and picked up the MiG wingman. He had broken right himself when his leader had picked up the F-4s behind them. Nice try, Ivan...Flossy thought as she uncaged a Sidewinder and got a growl. A few moments later, she was in the Flogger's six, and he didn't seem to be aware she was behind him. “Steady....Got a tone!” Flossy squeezed the trigger. “FOX TWO!” An AIM-9P4 shot off her left inboard rail, and tracked the MiG. The MiG driver reversed at the last moment, but that didn't help, for Flossy's Sidewinder smashed into his tail and exploded. The MiG pitched up, then down, and then plunged into Lake Brownwood, just north of the field. As it did, the canopy came off, the seat fired, and the hapless MiG driver was in a chute. “SPLASH!”

“Good kill, Flossy!” Golen yelled. He, too, was looking for the MiG leader, and found him. The MiG-23 lead was trying to pick up Flossy, but in doing so, he forgot to check his own six. “Big mistake, Ivan,” Golen muttered as he uncaged a Sidewinder. He quickly got tone, and squeezed the trigger. “FOX TWO!” An AIM-9P4 shot off his right inboard rail, and tracked the MiG. This time, the MiG pilot seemed to be unaware of the F-4 behind him, and the Sidewinder flew up the MiG's tailpipe and exploded. The MiG-23ML fireballed, and this time, there was no chute. “SPLASH!”

“Good kill, One-five,” Guru called. “Any sign of the Fulcrums?” He asked Goalie.

“I'm tryin' baby,” Goalie replied. “Wait...two hits at ten.”

“Go boresight.” That would center the radar with the gunsight, and with auto-acquisition, that would give a full lock for their new AIM-7Fs.

“You got it,” Goalie said.

However, Rambler One-seven and One-eight rendered such preparations moot. In One-seven's back seat. Squadron Leader Gledhill had both MiGs on his AWG-10 radar. “Two hits at twelve.”

“Go radar, and lock one up,” Jackson said. He may have been a Flight Lieutenant, but as pilot, he was aircraft commander.

“Steady...and...GOT HIM!”

“Taking the shot,” Jackson said. “Rambler One-seven, FOX ONE!” He squeezed the trigger, sending a Sky Flash missile after the MiG. Then, recalling the briefing the previous day, and the experiences of both the 335th and the Marines, he squeezed it again. “FOX ONE AGAIN!” Another Sky Flash missile shot away.

In the MiG leader's cockpit, the CO of Second Squadron, 515th IAP, was surprised. The Major had been on a CAP with his wingman, a Captain and Pilot 2nd Class, when the A-50 vectored them towards Brownwood. The field was under attack, and that was all the controller knew. His MiG-29A had had an avionics upgrade, but his RWR couldn't tell specific radars-only if a radar was air-to-air or surface-to-air. Still, he and his wingman acknowledged the vector, and closed in, despite what those Voyska PVO trogs said, in Frontal Aviation, once you were told to go after the enemy, the controller was no longer a concern. That was fine for defense against bombers and wayward airliners, but against tactical fighters and strike aircraft? No, the Air Force's way was better.

Now, he had several targets on his NO19 radar, and selected one. He was trying to lock one up for his R-72 radar-guided missiles when his Sirena-3 RWR lit up. He'd been locked up. Then he saw a pair of F-4s ahead of him, and one fired. “BREAK!” The Major called to his wingman, and he broke right at once. As he did, he lost sight of his wingman....


Jackson and Gledhill watched as their two Sky Flashes tracked the trailing MiG. He broke at the last minute, turning left. The first Sky Flash missed, but the left turn solved the problem for the second missile....The Sky Flash buried itself in the MiG's belly, between both engines, and the MiG-29 exploded in a ball of fire. An explosion that big, nobody could have gotten out. “Splash one Fulcrum!”

“Hear that?” Goalie asked. “Jackson and Gledhill got a MiG-29.”

“I heard. Where's the other one?”

“Going left, and Susan Napier's on him,” Goalie said.

“If he breaks our way, I'll take him,” said Guru.

In 520, Kara was jealous. MiG-29? “Lock the other one up,” she told Brainiac.

Her GIB was busy. “He's good. Can't get him.”

“Fuck that! Keep on him.”


Napier was on the MiG leader's tail. “Six clear?” She asked her GIB.

Razor Wilkinson, in the back seat, had a look around, then replied, “Six clear, Susan. He's yours.”

Napier uncaged a Sidewinder and quickly got lock. “FOX TWO!” An AIM-9L shot off the left inboard rail, and tracked the MiG. The Sidewinder flew left, then right, then tracked straight for the MiG-29, but fired its warhead harmlessly to the rear. Napier cursed, then, still having tone, she saw the MiG reverse his turn, then she shot another Sidewinder. “FOX TWO AGAIN!”

The MiG leader saw the F-4 behind him, and the Sidewinder. He maintained his turn, knowing Sidewinders couldn't track a target pulling more than a 6-G turn. Then he saw someone's SAM-maybe a Krug (SA-4) come up, and he reversed his turn to avoid the missile. Then he felt a huge jolt to the rear, every warning light came on, then he lost control. Without thinking, he grabbed the handle, and fired his K-36 ejection seat. A few moments later, hanging in his chute, he saw the grey-painted F-4 fly past. To his shock, instead of the MARINES painted on the side, he saw the roundel and tail flash of an enemy encountered up in Canada. British. “What are the English doing here?”

Napier and Razor saw the Sidewinder track the MiG and detonate. The explosion took off the left tail and horizontal stabilizer, and the MiG, trailing fire, plunged downward. Then the canopy came off, the seat fired, and the pilot was hanging in his chute. Napier was tempted to blow him a kiss as she flew by, but held it. “SPLASH ONE!”

“Copy that,” Guru replied. “Ramblers, form up and let's get the hell out of here. Weasels, cover us, then get on out.”

“Roger that, Rambler,” Coors One-three called. “MAGNUM!” He shot his last HARM at a SA-4 radar, and his wingman fired his last Standard-ARM at a AAA radar that had come up. “Coors coming out.”

Rambler Flight got back down low, and headed north. Twenty-five miles to the I-20, as they got down to 450 Feet AGL. “Whoo!” Guru said in 512. “That was an E-Ticket ride.”

“You're not alone,” Goalie replied. “One minute thirty to the fence.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. “Two, where are you?”

“Right with you, Boss,” Kara replied.

Guru took a quick look to his right, and Kara was right with him in Combat Spread. “Got you, Two. Sweaty?”

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

“Roger that,”

Before Guru could call him, Dave Golen came up. “Five and six are behind Sweaty.”

“One-seven and One-eight with you,” Jackson added.

“Roger, One-seven,” said Guru.

“One minute to the fence,” Goalie called.


Back at Brownwood Airport, the base commander was already shouting orders. He'd told the Control Tower to call airborne aircraft and advise them that the field was now closed, and that alternatives should be sought. Then he'd kicked his engineers into action, and the slow process of getting the field back operational began. First, though, those insidious GATOR mines-which his people were already too familiar with, had to be cleared before any work on the runways could begin. He turned to General Starukhin. “Comrade General, may we use some of your engineers to get the runways clear of mines?”

Normally, Starukhin would have refused the request. But with the Marshal here, and Starukhin noticed Kribov's eyes on him....”Of course, Colonel.” He motioned to his Chief of Staff, who then relayed the order to the Army's 323rd Independent Engineer Brigade, as well as the nearby 10th Guards Tank Division's own engineeers.

“Thank you, Comrade General,” the SAF Colonel replied.

Then two downed pilots were brought to the Colonel. He recognized one, the deputy commander from the 92nd IAP's Second Squadron, and the other, though, was a newcomer to him. “Comrades,” he said. “What happened?”

“Sidewinder, Comrade Colonel,” the Captain said. “No radar warning, and as soon as I lost control, I ejected. Saw a Southeast-Asia painted F-4 fly past.”

The Colonel nodded. Two wings and an independent squadron flew F-4s so painted in this sector, so the intelligence reports told him. “And you, Major?” He nodded at the MiG-29 pilot.

“Grey F-4, Comrade Colonel,” the Major said. “But...it was painted differently from the U.S. Navy or Marines, and the insignia...”

“What about it?”

“The tail flash and roundel, Comrade Colonel. They were British!”

Kribov and Starukhin overheard that. “You are certain, Major?” Kribov asked.

Seeing the Marshal, the Major stiffened to attention. “Yes, Comrade Marshal. I would swear in court!”

Kribov had a frown at that. If the British could spare a fighter squadron or two, then they could easily spare a brigade-or a division-to fight down here, especially with the Northern Theater in stalemate. “General,” he turned to Starukhin. “You do have secure communications means?” With his Yak-40 now a blazing wreck, he was out of touch with his HQ at Fort Sam Houston.

“Certainly, Comrade Marshal,” Starukhin replied.

“Good. Colonel Sergov?” Kribov's aide came up. 'Get in touch with the Air Force intelligence people at Headquarters. Inform them of this development, and request any information on any additional American Allied forces in-theater. If the British can spare a squadron, they might be able to spare a division.”

“Immediately, Comrade Marshal,” Sergov replied.

Kribov nodded. “Starukhin, let's go to your headquarters. We have many things to discuss, and this morning's events are one of them.”


In 512, Guru asked, “How far to the fence?”

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie replied.

“Roger that,” the CO said. He took a look at the EW display. That damned Mainstay still had them. Though at 450 Feet, did they have a good enough track? That, was the $64,000 question. “Yukon, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler, Yukon. Threat bearing One-six-five for fifty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-four-zero for sixty-five. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon,” Guru replied.

“Coming up on the Fence,” Goalie called.

Guru saw the twin ribbons of I-20 appear, and just as they did, the Mainstay radar dropped off. The EW display was now clear. “Roger that. Crossing the fence....now. Flight, Lead. Verify IFF is on, out.” He turned on his IFF, for the Army HAWK people were often quick on the trigger, operating on the “Shoot them down and let God sort them out” principle.

Once clear of the I-20, the flight climbed to altitude, and headed for the tanker track. After the post-strike refueling, the Weasels headed for Reese AFB and home, while Rambler headed for Sheppard. When the flight got there, they were third in the incoming pattern, behind a Marine Hornet flight and the Westbound C-141. When it was their turn, the flight made a flyby, and the four victorious aircraft did victory rolls, much to the delight of those on the ground. Then the flight formed up and landed.

As they taxied in, the crews who had scored kills popped their canopies, then held up fingers to signal kills, and the RAF people-those waiting to go out, and those who had come back, were properly ecstatic. The news crew was filming, and Ms. Wendt asked Kodak Griffith and Patti Brown-who had just come back herself from a strike, if they could send a story.

“Haven't heard anything different,” Griffith said. “But we'd best check anyway.”

“No guidance from the Tenth Air Force?” Wendt asked. She had fumed at the delay in getting out the story about General Yeager and his Yak-28 kill, but the AF had lifted the ban, and her story had gone right to CBS first, then Sydney.

“We'll make a couple of phone calls,” Brown said. “See what the deal is.”


The flight taxied into their dispersal areas-with the RAF using the revetments that Yeager's F-20s had used, while the 335th Phantoms went to theirs. Guru taxied 512 into its revetment. After getting the “Shut down” signal from his Crew Chief, Guru and Goalie went over the post-flight checklist. “That was a wild one,” Guru said. “Haven't had one of those in a while.”

“Can't all be milk runs,” Goalie reminded him. “But yeah, that strike had a high adrenalin content.”

The ground crew put the chocks around the wheels, and brought the crew ladder. After the checklist, Guru and Goalie climbed down from the aircraft and did a post-flight walk-around. Sergeant Crowley, the Crew Chief, was waiting with bottles of water for both. “How'd it go, Major?”

“Made some grounded MiGs go away,” Guru said. He took a swig of water, then added. “And a VIP transport. Somebody's going to have to go back to wherever in coach.”

“And Major Golen and Flossy each got MiGs,” Goalie added. She, too, took a swig of water. “And the Brits got a couple of Fulcrums off our asses.”

“Shit hot, Ma'am!” Crowley said. “Uh, sir...”

Guru laughed. “You can cuss all you want on the ramp, Sarge,” he said. The CO turned serious. “Five-twelve's truckin' like a champ. Don't change whatever you're doing, Sarge, and get her ready for the next one.”

Crowley beamed at that. “You got it, Major!” he said. “All right, you guys! You heard the Major. Get this bird ready for the next one.”

Guru and Goalie put on their bush hats, then went to the entrance to the revetment. Kara and Brainiac were already there. “Well?” Guru asked.

“Tore up the MiG-21 ramp,” Kara said. “And saw your VIP transport go up.”

“Who was in that?” Goalie asked.

“I'll tell Sin Licon, and he can put a query in with Tenth AF Intelligence,” said Guru. “Intel may tell us tomorrow, or they may never tell us.”

Kara spat. “Or something in between.”

Guru nodded. “Or that,” he said. “Sweaty, Hoser? How'd it go with you guys?” The CO asked as his second element came up.

“Tore up the runway, and Hoser there got a MiG on the runway,” Sweaty replied.

Hoser said, “Don't know if he ate a bomb or went into a crater. Too bad ground kills don't count.”

“Too easy,” Dave Golen said as he and Flossy, with their GIBs, came over.

“They are,” Guru nodded agreement. “Good work on those Floggers, both of you. That's what? Seven for both you two?”

Golen and Flossy nodded, then she added, “Seven for me, but Jang's first.”

Jang was smiling. “Flossy told me to expect MiGs when I took Digger's place,” she said. “She was right.”

“He'll be back next week,” Guru said. “But...we're getting two new pilots to replace the guys Yeager poached for the F-20, and you'll get teamed with one of them.”

“Sounds good to me, Boss,” Jang grinned.

Then the RAF crews came over. “Dave,” Guru said to Gledhill. “First mission in theater, and you get MiG-29s.”

Gledhill nodded. “They cared to send some of their best,” he said. “That's seven for me now, but Paul's fourth. Normally, I'd be with James, but our flight surgeon-and yours-decided he had a cold yesterday.”

Heads nodded all around. Normally, Flight Lt. James Bruce was Gledhill's pilot, but he had started a sneezing fit the previous afternoon, and both the RAF flight surgeon, along with Doc Waters, the 335th's, had examined him. The joint diagnosis was a cold, and Bruce had been immediately grounded for five days. “They do outrank us in anything medical,”

“Unfortunately,” Kara spat.

“Down, girl,” Guru said.

Sweaty turned to Susan Napier. “You've now got four, so be careful. Need to tell you what Guru there told us when Kara and I got to number four.”

Napier was curious. “What's that?”

“Simple,” Kara grinned. “Don't go looking for number five. You might run into somebody who's out for his fifth.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Just then, a pair of Dodge Crew-cab pickups pulled up, and Sin Licon got out of one. “Sin,” the CO nodded.

“Major,” Licon said. “We need to debrief. My RAF counterpart is waiting.”

“Let's get the MiG engagement out here,” Guru said.

Licon nodded, and he listened to the MiG-killers go through the engagement, with the usual waving of hands. “Okay, looks like Major Golen and Flossy each have their seventh,” he said.

Goalie chimed in. “And the first for Jang.”

“That it is,” Sin agreed. “Squadron Leader? Your crew and Napier's each have a MiG-29.”

Hearing that, both crews were pleased. “Thanks, Captain,” Gledhill said.

“You're welcome, sir,” Licon said. “Major, we need to get the debrief done.”

Guru nodded. “That we do. Let's get that done, then we all need to check our desks-even our RAF friends probably have squadron paperwork they need to take care of,” he said, seeing Gledhill nod. “Then we get ready to do this again.”

“We all going back out together?” Susan Napier asked.

“Depends on the ATO,” Guru replied.

“It is that,” Dave Golen added. “I've flown strikes with Guru's flight, then the next mission? I'm going with Flossy on a two-ship.”

Flossy nodded agreement. “He's right.”

“That he is,” said Guru. “Okay, let's debrief inside, then we'll find out what the ATO has for us.”

[Matt Wiser]

The RAF's first mission with the 335th: Anyone recognize a certain Soviet Colonel from RS/LS, and a General from Red Army?



Over West Central Texas, 0745 Hours Central War Time:


Rambler Flight was headed south, having cleared the I-20, and headed into hostile territory. They were flying parallel to U.S. 283, which was a Main Supply Route for the Soviet 32nd Army in this part of Texas, and everyone knew that supply convoys or units doing a road march had their own Triple-A and SAMs, so the flight was giving the road a decent enough berth, but still close enough to use the road for visual navigation. But the crews weren't just relying on visual, but the GIBs were keeping track of the INS, as well as doing things the old-fashioned way, with a map and stopwatch.

Up front in 512, Guru was concentrating on flying, keeping his head on a swivel. He was checking his instruments, then keeping an eye out for any threats. So far, so good. A quick glance at the EW display still showed clear, then, as if on cue, a strobe appeared, and the SEARCH light came on. “Search radar at One,” he called. “No ID yet.”

“Got it,” Goalie replied from the rear cockpit. It was showing on her display as well. “Looks like a Mainstay.”

Guru took another glance at his EW display. No additional radars were coming up-yet. “Roger that.” Then he called the AWACS. “Yukon, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler Lead, Yukon,” the AWACS called back. “Threat bearing One-eight-one for forty. Medium, going away. Second theat bearing One-five-five for sixty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing One-four-zero for seventy. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon,” Guru replied. “Do you have bogey dope?”

“Stand by, Rambler,” the controller said. After a moment, he came back. “First threats are Fulcrums. Second and third threats are Floggers.”

“Copy,” Guru said. MiG-29s? Okay......those birds had problems with their radars in the look-down/shoot-down mode, so the intel weenies said. They just might slip through the MiGs. Besides, hassling with MiGs was not on the agenda-until after bomb release. “Fulcrums are close.”

“Hope not,” Goalie said. They'd had one encounter with MiG-29s back in New Mexico, and had come out on top. “He's going away.”

“For now.” Guru checked his EW display again. No additional radars, then another strobe came on at their Nine O'Clock, and the SEARCH light came on again. “They're active.” He looked ahead, and the two F-4Gs were still ahead of them, just above. They were at 450 feet AGL, and the Weasels were at 500. “Weasels still quiet.”

Goalie nodded, then checked her map. “Lake Coleman dead ahead.” The lake was a convienent navigation checkpoint, coming or going. “Watch for flak at the dam.”

“Got it,” Guru said as the flight crossed the north shore of the lake. A quick look at their Eleven O'clock revealed the dam, and sure enough, the flak gunners on both sides of the dam came alive. The gunners started shooting, but the 37-mm fire was not well aimed, and the gunners failed to lead their targets.

Once clear of the lake, the town of Coleman was next. “Twenty miles to Coleman. One minute fifteen,” Goalie called.

“Roger that,” Guru replied. He took a look at the EW display. Still just the two strobes signaling search radars, and one of them dropped off-the one off to their right. Good. “Lost one of the radars.”

“Saw that,” said Goalie. “Just the Mainstay. One minute to Coleman.”

The flight maintained course, and the town of Coleman appeared off to the left. The strike flight flew past, and no fire came from the town. “How far to the river?” Guru asked. That meant the Colorado River.

“One minute twenty,” was Goalie's reply.


In Coleman, the Soviet 32nd Army had its headquarters. The Army had not fought at Wichita proper, but had been in Western Kansas when that disaster had happened, and had found an open right flank, and American forces pouring into that flank. The Army had fought in First Central Front's rearguard, all the way from Kansas through Oklahoma, and had nearly been trapped at a place called Vernon, just south of the Red River, before fighting its way south. Now, the Army had two missions. Namely, hold the line south of Interstate 20, and as divisions were pulled off the line, rebuild them for the battles to come.

Major General Pavel Sisov walked down the steps of City Hall in Coleman. The Army had originally been using Brownwood as its headquarters, until that brute Starukhin and his 3rd Shock Army had shown up-by TVD order no less, and he'd been forced to move. Here, the presence of his headquarters had displeased the local garrison, who happened to be a battalion of Cuban reservists-the equivalent of his own Army's Category III, and while the battalion commander seemed a charming enough fellow, more than willing to take orders from Sisov, the other officers were not so....positive. From their point of view, they had a comfortable assignment in the rear, and the presence of the 32nd Army-and not just the headquarters, mind, meant that there would be American attention in the future-namely, air attack and likely activity from the American Resistance. He'd never served in Colorado, Eastern Oklahoma, or the Ozarks in either Missouri or Arkansas, where the terrain was ideal for guerilla warfare, but had heard from those who had. “Afghanistan with trees,” one officer, who was moving up to command a motor-rifle division after service in Colorado, had told him. Here, there wasn't that much activity from the Resistance, or, as the Political Department called them, “Bandits”, but he knew from his own intelligence officer that the underground was laying low, content to snip the occasional phone line, spray some grafitti, set some roadside bombs, and ambush the occasional patrol. For the U.S. Sixth Army had been reinforced, with IV Corps having come down from Colorado, and was helping fill the gap between III Corps and the ROK Expeditionary Force to the west.

Today, he was waiting on a visit from Marshal Kribov, who was coming to the area on an inspection tour. The Marshal was known for wanting to get up as close to the front as possible, and find out from his commanders what was going on, what their needs were, and even talk to some of the men. His Army was still in good shape, though some of the personnel replacements were not to his liking. The 32nd Army was originally from Kazakhstan, and though many of the veterans had served in the 32nd prewar, the replacements were either new draftees with six months' training-if they were lucky. Or if they weren't, only had a months' basic training and a month's orientation at a training center on what to expect in America, before being shipped over. And he'd just gotten two drafts of replacements that fit neither category. One was a group of former Voyska PVO missile operators, either on S-75 or S-125 SAMs, and someone thought they might be useful in SAM units at Army and division level, or in artillery fire-direction teams. Both of which were desperately needed, he knew, but theory was one thing. How it would work in practice, though....Another-and more numerous-draft consisted of several hundred former Strategic Rocket Forces personnel who had served in guard units around missile sites. Now wearing Army uniform, they were going into motor-rifle units as infantry, which appalled several regimental and divisional commanders-and Sisiov shared that view. The Front Commander had listened to his concerns-and those of the other Army commanders, but had told them to get on with it. As for replacement equipment, it was mixed. Oh, the SAMs were being replaced with comparable systems, or more advanced ones-his old division, the 78th Tank Division, had just received the Buk (SA-11 Gadfly) SAM, but as for armor? While the 78th had received new T-72Bs that were equal to the M-60A3, the nearby 155th MRD had been issued replacement T-62s that had been in storage for years, and as for APCs? The 78th had brand-new BMP-2s from the production line in Czechoslovkia, while the 155th had been issued BTR-60Ps with open tops, and the BMP regiment had some of the oldest BMP-1s on inventory sent to them. Shaking his head, General Sisov wanted to make his case to the Marshal that if they were expected to hold their positions against the American offensive that many expected come Spring, he'd need top of the line equipment, not twenty-year old castoffs. And he wasn't the only Army-level commander with those views, Sisov knew.

Now, as he stopped outside City Hall, General Sisov looked for his staff car. He knew Marshal Kribov would fly in later, and going over to the municipal airport to personally oversee preparations for the Marshal's arrival was a good thing. At least it would get him away from the annoying Zampolit he had-one who took the “Political” side of his duties way too seriously, and had become loathed by not just the local population, but also the Cubans in the garrison and the air force personnel running the airport. Maybe an “inspection” trip to the front offered a way to get the man out of his hair, and if the Party hack got himself killed, well and good. His thoughts were interrupted by shouting. General Sisov turned to the west, seeing several soldiers-and locals-pointing in that direction. A group of American aircraft were flying past the town, and he could hear some applause from the civilians. The planes didn't turn to attack the town or the airport, he was relieved to see. Clearly, they were headed for some target to the south, and what they were going after was likely not going to be his problem. Shrugging his shoulders, he called for his ADC, then summoned his staff car.


“That's clear,” Guru said as Coleman disappeared in the flight's wake.

“One minute to the river,” Goalie called. She, too, was also maintaining her visual scanning.

“Got it,” Guru replied. He glanced at his EW display, and that Mainstay radar was still there. But nothing else. Still, someone could be stalking them with radar off. “Yukon, Rambler Lead. Say threat.”

“Rambler, Yukon. Threat bearing One-nine-one for thirty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-six-five for fifty. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing One-five-five for sixty-five. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon,” replied Guru. “So far...”

“So good,” Goalie finished. “Forty-five seconds to the river.”

“Copy.

The flight continued south, and it wasn't long until they got close to the U.S. 283 bridge over the Colorado-and where there were bridges, there was flak.

“Time to turn?” Guru asked.

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

Guru put 512 into a hard left turn, just short of the bridge, and the rest of the flight followed. They didn't notice the gunners at the bridge shooting with their 23-mm and 57-mm guns, for none of the fire came too close. “How far to the next turn?”

“One minute fifteen,” Goalie replied. “Twenty miles.”

“Copy.” The strike flight headed east, and just before the turn at the U.S. 183 bridge which was their next turn point, another radar came up on Guru's EW display. Then another....and the strobes came up as A/A, which meant Air-to-air. “What are those?”

“Fulcrums,” Goalie said. “Want to bet? Turn point in ten.”

“No bets,” Guru replied. “Give me the count.”

“Coming up in five, four, three, two, one, MARK!”

Guru turned north, just short of the bridge, and it, too, had flak gunners. This time, by the time the gunners were ready to fire, the flight was already gone.

“How far to Brownwood?” Guru asked, shooting a glance at the EW display. All three radars were still there, then, one after the other, the Air-to-air radars dropped off the display.

“Twenty miles,” replied Goalie. “One minute fifteen,” she added.

“Got it,” Guru said as he glanced at the display. Still clear apart from the search radar. “Damned Mainstay.”

“If he had us, those MiGs would have been on us,” Goalie reminded him. “Forty seconds.”

“Set 'em up,” he replied. “Everything in one go.” Guru meant the armament controls. He also turned on his ALQ-119 ECM pod.

Goalie worked the switches. “You're set.”

“Flight, Lead. Switches on, Music on, and stand by.” The call meant to arm weapons and turn on their ECM pods.

“Roger, Lead,” Kara replied, and the other strike birds followed suit.

“Fifteen seconds,” Goalie said. “Brownwood dead ahead.”

“Confirm visual,” Guru then called up the Weasels. “Coors One-three, Rambler Lead. Time for you guys to go to work.”

“Roger that!” The Weasel leader replied, as two F-4Gs climbed to start their SAM-suppression work, and all sorts of radars came up, followed by “Magnum” calls. HARM and Standard-ARM missiles left the rails, and two of the radars went off the air.

The EW display was still lit up, as Brownwood appeared dead ahead. “Flight, Lead. PULL.” Guru put 512 into a climb, and as he did, the town passed beneath his bird, the SA-3 site came up, only to go back off the air as a HARM smashed into the battery's Low Blow radar. “Got some flak.”

“All set back here,” Goalie said as Guru climbed past 2,000 feet. Then there it was. “Target at Eleven.”

“Got it,” Guru replied. He leveled out, then began to nose down. “Flight, Lead. Target in sight. Rambler One-seven, take care of any party-crashers.”

“One-seven, roger,” Flight Lt. Paul Jackson replied.

“One-eight copies,” Flight Lt. Suan Napier added.

“Going in,” Guru said as he rolled 512 in onto his bomb run.



At Brownwood Regional Airport, there was a bustle of activity. Not only had there been an American air strike the previous night, which had knocked out Runway 13/31, and had also holed Runway 17/35, and thus the repair crews had been hard at work, filling in the bomb craters and making sure the runways were ready for operations. Then there was the usual hustle and bustle of combat operations, for both the Soviet 92nd IAP and the East German Air Force's JFG-1 were based there, and MiG-23s and MiG-21s were going in and out on operations. There was also some transport activity, as An-24s and 26s came in and out, and a VIP Yak-40 had come in.

Lieutenant General Vladimir Starukhin, the Commander of Third Shock Army, awaited his Theater Commander-in-Chief. CINC-AMERIKA was responsible for the war in what was the Continental United States, and Starukhin had fought in that war from the first day. He'd led Third Shock through Texas and Oklahoma, then Kansas and even up towards Lincoln in Nebraska in 1986, before pulling back south to Kansas. Then had come the disaster at Wichita, where his Army had gone up against the Americans' VII Corps at a town called Newton, and had been shredded. Starukhin had led his Army in the painful retreat through Oklahoma and into Texas, and now that the front had finally stabilized, his Army had been pulled off the line for rest and refit. He, like General Sisiov, had wanted his Army refitted properly, with new T-80s fresh off the production lines, new BMPs and artillery, and most important of all, newer SAMs and antiaircraft guns to defend against American air attack. He'd seen several strikes aimed at Brownwood Airport before, and his own Army's SAM Brigade, the 49th Guards Anti-Aircraft Missile Brigade, along with the Voyska PVO-manned guns and S-125 battery, had trouble fighting them off. The Americans' antiradar missiles were too good, and often, the aircraft were too fast for guns-and, to use last night's strike as an example, if they came in at night, the gunners had trouble picking them up visually.

His divisional commanders were just as loud, screaming for tanks with reactive armor to defeat American anti-tank missiles, improved BMPs and BTRs, and, of course, newer SAMs and artillery. All resented having someone else's castoffs forced upon them, and Starukhin also knew that the Marshal was thinking of forming a Tank Army Group, and having the Tank Armies fully equipped meant that their hammer would be a strong one. Not to mention that the Marshal was also considering prospective commanders for a TAG, and his name, along with Suraykin at 4th Guards Tank Army, was on that list.
Now, Starukhin and his staff waited as the Marshal's Yak-40 transport taxied up to what had been prewar, the airport terminal building. The door opened, and the Marshal, accompanied by his ADC, who Starukhin recognzied, disembarked. The Soviet Air Force Colonel who commanded the operation at the airport greeted the Marshal, then Starukhin and his staff approached. “Comrade Marshal,” Starukhin said, saluting.

Marshal Yevgeni Kribov returned the salute. He had been the theater commander for two years, and had seen the highs-running wild through Texas, New Mexico, and Colorado, and the lows-the Denver Siege dragging on, the horrible war in the swamps and bayous of Louisiana, the guerilla war waged in Colorado, parts of New Mexico, East Texas, the Ozarks and the Quachata Mountains, and then the failure of the Spring-Summer 1986 Offensive, then Wichita and the retreat that had followed. Kribov's staff had feared for his life, but,as Defense Minister Akhromayev had assured him in a phone call, the only alternatives were either Marshal Orgakov-and he was in disgrace. Having planned the invasion, he had been put to pasture as CINC-WEST when the invasion had failed, and the alternative? Marshal Yazov was CINC-FAR EAST, and it was the conensus of the General Staff that Yazov wasn't fit to command anything higher than a division, and only the staff work in Chita and capable subordinates kept things from getting worse. And CINC-KANADA? Three full Generals had held command successively, and all three had been “retired.” The new commander, General Nikolai Ulanov, was only just settling into the job, and Kribov didn't envy him a bit-inheriting a stalemate and an outpost war for the most part.

Now, the front had stabilized, though this Dallas business-though not quite Stalingrad, was a festering sore. Both sides hadn't wanted to get drawn into a city fight, but they had, and though it was a stalemate here, that wouldn't last come Spring. The front was largely parallel, but a bit south of, Interstate 20 for the most part, then up to Interstate 30 to Texarkana, then ran on a line due east to the Mississippi, while in West Texas, the line ran from the I-10/I-20 junction to Mile Marker 65 on I-10, then to the border. The Americans actually held El Paso and the freeway to the east, and the Mexicans were begging him to please, send one division to Juraez, because now they suddenly feared an American invasion-not that after Juraez, there was nothing from Juraez until Chihuahua City-some 380 kilometers south of the border.....let the Mexicans have their panic, for the real war would resume come spring-and he knew full well that it was likely the Americans who would be the ones resuming the offensive.

Such happy thoughts were in Kribov's mind as he went down the stairs of the aircraft, received the salute of the base commander, then noticed Starukhin and his staff waiting. Accompanied by his aide, Colonel Vassily Sergov, Kribov went to see the General who many considered an unimaginative brute and thug, but no one could deny his aggressiveness as a field commander. “General,” Kribov said, returning the salute.

“Comrade Marshal,” Starukhin said. He noticed Colonel Sergov, but was looking for Kribov's Chief of Staff, Lieutenant General Pavel Chibisov. The two cordially despised each other, for Chibisov was a Jew, and Starukhin distrusted-no, despised-him for that very reason. It was an open secret among the staff that both wished the other dead, and if the Americans managed to kill one of them, the other would actually send a thank-you card to the Americans. But since Chibisov wasn't here....”How was the flight?”

“Routine,” Kribov said. “You do know Colonel Sergov?”

“The Colonel and I are...acquainted, Comrade Marshal,” Starukhin replied. “May I introduce my staff?”

Both the Marshal and his aide recognized it at once. Starukhin was playing the charming host, for the command of the Tank Army Group was still open, and both he and Suraykin were the two finalists for the job. Assuming, of course, that Moscow-and that meant the Defense Council-approved the proposal. “Of course, General. Then I want to speak with you with only our respective aides present.”

“As you wish, Comrade Marshal,” Starukhin said. He had just started when sirens began to sound. But it was Colonel Sergov who actually said it.

“Air raid, Comrades!” He pointed to aircraft coming in, and missile trails also inbound.

Kribov turned to the base commander. “Where's the nearest shelter?”

“There's only slit trenches, Comrade Marshal. Come with me,” and the SAF Colonel led the whole party to the trenches as the American aircraft came in.


“Lead's in hot!” Guru called as he rolled 512 in on the bomb run. He noticed the flak starting to come up, but that the SA-3 radar that had come-briefly-had gone off the air, and that an SA-4 had also gone quiet. Good for them, and none of the flak seemed to be radar-guided. As Guru came down, he noticed not only the prewar ramp area, but the ramp areas that the Soviets had built-and the bomb craters in one runway as well as the attempts by the Soviets to expand two old World War II era runways and make them operational. Tough luck, Comrades.....he lined up on the East Ramp, and not only saw MiG-23s and An-24 transports, but also a Yak-40 VIP transport. Somebody big was there.....your bad day. “Steady...Steady....And....HACK!” Guru hit the pickle button, and his twelve Mark-20 Rockeye CBUs came off the racks. He pulled wings level and headed north, jinking as he did so, and all the while the Weasels were doing their job. “Lead's off target.”


In the trench, Kribov, Starukhin, and the other officers huddled. Nothing new here, for all had been under air attack before. Kribov glanced upwards, and saw Guru's F-4 pulling up, followed by what seemed like thousands of firecrackers exploding as the CBU bomblets went off. That was followed by several larger explosions, and Kribov's Yak-40 went up in a fireball. That was a surprise, though several MiGs and an An-24 transport had also fireballed. Shaking his head, the Marshal ducked back down as a second aircraft came in.

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

“How good?” Guru asked. He was jinking to avoid flak and missiles,

“Does a couple of transports and a couple of MiGs sound good enough?” She replied.

“Good enough for me.” Guru kept heading north.


Kara was next down the chute. “Two in hot!” She called as 520 went down on the target. Kara saw the CO make his run, and the secondary explosions that followed in his wake. The ramp areas that had been built since the war started were her target, and there were MiG-21s sitting on the ramp. Those were the East Germans, she knew. Not a good morning, Franz.....Ignoring the flak coming up, and at least one SA-7 type missile that flew past her left side, several MiGs grew larger in her pipper as she came down. “And...And....Steady...And....HACK!” Kara hit her pickle button, and her dozen Rockeyes came off the racks. As she pulled wings level to head out, she glanced to the right, and saw at least one MiG-23 starting to taxi. Somebody might get a kill was Kara's thought as she pulled away, jinking to avoid flak. “Two's off target.”


“Sookin sin!” Son of a bitch, was Starukhin's chosen phrase as the second F-4 came in. Kribov looked at him, and nodded. This was shaping up to be a bitch of a day, and only two Americans had come in. He heard, then saw, two MiG-23s taxiing. Gutsy move, he thought. Still, not a good day to be an aviator. Then he noticed a third aircraft coming in, and ducked.

“GOOD HITS!” Brainiac shouted from 520's back seat. “Multiple secondaries!”

Kara grinned beneath her oxygen mask. “How good?”

“MiGs and maybe a fuel truck good.”

“I'll take those,” Kara replied as she headed out.


“Three's in!” Sweaty called as she went on her run. She, too, ignored the flak as she went down the chute, and to her surprise, saw two MiG-23s taxiing onto Runway 17/35, which was her target. “MiGs on the roll!” she added as the MiGs lit their burners and headed down the runway. No more, Sweaty said to herself as she approached her release point. “And...Steady....And...And.....HACK!” She hit her pickle button, sending a dozen Mark-82 Snakeyes down onto the runway, though as she pulled up and away, she was wishing for Durandals or the Israelis' “Dibber” bombs. The two MiGs were nowhere to be seen as she cleared the target, jinking as she did so. “Three's off target.”

Marshal Krobov heard both the MiGs' takeoff roll and Sweaty's run. “Damn it!” he muttered as first, the two MiG-23s, then the F-4, rumbled past. Unlike the MiGs, the F-4 left explosions in its wake, as the bombs it had deposited on the runway went off. Kribov stuck his head out of the trench to have a look, and saw his personal transport now a burning wreck. He shook his head as two more MiGs-these East German MiG-21s, began to taxi to another runway, then ducked back into the trench.

“SHACK!” Preacher yelled from the back seat. “We got the runway!”

“How many bombs?” Sweaty asked. She was jinking, and also keeping an eye out for MiGs. Where were those two Floggers?”

“Enough!”

She grinned beneath her oxygen mask. “That'll do,” Sweaty replied. “Where's those two MiGs?”


“Four's in hot!” Hoser called as he came in. He, too, saw the MiGs do their takeoff roll just as Sweaty made her run, but knew enough not to go after them. That was someone else's job, he knew. Ignoring the 23-mm and 57-mm flak, he came down on Runway 13/31. Two East German MiG-21s were taxiing onto the runway, he saw, and Hoser also noticed the smoke and flames coming up from both ramp areas. Your turn, Franz...he said to himself as he got ready to release. “Steady....And.....HACK!” Hoser hit his pickle button, releasing his dozen Mark-82s. He pulled wings level and headed out, and like the others, was jinking as he did so. Clearing the target, he called, “Four's off safe.”


In their trench, both Marshal Kribov and General Starukhin took a look as Hoser's F-4 came by. They watched the two East German MiG-21s try a takeoff roll just as the F-4 released its bombs. One of the MiGs aborted its takeoff, but the leader kept going-and a bomb went off right ahead of him. Shrapnel from the explosion tore into the MiG's fuel tanks, and the MiG-21 caught fire-then crashed into the bomb crater and exploded. Kribov grimaced, then turned to the hapless SAF Colonel who ran the base. “Does this happen every time?”

“It can, Comrade Marshal,” the Colonel replied. He got up to look around, then noticed another F-4 coming in. “More incoming!” Then he ducked back into the trench, and the others followed his example.


“GOOD HITS!” KT shouted from Hoser's back seat. “And we got a secondary!”

“What kind?” Hoser said as he jinked-and a stream of 23-mm tracers flew past his right side.

“I think a MiG taxied in front of a bomb,” said KT. “He blew up!”

Hoser sighed. Ground kills in this war-unlike in WW II, weren't officially considered a part of one's tally. Still....”His bad day.” Hoser pulled away, trying to pick up his element lead.


“Five's in hot!” Dave Golen called as he came down on his run. He easily picked out Runway 17/35, and lined up the runway in his pipper. Unlike the others, he and Flossy wouldn't know how they did, for they had the GATOR mines-a mix of antitank and antipersonnel mines, and those were the perfect things to harass repair crews, wreck some of their equipment, and generally put the fear of God into them. It would take a day, maybe two, to clear the mines and get the runways back operational, and that was the point of the exercise. Though he wouldn't mind a fight with MiGs-and two MiG-23s had managed to scramble. Dave put those thoughts aside as he lined up on the bomb run. “Steady...And....NOW!” He hit his pickle button, and his eight CBU-89s came off the racks. Golen pulled wings level and headed clear of the target, jinking all the way. “Five off target.”


In the trench, the base commander heard Golen's F-4 come by, and, glancing up, saw the CBUs fall away. But there were no explosions in its wake. Having had previous strikes, the SAF Colonel knew right away what had happened. Mines. Right away, he knew that this field was now closed, and would be for at least a day. He glanced to the south, and saw another F-4 coming in. Another mine drop, he knew.


“SHACK!” Terry McAuliffe, Golen's GIB, said. “Good pattern.”

“What do you think?” Golen asked as he jinked-and an SA-7 type missile flew down his left side. He also armed his Sidewinders, for there were two MiG-23s out there.

“That runway's closed.”

“Hope you're right.” Now, Golen wondered, where were the MiGs?


“Six in hot!” Flossy called as 1569 came in on its run. She, too, spotted the flak, and glanced at her EW display. Other than that Mainstay, it was clear. Good. Those Weasels were doing their job. Flossy ignored the flak coming up, and a couple of SA-7s fired head-on, which didn't guide, and lined up Runway 13/31 in her pipper. She, too, had the GATOR mines, and held steady as she approached the release point. “Steady....Steady.....HACK!” Flossy hit the pickle button, and eight CBU-89s came off the racks. She, too, pulled wings level and pulled away, As she got clear, Flossy called, “Six off safe.”


In the slit trench, Marshal Kribov looked up, and saw Flossy's F-4 make its run. He, too, noticed the CBUs, and at first, wondered if the bomblets had been set for delayed detonation. Then, after the F-4 cleared the airport, he realized what had been dropped. Mines....He shook his head.

“Good hits!” Jang shouted from 1569's back seat. “You got the runway!”

“How good?'” Flossy asked, arming her Sidewinders as she jinked.

Jang grinned beneath her oxygen mask. “Good enough.”


“Rambler One-seven,” Guru called. “Get your asses down and away.”

“Roger, Leader,” Jackson replied. He and Napier in One-eight dropped from their TARCAP and overflew the field. Just as they did, Gledhill in the back seat saw them. MiG-23s. Jackson saw them as well, and called a warning. “Flossy, break right! Floggers Six O'clock, coming down.”

Without thinking, Flossy broke right, hard. As she did, she saw the two MiG-23s, and the two F-4Js coming in behind them. “Thank you, whoever you are.”

“My pleasure.”

Just then, AWACS called. “Rambler Flight, Yukon. Bandits, bandits, bandits. Two bandits inbound. Bearing One-eight-one for twenty-five. Medium, closing fast. Bandits are Fulcrums. Repeat: Bandits are Fulcrums.”


Guru heard that. “Kara, Lead. On me, and tanks.” He meant the wing tanks, which he immediately jettisoned, and Kara did the same.

“With you, Lead,” Kara replied.

“Rambler One-seven, Lead. Take the Fulcrums, we'll handle the Floggers,” Guru called Jackson and Gledhill. Then he and Kara charged back south, fangs out. Sweaty and Hoser overheard the calls and did the same thing.

“Roger, Lead,” Jackson replied. He and Napier broke off from the Floggers, who had just seen the RAF Phantoms behind them and had themselves broken off from Flossy.

Flossy, meanwhile, had done a 180, and picked up the MiG wingman. He had broken right himself when his leader had picked up the F-4s behind them. Nice try, Ivan...Flossy thought as she uncaged a Sidewinder and got a growl. A few moments later, she was in the Flogger's six, and he didn't seem to be aware she was behind him. “Steady....Got a tone!” Flossy squeezed the trigger. “FOX TWO!” An AIM-9P4 shot off her left inboard rail, and tracked the MiG. The MiG driver reversed at the last moment, but that didn't help, for Flossy's Sidewinder smashed into his tail and exploded. The MiG pitched up, then down, and then plunged into Lake Brownwood, just north of the field. As it did, the canopy came off, the seat fired, and the hapless MiG driver was in a chute. “SPLASH!”

“Good kill, Flossy!” Golen yelled. He, too, was looking for the MiG leader, and found him. The MiG-23 lead was trying to pick up Flossy, but in doing so, he forgot to check his own six. “Big mistake, Ivan,” Golen muttered as he uncaged a Sidewinder. He quickly got tone, and squeezed the trigger. “FOX TWO!” An AIM-9P4 shot off his right inboard rail, and tracked the MiG. This time, the MiG pilot seemed to be unaware of the F-4 behind him, and the Sidewinder flew up the MiG's tailpipe and exploded. The MiG-23ML fireballed, and this time, there was no chute. “SPLASH!”

“Good kill, One-five,” Guru called. “Any sign of the Fulcrums?” He asked Goalie.

“I'm tryin' baby,” Goalie replied. “Wait...two hits at ten.”

“Go boresight.” That would center the radar with the gunsight, and with auto-acquisition, that would give a full lock for their new AIM-7Fs.

“You got it,” Goalie said.

However, Rambler One-seven and One-eight rendered such preparations moot. In One-seven's back seat. Squadron Leader Gledhill had both MiGs on his AWG-10 radar. “Two hits at twelve.”

“Go radar, and lock one up,” Jackson said. He may have been a Flight Lieutenant, but as pilot, he was aircraft commander.

“Steady...and...GOT HIM!”

“Taking the shot,” Jackson said. “Rambler One-seven, FOX ONE!” He squeezed the trigger, sending a Sky Flash missile after the MiG. Then, recalling the briefing the previous day, and the experiences of both the 335th and the Marines, he squeezed it again. “FOX ONE AGAIN!” Another Sky Flash missile shot away.

In the MiG leader's cockpit, the CO of Second Squadron, 515th IAP, was surprised. The Major had been on a CAP with his wingman, a Captain and Pilot 2nd Class, when the A-50 vectored them towards Brownwood. The field was under attack, and that was all the controller knew. His MiG-29A had had an avionics upgrade, but his RWR couldn't tell specific radars-only if a radar was air-to-air or surface-to-air. Still, he and his wingman acknowledged the vector, and closed in, despite what those Voyska PVO trogs said, in Frontal Aviation, once you were told to go after the enemy, the controller was no longer a concern. That was fine for defense against bombers and wayward airliners, but against tactical fighters and strike aircraft? No, the Air Force's way was better.

Now, he had several targets on his NO19 radar, and selected one. He was trying to lock one up for his R-72 radar-guided missiles when his Sirena-3 RWR lit up. He'd been locked up. Then he saw a pair of F-4s ahead of him, and one fired. “BREAK!” The Major called to his wingman, and he broke right at once. As he did, he lost sight of his wingman....


Jackson and Gledhill watched as their two Sky Flashes tracked the trailing MiG. He broke at the last minute, turning left. The first Sky Flash missed, but the left turn solved the problem for the second missile....The Sky Flash buried itself in the MiG's belly, between both engines, and the MiG-29 exploded in a ball of fire. An explosion that big, nobody could have gotten out. “Splash one Fulcrum!”

“Hear that?” Goalie asked. “Jackson and Gledhill got a MiG-29.”

“I heard. Where's the other one?”

“Going left, and Susan Napier's on him,” Goalie said.

“If he breaks our way, I'll take him,” said Guru.

In 520, Kara was jealous. MiG-29? “Lock the other one up,” she told Brainiac.

Her GIB was busy. “He's good. Can't get him.”

“Fuck that! Keep on him.”


Napier was on the MiG leader's tail. “Six clear?” She asked her GIB.

Razor Wilkinson, in the back seat, had a look around, then replied, “Six clear, Susan. He's yours.”

Napier uncaged a Sidewinder and quickly got lock. “FOX TWO!” An AIM-9L shot off the left inboard rail, and tracked the MiG. The Sidewinder flew left, then right, then tracked straight for the MiG-29, but fired its warhead harmlessly to the rear. Napier cursed, then, still having tone, she saw the MiG reverse his turn, then she shot another Sidewinder. “FOX TWO AGAIN!”

The MiG leader saw the F-4 behind him, and the Sidewinder. He maintained his turn, knowing Sidewinders couldn't track a target pulling more than a 6-G turn. Then he saw someone's SAM-maybe a Krug (SA-4) come up, and he reversed his turn to avoid the missile. Then he felt a huge jolt to the rear, every warning light came on, then he lost control. Without thinking, he grabbed the handle, and fired his K-36 ejection seat. A few moments later, hanging in his chute, he saw the grey-painted F-4 fly past. To his shock, instead of the MARINES painted on the side, he saw the roundel and tail flash of an enemy encountered up in Canada. British. “What are the English doing here?”

Napier and Razor saw the Sidewinder track the MiG and detonate. The explosion took off the left tail and horizontal stabilizer, and the MiG, trailing fire, plunged downward. Then the canopy came off, the seat fired, and the pilot was hanging in his chute. Napier was tempted to blow him a kiss as she flew by, but held it. “SPLASH ONE!”

“Copy that,” Guru replied. “Ramblers, form up and let's get the hell out of here. Weasels, cover us, then get on out.”

“Roger that, Rambler,” Coors One-three called. “MAGNUM!” He shot his last HARM at a SA-4 radar, and his wingman fired his last Standard-ARM at a AAA radar that had come up. “Coors coming out.”

Rambler Flight got back down low, and headed north. Twenty-five miles to the I-20, as they got down to 450 Feet AGL. “Whoo!” Guru said in 512. “That was an E-Ticket ride.”

“You're not alone,” Goalie replied. “One minute thirty to the fence.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. “Two, where are you?”

“Right with you, Boss,” Kara replied.

Guru took a quick look to his right, and Kara was right with him in Combat Spread. “Got you, Two. Sweaty?”

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

“Roger that,”

Before Guru could call him, Dave Golen came up. “Five and six are behind Sweaty.”

“One-seven and One-eight with you,” Jackson added.

“Roger, One-seven,” said Guru.

“One minute to the fence,” Goalie called.


Back at Brownwood Airport, the base commander was already shouting orders. He'd told the Control Tower to call airborne aircraft and advise them that the field was now closed, and that alternatives should be sought. Then he'd kicked his engineers into action, and the slow process of getting the field back operational began. First, though, those insidious GATOR mines-which his people were already too familiar with, had to be cleared before any work on the runways could begin. He turned to General Starukhin. “Comrade General, may we use some of your engineers to get the runways clear of mines?”

Normally, Starukhin would have refused the request. But with the Marshal here, and Starukhin noticed Kribov's eyes on him....”Of course, Colonel.” He motioned to his Chief of Staff, who then relayed the order to the Army's 323rd Independent Engineer Brigade, as well as the nearby 10th Guards Tank Division's own engineeers.

“Thank you, Comrade General,” the SAF Colonel replied.

Then two downed pilots were brought to the Colonel. He recognized one, the deputy commander from the 92nd IAP's Second Squadron, and the other, though, was a newcomer to him. “Comrades,” he said. “What happened?”

“Sidewinder, Comrade Colonel,” the Captain said. “No radar warning, and as soon as I lost control, I ejected. Saw a Southeast-Asia painted F-4 fly past.”

The Colonel nodded. Two wings and an independent squadron flew F-4s so painted in this sector, so the intelligence reports told him. “And you, Major?” He nodded at the MiG-29 pilot.

“Grey F-4, Comrade Colonel,” the Major said. “But...it was painted differently from the U.S. Navy or Marines, and the insignia...”

“What about it?”

“The tail flash and roundel, Comrade Colonel. They were British!”

Kribov and Starukhin overheard that. “You are certain, Major?” Kribov asked.

Seeing the Marshal, the Major stiffened to attention. “Yes, Comrade Marshal. I would swear in court!”

Kribov had a frown at that. If the British could spare a fighter squadron or two, then they could easily spare a brigade-or a division-to fight down here, especially with the Northern Theater in stalemate. “General,” he turned to Starukhin. “You do have secure communications means?” With his Yak-40 now a blazing wreck, he was out of touch with his HQ at Fort Sam Houston.

“Certainly, Comrade Marshal,” Starukhin replied.

“Good. Colonel Sergov?” Kribov's aide came up. 'Get in touch with the Air Force intelligence people at Headquarters. Inform them of this development, and request any information on any additional American Allied forces in-theater. If the British can spare a squadron, they might be able to spare a division.”

“Immediately, Comrade Marshal,” Sergov replied.

Kribov nodded. “Starukhin, let's go to your headquarters. We have many things to discuss, and this morning's events are one of them.”


In 512, Guru asked, “How far to the fence?”

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie replied.

“Roger that,” the CO said. He took a look at the EW display. That damned Mainstay still had them. Though at 450 Feet, did they have a good enough track? That, was the $64,000 question. “Yukon, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler, Yukon. Threat bearing One-six-five for fifty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-four-zero for sixty-five. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon,” Guru replied.

“Coming up on the Fence,” Goalie called.

Guru saw the twin ribbons of I-20 appear, and just as they did, the Mainstay radar dropped off. The EW display was now clear. “Roger that. Crossing the fence....now. Flight, Lead. Verify IFF is on, out.” He turned on his IFF, for the Army HAWK people were often quick on the trigger, operating on the “Shoot them down and let God sort them out” principle.

Once clear of the I-20, the flight climbed to altitude, and headed for the tanker track. After the post-strike refueling, the Weasels headed for Reese AFB and home, while Rambler headed for Sheppard. When the flight got there, they were third in the incoming pattern, behind a Marine Hornet flight and the Westbound C-141. When it was their turn, the flight made a flyby, and the four victorious aircraft did victory rolls, much to the delight of those on the ground. Then the flight formed up and landed.

As they taxied in, the crews who had scored kills popped their canopies, then held up fingers to signal kills, and the RAF people-those waiting to go out, and those who had come back, were properly ecstatic. The news crew was filming, and Ms. Wendt asked Kodak Griffith and Patti Brown-who had just come back herself from a strike, if they could send a story.

“Haven't heard anything different,” Griffith said. “But we'd best check anyway.”

“No guidance from the Tenth Air Force?” Wendt asked. She had fumed at the delay in getting out the story about General Yeager and his Yak-28 kill, but the AF had lifted the ban, and her story had gone right to CBS first, then Sydney.

“We'll make a couple of phone calls,” Brown said. “See what the deal is.”


The flight taxied into their dispersal areas-with the RAF using the revetments that Yeager's F-20s had used, while the 335th Phantoms went to theirs. Guru taxied 512 into its revetment. After getting the “Shut down” signal from his Crew Chief, Guru and Goalie went over the post-flight checklist. “That was a wild one,” Guru said. “Haven't had one of those in a while.”

“Can't all be milk runs,” Goalie reminded him. “But yeah, that strike had a high adrenalin content.”

The ground crew put the chocks around the wheels, and brought the crew ladder. After the checklist, Guru and Goalie climbed down from the aircraft and did a post-flight walk-around. Sergeant Crowley, the Crew Chief, was waiting with bottles of water for both. “How'd it go, Major?”

“Made some grounded MiGs go away,” Guru said. He took a swig of water, then added. “And a VIP transport. Somebody's going to have to go back to wherever in coach.”

“And Major Golen and Flossy each got MiGs,” Goalie added. She, too, took a swig of water. “And the Brits got a couple of Fulcrums off our asses.”

“Shit hot, Ma'am!” Crowley said. “Uh, sir...”

Guru laughed. “You can cuss all you want on the ramp, Sarge,” he said. The CO turned serious. “Five-twelve's truckin' like a champ. Don't change whatever you're doing, Sarge, and get her ready for the next one.”

Crowley beamed at that. “You got it, Major!” he said. “All right, you guys! You heard the Major. Get this bird ready for the next one.”

Guru and Goalie put on their bush hats, then went to the entrance to the revetment. Kara and Brainiac were already there. “Well?” Guru asked.

“Tore up the MiG-21 ramp,” Kara said. “And saw your VIP transport go up.”

“Who was in that?” Goalie asked.

“I'll tell Sin Licon, and he can put a query in with Tenth AF Intelligence,” said Guru. “Intel may tell us tomorrow, or they may never tell us.”

Kara spat. “Or something in between.”

Guru nodded. “Or that,” he said. “Sweaty, Hoser? How'd it go with you guys?” The CO asked as his second element came up.

“Tore up the runway, and Hoser there got a MiG on the runway,” Sweaty replied.

Hoser said, “Don't know if he ate a bomb or went into a crater. Too bad ground kills don't count.”

“Too easy,” Dave Golen said as he and Flossy, with their GIBs, came over.

“They are,” Guru nodded agreement. “Good work on those Floggers, both of you. That's what? Seven for both you two?”

Golen and Flossy nodded, then she added, “Seven for me, but Jang's first.”

Jang was smiling. “Flossy told me to expect MiGs when I took Digger's place,” she said. “She was right.”

“He'll be back next week,” Guru said. “But...we're getting two new pilots to replace the guys Yeager poached for the F-20, and you'll get teamed with one of them.”

“Sounds good to me, Boss,” Jang grinned.

Then the RAF crews came over. “Dave,” Guru said to Gledhill. “First mission in theater, and you get MiG-29s.”

Gledhill nodded. “They cared to send some of their best,” he said. “That's seven for me now, but Paul's fourth. Normally, I'd be with James, but our flight surgeon-and yours-decided he had a cold yesterday.”

Heads nodded all around. Normally, Flight Lt. James Bruce was Gledhill's pilot, but he had started a sneezing fit the previous afternoon, and both the RAF flight surgeon, along with Doc Waters, the 335th's, had examined him. The joint diagnosis was a cold, and Bruce had been immediately grounded for five days. “They do outrank us in anything medical,”

“Unfortunately,” Kara spat.

“Down, girl,” Guru said.

Sweaty turned to Susan Napier. “You've now got four, so be careful. Need to tell you what Guru there told us when Kara and I got to number four.”

Napier was curious. “What's that?”

“Simple,” Kara grinned. “Don't go looking for number five. You might run into somebody who's out for his fifth.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Just then, a pair of Dodge Crew-cab pickups pulled up, and Sin Licon got out of one. “Sin,” the CO nodded.

“Major,” Licon said. “We need to debrief. My RAF counterpart is waiting.”

“Let's get the MiG engagement out here,” Guru said.

Licon nodded, and he listened to the MiG-killers go through the engagement, with the usual waving of hands. “Okay, looks like Major Golen and Flossy each have their seventh,” he said.

Goalie chimed in. “And the first for Jang.”

“That it is,” Sin agreed. “Squadron Leader? Your crew and Napier's each have a MiG-29.”

Hearing that, both crews were pleased. “Thanks, Captain,” Gledhill said.

“You're welcome, sir,” Licon said. “Major, we need to get the debrief done.”

Guru nodded. “That we do. Let's get that done, then we all need to check our desks-even our RAF friends probably have squadron paperwork they need to take care of,” he said, seeing Gledhill nod. “Then we get ready to do this again.”

“We all going back out together?” Susan Napier asked.

“Depends on the ATO,” Guru replied.

“It is that,” Dave Golen added. “I've flown strikes with Guru's flight, then the next mission? I'm going with Flossy on a two-ship.”

Flossy nodded agreement. “He's right.”

“That he is,” said Guru. “Okay, let's debrief inside, then we'll find out what the ATO has for us.”

[Matt Wiser]

The RAF's first day of combat in Texas continues:



335th TFS, Sheppard AFB, TX; 0915 Hours Central War Time:


In his office, Major Wiser was sitting behind his desk, going over some paperwork that had come in while he was flying. One thing about having a good Exec, and Mark was a damned good one, he felt, was that the XO filtered out the wheat from the chaff, so that the CO could take care of what was really important. He took care of what was pending, then, his OUT box now full, sat back and turned up Shadoe Stevens' AM show on AFN. Steve Nicks' Stand Back had just finished when a knock at the door came. “Show yourself and come on in!”

His Exec, Capt. Mark Ellis, came in. “Boss,” he said. “Got a couple of things for you, then I have a mission brief in ten.”

No rest for the weary or the wicked, the CO thought. “Okay, Mark, what's up?”

“First, Kerry Collins needs a signature. He's already signed it 'For the Ordnance Officer,' and that means Frank. But he needs yours as well.”

“What's he after?” Guru said as Ellis handed him the form. Then he looked at the XO. “AGM-65Ds?”

“I know, we've got three dozen already, but he thinks we can use some more. Especially for Scud hunts or for going after armor.”

“He wants three dozen more, I see,” the CO noted. “And we can sure use 'em.”

“They're mainly going to A-10s and A-7s,” Ellis pointed out.

“So?” Guru said. “We use 'em from time to time. And who around here gets tasked with said Scud hunts?”

Ellis chuckled. “We do, Boss. Just reminding you, though.”

“And that's a good Exec,” Guru told him. “I did that for Colonel Rivers enough times. What's the other thing?”

The XO handed Guru a sheet of paper. “For your information and not action. Two new pilots coming day after tomorrow.”

Major Wiser looked at the paper. “New guy fresh from Kingsley Field,” he said. “OTS via the University of Oregon,” With the war on, ROTC programs had become branches of the respective services' Officer Candidate Schools, just as in World War II. “And the second....” The CO paused, then smiled. “Well, Goalie's going to be happy.”

“Her friend Cassidy?” Ellis asked. Capt. Corinne Cassidy had ferried one of their two newest birds from Japan, and had shared her Day One story at the Club, and even General Olds had been impressed, blowing through a flock of Hip troop-carrier helicopters like a hawk onto a flock of pigeons. She had even knocked one down with jet wash.

“You got it. She and the new Lieutenant get here day after tomorrow, then Firefly and Rabbit can get a week's R&R in Vegas before reporting to Edwards.” The CO was referring to two pilots who had been chosen for the F-20 program by General Yeager during his team's visit. Now, those two could hand things over to their replacements, hop a C-141 for Nellis, and get a week to blow off steam. Then the real work of learning a new airplane began.

“Our loss is Yeager's gain,” Elils noted. “And that's it for now.”

“Where you going?” Guru asked.

“Down to the Libyans,” Ellis said. “Get to give those bastards a lesson about how they should've stayed home.”

“They never learn,” the CO observed. “And they put so much flak in the air as if the practice is going to be banned five minutes from then.”

“That they do, and I know, keep Firefly alive. Yeager'd probably come back and kick my ass himself for getting an F-20 recruit killed.”

Guru let out a grin. “He would. Just be careful, you hear? It's not that I'm worried about Don Van Loan taking over as Exec, it's me and Don having to break in Kara as Ops.” Then the CO let out a laugh.

“And we all know her attitude towards paperwork,” Ellis laughed back. “Not a problem. Hey, I heard you had MiG company this morning.”

Guru nodded. “Dave Golen and Flossy got MiG-23s, and Gledhill's element each got a MiG-29. First time they've run into Fulcrums, or so I understand. So be on guard, Mark. If we ran into 'em, you might have the same problem.”

“Gotcha, Boss,” Ellis said. He glanced at the wall clock. “Time for my brief.”

“Good luck, Mark, and be careful out there,” the CO cautioned. “Remember: Do it to them before they can do it to you.”

“Always.”


After the Exec left, Major Wiser got up and stood by his office window. He listened to the rumble of jets, the whop-whop of choppers, and watched, arms folded in front of his chest. Then his reverie was interrupted by a knock on the office door. “Yeah? Come on in and show yourself.”

It was Kara, his wingmate. “Boss, we've got a mission.” She handed her CO and Flight Lead a briefing packet.

“Goalie?”

“She's gone off to round up the others,” Kara reported. “And we get two of the Brits again on this one-but not the same crew we had this morning.”

Guru opened the packet. “Okay, Karen McKay and Ian Black-hey, didn't they tell us yesterday he got a MiG-29 kill in a Lightning?”

Kara nodded. “They did, and I'd like to know a little more about that myself. Shouldn't he be dead?”

“You're not the only one wondering about that,” the CO said. He took a breath, then nodded. “No rest for the weary or the wicked. Time to get back in the game.” Both left the office, headed for the fight's briefing room.

“What were you thinking?” Kara asked.

“It's been two weeks since we've lost somebody. Razor, remember?”

“Yeah, and you're thinking we're due to take a hit or two,” Kara said. She, too, had been wondering about that. So far, since Guru had taken over the squadron, their losses had been light, with two birds down and only one crewman KIA and the other three rescued. But there had been a couple of close calls the past few days.....

“I'd say we're overdue for somebody to take the big hit, and then I have a letter or two to write,” the CO said. “That's the lousiest thing you have to do in the military, so Colonel Rivers told me when I got the XO job.”

“Which they don't teach in OTS, I bet. And certainly not in ROTC.”

“And Goalie would say not at the Academy, either,” said Guru. “School of hard knocks again.”

Kara nodded agreement. “Ain't that the truth.”

Guru agreed. “Sure is.” They got to the briefing room, and Kara opened the door for her CO. Guru entered, followed by Kara, and found everyone there. His people were causal, but the four RAF crewers came to attention. “As you were, people. For the benefit of our British friends, this is a base at war. We're in a active war zone, and there's a time and place for the jumping up and down foolishness. This ain't it.”

Flight Lt. Karen McKay nodded. “Sorry, sir. I know you told us yesterday, but...”

“Habits die hard. Good one to have in the rear area, but not here. So gather 'round, people.”

“Where we headed this time?” Sweaty Blanchard asked.

“Coleman,” Guru replied. “I know, we flew past it this morning on the way to Brownwood, but this time, we're paying them a visit. The town isn't the target-but the municipal airport is.” He passed around copies of the FAA field diagram, and the RF-4C imagery. “We get to put that place out of action for a while.”

“Who's there?” Kara asked. Though she had a good idea already-she had helped put the packet together in her job as Assistant Ops Officer.

“Suspected HQ for an as-yet unidentified Army-level formation,” Guru replied. “Which means Army-level helo regiments, short-haul transports like An-24s or L-410s, and a possible Su-25 FOL.”

“Frogfoots?” Asked Hoser. “Haven't run into those in a while.”

“Then we can renew our acquaintance,” said Guru. “Okay, ingress. Tanker Track CHEVRON is west of Mineral Wells. We top up, then get down low. Lake Comfort south of the I-20 is our first visual checkpoint, then we go due south to Proctor Lake, which is our second. Cross U.S. 67-377, then State Route 36. Once we hit that road, turn right to a heading of two-four-zero. Next checkpoint is a town called Zephyr, on U.S. 84/183. We keep going until we hit the town of Winchell, on U.S. 377. Then we turn right on a two-zeven-zero heading until the town of Rockwood, on U.S. 283. Then we go north, parallel to the road to the town of Santa Anna. Not the Santa Ana who ordered no prisoners taken at the Alamo and ordered the Goliad Massacre back in 1836, mind.”

“You'd have to be crazy in Texas to name a town after him,” Goalie chuckled.

“Or have a death wish,” said Guru. “Five miles north of the town, at the F.M. 568/F.M. 126 intersection, there's a good-sized ranch pond. That's our pop-up point. The target will be to the northwest. Make your run, then get your asses north. And stay away from Abilene if you can help it. The Army's got Patriot and I-HAWK there for Dyess and Abilene Municipal Airport, and we'd be coming in out of the safe-transit lane.”

Karen McKay and her people looked at each other. Bermuda had no SAMs, so....”And what do these people operate under?” She asked.

“Simple,” Kara replied. “'Shoot them down and sort the wrecks out later.'”

“Ouch!” Flight Lt. Ian Black said. “Ever lose anyone to those clods?”

“Not yet,” said Guru. “But I'm dreading it.” He went on. “So, make your runs, do the usual post-strike jinking, and make sure your last jink takes you in a northeasterly direction.”

Heads nodded at that. “So, Boss, who gets what?” Sweaty asked.

Guru pulled out a photo from an SR-71 along with a prewar photo of the field. “Kara? You and I are on the same target area, pretty much. I'm taking the prewar ramp area and hangars to the north. You get the southern area Ivan's built.”

“I'll take 'em out,” Kara replied. “What's the ordnance load?”

“The same for everyone,” said the CO. “That's six Mark-82 Snakeyes on the inboard wing stations, and six M-117Rs on centerline. With the usual air-to-air load of four AIM-9Ps, two AIM-7Fs, full gun, two wing tanks, and ALQ-119s for leads, and ALQ-101s for the wingmen.”

“Sounds good,” Sweaty said. “What about us?” She meant her element.

“You get the runway,” Guru told her. “Put it out of action for a few hours, at least.”

Sweaty and Preacher nodded. “Done,” she said.

“Hoser?” Guru turned to Sweaty's wingman. He tapped the photos again. “There's a small pond east of the runway. South of the pond is the fuel dump. You and KT make it go away.”

“It will,” Hoser replied. “Only it'll go up.”

“Do it,” said Guru. “Karen? How are you guys fixed?”

Karen McKay nodded. “Four L-model Sidewinders, four Sky Flash, both wing tanks, and a SUU-23 gun pod.”

“Good,” Guru replied. “Because I want you on a TARCAP. Orbit just south of the target area, kill anyone airborne, and do nasty things to any party-crashers. The MiG threat is unchanged from this morning, by the way. So pay attention to the southwest. That's Goodfellow AFB near San Angelo, and the MiG-29s your boss tangled with this morning likely came from there.”

“Will do,” McKay replied.

“Defenses, Boss?” Brainiac asked.

“Coming to that,” the CO said. “This is a suspected Army-level formation, so expect SA-4s in and around the area, along with the usual guns and MANPADS. No 57-mm in the area, but the airport proper has 37-mm and ZU-23s, along with MANPADS. One the way out is a divison-sized unit, also unidentified, but they do have SA-8. Make a few 'Magnum' calls if you can, and that will frighten the SAMs off the air.”

McKay's GIB, Flight Lt. Chris Fryer, asked, “What's that call?”

Guru had a grin on his face. “It means someone just shot an antiradar missile,” he said. “The Weasels or Navy IRON HAND guys call that out when a HARM or Shrike's in the air. The SAM guys have to shut down their radars or eat Mr. HARM.”

“A little deception, then?”

“Something like that,” Goalie said.

“There is one radar nobody's been able to take care of yet,” Guru reminded them. “The Mainstays are active, and one of them had us this morning,” he told the RAF people. “If you pick up a SEARCH radar to the south, and it doesn't go away no matter what? It's one of those.”

McKay and her people looked at each other. “Anyone doing something about those?” She asked.

“Somebody better,” KT spat. She had been shot down once herself, and had no desire to repeat the experience.

“You're not the only one wanting that,” Guru said. “Okay, weather's unchanged, and so are bailout areas.” He looked at the RAF people. “You guys were told about those this morning?”

“We were, Guru,” McKay said.

“Good. Anything else?”

Flight Lt. Michael Barker, Black's GIB, asked, “How many more, Major?”

“After this one?” Guru said, and he saw not just Barker, but all the RAF crewers, nod. “We rest, get something to eat, then two more in the afternoon. Unless someone starts screaming for CAS, then we're at it until sunset.”

“Be glad you weren't here in the summer,” Kara added. “PRAIRIE FIRE in May, we had three straight days of seven missions those first three days,” she said. “And that was the start.”

“That it was,” Goalie said. “We had several times like that.”

“That we had,” said Guru. “Okay, that it?” Heads shook no. “All right: gear up and meet at 512's revetment.”

Guru gathered up his briefing materials and as he left the briefing room, handed them to an Ops NCO who was waiting outside. Then he went to the Men's Locker Room to gear up. When he came out, with his G-Suit and survival vest, and with his flight helmet and oxygen mask, he found Goalie waiting, as usual. “You ready?”

“If we get more MiGs?” She asked. “I'm more than ready.”

“So am I,” Guru replied. He had eight kills, and Goalie had five of those with him. But Kara had nine at the moment, and he wanted to even things up with his wingmate. They went outside, and found Dave Golen and Flossy, with their respective GIBs, Terry McAuliffe and Jang, talking things over. And Golen came over. “Dave.”

“Guru,” Golen said. “Too bad we're not coming with you.”

“Where are you headed?”

“Some town called Sidney, northwest of Comanche. Divisional fuel dump.”

“Which explains the two-ship,” Guru nodded. “Okay, you hit MiG trouble, holler. I'm still Rambler.”

“Cobra for us. You have more MiGs than you can handle?” Golen said. “Call us and we'll be there.”

Guru put out his hand, and Golen shook it. “Done,” the CO said. “Flossy? You take care of him, and remember: he's your older brother from another mother.”

Flossy nodded. “Will do, Boss,” she said.

“Those MiGs were frisky on that first one,” Guru reminded them. “Not likely to change.”

“No,” Golen said.

“Just remember that, all of you,” said the CO. “Terry, Jang?” He said to the GIBs. “Keep your eyes open.”

“Gotcha, Boss,” Jang said. “First real fight for me today.”

“Won't be the last,” Goalie said.

“No,” Guru said firmly. “You all be careful, and have a good one.”

Golen nodded. “You too,”


Guru and Goalie then walked down the dispersal to 512's revetment, where they found the rest of the flight waiting. “All right, gather 'round.” It was time for his final instructions.

“Usual on the radio?” Hoser asked.

“It is,” Guru said. “And for our RAF friends?” He nodded at Karen McKay and her people. “Mission code to AWACS and other parties. Call signs between us.”

“Got you,” McKay replied.

“One last thing: if you see basketball-sized tracers? That's ZSU-30 and those are bad news all around. Two 30-mm guns and eight SA-19 SAMs. None of our EW gear has been tweaked yet to pick up their radars, so if you see those tracers? Abort.”

“Got you,” McKay said, and heads nodded all around. Those things were really bad news.

“Anything else?” The CO asked. Heads shook no. “All right. Get this one done, then we can get some chow, they turn the birds around, and we get ready for another one.”

Kara nodded. “As usual.”

“Unless someone hollers for CAS,” Hoser spat. He and KT had been shot down doing a CAS, and he, like the others, preferred to leave that to the A-10s and A-7s.

“There is that,” Guru said. “All right, if that's it, let's go.” He clapped his hands. “Meet up at ten grand overhead. Time to hit it.”

The crews headed for their aircraft, as Guru and Goalie went into the revetment and 512. Sergeant Crowley was waiting, as usual, with the ground crew. “Major, Lieutenant,” he said, snapping a salute. “Five-twelve's ready to rock.”

Pilot and GIB returned it, and Guru said, “Thanks, Sarge.” He and Goalie did their walk-around, and finding nothing wrong, he signed for the aircraft. Then they mounted 512 and got strapped in, followed by the preflight cockpit check.

As they went through the checklist, Goalie asked. “You going to ask Black about killing a Fulcrum with a Lightning?”

“When we get back,” Guru said. “And FYI, Kara wants to know as well. He should be dead, because that's like going up against Fulcrums in an F-106. Arnie?” He meant the ARN-101 DMAS system.

Goalie shuddered when she heard that. “Not sure I want to know. Arnie's all set, and so is the INS. Ejection seats?”

“Armed top and bottom. Check yours.”

“Armed as well. Preflight check complete and ready for engine start.”

Guru then gave a thumbs-up to his Crew Chief, who gave him the “Start Engines” signal. First one, then both, J-79 engines were running and warming up. Then Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Flight with six, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

“Rambler Lead, Tower,” the tower controller replied at once. “Clear to taxi to Runway Three-three-Charlie. Hold prior to the Active, and you are number three in line.”

“Roger, Tower. Rambler Flight rolling.” Guru said. He gave another thumbs-up to Crowley, 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 after clearing it, Crowley snapped the CO's bird a perfect salute. Pilot and GIB returned it, then taxied towards the runway in question, as the other aircraft in the flight followed. When they got to the holding area, there was another 335th flight-and Guru recognized the XO's tail number ahead of them, and number one was a four-ship of Marine F/A-18s.

The Marines went, then Mark Ellis' flight taxied onto the runway. Rambler Flight taxied into the holding area, and the armorers removed the weapon safeties. After the XO's flight took off, it was Rambler's turn. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting taxi for takeoff.”

“Rambler Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are calm,” the controller called back.

Guru taxied 512 onto the runway, and Kara followed in 520. A final cockpit check found everything ready, and both Guru and Goalie took a look at 520 in their Five O'clock. Kara and Brainiac gave them a thumbs-up, and they returned it. Then it was time.

“Ready?” Guru asked his GIB.

“All squared away back here,” Goalie replied. “Time to go make some Russians burn, bleed, and blow up.”

“It is that,” Guru agreed. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

As usual, the tower didn't reply by radio, but flashed a green light. Clear for takeoff.

“Canopy coming down,” said Guru. He pulled his canopy down and locked it, and Goalie did the same. A quick glance at 520 showed Kara and Brainiac had done the same. “And time to go.” He firewalled the throttles, released the brakes, and 512 rumbled down the runway and into the air, with 520 right with him. Thirty seconds later, it was Sweaty and Hoser's turn, followed by the two RAF F-4Js. The flight met up at FL 100, then headed south for their tankers.

[Matt Wiser]

Next mission:



Over Central Texas: 1040 Hours Central War Time:


Rambler Flight was headed south, having just cleared I-20 and the FLOT. They had made their tanker rendezvous, and topped up from the usual KC-135s or KC-10s. There were also Marine KC-130s and, much to the pleasure of the two RAF crews, their own Tristar was also part of the tanker group. A quick chat found that though the Tristar crew hadn't passed any gas to their own F-4s, they had done so to Marine F-4s, A-4s, and Hornets, and at the moment, there were a couple of F-14s in line. Rambler's crews noticed the Tomcats, with a load of two Phoenix, two Sidewinders, and two Sparrows, and it looked to them like the Tomcats were out hunting for Foxbats. The MiG-25R and RB model Foxbats were a pain in the ass to just about everyone, and kills of those beasts were, so far, rare, though F-15s had gotten a few on occasion. Now, though, with the F-14s around, something could be done about those.

Now, going in low, it was all business. The pilots had their heads on a swivel, mainaining their visual scanning, checking their instruments, then having another look out of the cockpit. “What you don't see is what often kills you,” had been drummed into their heads in fighter training, either at Homestead, Kingsley Field, or in the U.K., and no one forgot that. The GIBs were busy with the navigation, either via the INS and the old-fashioned way, with stopwatch, compass, and map.

Lake Comfort had just passed beneath the strike flight, and Guru called. “That's Lake Comfort.”

“Roger that,” Goalie replied. “One minute fifteen to Proctor Lake.”

Just then, the EW displays lit up, with a strobe to the south, and the SEARCH light appeared below the screen. “Search radar, and that'll be Mr. Mainstay.”

“Hope those F-14s we saw do something about that.” Goalie said.

“Then the squids around here earn their pay,” Guru replied. Then he called the AWACS. “Yukon, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler, Yukon,” the AWACS controller replied. “Threats bearing One-eight-zero for fifty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-six-five for sixty-five Medium, closing. Third threat bearing Two-four-zero for seventy. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon,” Guru said. “Say bogey dope?”

“Rambler, Yukon. First and third threats are Fulcrums. Second threats are Floggers.”

More MiG-29s? Lovely. “Roger, Yukon.”

“Fulcrums again?” Goalie asked.

“Yep,” Guru said as the State Route 6 bridge over the Leon River appeared. This bridge had no air defense, but some very bored Soviet motor-rifle troops were guarding it, though by the time they grabbed their own Strela-3 (SA-14) shoulder-fired missiles, the Phantoms were already gone.

“Twenty seconds to Proctor Lake,” Goalie called.

“Copy.”

The twenty seconds went by fast, and the six-ship overflew the lake. Just as at other lakes in Central Texas, there were locals who were trying to catch some fish to supplement the rations allowed them by the occupiers, as well as Soviet soldiers, who were trying to get some fish of their own, to add to their own fare. Both parties pretty much left the other alone-even though some of the civlians fishing were from the local resistance, and fish wasn't the only item on their agenda. Some discrete intelligence-gathering for their SF advisors was also part of the routine. But when the strike flight overflew the lake, the locals smiled or shook hands with each other, while the Russians were not happy. Their Zampolits kept telling them that the Soviet Air Force controlled the skies in Texas, but clearly, seeing six F-4s come over put a few questions into some of their heads. If the Yankees were flying over, seemingly at will, along with the front being in Texas, there was clearly something wrong with the Party line.


“How long to Route 36?” Guru asked Goalie as they passed over U.S. 67/377. That state highway was their next turn point.

“Twenty seconds.”

“Roger that,” replied Guru. “Give me the count.”

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

Guru put the aircraft onto the heading of Two-four-zero, and the rest of the flight followed suit. “Route 16 next?”

“Coming up,” Goalie said, then State Highway 16 appeared. And there looked like a convoy on the road, heading north. “Convoy down there.”

“Not their turn to die this morning,” Guru said as they went by the convoy.


Below, a Soviet rear-services Captain was having a fit. His convoy, laden with fuel, ammunition, and stores for Third Shock Army, was held up not because of a checkpoint, of which there was none, but due to an abandoned vehicle ahead, and the motor-rifle troops who were escorting the convoy were concerned about there being a radio-detonated bomb inside the old delivery van. The company that was escorting the convoy had BTR-70s and a tank platoon attached, but the tanks were lagging behind for some reason. He was waiting on a tank to blow the abandoned vehicle off the road so they could move on, when soldiers began shouting. He stood in the hatch of his own BTR, and watched with dread as six American aircraft, F-4s by the likes of them, flew over his convoy. Fortunately, the aircraft either didn't see his convoy, or they weren't interested and were after bigger game. After the aircraft flew off to the southwest, he got on the radio not just to report the aircraft, but then to give the motor-rifle company commander-a Senior Lieutenant-a tongue-lashing, demanding to know where the tanks were.


Now on the new heading, Guru scanned the sky, then checked his EW display. That damned search radar was still there. Now, going in at 450 Feet AGL, did the Mainstay have them? “Yukon, Rambler Lead. Say threats?'

“Rambler Lead, Yukon. Threat bearing Two-four-five for fifty. Medium, going away. Second threat bearing One-seven-zero for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing One-three-five for seventy. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon,” Guru replied. Then he called Goalie on the IC. “Time to turn point?”

“Two minutes thirty,” she replied. “Still got that Mainstay.”

“Too bad,” Guru muttered. But a quick glance at the EW display showed no other threats. He maintained the two-four-zero heading.

Goalie was checking her map “Zephyr and Route 84-183 coming up.”

“Roger that,” Guru said as they flew over the small town. Unlike the state highway, there was no traffic, but the town was just a blur as they went by. “How far to the turn?”

“One minute thirty.”

“Copy.”


The flight kept heading southwest, and it wasn't long until Winchell came up. This time, it was more a collection of ruins than a town, and but the Colorado River bridge for U.S. 377 was defended. “Flak ahead,” Guru called as the flak gunners opened up. “Turning right....NOW!” He put 512 onto a heading of due west, Two-seven-zero. “How far to 283?” U.S. 283 was the next turn point.

“Forty-five seconds,” Goalie said.

“Roger that,” Guru replied. He shot a glance at his EW display, and two more strobes appeared, dead ahead. Then the A/A light came on, and that meant air-to-air radars. “Might have Fulcrums at twelve. Flight, Lead. Music on.” He switched on his ALQ-119 ECM pod.

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

“Route 283 coming up,” Goalie said. “Stand by to turn.”

“Call it.”

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

Guru put 512 into a hard right turn, and as the rest of the flight did the same, flak gunners at the 283 bridge over the Colorado River opened up with their 23-mm and 37-mm guns. But the F-4s were too low and too fast to optically track, and the Phantoms easily outdistanced the flak. “Steady on new heading, Zero-zero-one.”

“Copy that,” said Goalie. “One minute to Santa Anna.” The town was a road junction, for U.S. 67, U.S. 84, and U.S. 283 all met there.

“Got it,” Guru said as they sped north. “Santa Anna coming up,” he said as the town appeared. Then his EW display came up again. “SHIT!”

“What?”

“GUN!” He called, jinking left as he did so.


Unknown to the strike flight, the 97th Independent Tank Regiment from 3rd Shock Army had its headquarters in the town as the Regiment was resting and refitting. Though the regiment had suffered heavily at Wichita and in the rearguard actions that had followed during the retreat south, now, they were busy absorbing replacements of both equipment and personnel, and though the Regiment had gotten T-72s instead of T-64s that they previously had, none of the veteran officers were complaining. But the personnel replacements......Though the tank crews were good, having been sent through a Training Division before being shipped over, the motor-rifle replacements were less so. Many were barely out of training, and few were actually veteran reservists. Some were even ex-Strategic Rocket Forces soldiers who had done their service guarding missile sites, much to the regimental commander's ire.

Still, the Army Commander, General Starukhin, had told the regimental commander, a Colonel, to get on with it. Not only was he absorbing his replacements, but was going through an aggressive training program outside the town. Though the local garrison, a battalion from the 229th Rear-Area Protection Division from Leningrad, was content to stay in the town, the Colonel was concerned. Though there was hardly any Resistance activity, all it would take to reveal his regiment's presence was one word in the wrong ear, and that information would head north. His thoughts were interrupted by one of his ZSU-23-4s opening fire, as six American F-4s flew past the town to the west. None of the fire appeared to hit the aircraft, and the Colonel simply shrugged his shoulders. More air-defense training, he thought, shouting for his Chief of Staff.

“That was close,” Guru said as the tracers fell away. He got back on course.

“Too close,” Goalie agreed. “Fifteen seconds to pop-up.”

“Roger that, Set 'em up.” He meant the armament controls.

Goalie worked the controls. “You're set. All in one pass.”

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

“Pull in five, four, three, two, one....PULL!” After Goalie called, Guru pulled back on the stick, and as he climed, Coleman Municipal appeared at his Eleven O'clock.

“Flight, Lead. Target in sight,” then he added. “Rambler One-five, One-six, assume TARCAP.”

“Roger, Lead,” Karen McKay called. She led her two F-4Js into their orbit.

“All set?” Guru asked Goalie.

“Ready.”

“Then let's go.” Guru rolled in on his bomb run.



At the airport, General Sisov was overseeing the preparations for Marshal Kribov's arrival. Though it really wasn't necessary, with the Theater Commander-in-Chief coming, he felt that everything had to be just so. Though the Sovier Air Force Colonel who was in command of the field felt differently, given that there were ongoing operations, with Su-25s using the field as a forward operating location, transports coming in and out, and helicopters also making their rounds. Though the Marshal wasn't due to arrive for another two hours, any reason to get out of his headquarters was a good reason to do so, he felt.

At least that Zampolit is out of my hair, General Sisov thought. He had sent his Army-level Political Officer to visit a front-line unit, the 197th MRD, and hopefully, the General said to himself, the Americans will do me a favor, and an air strike or an artillery bombardment takes care of him. The deputy Poltical Officer was much more....agreeable, from the General's viewpoint, and would represent the Army's Political Department at the upcoming meeting.

The General had another look around. Just the usual activity for an airfield of this size, and the SAF Colonel whose men ran the airport told him that things were going normally, or, as normal as one could expect. Then, suddenly, Sisov noticed the anti-aircraft guns turning, and pointing south. His aide came up to him. “Comrade General, air raid alarm!”

General Sisov saw that the closest shelter was a trench. “Let's get to that trench, Dimitri,” he said, and both the General and his aide ran to the trench and jumped in.


“Lead's in hot!” Guru called as he brought 512 down on the bomb run. He saw the AAA coming up, both 23-mm and 37-mm, and the flak, though not well aimed, was intense. This time, they're putting a lot of lead in the air, he thought. Guru ignored the flak as he lined up on his aim point, just to the right of a hangar, but where two Su-25s were parked, and just south of them, an An-24 and an L-410. Not today, Ivan....Guru said as he got ready. “Steady...steady....HACK!” He hit his pickle button, and his six Mark-82 Snakeyes and six M-117Rs came off the racks. Guru then pulled wings level and applied power as he headed north, jinking as he did so to avoid any flak or missiles. “Lead's off target.”


“What the...” Sisov muttered as he saw Guru's F-4 come in and release its bombs. The aircraft was low enough that he could see them, and the General ducked just as the first bombs exploded. He heard a dozen explosions, then several more. Sisov peeked out of the trench, and saw that two hangars had been hit, along with two Su-25s and a pair of An-24 transports-all of which had been blown apart. For good measure, an L-410 transport had its tail blown off by a near-miss, and the plane looked like a sieve after all the bomb fragments had sliced through it. Then he ducked back down, for he knew American aircraft didn't come over alone.

“SHACK!” Goalie called as Guru pulled away. “We got secondaries!”

“How many and how good?” Guru asked as a missile, maybe an SA-9 or -13, flew by from left to right above the aircraft. He kept up his jinking as a result.

“Got the hangars and maybe a couple of transports, and the Frogfoots!”

“Ivan's had a bad morning,” said Guru as he jinked to the right, then settled on a northeasterly course.


“Two's in hot!” Kara called as 520 went down on the bomb run. She saw the CO make his, and saw the two Frogfoots, two transports, and at least one hangar go up in fireballs. Kara, too, was the object of flak as she came in on the target, but she ignored it-and a SA-7 type missile that came up, but didn't track, flying harmlessly along the right side of her Phantom. She picked out the newly-build southern ramp area and hangars, with what looked like at least one Hip helicopter and two Mi-2 Hoplites as well. Your turn to die, Kara thought as she lined up a Hip in her pipper. “Steady.....Steady....NOW!” She called when she hit the pickle button, sending her Mark-82s and M-117Rs onto the target below. Kara then pulled wings level, applied power, and, like the CO, headed north, jinking all the way. “Two's off safe.”

“Of all the...” Sisov muttered as Kara's F-4 came in. He watched as the bombs came off the aircraft, then ducked back into the trench. Another dozen explosions rumbled, then three more followed. Sisov took a look out of the trench, and saw an Mi-8 that had been blown apart, two Mi-2s that had been tossed aside like toys, and a hangar ripped open and burning furiously. The General shook his head, then got back into the trench, as the anti-aircraft gunners kept firing.


“GOOD HITS!” Brainiac shouted in 520's back seat.

“What'd we get?” Kara asked as some tracers flew past well to the left, and a missile came from the Nine O'clock, but flew well behind the F-4.

“Hangar, and maybe a Hip.”

“Their bad day,” She grinned beneath her oxygen mask as 520 headed to the northeast, and Kara was able to pick up the CO.


“Three's in hot!” Sweaty called as she came in on her run. She saw Kara pulling up, and the explosions covering the southern ramp area-along with a secondary in a hangar and another, fuel fed. Fuel truck? Oh, well....Sweaty ignored the 23-mm and 37-mm flak coming up, and a pair of SA-7 types that flew past on both sides of the aircraft. She lined up on Runway 15/33, but didn't fly down the runway as that was asking to get shot down. Instead, she came in at an angle, aiming to cover both the runway and the taxiway with her bombs. “And...Steady....And.....HACK!” Sweaty hit the pickle button, releasing her bombs onto the field below. Then she pulled up and away, applying power and jinking. Sweaty then made her call, “Three's off target.”


General Sisov heard Sweaty's run, and the explosions that followed. He heard the F-4 fly past, and a dozen explosions sound in its wake. He looked up from the trench, and saw clouds of smoke on the runway, and that was bad news, he knew. Before he could say anything else, his aide pulled him into the trench. When there were three raiders, it was likely there was a fourth.....


“SHACK!” Preacher called to Sweaty. “Good hits!”

“How good?” Sweaty asked. She was still jinking to avoid flak, and an SA-7 type missile flew by just after she jinked to the left. Sweaty did one to the right, avoiding an SA-9 or -13 that came from the left and flew behind the aircraft.

Her GIB replied. “Got the runway.”

“Good enough,” Sweaty replied as she turned to the northeast, hoping to pick up the CO's element.


“Four's in!” Hoser called as he came down on his run. He picked out the small pond to the east of the runway, and just to the left of F.M. 159, which ran along the east side of the airport. Hoser ignored the flak coming up, and picked out the fuel dump just south of the pond, with the truck tracks and the camo netting that betrayed it. Not today, Ivan....Hoser lined up the fuel dump in his pipper. “Steady...And...And....NOW!” He hit his pickle button, releasing his bombs onto the fuel dump. Then he pulled up and away, and, like the others, was jinking as he did to avoid flak. “Four off target,” Hoser called.


“Of all the...” Sisov muttered as he heard Hoser make his run. This time, the explosions were to the east, and after the F-4 had cleared the area, General Sisov stood up in the trench and looked in that direction. The field's fuel depot had been hit, and several fuel-fed fires were burning, with fuel drums still going off and adding their fuel to the inferno. He turned to his aide. “Find a telephone and get the 78th Tank Division on the line. Order them on my authority to get their SAM regiment here as soon as possible. This may be the beginning, and I don't want to take chances when Marshal Kribov arrives.”

His aide, a Major whose service piping said he was a tank officer, nodded. “Right away, Comrade General.” Just then, two more F-4s came over, but instead of attacking, simply followed the attackers to the north.


“GOOD HITS!” KT called in Hoser's back seat. “We got the fuel dump!”

“Secondaries?” Hoser asked as an SA-9 flew ahead of him. He kept up the jinking, then caught up with Sweaty, and hooked up with his element leader.

“Good ones and multiple ones,” replied KT.

“Their lucky morning,” Hoser said as he formed up on Sweaty.


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

“Still got two more,” Guru replied. “Rambler One-five, you and One-six get your asses down and north.”

“Roger, Lead,” Karen McKay replied. She and Black dropped down from their TARCAP orbit, accelerated, and headed north, then turned to pick up the strike aircraft. As they did, they overflew the target, and had a glimpse of what had been visited upon the field. “Have visual on Sweaty.”

“Copy,” Guru said. “You with me, Two?”

“Right with you, Boss,” Kara replied.

Guru took a look to his right, and found Kara's bird, 520, right with him in Combat Spread. “Copy, Two. Sweaty?”

“On your six, and Hoser's with me.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. “Yukon, Rambler Lead. Say threats.”

An AWACS controller replied at once. “Rambler Lead, Yukon. Threat bearing Two-four-five for forty Medium, closing. Second threat bearing One-six-five for fifty. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon. Bogey dope?”

“Rambler, Threats at two-four-five are Fulcrums. Threats at One-six-five are Floggers.”

In 512, Guru thought. MiG-29s and MiG-23s? “Roger, Yukon.” He checked his altimeter. 700 feet. Guru then dropped down to 500 feet AGL, and the rest of the flight followed. “How far to the fence?” he asked Goalie.

“Two minutes thirty,” she replied.

“Copy that,” Guru said. He glanced at his EW display. The damned Mainstay was still there, and it was joined by at least one fighter radar, for there was a strobe at Two-four-five, and the A/A light was on. Then another came up. “Fulcrums are up.”

“Want to go for 'em?”

“Maybe,” Guru said. “How long to the fence?”

Goalie checked her map and the INS. “Two minutes.”

The CO checked his EW display. The A/A light went off, and the strobe was no longer there. But there was still a strobe at One-eight-zero. “Fulcrums are off, but the Mainstay's still there.”

“Rambler Lead, Yukon,” the AWACS came back. Bandits have turned. Threat now bearing Two-one-five for fifty, Medium, going away. Second threat still closing. Threat bearing One-five-five for forty. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Yukon,” Guru said. “Can you get some Eagles or Vipers for a reception committee?”

“Can do,” said the controller. “Cowboy One-one, Yukon. Bandits bearing One-nine-one for forty. Medium, closing. Clear to arm, clear to fire. Kill. Repeat: KILL.”

In an F-15C from the 49th TFW, the flight lead acknowledged, then brought her four Eagles in on an intercept vector. It didn't take long to get set for a BVR shot, and four F-15s locked up four MiG-23MLs. “Fox One” calls came over the radio, as the F-15s took their shots. Three of the four MiGs fell to AIM-7Ms, and the fourth turned and ran for home.

“Eagles are on the ball,” Guru observed.

“That they are,” replied Goalie. One minute.”

“Lead, we could've had the Fulcrums,” Kara called.

“If they had gotten closer,” Guru reminded her. “They turned.”

“Copy,” his wingmate replied. She wanted that tenth kill, and a MiG-29? Only the CO and Sweaty had those in the squadron's kill sheet.

“Maybe next time,” Guru said.

“Thirty seconds to the fence,” Goalie said.

“Flight, Lead. Verify IFF is on, out.”

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

The twin ribbons of concrete that signaled I-20 soon appeared, and just as the six-ship crossed the Interstate, the SEARCH light on the EW display went off, and the strobe disappeared. “Mainstay's off,” Guru noted.

“For now,” Goalie spat. “Somebody really needs to take those guys out.”

“All we know, somebody's proabably planning to do just that,” the CO replied as he pulled up to 15,000 feet to head for the tanker track.

“We can hope,” said Goalie.


The flight formed up and made the tankers for the post-strike refueling. The RAF Tristar was still there, along with the usual KC-135s, KC-10s, and KC-130s. This time, the Tristar was busy with some Marine A-4s, so the Tiger Phantoms hooked up with a pair of Marine KC-130s, while the 335th birds joined up on a pair of KC-10s. The refueling completed, they headed back to Sheppard.

When the flight got to Sheppard, they were second in the arrival pattern, behind a Marine F-4 flight, but had to wait for two departing strikes-one 335th, the other A-7s from VA-135. After the Marines landed, it was their turn. After landing, the crews popped their canopies as they taxied in. This time, no one held up fingers to signal kills, much to the disappointment of the ground crews. The F-4s taxied in to their respective dispersal areas, and when 512 got to its, Guru taxied into the revetment.

After shutting down, and going through the post-flight checklist, Guru took a deep breath. “Two and done.”

“Busy morning,” Goalie deadpanned. “Chowtime, then two more.”

“Ain't that the truth,” said Guru as he stood in the cockpit, took his helmet off, as the ground crew deployed the stepladder. He and Goalie climbed down, and did a quick walk-around as Sergeant Crowley came up. “Sarge.”

“How'd it go, Major?” Crowley asked. He had, as usual, a bottle of water for both pilot and GIB.

“No MiGs, but we tore up another airport,” Guru said as he took the water, then downed half of the bottle. “Got a couple of Su-25s on the ground, though.”

“That we did,” Goalie said after she drank. “Two airfields in one morning, though....” She was hoping for a nice, decent BAI run for the next go-around.

“Not the only one thinking that,” Guru nodded.

“Sir, how's my bird?” Crowley asked. Crew Chiefs felt they “owned” the aircraft, and the crew merely borrowed it on occasion.

Guru turned to his crew chief. “Five-twelve's working like a champ,” he said. “Don't change a thing, whatever you're doing. Get the post-flight finished, get yourselves some chow, then get her ready for the next one.”

“Yes, sir!” Crowley was beaming. “You heard the Major, people! Let's get the post-flight done. Then you all get some chow, then we get her ready for the next run.”

Leaving the ground crew to their work, Guru and Goalie walked to the revetment's entrance, where Kara and Brainiac were waiting. “How'd it go with you guys?”

“Tore up the southern ramp, and you got the north,” Kara replied. “And you two got two Su-25s on the ground.”

Guru nodded as he put on his bush hat. “Better to kill 'em on the ground than in the air.”

“Ain't that the truth,” Goalie added.

Sweaty, Preacher, Hoser, and KT came over next, with the RAF crews following. “That was a good one,” Sweaty said. “I think I've got runway-busting down pat.”

“Fuel dump went up,” Hoser added.

“Big time,” KT said. “This one wasn't that defended.”

“This time,” Brainiac said. “Next one could be a bear.”

“It might,” Guru reminded them as Karen McKay and her people came up. “Karen? How'd it go with you guys?”

The near-ace seemed disappointed. “Not as exciting as Dave's this morning. Nothing in the air, not even a chopper.”

Sweaty grinned. “Be glad for that. This time you didn't run into anybody out for his fifth.”

“There is that.”

“Just as Guru there warned us,” Kara said. “He told me and Sweaty the same thing.”

Sweaty nodded. “He did.”

Flight Lt. Ian Black, McKay's wingman, asked, “What's next?”

Guru replied, “Debrief, then get some food inside you, take care of any paperwork, maybe take a nap, because in an hour and a half, we're back in the saddle.”

“We flying with you?” McKay asked.

“Depends on the ATO,” Kara said.

“It does,” Guru said. “As for lunch? Stay away from the suggestion of pork-tri-tip.”

McKay nodded. “We've been warned.”

“That bad?” McKay's GIB asked.

“Consider it a gift from the Department of Cruel and Unusual Nourishment,” Goalie quipped.

“If you go ahead and try it?” Guru asked. “See Doc Waters for the antidote.”

There were some laughs at that, and McKay replied, “We'll take that up.”

“Good,” Guru said. “Okay, let's debrief, then get ready for another go.”

[Matt Wiser]

Thoughts so far on the RAF's first morning of combat in Texas?

[RN7]

Originally Posted by Matt Wiser

Thoughts so far on the RAF's first morning of combat in Texas?

Where the RAF Phantoms British Rolls Royce engine variants or later variant US supplied F-4-J's?

The British Phantoms had a 30% shorter take-off distance, 20% faster climb to altitude, higher top speed and longer range. It was also more efficient at lower altitudes, and had better acceleration at low speed. Basically they were better at ground attack than the USAF Phantom's and superior WVR fighters.

Also will the RAF Tornado GR1/GR4 be showing up? It was designed from the outset for mission to deliver conventional and nuclear ordnance against Warsaw Pact forces in Eastern Europe. Its variable wing geometry allowed for minimal drag during the low-level dash towards a well-prepared enemy, and its advanced navigation and flight computers reduced the workload of the pilot during low-level flight and eased control of the aircraft. It was the best tactical bomber in the world and could carry an enormous amount of ordinance, and coupled with well drilled RAF low level high speed attack tactics would have torn through any Soviet air defences in the CONUS with ease.

[Matt Wiser]

These are the F-4J(UK) models. Nearest Tornados are up in Canada, and are more needed there. The RAF has plans to form two squadrons of Es made by the Japanese and send them to the Southern Theater.

They're here because the Js are going back to the USN (and likely broken down for parts), and that some of the crews are going to transition to the E at Kingsley Field, OR, and the others go back to the UK.

[Matt Wiser]

In between strikes...



335th TFS, Sheppard AFB, TX: 1210 Hours Central War Time:


Major Matt Wiser got up from behind his desk. He and the rest of his flight had debriefed their mission, then, much to the disgust of all of them, there was the war with the “armchair warriors”, their term for the AF bureaucrats who made everyone's life miserable or, on occasion, tolerable. After dealing with what had occupied his IN box, he was looking forward to lunch. After he got up, there was a knock on his office door. “Yeah? Come on in and show yourself!”

Squadron Leader Dave Gledhill, the OINC of the RAF detachment from 74 Squadron, came in. “Major,” he said. “Sorry...Guru. Old habit, I'm afraid.”

“Habit to have in the rear area,” Guru nodded. “Not so much here. How'd your second one go?”

“Not much,” Gledhill said. “We went with Kerry Collins down to the East German sector. Had a TARCAP but nothing came our way.”

“But he got a kill,” Guru replied. “Somebody flying an L-410 crossed his path and he took a Sidewinder shot. Number four for him. Which reminds me: I need to warn him about trolling for MiGs.”

Gledhill let out a grin. “Ah, yes, the 'look out for the Ivan who's out for his fifth,' warning.”

“Something like that,” the 335th CO nodded. “So, your take on the first couple of missions?”

“About what I expected, though the MiG-29 encounter on the first one was a surprise.”

“Now you know,” replied Guru. “You guys can take on a Fulcrum with an F-4. Just don't try it with a Flanker.”

“Quite,” Gledhill said.

There was another knock on the door and it was Sin Licon, the 335th's Intel Officer. “Boss, oops, sorry, Squadron Leader, didn't see you.”

“No problem, Leftenant,” Gledhill said.

“What's up, Sin?” Major Wiser asked.

“Boss, heard this from Don Van Loan. Somebody took a shot at a Mainstay.”

The two senior officers looked at each other. “Well, now,” Guru said. “Anything about killing one?”

“No, Boss, but Ops did say he heard two 'Fox Three' calls, and something about TCS contact.”

Guru nodded, and so did Gledhill. Fox Three meant an active radar missile, and the AIM-54 Phoenix was the only one in the inventory so far, and only the F-14 carried those, along with the TCS system for long-range VID (Visual Identification) of targets. It could pick up a fighter-sized target at forty miles, and bombers, airliners, or transports at seventy-and the Il-76 transport was the platform for the Mainstay...... “Okay, Sin. Let us know if you pick up anything else,” Guru told his intel.

“You got it, Boss,” replied Licon.

“Could you let my people know as well?” Gledhill asked.

“Yes, sir,” Licon said.

“All right, Sin. Thanks,” Guru said.

“Boss,” Licon nodded. “Squadron Leader,” he added, then headed on out.

“Good news,” Gledhill said after a thought. “How many left?”

“Intel thinks there's five in-theater. Now there's four,” Guru replied. “So...maybe they can pull off another, and Ivan pulls the Mainstays further south. Makes it better for us.”

“That it does,” the RAF officer replied. “So, avoid the pork-tri-tip sandwiches for lunch?” Gledhill asked, changing the subject.

Guru nodded. “And if you don't take my advice and eat it? Like I told Karen McKay after we got back: see Doc Waters for the antidote.”

“I'll pass that on. Oh, by the way, so far, nothing from Flight Leftenant Bruce about any...problems with Major Carson.”

“Good.” Guru said. “Oh, to have been a fly on the wall for that conversation. Frank thinks he's a blue-blood, being old money rich from Boston, and yet...”

“He's not that blue,” Gledhill grinned. “Bit of a shock, that.”

“It would. Anyway,” Guru said. “There's enough fools on this base that they keep making those sandwiches. So just stay away from those.”

“Will do,” Gledhill replied. He turned, and saw a now-familiar figure coming to the CO's office, two plastic bags in hand. “I see Goalie's here.”

Guru nodded. “We do eat lunch together, and with her as Senior WSO, it's a way to find out how the GIBs are doing. Speaking of which, any problems from your WSOs about dealing with a First Lieutenant in that slot? Or yourself, for that matter.”

“None at all. Commander's perogative and all that.”

“That's good to know,” Guru said as Goalie knocked on the door. “Yeah?”

The door opened, and Goalie came in, bags in hand. “Boss, and Squadron Leader,” she said.

“Please, Goalie, call me Dave when it's informal like this,” Gledhill said. “So, I'll leave the two of you.”

“Okay, Dave, and have a good lunch. We'll get the next mission in forty-five to an hour. Then we'll know if we're going back out together,” Guru said.

Gledhill knew this form of dismissal. “Right. See you then.”

After Gledhill left, Goalie turned to her pilot. “He comes across as a decent kind of guy. Not that stiff upper lip or Colonel Blimp type we were afraid of.”

Hearing that, Guru was pleased. “That he is. Any problems on your end? He said their guys didn't have any with you as Senior WSO.”

“Not a one.”

“On that happy note,” the CO said, nodding at the bags. “What's for lunch?”

“Western Bacon Cheeseburgers, with steak fries, cole slaw, and lemonade.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Guru said, opening one of the styrofoam containers.


After lunch, the two were talking about the morning's events. “Well?” Guru asked his GIB and lover. “How'd they do this first morning?”

“Not bad,” Goalie replied. “First trip out of the gate, and both Gledhill's crew and Napier's get MiG-29s. I'd say that's a good omen. But...”

“But what?”

“Bomber interception is one thing. They're in a whole new league, and so far, so good. They have to get past that ten-mission mark before we can say they're settled in. And you know as well as I do that seventy percent of our losses are people who don't get past those first ten missions.”

“Ain't that the sorry truth? ” The CO replied. “Day after tomorrow, they cross that threshold.” He paused for a moment, then asked his GIB, “Think they'll lose people?”

“I'd be surprised if they don't.”

“Hope you're wrong about that,” Guru told her.

Goalie nodded. “So do I.”


A few minutes later, there was a knock on the office door. “Yeah?” Guru said.

The door opened, and Kara came in. “Boss, we've got a mission.”

Guru stood up from behind his desk. “When?”

“Birds should be prepped and ready,” Kara replied.

“Then we'd best get going. You two?” Guru nodded at both women. “Round everybody up. Briefing room in ten. We going as a four-ship or...”'

“Gledhill and Napier are coming with us,” said Kara.

“Good. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.” Guru replied.

“Just as long as they leave out the 'close up the walls with our glorious dead,' crap.” Kara spat.

“Concur,” Goalie said.

“So do I,” the CO said. “Get going.”

Kara and Goalie nodded. “We're gone.” Kara replied, then the two left the office.

While Kara and Goalie rounded up the crews, Guru went to the Ops Office. He found Capt. Don Van Loan, the Ops Officer, waiting for him. “Don. Kara says you've got something for my flight.”

“Here you go,” the Ops Officer replied, tossing the CO a briefing packet. “Back down to the same guys you hit this morning. Well, their rear, anyway.”

Guru scanned the target summary. “Missile support and checkout facility,” he said. Then he looked at Van Loan. “You are shitting me. SS-23s?”

“That's what it says, and Sin Licon says those puppies are fucking deadly. Be glad they haven't shot any our way.”

“For now,” Guru reminded him. “Okay, we getting Weasels?”

“Joining up with you at the tankers,” Van Loan replied.

The CO nodded. “Okay, thanks, Don. You have a good one.”

“You too, Boss. And come back. Don't want to be Exec yet,” the Ops Officer reminded his CO.

“And you do that yourself. Don't want to break in Kara as Ops,” replied Guru. “Good luck.”

“You too, Boss.”


Guru then went to his flight's briefing room, and found everyone there, along with Buddy, the squadron's mascot. To his relief, the dog was already asleep. “Okay, folks. We've got a new one, and this one could be hairy.”

“What's the target?” Kara asked, though she already knew in her capacity as Assistant Ops Officer.

“Missile support and checkout facility,” replied Guru. At the F.M. 218/F.M. 573 intersection. Just south of it, on the east side of F.M. 573. There's a ranch Ivan took over and is using for the missile facility. The ranch buildings, here,” he showed a low-level picture, probably from an RF-4, are being used as HQ, Officer quarters, and so on. The EM quarters are in these tents, to the east of the ranch buildings. The missiles themselves are in the field to the north. And here's the kicker.”

“Which is?” Sweaty asked.

“They're not Scuds. These puppies are SS-23 Spiders. And they are bad news.”

Heads nodded at that. The crews recalled previous briefings on the SS-23. Namely, they were solid-fueled, meant as a Scud successor. Terminal guidance with either a thousand-pound HE warhead or a 1200-pound CBU warhead. And that was without the thousand-pound CW warhead likely filled with VX or the 50-to-100 Kiloton tactical nuclear warhead. “Who do they belong to?” Brainiac asked.

“This is a Soviet sector, so it's either 32nd Army, or Third Shock, which is known to be resting and refitting in the area,” Guru read from the intel summary.

“So how do we get there?” Hoser wanted to know.

“Same tanker track as this morning,” the CO said. Then we get down low, with Lake Comfort as our first checkpoint, then south to Proctor Lake. Cross U.S. 67/377, then State Route 36. Once clear of 36, head due south to the town of Center City. Once we hit Center City, it's southeast to the Colorado River. Then we turn due north. Just east of the town of Mulin, we cross U.S. 84. Eight miles due north is a pair of lakes-the large one just to the east of F.M. 573 is the pop-up point. ID the target to the northwest, make your run, then get back down low and your asses to the north.”

“Defenses?” Sweaty asked.

“Coming to that. This is an Army rear area, so SA-4s are likely, and before you ask, we'll be getting Weasels for this one. Two Gs will join up with us at the tankers. There's SA-11 reported but not confirmed, by the way. Two divisions are also in the area, and they have SA-6 or -8.”

“Which explains the Weasels,” KT said.

“It does,” Guru nodded. “At the target, it's the usual ZU-23s and MANPADS. But there could be armor and MRD types out on patrol, with SA-9 or -13, and ZSU-23s, so be careful,” the CO warned the crews. “Anything's possible down there.”

Dave Gledhill raised a hand. “And the MiG threat?”

“Brownwood Regional is still out of action, so that's good news. Other than that, it's unchanged from this morning. This is an army rear area again, and we might run across Hinds on patrol, Hips and Hooks on cargo runs, maybe even Su-25s or MiG-27s. If you can, take a shot. Otherwise, unless the MiGs get too close, say twenty miles? We lead them to the F-15s and F-16s.”

Heads nodded again. “Ordnance loads?” Goalie asked.

“Kara?” Guru asked his wingmate. “You and I are taking the missile storage area proper,” he said, pointing to a field on the imagery. “I'm taking the west side of the field, you take the east. We both have CBU-58Bs with incindary submunitions.”

“Got you,” Kara said. “So we make those bastards burn, bleed, and blow up.”

“That we do. Sweaty? You take the ranch buildings. Hoser? You've got the vehicle park. That's to the southeast of the missile storage area. Both of you have a dozen Mark-82 Snakeyes. Six of 'em will have the Daisy Cutter fuze extenders,” said the CO. “Other than that, it's the usual for air-to-air, and the usual ECM pods for the leads and wingmen.” That meant four AIM-9Ps, two AIM-7Fs, an ALQ-119 for leads or an ALQ-101 for wingmen, two 370-gallon wing tanks, and full 20-mm.

“Right,” Gledhill nodded. “And for us? Four Sidewinder Ls, four Sky Flash, SUU-23 gun pod, and two wing tanks.”

Guru nodded. “Sounds good. Other than that, weather is unchanged, and bailout areas are the same as this morning. Anything else?”

Flight Lt. Susan Napier asked, “One more after this one?”

“Unless somebody's hollering for CAS,” Kara said. “Then we run that until sunset.”

“Been there, done that,” Sweaty added. “A lot.”

“We have,” Goalie said. “And Buddy's still asleep.”

“Good omen,” Guru nodded. “Okay, time to fly. Gear up and meet at 512's revetment. We're back in the game.”

An Ops NCO came by to collect the briefing materials, then the crews went to gear up. After Guru went to the Men's Locker Room to do so, he came back out, and Goalie was there, as usual. “Ready?”

“Time to go back to work,” Goalie said.

“It is that,” the CO said. “Still hope you're wrong about what you said earlier.”

“I'm hoping the same thing.”


Pilot and GIB left the squadron's building, and they found Dave Golen. Flossy, and their GIBs, Terry McAuliffe and Jang, respectively, going over a mission. “Dave,” Guru said. “You guys take care and be careful.”

“Will do,” Golen replied. “Escort for a recon mission. We're meeting them at the tankers. You may know the lead pilot? Call sign Athena?”

Guru and Goalie smiled. They had flown escort for or had Capt. Sharon Valerri-Park do their post-strike recon more than once. “She's good. You bring her back, you hear.”

Golen nodded. “Will do. And she's got a wingman, so that's two we have to look out for. We're still Mustang Flight.”

“And we're still Rambler. You going anywhere near Comanche or Brownwood?”

“Near the latter,” Flossy said. “Post-strike recon for the airfield we busted up this morning.”

“Which means they're on alert,” Guru nodded. “You guys be careful. Don't need to start writing letters. If you hit MiG trouble, holler. We'll be there, and bring the Brits.”

Dave Golen nodded. “Will do.”

“Good luck, and bring everyone back,” Guru said, putting out his hand.

“Likewise,” Golen said as he shook the CO's hand.


Guru and Goalie then went to 512's revetment, and found the rest of the flight waiting, as usual. “Okay, any last-minute questions?”

“They sure these are SS-23s? Preacher asked. He was Sweaty's GIB.

“You saw the imagery,” Guru reminded him. “Those sure didn't look like Scud transporters.”

“Had to ask,” replied Preacher.

“Don't blame you,” Guru said. “Okay, usual on the radio.” That meant call signs between them, and mission code to AWACS and other interested parties.

“Gotcha, Boss,” Kara said.

The CO nodded. “Dave, anything to add?”

“I guess that's everything,” Gledhill replied.

“Anything else?” Guru asked the flight. Heads shook no. “Meet up at ten grand overhead, and let's hit it. Time to fly.”

The crews went to mount their aircraft, and Guru and Goalie went into the revetment to mount the CO's bird, 512. The Crew Chief, Sergeant Crowley, was waiting, and as usual, snapped a salute. “Major, Lieutenant? Five-twelve's ready to kick some more Commie ass.”

“Thanks, Sarge,” Guru said. He and Goalie did the usual preflight walk-around, then the CO signed for the aircraft. Guru and Goalie then climbed the ladder and got into their respective cockpits, then got strapped in. Then it was time for the preflight checklist.

They were almost finished when Goalie asked, “Think this one's too hairy?”

“Had worse ones,” Guru replied.

“You know the intel folks and their motto. 'We're betting your life,'” she said. “Ejection seats?”

“Armed top and bottom. You're right on that, and check yours. Arnie?”

“Arnie's up and running, and so is the INS.” That meant the ARN-101 DMAS and the INS system. “Preflight complete and ready for engine start.”

Guru nodded, then gave a thumbs-up to his Crew Chief. Sergeant Crowley returned it, then gave the “Start engines” signal. First one,then both, J-79 engines were on and warming up. Once the warm-up was complete, Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead with six, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

“Rambler Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi to Runway Three-three-Lima. Hold prior to the Active, and you are number two in line.”

“Roger, Tower. Rambler Lead rolling,” Guru replied. He gave another thumbs-up to his CC, who signaled the ground crew to pull the chocks away from the wheels, then Crowley gave the “Taxi” signal.

Guru then taxied 512 out of the revetment, and as he cleared it, Crowley gave a perfect salute. Pilot and GIB returned it, and 512 taxied to the runway, with the rest of the flight following. When they got to the runway, Dave Golen and Flossy were ahead of them. Once Mustang Flight had taxied for takeoff, Guru taxied into the Holding Area, where the armorers removed the weapon safeties. Then Mustang Flight rumbled down the runway and into the air, and it was their turn.

“Tower, Rambler Lead requesting taxi for takeoff,” Guru said to the tower controller.

“Rambler Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are two-six-nine for five.”

“Roger, Tower.” Guru then taxied onto the runway, and Kara followed in 520. “All set?” He asked Goalie.

“Ready back here,” his GIB replied.

Guru then turned to 520, right with him, and saw Kara and Brainiac give him and Goalie a thumbs-up. He and Goalie returned it, then Guru called the Tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

As usual, the tower never replied by radio, but flashed a green light. Clear for takeoff.

“Canopy coming down,” Guru said, pulling down and locking his canopy, and Goalie did the same. A quick look saw 520's crew had done the same. Everything was ready. “You ready?”

“All set,” Goalie replied.

“Then let's go,” Guru said. He applied full throttle, released the brakes, and 512 thundered down the runway and into the air, with 520 right alongside. Thirty seconds later, it was Sweaty and Hoser's turn, followed by the two RAF F-4Js. They met up at FL 100, then set course south for the tankers.

[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.”

[Matt Wiser]

Sorry for the gap in between updates, but they will be more regular in the future...

In between strikes:



335th TFS, Sheppard AFB, TX: 1515 Hours Central War Time:


Major Matt Wiser was in his office, taking care of some squadron paperwork. No matter what, the elves never touched it while he was out, and so, he had to attack it. The armchair warriors had to be taken care of, much to his disgust, and there was no going around it. Guru finished the last of the papers-and he was glad to have a good Exec in Mark Ellis, for he took care of what he could, weeded out the wheat from the chaff, and left the really important stuff for the CO's attention. Just as I did, when I had the job, he thought. The CO got up and looked out his office window, intending to hit the fitness tent and at least get in a four-mile run on a treadmill, when there was a knock on the door. “Yeah? Come in and show yourself!”

It was his Staff Sergeant Secretary. “Major? There's somebody here from the base JAG office.”

JAG? Oh, good. Maybe this has to do with Frank's Article 15....”Okay, Trisha,” the CO said to Staff Sgt. Trisha Lord. “Send him in.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir,” Sergeant Lord nodded to someone outside. “The Major will see you.”

A male lieutenant with close-cropped brown hair, wearing BDUs and with a waist holster and .45 came in. “Sir? I'm First Lieutenant Michael Joyce. The legal officer sent me over with this.” He handed the CO a brown envelope.

Guru opened it, and read the cover letter. He looked at the JAG officer, then the paper again, then smiled. “Lieutenant, you don't know how good this'll make a lot of people in this squadron feel.”

“Uh, yes, sir,” the JAG weenie replied. “This was my first case, and, uh...”

“You were hoping it'd go to trial,” Guru said, and Joyce nodded. “Be glad it didn't go that far.” He scanned the letter one more time. “All right, that'll be all. Send my secretary in on your way out.”

“Sir,” Joyce said. He saluted, and Guru sketched a return one. After he left, Sergeant Lord came in

“Major?”

“Find the Exec and Chief Ross. Tell 'em I want to see both of them when I get back from my last mission.”

“Yes, sir. Is there anything else?”

“No calls,” Guru said as he got up from his desk. “I'm headed to the gym.”


Major Wiser went to his tent to change into his workout clothes, then went over to the large tent that served as the base fitness center. Before he went in, Colonel Brady, the CO of MAG-11, came out, drenched in sweat. “Sir,” Guru said.

“Major,” Brady replied. He was headed for the shower, then was headed back out. Even though he had his share of battles with the armchair warriors, as Colonel Brady was the Marine equivalent of a wing commander, he made it a point to fly at least two missions a day, if not more. “Going in?”

Guru nodded, then gestured at the entrance, where Doc Waters was standing, clipboard in hand. “Yes, sir. With my squadron's flight surgeon there, checking off names, no doubt, I'd best be going in.”

Hearing that, Brady laughed. “No doubt about that, Major. Best to keep the sawbones happy.”

“Yes, sir,” said Guru. Then he turned serious. “Sir, I heard from the Air Force JAG office. It concerns a certain officer.....”

“Was that....matter processed?”

Guru nodded. “It was, sir.”

“Good,” Brady said. “Now, you've got two things to worry about: First, how fast until the old-boy network at the Academy finds out, and second, what do they do about it?”

“Sir, that will be as soon as that fellow drops a dime or a letter in the box, and second? Not much, I think, Try getting something like this expunged.”

Colonel Brady thought for a minute. “That is highly doubtful, and Major? I think it'll go the way we discussed earlier. He gets an O-5 promotion via the old-boy network, serves out his twenty, then retires.”

Guru nodded, unhappily. “Yes, sir.”

“Still, you've made a lot of folks on this base very happy,” Brady reminded him. Then he changed the subject. “What about that mission you're cooking up?”

“Sir, General Olds will brief General Tanner, then my GIB and I will get called to Nellis for a more thorough briefing. If we get the go-ahead, then we can get serious about planning. I'll need some of your Hornet guys to add their two cents when it comes to the flak-suppression and TARCAP side.”

“You'll get 'em,” Brady said. “Let me know when.” He looked at Doc Waters. “And on that note, you'd best make your sawbones a happy man.”

“I'd best get that done, sir,” said Guru.

“You have a good workout, and a good last mission.”

“Will do, sir.”

Colonel Brady went on his way, and Guru went in. “Doc,” he said. “Bored enough that you're sitting out here?”

“Got to have something to do,” the flight surgeon said. “When the most serious thing I've seen in a couple days is a sports injury, or last week,Digger's sprained ankle or giving Ms. Wendt and her cameraman their flight physicals? Have to stay busy somehow.” With that, Doc checked off the CO's name on the list.

“Had to ask, Doc,” said the CO. He then went inside and found himself a treadmill. After he started his run, the rest of his flight came in to get their workouts in. Goalie got to the treadmill next to him. “Well?”

“Doc's checking off names, I noticed,” Goalie said. “He bored or what?”

“He is. Told me that the most serious thing he's had in a few days was a sports injury-along with Digger's sprained ankle and giving our Media guests their flight physicals.”

Goalie laughed. “He waiting for an air strike or a missile attack?”

“Maybe,” Guru said. He noticed Kara on a treadmill, along with several male Marines-and even a couple of the RAF guys-glancing at her. Discretely, mind. “Need to warn the RAF fellows about not ogling Kara in the gym.”

“She does make them pay at the pool table,” said Goalie. “Or at a poker game.”

“That, too. Still, won't do good for inter-Allied relations if she decks one or two for staring at her in her sports bra.”

“There is that little thing to worry about.”


A few minutes later, as Guru and Goalie were finishing up, an Ops NCO came in. “Major? Captain Van Loan sent me to find you. He's got a mission for you.”

“When?” Guru asked as he got down from the treadmill.

“As soon as you're ready, sir.”

Goalie got down from her own treadmill. “No rest for the weary or the wicked.”

“We'll rest when we're dead,” Guru said. “Find the rest of the flight, and see if any of the RAF people are going with us. Get showered up, then in the briefing room.”

“When?”

“In twenty.”

“On my way.”


Guru went and took a quick shower, changed back into his flight suit, then went to the Ops Office. The Ops Officer was there waiting for him. “Don,” he nodded. “You've got a mission for me?”

“That I do, Boss,” Van Loan replied, handing the CO a briefing packet. “Hamilton Municipal Airport.”

Guru scanned the cover letter. “Okay...'Local field supporting light transport, helicopter, and..'” He looked at his Ops Officer. “Su-25 FOL. Nice.”

“Four-ship for strike, and two of the Brits for TARCAP. No Dave or Flossy,” Van Loan said. “Sorry, Boss, but they've got their own.”

“Okay,” Guru said. “You be careful, now. Treat your last one like it's your first for the day. Remember what General Olds said about complacency?”

“Took it to heart, Boss. It kills, and we all know it.”

“Good. Don't want to break Kara in as Ops,” Guru said.

Just then, the object of that conversation came in. “Boss, everybody's in the briefing room,” said Kara.

“On my way,” Guru said. “Good luck, Don.”

“You too, Boss.”

Guru and Kara then went to their flight's briefing room. The crews were there, along with Flight Lts. Karen McKay and Ian Black, and their GIBs. “All right, folks, we've got our last one for today.”

“Where we going?” Sweaty asked.

“Hamilton,” Guru said. He opened the packet and found a TPC chart. “Right here, forty-one miles south of Stephenville on U.S. 281. We're going for the municipal airport, two miles south of the town proper, which is being used by light transports-think An-2s, An-24s or -26s, and L-410s; plus helos, and is also a Su-25 FOL.”

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

“Tanker Track CHEVRON at Mineral Wells, then we get our asses down low, and follow the Brazos River.” Guru tapped on the map, then went on. “For the benefit of our British friends, the Brazos divides two Army-sized units. West of the Brazos is the East Germans, and on the East side? Nicaraguans and in their rear, Libyans.”

Kara asked, “How far south?”

“Down to Lake Whitney, until about a mile short of the dam, and we avoid the flak at the dam, but no avoiding the flak at Lake Granbury Dam, or at the bridges.”

“East Germans shoot at us, but the Nicaraguans don't,” Brainiac said. “Unless they're the ones being hit. Libyans do, and they shoot a lot.”

“Got it,” Karen McKay said.

“Going on,” said Guru.” Once we clear Lake Whitney, we go southwest, south of Clifton, then keep going. Cross State Route 36 near Jonesboro, then hit the town of Evant, at the U.S. 84/281 intersection. Turn north, and thirty seconds later-eight miles-is a bridge over a creek-it's really a small river, but it's listed as a creek.”

Hoser asked, “That's the pop-up point?”

“It is,” Guru said. “Climb up, get eyeballs on target, and make your runs. When you do your post-strike jinking, make sure your last jink takes you northwest, and head for Proctor Lake. Turn north and get to Lake Comfort, then the I-20 and the FLOT.”

“Got it,” replied Sweaty. “Defenses?”

“Coming to that,” the CO said. “At the target, it's a mix of 23-mm ZU-23s, and WW II-era 37-mm for the flak, plus guys with MANPADS. Now, this is a crossroads town, so there's the likelihood of a supply convoy passing through or staying the night, and they do have their own air-defense assets. Anything from gun trucks to ZSU-23s, and MANPADS at least, if not SA-9 or -13.”

“Intel's full of good news today,” Goalie quipped.

“Who gets what?” Kara asked.

“You and I get the ramp areas,” Guru said. He had a copy of an FAA airport diagram. “They're not here prewar, other than a small spot here. But Ivan or somebody's added more ramp space. I'll take the north side, you the south. We'll have a dozen Rockeyes each for that.”

“What about me and Hoser?” Sweaty wanted to know.

“Sweaty? You get Ivan's improvised hangars, here, east of the ramp area,” Guru said, tapping a photo that had to have come from an RF-4C, but he had no way of knowing. “Hoser? Get the runway. Both of you will have Mark-82 Snakeyes-an even dozen. Everybody's also got full air-to-air.” That was four AIM-9Ps, two AIM-7Fs, two 370 gallon wing tanks, an ALQ-119 or 101 ECM pod, and full 20-mm.

“MiG threat?” Karen McKay asked. “We'll have four AIM-9Ls, four Sky Flash, two wing tanks and a SUU-23 gun pod.”

“Good question. You two,” Guru said, nodding at both McKay and Black. “Set up a TARCAP. Kill anyone flying, and be ready to do nasty things to party-crashers. MiG-29s are not just at San Angelo or Goodfellow, but also at Gray AAF and Bergstrom. MiG-21s and -23s are at Waco Regional, James Connally AFB at Waco, Temple Regional, Gray AAF, and Bergstrom.”

“Which is where the Flankers are,” Brainiac nodded. “Swell.”

“It is, and it sure isn't,” Guru admitted. “Other than that, weather and bailout areas are unchanged. And there's one other thing.”

“Boss?” KT said.

“Complacency,” Guru reminded them. “This may be our last one, but we treat it like it's the first. Consider these guys-whether Russians or East Germans-as if they're Cat I with all the bells and whistles. Complacency kills, so keep that in mind,” the CO said with due seriousness.

“Loud and clear, Major,” Kara replied, and everyone knew that when Guru was addressed by his rank, they were just as serious.

Guru nodded. “Good. Anything else?”

“Buddy's awake,” Goalie said, nodding at the squadron's mascot. The dog was sitting up, and paying attention to the brief. “That's a first for us.”

“You sound like it's a bad omen,” McKay said.

“It can be,” Kara replied. “Just like another dog in Southeast Asia, if he sleeps through the brief, it's going to be an easy ride. If he wakes up and pays attention, watch out.”

Heads nodded at that. “Last time he did,” Sweaty said. “We had two birds go down with three rescued and one crew member KIA.” She was recalling Razor and Revlon's shootdown, and right after that, Hoser and KT had gone down as well.

“Could be a false alarm,” Guru said as an Ops NCO appeared at the door to collect the briefing materials. “If that's it, gear up and meet at 512.”

The crews headed to the locker rooms to gear up. Guru went to the Men's Locker Room, got into his G-suit and survival vest, and collected his helmet. When he came out, Goalie was waiting, similarly geared up. She asked, “You ready?”

“Ready, and hope Buddy's waking up was a false alarm. Not in the mood for any letter-writing.”

“Don't blame you for that,” Goalie said as they went outside.

When they did, both found Dave Golen, Flossy, and their GIBs, Terry McAuliffe and Jang, getting ready for their own mission. “Dave,” Guru said. “You getting ready?”

Their IDF “Observer” nodded. “Just getting set. You still Rambler Flight?”

“We are,” Guru said. “You still Mustang?”

Golen nodded. “Where are you going?”

“Town called Hamilton, south of Hico.”

“That's where we're headed. If you hit MiGs, call out and we'll be there.”

“Same for you,” Guru said. “We'll bring the Brits.”

Flossy grinned. “More the merrier,” she said.

“It is that,” Guru said. “You be careful,” he told Golen. “Don't get complacent.”

“Which kills,” Golen nodded. He knew what the CO meant, having had it drummed into his head in '73, '82, and in this one. “The same to you, and good luck.”

“Likewise,” Guru said, shaking Golen's hand. “Good luck, and be careful.”

“Will do.”

Guru and Goalie then went to the squadron's dispersal, and found 512's revetment, with the flight crews waiting. “Okay, folks. Gather 'round.” He was ready with his final instructions.

“Usual on the radio?” Kara asked.

“It is, and that should be familiar by now to our Brit friends,” Guru said, nodding at McKay, Black, and their GIBs. Mission code to AWACS and others, call signs between them.

“It is,” McKay said, and Black, along with the GIBs, nodded.

“Good. Now, remember what I said about complacency., and let's make it count. Now, if you see basketball-sized tracers coming at the target? That's ZSU-30-2, and those are bad news. Abort. If you see 'em before or after the target? Evade, and note the location.”

Heads nodded. All of the USAF crews knew what ZSU-30 meant, and though they hadn't faced them, the RAF crews knew it was bad news. “Gotcha, Boss,” Kara said.

“Good. We've got an hour and a half of daylight left, so let's get this done,” Guru told them. “Let's hit it. Mount up and meet at ten grand overhead.”

The crews headed to their aircraft, and Guru and Goalie went into the revetment and 512, where Sergeant Crowley, the Crew Chief, was waiting. He snapped a perfect salute, and both CO and GIB returned it. “Major, Lieutenant?” Crowley said. “Five-twelve's ready to rock and kick some more Commie ass.”

“Good to know, Sergeant,” Guru said. He and Goalie did their preflight walk-around, then climbed the ladder and mounted the aircraft. After getting strapped in, they did the preflight checklist. “Hope Buddy being awake was a false alarm,” Guru said.

“Here's hoping,” Goalie replied. “Ejection seats?”

“Armed top and bottom. Check yours,” Guru replied. “You're not the only one feeling that way. Arnie?”

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

“It is, and we are,” Guru said. He gave a thumbs-up to Crowley, who gave the “Start engines” signal. One, then two J-79 engines were soon up and running. Once the warm-up was complete, Guru called the tower. “Tower, Rambler Lead with six, requesting taxi and takeoff instructions.”

“Rambler Lead, Tower,” the controller replied. “Clear to taxi to Runway Three-three Lima, Hold prior to the Active, and you are number three in line.”

“Roger, Tower. Rambler Lead rolling.” Guru gave another thumbs-up to Crowley, who waved to the ground crew. The chocks were pulled away from the wheels, and then Guru released the brakes. Crowley gave the “Taxi” signal, and Guru taxied 512 out of the revetment. When clear, Crowley snapped another salute, and both Guru and Goalie returned it.

Guru then taxied 512 to the Active, with the others in the flight following. When they got to the Active, there was a C-130 departing first, then a 335th two-ship, which he recognized as Dave Golen and Flossy, then a four-ship of Marine Hornets. When the Marines taxied onto the runway, Guru's flight taxied into the holding area, where the armorers removed the weapon safeties. Once the Hornets had launched, it was their turn. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting taxi for takeoff.”

The controller replied immediately. “Rambler Lead, Tower. Clear to taxi for takeoff. Winds are Two-six-seven for ten.”

“Roger, Tower,” Guru said. He taxied 512 onto the runway, and Kara in 520 followed suit, getting into his Five O'clock position. Guru glanced over, and saw Kara and Brainiac give a thumbs-up. He and Goalie returned it, and did a final cockpit check. All was ready. “Tower, Rambler Lead requesting clear for takeoff.”

As usual, the tower didn't reply by radio, but flashed a green light. Clear for Takeoff.

“Canopy coming down,” Guru said, pulling down his canopy and locking it.

“All set,” Goalie said. Hers was down as well. “Ready back here.”

Guru glanced at 520, which was also ready. “Then let's go.” He applied full power, released the brakes, and 512 rumbled down the runway and into the air, with 520 right with him. Thirty seconds later, it was Sweaty and Hoser's turn, and after that, McKay and Black's. The flight formed up at FL 100 and headed south for the tanker rendezvous, and after that, enemy territory.

[Matt Wiser]

Last mission of the day, and the RAF takes a hit:



Over Central Texas: 1610 Hours Central War Time:


Rambler Flight was headed south, into enemy territory. The tanker rendezvous had gone off smoothly, and the RAF people were glad to take on fuel from their own Tristar this time around, while the 335th birds hooked up to KC-135s. Once the pre-strike refueling was complete, the flight left the tanker track and went down low. Once they cleared the I-20, they were across the FLOT for all intents and purposes, and in bad-guy country.

They were skirting the east side of the Brazos, then Lake Granbury, when the U.S. 377 Granbury Bridge appeared. “Granbury Bridge ahead,” Guru called. “And flak at One.”

“Got it,” Goalie said. “East Germans are on the ball today,” she noted as tracers and black puffs appeared.

Guru nodded, then glanced over to the east side. The Nicaraguans on that side of the river were quiet. “Nothing from the east side....” then 512 cleared the bridge, along with the rest of the flight. “Glen Rose is next.” Given how many times they'd flown this way, the 335th crews were getting to know the area like the backs of their hands.

“Copy that,” Goalie replied “One minute, and there's flak at the dam before that.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Guru said. Then he checked his EW display. A bright strobe, and a SEARCH indicator light came on. He shook his head. “Mainstay's up.”

“Again?” Goalie said. “Maybe the Navy didn't splash one after all.”

“Looks that way,” Guru said. “Visual on the dam, and you're right on the flak.”

Sure enough, the Lake Granbury Dam's flak gunners opened up-those on the west side of the Brazos, anyway. The East German gunners threw up the usual 23-mm and 37-mm fire, but their guns were optically aimed, and at the speed Rambler was flying, they barely had time to lead their targets before the strike flight had passed.

“Dam's clear,” Guru said.

“Roger that,” Goalie replied. “Thirty seconds to Glen Rose.” That was the U.S. 67 bridge over the Brazos.

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

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

“Roger that,” Guru called. “Say bogey dope?”

“Rambler, First and third threats are Floggers. Second threats are Fishbeds.”

MiG-21s and -23s? Good, Guru thought. No MiG-29s, and certainly no Flankers. “Rambler Lead copies.”

“Bridge coming up,” Goalie said. “And flak again.”

“No surpise.”

Once again, the East German gunners on the west side of the Brazos opened up, while the Nicaraguans stayed quiet. Even though there was a convoy crossing to the East German side, the gunners on the east bank kept quiet.

On the bridge, an East German Captain of Transport Troops winced. He was leading a supply convoy towards Stephenville, with munitions and spare parts to help rebuild the 20th MRD, which had been shattered in a couple of recent battles with the Americans. His travels had taken him into the Nicaraguan sector, and his opinion of his allies had soured. The Nicaraguans' enthusiasm for the war had been considerably reduced with half of their expeditionary force having been caught in a pocket up in Colorado, and very few had managed to break out, with the rest either dead or prisoners. Things had gotten so bad that, on two occasions that afternoon, when American aircraft came over, the Nicaraguan air-defense people had not opened fire. And now, at the Bridge in a very vulnerable open-topped BTR-60P, the Captain froze as aircraft he identified as F-4 Phantoms came right at the Bridge. To his surprise, no rain of CBU bomblets followed in their wake, as the aircraft clearly had business elsewhere. Shaken, he waved his convoy forward.

“There was a convoy on the bridge,” Guru noted. If they had been on an armed recon....

“Not their turn to die,” Goalie calmly observed. “Forty seconds to the Brazospoint Bridge. Two minutes to Route 174 and the north end of Lake Whitney.”

“Roger that.”

The strike flight kept on course, and forty seconds later, came to the Brazospoint Bridge. Again, the East Germans opened up, while the Nicaraguans stayed quiet.

“That's that,” Guru said as the bridge disappeared behind them.

“It is,” Goalie acknowledged. “One minute fifteen to 174 and Lake Whitney.”

“And the Libyans.”


As they headed south, the pilots were, as usual, keeping their heads on a swivel. Checking their instruments, then the EW displays, then outside the cockpit, all of that had been drummed into their heads at whatever RTU they had gone through. The GIBs, meanwhile, were busy with the navigation, as well as watching their own EW displays.

Guru kept up his visual scanning. While too high for power lines at 500 Feet AGL, ground-based threats could come at any time, as well as coming across a Soviet, East German, or even Libyan flight on a ground-attack mission of their own. Then there were the helos. He then checked his EW display, and noted the SEARCH light still on, with a bright strobe. Then two more strobes, smaller, came up, and the A/A light came on. “Looks like the Floggers are up.”

“Got 'em,” Goalie said.

“Flight, Lead. Music on,” Guru ordered. That meant to turn on their ECM pods.

“Roger, Lead,” Kara called back, and the others followed.

“Bridge coming up,” Goalie said. “And we've got flak at both sides.” Given that tracers and black puffs-which meant 57-mm at least, somebody was on the ball.

Guru saw the flak. “Got it,” he said. Then he pulled up to 550 feet and applied more power, then dropped back down-with the flight doing the same thing. “Lake Whitney up ahead,” he said as the river opened up to reveal the lake.

“Rambler Lead, Crystal Palace,” the AWACS called. “Threat bearing One-six-five for thirty-five. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing One-eight-zero for fifty. Medium, going away.”

“Roger, Crystal Palace,” said Guru. “Say bogey dope.”

“Rambler, First threats are Floggers, with Fishbeds the second,” the controller replied. “Third threat bearing One-nine-five for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Threats are Floggers.”

“Copy,” said Guru.

“Approaching turn point,” said Goalie. “In ten. Five, four, three, two, one, MARK!”

Guru put 512 into a hard right turn to the southwest, on a Two-four-zero heading. Once he was steady on the new course, he asked Goalie, “Time to Route 36?”

“One minute forty,” she replied.

“Got it,” Guru said. He kept up his visual scanning. On his EW display, one of the air-to-air strobes had gone off, but one was still there, along with the Mainstay. He shook his head. “Damn Mainstay.”

“No use arguing,” Goalie said. “One minute.”

“Copy.”

Several small towns-or collections of ruins that had been towns-passed by, then came Route 36, with Jonesboro to their One O'clock. “There's Route 36,” Goalie called. “Forty-five seconds to Evant.”

“And the next turn point,” said Guru. He was watching the sky, both up high and down low.


In Jonesboro, the local garrison was dealing with not just the locals, but also several hundred extra “guests,” for a battered East German motor-rifle regiment, the 36th Independent MRR, had been sent to the town for rest and refit. The garrison, Soviets from a rear-area protection division from Minsk, had been content to stay in the city, keep Route 36 open by simply staying in the city limits and the occasional patrol along the local roads, and leave the civilians alone. With the arrival of the East Germans, and the arrogant attitude that the East Germans seemed to bring with them wherever they went, both the garrison commander-a Major yanked from a comfortable job with the Beylorussian MD-and the locals wanted the East Germans to simply go away. Things were so bad between the erstwhile allies that the local resistance had decided to leave both sides alone-and there might even be a fire-fight or two between the Russians and East Germans-for any number of reasons, the SF Captain who was advising the local resistance felt.

The Soviet Major, meanwhile, had his hands full keeping his battalion occupied. Fat, overage reservists with castoffs from the 1950s or even earlier. A company of tanks was with his battalion, and he was appalled to find that they were T-54s from one of the earliest production batches! As for his artillery, he did have a battery from Regiment, and they were old ZIS-3 76-mm guns from the Great Patriotic War era. At least the mortars were more modern-if one could call 1960 modern, he thought.

The Major was talking to one of his company commanders when some soldiers ran to man some ZPU-4 AA guns. Four American F-4 Phantoms, followed by two more, flew by, headed to the southwest. At least they're not going after the supply depot north of town, he mused. Oh, well. Whatever they were going to attack was not his problem.


“Time to Evant?” Guru asked.

“Thirty seconds,” Goalie replied. “Still got the Mainstay.”

“For now,” Guru said. “Give me the count,” he added as Evant and the U.S. 84-281 intersection appeared directly ahead.

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

Guru put 512 into a hard right turn, then steadied onto a heading of due north, flying parallel to U.S. 281. “Set 'em up. And the pop-up?”

“Twenty seconds,” Goalie called. “Working the switches.”

“Flight, Lead. Switches on, and stand by to pull,” Guru called the flight.

Hearing that, Goalie worked the armament controls in the rear cockpit. “Switches set,” Goalie said. “Pull in ten. And five, four, three, two, one, PULL!”

Guru pulled back on the stick, and as he climbed, Hamilton appeared directly ahead, and just at his Eleven, Hamilton Municipal Airport. “Target in sight. All set?”

“All set and ready.”

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

“Roger, Lead,” Kara replied.

“One-five, one-six,” Guru called their escorts. “TARCAP's yours.”

“Roger, Lead,” Flight Lt.Karen McKay replied, then she and Flight Lt. Ian Black climbed to assume their TARCAP mission.

“Ready?” Guru asked his GIB.

“All set,” replied Goalie.

“Let's go,” he said, rolling 512 in on the bomb run.



In Hamilton, the garrison and the local civilians had been getting used to some new neighbors. Namely, a newly-arrived Soviet tank regiment had taken up quarters in the town, and everyone could tell these Russians had never seen combat. The garrison-which was the HQ and battalion from the 231st Rear-Area Protection Division from Minsk-which also controlled the other garrisons in the rear of both the 3rd Shock Army and the East German “Kampfgruppe Rosa Luxembourg”, was mainly content to stay in Hamilton and keep the roads open-which it did by occasional patrols and also by staying put. The divisional commander-a Colonel who had been pushing paper at the Beylorussian MD Headquarters before the war, knew his soldiers weren't fit (or equipped) for much else, and since there was hardly any activity from the American Resistance (or “bandits” as his Zampolit called them), the Colonel was content to leave the civilians alone. There had been the usual arrests and “disappearances” after the invasion, but now, the Colonel was suspecting that the underground-and there was one-for the occasional cut telephone line, roadside bomb, or sniper fire on a patrol, was largely laying low for the time being. But he knew that once the U.S. Army got closer, the Resistance would make its presence felt. There had been only one recent casualty from the bandits, and that had been the local PSD Officer (or swine-and that was not just his opinion, but that of the locals), when his car had set off a roadside bomb. Even the divisional Zampolit felt that the Americans had done them a favor in getting rid of the man, for he had been on the nerves of the garrison, the air force detachment at the airport, and the civilians.

The day before, though, his present headache had arrived, in the form of the 327th Guards Independent Tank Regiment from Mogilev in Beylorussia. The regimental commander-a Colonel like himself, had orders from 3rd Shock Army to station the Regiment in the town, and that the garrison was to fully cooperate with the Regiment. Since the Regimental Commander had a direct line to 3rd Shock Army Headquarters in Brownwood, the garrison commander knew to keep his mouth shut, and to coooperate with the newcomers. Though he could tell that the regiment was fresh off the ships and had never seen action-their T-80As had no minor damage from small-arms fire or from anti-tank missiles, the BMP-2s were in the same shape-and their regimental artillery looked as if they'd been hardly fired. Then the regiment's officers seemed to think that if their unit had been at Wichita-a name the Colonel had heard spoken of with dread-things would have been different. At least they have decent air-defense weapons, the Colonel thought, for air attack was a regular occurrence in these parts.

Sighing, the Colonel got up from his desk, and left his office in City Hall. He went outside, just in time to hear shouting, then soldiers from both his unit and the new regiment running. Then he heard a shout that filled him with dread. “AIR RAID WARNING!'


“Lead's in hot!” Guru called as he rolled 512 in on the bomb run. He glanced at his EW display and saw no GUN or MISSILE warning lights, to his pleasure, and lined up the northern ramp area in his pipper. Just as he did, tracers from the ZU-23s around the airport and black puffs came up as well-which signaled 37-mm or 57-mm guns. No matter, he thought, as he saw a couple of Hip helicopters and an An-24 transport sitting on the ramp. You'll do, the CO said to himself. Ignoring the flak, he steadied 512, and came in. “And...Steady....Steady.....NOW!” Guru hit his pickle button, sending a dozen Rockeye CBUs down onto the airport. He pulled up, applied full military power, and cleared the target, jinking as he did so. “Lead's off target,” he called.


“What the...” the Colonel said. The town wasn't under attack, but what was? Then he knew. The airport, three kilometers to the south, was not under his authority, but belonged to the Air Force. He heard explosions, then saw Guru's F-4 to the west, heading away from both the airport and the town. A major, his divisional Chief of Staff came up to him as the F-4 headed to the north. “Major?”

“Colonel, shouldn't we head to the shelter?”

“We're not the target, so we get to watch.”


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

“How many?” Guru asked as he jinked to the right-and a missile-which was bigger than a MANPADS-flew by on the left.

“Several,” she replied. “Missile following the first.”

Guru held his course, and the missile flew past the F-4 on the left. Then he jinked left and steadied on course for Lake Proctor. “Where'd they get those?” He was thinking SA-13 or an optically aimed SA-8.

“Good question.”


“Two's in!” Kara called as she took 520 down on its bomb run. She saw the CO's run, and noted with satisfaction his CBUs blowing two Hips apart and blowing the tail and wing off an An-24 type transport. Kara lined up on the southern ramp, where two Su-25s, along with a couple of smaller helos-probably Mi-2s, and another Hip were parked. Your turn, Ivan, she thought as she came in on the run. Kara, too, ignored the flak coming up as she got closer to the target. “Okay....Okay...Steady...NOW!” She hit her pickle button, and a dozen more Rockeye CBUs came down onto Hamilton Municipal. Kara then applied power and pulled up and away, jinking as she did so to avoid flak or SAMs. “Two's off safe.”


“Well, now,” said the Colonel as Kara's F-4 flew by. More explosions followed in its wake, and he could also hear some of the locals cheering. Deep down, he didn't blame them a bit, and he'd be damned if his Zampolit insisted that a few of them be arrested as a result. “Follow me,” he said to his Chief of Staff, and the two of them, and his aide, who had just arrived with a pair of binoculars for his Commander, went to City Hall's roof, just in time to see the third F-4 come in.


“GOOD HITS!” That was Brainiac's call from 520's back seat. “You've got secondaries!”

“What kind?” Kara asked as a missile-a bigger one than they'd been briefed to expect-flew just beneath her aircraft.

“Three or four good ones,” Brainiac replied. “And there's another missile! BREAK RIGHT!”

Kara broke hard right, and another SAM-probably an SA-13, she thought, flew by on the left. She then jinked back to the left, and spotted the CO's smoke trail. “Guru, Starbuck. That place has more than they told us.”

“Roger that,” Guru replied. “Sweaty, Guru. Be careful on your run. More hardware than we were led to expect down there.”

“Sweaty copies.”


In her F-4, Sweaty came down on her attack run. “Three's in hot!” She had a dozen Mark-82 Snakeyes, and spotted the field hangars that were her target. Okay, Ivan....Time to have a bad afternoon. She, too, ignored the flak, and glanced at her EW display. No radars locked, so whoever was shooting those missiles was going by visual sighting. Oh, well...”Steady....Steady....And...And..HACK!” Sweaty hit her pickle button, releasing her dozen Mark-82s onto the airport below. She then pulled up and away, applying full military power and jinking as she did so. “Three's off target.”


“They're good,” the Colonel observed from the rooftop. He and the two officers with him weren't the only Russians on the roof, for a ZPU-2 AA gun was mounted there, and the gunners were firing, even though their tracers were falling short. The Colonel watched as Sweaty's F-4 made its run, and the bombs going off in its wake, which tore apart at least one hangar, and an oily fireball as well. Fuel truck exploding, he knew. Then he turned to the south, scanning with his binoculars. Not only was there another F-4 coming in, but two more seemed to be circling, as if waiting for their turn.

“GOOD HITS!” Preacher yelled from Sweaty's back seat. “There's secondaries.”

“What kind and how many?” Sweaty asked as she jinked left, and a missile flew by on the right. She jinked right, and another missile went by on the left.

“Got two or three, and they're big.”

“Good enough,” Sweaty said. Then she called Guru. “Lead, Sweaty. That place crawls.”

“Roger that. Hoser, be careful,” Guru replied.

Hoser replied, “Roger that, Boss.”


“Four's in hot!' Hoser called. He saw what Sweaty had done, blowing apart the field hangars, and now, he lined up on the runway. Though it was Runway 36/18 from his perspective, Hoser came in at an angle, for going straight down the runway was asking to be shot down. Not wanting to prove Buddy right again, he, too, ignored the flak, and lined up the runway. “And...And......NOW!” Hoser hit his pickle button, releasing his dozen Mark-82 Snakeyes onto the runway, then he pulled up and away, applying full military power as he did so, and began jinking to avoid flak. Once clear, he called, “Four's off safe.”


The Colonel watched as Hoser's F-4 made its run, and saw the bombs fall. This time, there were no sympathetic detonations, but it was obvious what the target was: the runway. Much to his disgust, the AA tracers fell short again, and he made a vow then and there to impress on his antiaircraft officer the need for better training and shooting. Then he saw two more F-4s come in, only they didn't release any bombs, but they followed the others to the north. All of a sudden, large tracers came up from where the Tank Regiment was laagered.


“SHACK!” KT yelled. “We got the runway!”

“How many craters?” Hoser asked as a missile flew over his aircraft. He jinked right, then left, and a missile flew down the right side. SA-13 or better, he knew from experience.

“Several.”

“Roger that,” Hoser said. “Lead, Hoser. I'm clear.”


“Copy, Hoser,” Guru said. “One-five, One-six, get your asses down and away.”

“Roger, Lead,” McKay called. “On me,” she told her wingman, Flight Lt. Ian Black.

“Right with you,” he replied.

The two F-4Js followed Hoser on out, but as they flew past the town, tracers engulfed both aircraft. “Break!” McKay called, pulling high and banking right, while Black pulled left and low. McKay then rolled left, and she then saw a sight that horrified her. Tracers tore into Black's Phantom, and the aircraft caught fire. The plane rolled right, and the backseater's canopy flew off, and the ejection seat fired. Then the pilot's canopy and seat fired, just as the plane exploded and cartwheeled into a field northwest of the town. “Lead, One-six is down!”

“Shit!” Guru muttered. Kara had just joined up on him. “One-five, any chutes?” He pulled into a 180, and Kara followed. She had heard it all.

“Stand by,” McKay said. She was jinking to avoid the flak, while trying to get eyeballs on the chutes. Ian and Michael, where are you? Then she saw two chutes, and, unfortunately, some trucks and APCs converging on them. “Lead, got two chutes, and bad guys approaching them.”

“Roger that,” Guru said. He picked up Sweaty and Hoser, who then turned to follow. “Karen,” he called, not using mission code. “Nothing we can do for 'em. Form up and let's get the hell out of here.”
He'd seen crews go down in enemy territory before, too close to the target, and with the bad guys seeing the chutes, there was nothing that anyone could do.

“Roger, Lead,” McKay replied. “Have visual on you.”

“Copy,” Guru said. He did a 180, and the rest of the flight joined up on him. “Crystal Palace, Rambler Lead. Rambler One-six is down north of the target. Two chutes.”

“Roger, Rambler,” the AWACS controller said. “Do you want Jollys?” He meant the rescue helos.

“Negative. Too near the target, and bad guys were closing on 'em.”

“Copy.”

“Shit,” Guru muttered. It had been a while since they'd lost someone in the squadron, and he'd have to tell Dave Gledhill. Though the letter-writing would be Dave's responsibility, it didn't make it any easier. Still, focus on the job, and get north, he knew. “Time to Proctor Lake?” Guru asked his GIB.

“One minute,” Goalie replied.

“Roger that,” Guru said. “Crystal Palace, Rambler Lead. Say threats?”

“Rambler, Threat bearing One-six-zero for fifty. Medium, closing. Second threat bearing One-eight-five for fifty-five. Medium, closing. Third threat bearing Two-zero-five for sixty. Medium, closing.”

“Roger, Crystal Palace,” replied Guru. “Say bogey dope?”

“Rambler, First and second threats are Floggers. Third threats are Fulcrums.”

MiG-23s and MiG-29s...Lovely, Guru thought. “Copy.”

“Proctor Lake coming up.” Goalie said.

The lake appeared, and as the strike flight crossed the lake, Guru turned north, and the rest followed. Then he dropped down lower, to 450 Feet AGL. No sense giving the bad guys any more help....”Fence in when?” Guru asked as 512 cleared the north shore of the lake.

“Two minutes,” Goalie replied.

“Got it,” he said. Guru then looked to his right, and Kara's bird, 520, was right with him in combat spread, and he knew that Sweaty and Hoser were right behind him, with McKay's F-4J following.

The AWACS then came up. “Rambler Lead, Crystal Palace. Threat bearing One-six-five for forty. Medium, now going away. Second threat bearing One-seven-eight for forty-five. Medium, also going away. Third threat now bearing Two-zero-zero for fifty-five. Medium, going away.”

“Roger, Crystal Palace.”

“Thirty seconds to Lake Comfort,” Goalie called. “One minute to the fence.” That meant I-20 and the FLOT.

“Copy,” Guru said. He checked his EW display, and the SEARCH light went off, and the single strobe that had been there also went off. “Mainstay's off.”

“About time,” Goalie said. “Lake dead ahead.”

Lake Comfort appeared, and the strike flight flew over the lake, and it wasn't long until the I-20 appeared. “Flight, Lead, verify IFF is on, and music off,” Guru called.

Once clear of the I-20, the flight headed for the tanker track, and joined up on the tankers. The RAF Tristar was there, and McKay plugged into the Tristar, while the 335th birds joined up on a pair of KC-10s. Though curious, the Tristar crew didn't ask what happened to the other Phantom they had refueled. It was a cardinal rule, and one strictly enforced, among tanker crews that they never asked what happened if a flight came back minus one or more aircraft. Once the refueling was complete, they headed back to Sheppard.

When Rambler Flight got back, they were second in the pattern, following a Marine F-4 flight, with a 335th flight and the Eastbound C-141 behind them. When they came in and landed, the air and ground crew at the 335th and the RAF detachment knew something bad had happened. The CO's flight had left with six birds, and only five were coming back. The RAF people watched as the flight taxied in, and they noted the serial number on the side of the F-4J that had come back. Karen was in, and that meant Ian was down.

The news crew was filming, and they picked up what was happening. “First time?” Jana Wendt asked Kodak Griffith.

“No, I've seen this before,” Kodak replied. He'd watched flights come back minus one or two aircraft before. He looked at Lieutenant Patti Brown, the new PAO for the 335th. She was still in flight gear, having come back only fifteen minutes earlier from a strike herself. “How about you?”

She took a deep breath. “First for me, and it won't be the last.”

“You've got that right.”

Guru's flight left the runway, and taxied into their dispersal areas. When Guru got to his revetment, he taxied 512 in, then shut down on his Crew Chief's signal. The ground crew brought the chocks and extended the stepladder, while Guru and Goalie went through the post-flight checklist. After popping the canopies, they dismounted from the aircraft. 'Hell of a day.”

“It was,” Goalie said. “First in a while we've lost somebody.”

“Yeah, even though they're not technically ours,” Guru said, as Sergeant Crowley brought him and Goalie each a bottle of water. “Thanks, Sarge.”

“Major, what happened?” Crowley asked. “One of the RAF birds didn't come back.”

“Don't know myself,” Guru said after he downed half the bottle. “Find out in the debrief.” He finished the bottle, then said, “Get the post-flight done, and get her ready for the morning. Five-twelve's still humming along, and keep her that way.”

“Yes, sir!” Crowley said. “You heard the Major, people!” Let's get this bird ready for the morning.”

Guru and Goalie nodded, then went to the revetment entrance. Kara and Brainiac were there, and were joined by Sweaty, Preacher, Hoser, and KT. “What the hell happened?” Guru asked.

“Don't know, but somebody down there had better missiles than they told us to expect,” Kara spat.

“I'll go along with that,” Sweaty added. “SA-8s or SA-13s at least.

“At least,” Hoser agreed. “Didn't see any big tracers, though.”

“Still,” KT added. “Got a few helos, we noticed, and a couple of Su-25s.”

Just then, a Dodge Crew-Cab pickup arrived, and Chief Ross, Sin Licon, and Squadron Leader Dave Gledhill came out, followed by Buddy. The dog seemed to pick up what was happening, for he went and nuzzled up against Sweaty. “Dave,” Guru said. “Sorry, but one of your crews didn't make it.”

“Who?” Gledhill asked. Then he saw Karen McKay and her GIB coming. “Ian and Chris. What happened, Karen?”

“Don't know. All of a sudden on egress, there were all these tracers, big ones. We break, and Ian's surrounded by those tracers. His plane's hit and catches fire,” McKay said. “He and Michael bail out-Michael was first, then the plane exploded and tumbled into the ground. Did a 180, and saw their chutes-with Russian trucks and APCs headed their way.”

Gledhill frowned. His squadron had lost people before, out over the Atlantic, and the sea held its secrets well. This was his first time where a crew had gone down, and had likely been captured. “Damn it.”

Guru put his hand on Gledhill's shoulder. “Dave, been there, done that. Just be glad you never had to do it for a CO.”

“I know,” Gledhill said. “We'll have to list them as Missing in Action. Maybe we'll find out they're POWs later on.”

Heads nodded at that, then Kara said, “Maybe. Might have to wait until this is over to find out.”

“What do you mean?” Flight Lt. Chris Fryer, McKay's GIB, asked.

“North Vietnamese didn't release the names of everybody they held until after the Paris Cease-fire,” Kara replied. “Might have the same thing here, and even then, there's people who still say the Viets didn't release all the POWs.”

The 335th crewers knew what she was talking about: the ongoing POW-MIA agony from the late and unlamented war in Southeast Asia. Rumors about POWs still held in Vietnam and Laos still came out, and no one for sure knew what to make of them. With the big war going on, that effort had been put on the back burner while the POWs and MIAs from the current war were the main subject of attention. But when this was over.....”Hope that's not the case,” McKay said.

“You're not the only one thinking that,” Preacher said. Every night before bed, the ex-seminary student said a prayer for lost classmates from OTS, Nav, or F-4 training. Some were known dead, others were MIA or POW.

Sweaty nodded, “Sin's here.”

Guru nodded himself as Buddy nuzzled him. Right now, the dog was performing his second role as therapy dog. “Sin,” Guru said.

“Major,” Licon replied. “What happened out there?”

“They had more stuff down there than the intel summary said,” Kara spat.

“Easy, girl,” Guru said. “She's right, though. Those missiles weren't MANPADS, and the guns...”

“What kind of missiles?” Licon asked. He had a notepad and pen out.

“Bigger than a SA-7,” said Hoser. “Looked like SA-13.”

“Or an optically-guided Eight,” Sweaty added.

“Maybe,” Licon nodded, taking notes. “Who had the tracers?”

“We saw them,” Karen McKay said, and her GIB nodded.

“How big were they?” Licon wanted to know.

“Oh, football-sized at least,” said McKay. “Our footballs, not yours.”

“Could they have been bigger?” Asked the intel. He had an idea forming in his mind, but wanted to be sure.

McKay and Fryer looked at each other. “They looked a little bigger to me,” Fryer said.

“How much bigger?”

“Oh, maybe basketball-sized,” the GIB replied. “You ask that as if it means something.”

“It might,” Licon said. “Anyone have any radar warning?” He saw heads shake no at that. “Major, I think we've been down this road before.”

“What do you mean, Sin?” Guru asked. It had been a long day, and he had some admin things to take care of, before he could take his sorrows for a little swim.

The intel nodded, then looked at everyone before focusing on the CO. “Think about it. No radar warning, missiles bigger than MANPADS, and basketball-sized tracers. One plus one plus one equals ZSU-30-2.”

There was silence for a minute, then Sweaty exploded. “WHAT? Those mother-humping guns?”

“The same,” Licon nodded unhappily. “If you guys had Weasels with you, they would've ID'd them and taken them out. Then again, even if your EW didn't pick them up, their radars might have been jammed by your ECM pods, so they shot visually.” Small consolation, the intel knew.

“Of all the...” Kara spat.

Guru shook his head. “Damn it,” he growled. “Okay, I've got a line to General Tanner and General Olds. I'll use it, and request that our EW gear gets upgraded ASAP if not sooner.” The CO checked his watch. “It's 1645. We need to get the debrief done, and you all need to make sure your IN boxes are empty and the OUT ones are full. Dave?” Guru turned to the RAF Squadron Leader. “I don't envy you a bit about what you have to do. I'll write up something for you to include in your letters. For sure, they don't teach this in any kind of officer training I know of.”

Gledhill heard that, and was pleased. “I think that would be greatly appreciated.”

“You'll get those before the mail goes out tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Gledhill said, shaking Guru's hand.

“You're welcome,” the CO replied. “Okay. Anything else before we debrief, and that does remind me: the XO and I are going to have a talk with Frank. His Article 15 came through.”

Hearing that, Kara grinned.”Well, now. We can celebrate something tonight.”

“Besides being still alive,” Brainiac reminded his pilot.

“There is that.” Still, finding out Frank's career had been effectively terminated was a good thing, as far as she-and everyone else in the squadron-was concerned.

“One other thing, Major,” Karen McKay said.

“What's that?” Guru asked.

“Your dog was right,” McKay motioned at Buddy, who was nuzzling up to KT, who was petting the dog.

“He was,” Goalie said. “He was awake through the whole brief.”

Gledhill nodded. “And that's a bad omen,” he observed. It wasn't a question.

“Remember this morning?” Guru asked. “He slept through the brief. That means it's an easy mission. If he's awake and pays attention? Look out, because it's going to be a bear.”

“Forgot about that,” the RAF officer admitted. “Something to keep in mind.”

Guru nodded. “That it is. Let's get inside folks. Get what needs to be done, done. Then I'll see you in the Club. And if anyone wants to get happily smashed between then and Twelve-Hour? I'm not complaining, and I might just join you.”

“Three beers instead of two?” Goalie asked.

“Something like that,” Guru said. “Let's go.”

[Matt Wiser]

Newbies report in, and the CO has some letter-writing to do:



335th TFS Offices, 1645 Hours Central War Time:


Major Matt Wiser was at his desk. He had taken care of what had been in his IN box, and was now finishing up two letters. Letters that no CO wanted to write, ever. The Major had tried a couple of drafts, only to toss them into the trash bucket, but now, he thought he had them right. Though the two lost aircrew were RAF, they had been flying not just with the squadron, but with his flight, and he felt he had to say something to the next-of-kin. Satisfied with the result, he was about to get up from his desk when he heard a knock on the office door. “Yeah? Show yourself and come in!”

His GIB, Lieutenant Lisa “Goalie” Eichhorn, came in. “Mark's busy,” she said, referring to the XO, Capt. Mark Ellis. “They're wrapping up their own debrief. So one of his NCOs gave me these.” She handed her pilot (and lover) some papers.

The CO took the papers. “Aircraft Status Report....twenty-two for the morning,” Guru said. That was his call sign. “Two straight days of being full-mission-capable,” he nodded. “Which will change.”

“Either mechanical gremlins or Ivan will have a say in that,” Goalie nodded. She was speaking from hard-learned experience.

“Both of 'em will,” admitted the CO. He scanned the other paper. “Weather update. Partly cloudy, cloud base 12,000 to 15,000 feet, highs in the upper 50s to low 60s, lows in the mid 40s. All right,” Guru said, putting the papers on his desk. “I wrote a couple of notes for Dave Gledhill to pass on. They're pretty much the same.”

“Why don't you read what you've got?” Goalie asked. “I'm a pretty good sounding board.”

Guru took a deep breath. “Okay...here goes. This one's for Ian Black's parents. 'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Black. I wish I didn't have to write this, but no doubt you have been informed by the RAF that your son Ian was shot down while flying a mission with the USAF in Central Texas. I was flying that mission, and both he and his wingmate encountered heavy enemy ground fire. His wingmate saw his aircraft take hits and catch fire, before both crew members ejected. The aircraft crashed, and no rescue attempt was possible due to his wingmate reporting enemy ground troops closing on on the two parachutes.'” He looked at his GIB and girlfriend. “How's that so far?”

“So far, so good,” Goalie said. “Go on.”

“'I would urge you not to give up hope, as many of those reported as missing in action have turned up on the POW lists, while others have managed to escape the enemy, evade capture, and return to friendly lines. Speaking from personal experience, this can be very difficult, but it is not impossible.'”

“You would know,” nodded Goalie. “That was no fun.”

“Sure wasn't,” said Guru. “Okay, here's the conclusion, and this is the hardest part. 'No doubt you will be informed by the RAF as to any change in his status. Unfortunately, this is all we know, and there is no other information. I wish I could say more, other than, I'm sorry for your loss. Sincerely, and with deepest sympathies, Matt Wiser, Major, USAF, Commanding Officer.”

Goalie nodded sympathetically. “They don't teach this anywhere. Not OTS, not the Academy, and not ROTC.”

“No,” said Guru. He got up. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, Eastbound C-141 brought newspapers, and two newbies. Corinne's one of 'em,” said Goalie. She was referring to a friend, Capt. Corinne Cassidy, who had delivered a new F-4 from Japan to the squadron, and was now being transferred in. “Want me to get 'em?”

The CO shook his head. “They outside?” Seeing Goalie nod, he said, “Tell them to wait a few minutes. We've got some squadron business to take care of. That means Frank's Article 15.”

“Will do,” Goalie said. “You want Ryan Blanchard?” Capt. Ryan Blanchard was the OINC of the AF Combat Security Police detachment assigned to the squadron.

Guru nodded. “Get her over, and have her bring two of her toughest CSPs. We may need the help.”

“As in throwing Frank out.”

“If necessary.”

After Goalie went out, Guru went to his secretary. “Trish, type these two up before you leave, and get the XO, Ops Officer, and Chief Ross over here pronto.”

“Yes, sir,” the staff sergeant replied. “Won't take but a minute to type these.”

“Good,” the CO said. She made the calls, then typed up the letters. He scanned them, and nodded approval. “These'll do. You have a good evening.”

“You too, Major,” Sergeant Loyd said, just as the XO, Ops, and Chief Ross came in, followed by Goalie, Ryan Blanchard and her CSPs.

“Looks like everyone's here, almost,” Guru said. “Except for the guest of honor.” He turned to the Day-shift SDO, Digger. He was normally Flossy's GIB, but was getting over a sprained ankle. “”Digger? Find Frank and get him over here. Tell him I want to see him in my office.”

Digger nodded. He had a good idea of what was coming down, having seen the JAG officer come in earlier. “Will do, Major.”

“All right, let's get this over with,” Guru said, nodding to the others. “Ryan? You come inside, but have your guys waiting nearby.”

His CSP Officer nodded. She was a former Deputy Sheriff, and knew full well what could happen-even in civilian life, when people got unexpected bad news. “And my guys might have to help throw Frank out.” It wasn't a question.

“Right.”


They went into the office, where the XO, Capt. Mark Ellis, asked Guru, “You worried about what's going to happen?”

“In the next five minutes, no,” Guru said. “What I am worried about is down the road. Lot of pressure building up-not getting the squadron, then he didn't make the cut for the F-20-”

“And General Yeager saw his 201 File, right?” Capt. Don Van Loan, the Ops Officer, asked.

“Right. No way, Yeager told me, was Frank getting into the F-20,” Guru said, recalling the discussion he'd had with the General. “So...all of this means there's a lot of pressure on him.”

Chief Ross nodded. “Major I've seen this before. Guys have a ton of pressure on them, and when it pops.....It can get ugly.”

“That it can,” Guru said. “My worry is that when he does pop? He gets not only himself killed, but friendlies as well.”

“Not good,” Goalie observed.

“No,” said Ryan Blanchard. In her time as a Deputy Sheriff, she'd seen people snap and go off. Sometimes they got themselves killed, other times, bystanders got killed, and there was some property destruction involved as well. She looked out the office, and a familiar-and loathed-person came in. “Frank's here, and he's in his undress whites.”

Guru looked at the clock on the office wall, then his own watch. “1702. Right on time. Okay, let's get this over with.” He saw Digger motion towards the office, then Frank came to the door and knocked. “Come on in.”

Major Carson came in, and as Blanchard had said, he was in his undress whites. “You asked to see me, sir?” He said, and everyone could hear the contempt in his voice as he saluted-which, as usual, was Academy perfect.

“Have a seat, Frank,” Guru replied as he sketched a salute of his own.

“I'd rather stand, sir,” Carson replied. He regarded the CO, and only saw an OTS-trained peasant from some small town in California who, if he had gone to the Academy, might have deserved command. It still galled him that Guru had been put in as XO, and then when Colonel Rivers had been killed, not only confirmed in command, but even promoted! Then his talents had not been recognized for the F-20 program, and it still rankled. Throw in the casual disregard for Air Force Rules and Regulations that not only Guru, but Colonel Rivers before him, had tolerated, even encouraged, much to his disgust, and it upset him that two generals had not only ignored his complaints, but encouraged the current CO to continue with what he was doing. “May I ask what this is about?”

“Rewind about ten days ago, during a stand-down,” Guru said. “You were getting ready to sit Zulu Alert, and were in the Ops Office.” He glanced at Goalie. “You said some nasty things about my GIB and my wingmate.” The CO meant Kara, and everyone knew it.

“So?” Carson said. “I'd say that those words perfectly describe them.” He glared at Goalie with total contempt. She was a fellow Academy grad, and in his opinion, didn't conduct herself like one. She was way too chummy with these ROTC and OTS grads, and sharing the sheets with her pilot-who was the CO.

“You should've kept your mouth shut,” Goalie said.

“She's right,” Don Van Loan added. “Everyone in the office heard you.”

“What do you mean?” Carson asked.

Guru shoved a piece of paper in front of him. “This. Congratulations, Frank. That's an Article 15, and it's got your name on it. Everyone concerned, whether it's JAG, Tenth Air Force, the Air Force Personnel Office, TAC HQ, whoever, has a copy.”

“You can't be serious!” Frank wailed.

“Oh, but I am,” Guru said. Then he got into Frank's face. “You should be glad that's the most you're getting. After the shit you've pulled-at the Academy, Elmendorf, Clark, or in this squadron-”

“Especially what you pulled with Flossy,” Ellis added.

“Right on that-and you are probably counting your lucky stars you've never been in front of a General Court-Martial,” Guru said. “So...your career has just been effectively terminated. When that first postwar RIF comes-assuming you survive, that is, you're one of the first out.”

“You can't...” Carson said.

“Oh, I can't?” Guru shot back. “I sure did. And I'm giving you a warning: you are no longer on the clock to New Year's,” the CO said. “One fuckup, just one, and you are OUT. I could care less where they send you, but just pray that said fuckup doesn't get anyone in your element killed, or any other friendlies.”

“Are you saying...”

“What I'm saying is that if you want to avoid that, come to me first thing in the morning and ask for a transfer. I'll have you out of here so fast it'd be a relief to everyone around here. The only regret is that I'd be inflicting you on a fellow officer who'd be wondering what he'd done to deserve you around. But if you stay....you have had your last chance.”

“My father will hear about this!” Carson wailed.

“So?” The CO shot back. “Lot of good that'll do, because expunging one of these has two chances: slim and none.” Guru then got back in Carson's face. “In case you're wondering, your by-the-book-attitude and Academy know-it-all arrogance is the top reason I've loathed you ever since we crossed paths. But the second reason is that shit you tried to pull with me and Goalie! Even after a directive came down saying that fraternization issues were very low priority-with winning the war coming at the top!”

“Which makes you a first-class hypocrite,” Ryan Blanchard observed. “Too bad I can't put cuffs on you for what you did with Flossy, even though you deserve it.”

Carson glared at all of them, then looked the CO straight in the eye. “Is that all, sir?” He said in a very arrogant tone of voice.

“Consider this your first, last, and only warning,” Guru replied. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes.....Sir.” Carson's reply was dripping contempt, and everyone knew it.

“I hope you do,” Guru said. “Now get out of my sight!”

Carson snapped a perfect Academy salute, then about-faced and left the office, slamming the door as he did. He did the same thing as he left the building, leaving the admin people wondering what was going on.

“That is not a happy camper, Boss.” Ellis observed.

“Oh, you noticed?” Guru said, tongue-in-cheek. “Yeah. He's going to pop. The only questions are...”

“When, and how bad,” Van Loan said. “Not to mention is he going to get anyone killed?”

“All three are valid,” said Guru. “Okay, word's going to get around, so no razzing or harassing him. I don't want to give him a reason to lash out at anyone. Chief?”He turned to Ross.”He starts behaving out of line to NCOs and enlisted? I want to know it. But-” the CO waved a forefinger. “It has to be firsthand. No runor or innuendo. Got it?”

“Perfectly, sir,” Ross said. He knew the drill, and would make sure only firsthand knowledge went to the CO, if it came to that.

“Good,” Guru said. “That's that.”

“Newbies?” Goalie asked. She was reminding the CO about the two new pilots.

“Forgot about that,” Guru nodded. “Okay, Chief? Go ahead and show them in, and you can have a good night. Tell Ryan's people they can knock off as well.”

Ross nodded. “Yes, sir.” He left the office, and motioned to the two officers. Then he found the two CSPs, and all three left the building.

The two officers, a female Captain and a male First Lieutenant, came in. Both saluted, and the Captain said, “Reporting for duty, sir.”

“Captain,” Guru replied, sketching a return salute. “And Lieutenant,” he nodded at the male officer. Then he turned back to the Captain. “Hasn't been that long, Captain,” the CO said to Capt. Corinne Cassidy, late of the TransPac Ferry Run. She had delivered a new F-4E to the squadron a week earlier.

“No, sir,” she grinned. “And glad to be away from ferry flights and getting a chance to do what I'm trained to do.”

Goalie let out a grin. “Good to have you around, Corinne,” she said.

“Got your orders and personnel jacket?” Guru asked.

“Right here,” Cassidy replied, handing the material to the CO.

Guru scanned her 201 File. “Impressive. Physics major and a history minor at the Academy. First in your UPT class, then T-38 IP, and we do know your Day One adventure.” He was referring to Cassidy, on Day One at Laughlin AFB, blowing through a flock of Mi-8 Hip troop carriers and knocking one down with jet wash. Then he noticed something in the jacket, then on her fruit salad. “DFC?”

“There were a couple of senior instructors up who saw it,” Cassidy replied. “One of them must've written me up for the award.”

“Figures,” Guru said. “Okay, stellar record at Kingsley Field, and you were on the ferry run because you wouldn't sleep with an instructor. That's not in the jacket, but you did mention that last time you were here.”

“SOB was a friend of Tigh,” said Cassidy, referring to Colonel Saul Tigh, who ran the RTU at Kingsley Field, Oregon. “So he told Tigh, who had the orders cut sending me to the ferry run.”

“Like Kara,” Guru noted. “Okay. You'll find out who you're flying with tomorrow. Either with the XO, or Ops,” the CO said. “And you do know both of 'em.”

Cassidy nodded, shaking hands with both Ellis and Van Loan. “Sounds good, Major.”

“All right,” Guru nodded. “Lieutenant?” He asked the male officer.

“Brandon Doucette, sir,” he said, handing his orders and jacket.

Guru scanned the file. “University of Oregon, Bachelor's in Math, minor in P.E.,” He looked up. “You were going to be a teacher?”

“Yes, sir,” Doucette replied. “Just started the teaching credential program when the war started. Dropped out and joined the Air Force.”

Guru nodded. “You do realize that, even if the war ended tomorrow, you'll still have a commitment to the Air Force?” The CO asked.

“I do, sir, and when I do get out? I can go back to school on the Air Force's dime. Vet's benefits and all that.”

“Assuming you make it,” Cassidy added. “That little issue is always there.”

The CO nodded. “It is. All right....” He scanned the file. “You wanted F-16s after UPT, but they sent you to Double-Ugly, says here.”

“Yes, sir,” Doucette replied. “When I got to Kingsley Field, though, had a couple of instructors who said that, battle damage that would kill an F-16, an F-4 still flies. So, I guess I'm lucky.”

Mark Ellis added, “There's people in this squadron who can add to what your instructors said. In this very room, matter of fact,”

“You could say that,” Goalie chimed in. She remembered a couple of instances of coming back with battle damage, and another instance of a divert due to the same.

The CO nodded. He, too, remembered those missions. “Okay, three things before we let you go. First, tomorrow, I want you two to have a meet with Captain Blanchard here. She runs our Combat Security Police detachment, and you have probably noticed the two AK office decorations-which are quite functional, by the way,” Guru said, nodding back to the wall behind his desk, where an AKMS-which he had carried with him on his E&E-and an AK-74 were hung prominently. “There is a serious Spetsnatz threat here, and with this squadron under Marine OPCON for the duration, they take the 'Everyone a rifleman' mantra seriously. So, you will see Captain Blanchard, and she will help you pick out a sidearm and a long gun. Then two of her CSPs will instruct you in the proper care, feeding, and use of said weapons.” Guru looked at both of them, and they could tell the seriousness in his expression. “Do I make myself clear?”

“You do, sir,” Cassidy said, and Doucette echoed her.

“Good. Now, you probably noticed some F-4s with RAF markings in the dispersal area. They're here as part of a show of Allied Unity, and this was their first day in the tac air arena. A lot different than chasing down Backfires and Bears over the Atlantic. They lost a bird and a crew today, which brings me to my second point: seventy percent of our losses are people who don't get past ten missions. The crew that went down was on their fourth. Something to keep in mind, people,” Guru said. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Cassidy and Doucette said at once.

“Good. Now, last thing, and a little more fun,” the CO said. “Either of you have call signs yet?”

Cassidy nodded. “They gave me one at Kingsley Field, Major.”

“You didn't say that when you were here,” Goalie said.

“Nobody asked,” Cassidy said. “We were down at Stead for a weapons det and some flying with the Navy out of Fallon, and went into Reno a couple of times. They saw I like low-cut civilian clothes, so...”

“Let me guess,” Ellis jumped in. “Lamb?”

“Look at My Boobs,” Goalie joked. “We almost gave that to Flossy, I think.”

“We almost did,” Guru said. “Did that stick?”

“No, sir,” Cassidy said. “They gave me Snag instead.”

Doucette looked at her. “Snag?”

“Still not a guy,” she replied cheerfully.

“Then we'll keep it,” the CO decided. “How about you, Lieutenant?”

Doucette shook his head. “They never gave me one, sir.”

“Call me Guru on the radio, or Boss on the ground,” Guru said firmly. “We're pretty informal around here. So you can forget some of what you learned at knife-and-fork, or the Academy, for that matter. As for your call sign?” He glanced at the XO.

Ellis said, “We'll ask you some pointed questions in the Club, probably tomorrow night, and we'll get you a call sign based on your answers. And if you don't like it?”

“We'll find one more embarrassing,” Goalie chuckled.

“That we will,” Guru said. He glanced at the clock on the wall. 1720. Then he held out his hand. “On that good note, welcome to the Chiefs.”

“Thank you, sir,” Cassidy said. “Uh..”

Guru smiled. “Takes a little getting used to,” the CO said. “Lieutenant, welcome to the Chiefs.”

“Thank you, uh, Boss.” Doucette said.

“You're welcome, both of you,” the CO replied. “Mark?” He asked his Exec. “Take the Lieutenant over to Male Officer Country and find him a bunk. Goalie? You and your old classmate can talk old times while you find her a bunk in Female Officer Country. Then get both of them over to the Club.”

“Will do, Boss,” Ellis said, and Goalie nodded.

“Okay, don't worry about changing, because everybody will know you're newbies tonight,” Guru said.

“And tomorrow night?” Doucette asked.

“Animals in the Zoo,” Cassidy said. Memories of nights in the O-Clubs at Kadena, Hickam, and Travis came to mind.

Guru nodded. “Snag's pretty much on the ball,” he said. “That's it. We'll decide flight assignments and ground duties tomorrow,” Guru then smacked his desk with an open right palm. “See you all in the Club.”

[Matt Wiser]

Blowing off steam in the Club-and the RAF guys have more reason than most to do so...



Officer's Club Tent, Sheppard AFB, Texas, 1725 Hours Central War Time:


Major Matt Wiser had walked over to the Officer's Club, and as he got there, he found Squadron Leader Gledhill at the entrance. It was as if Gledhill had been waiting for him. “Dave,” Guru said.

“Guru,” Gledhill replied. “Just who I was waiting for.”

“Need some help writing those letters?” Guru asked. “I'm still new at it myself.”

“First time, I'm afraid,” Gledhill nodded. “Paul Jackson had that job on Bermuda.”

The CO looked at him. “He was your CO, and I'll bet he never got used to it.”

“No. Three planes lost due to being mortared-”

“Probably due to someone speaking Russian helping out the culprits. You guys may have had a Spetsnatz threat and didn't know it,” Guru said. “Anyway, you were saying?”

“Yes, three lost on the ground, and three more out over the Atlantic,” said Gledhill. “One crew ejected near a convoy, and your Navy helicopter chaps pulled them out, but the others? Nothing. Wingmen came back and they didn't see a thing, and didn't know what happened.”

Guru nodded understanding. He, too, had friends who had gone out, and the wingmen didn't know how it happened, only that the crew in question had something bad happen. “I know the feeling. Let's talk it over a beer. I'm buying.”

“In that case, lead the way.”

Guru and Gledhill went into the tent, and bellied up to the bar. “Smitty, two Sam Adams,” Guru told the barkeep.”

“Comin' right up, Major,” Smity said. He put the two cold beer bottles on the bar. “Heard about what happened today.”

“Word travels fast,” Guru observed. “No surprise there.” He paid Smitty, then picked up his bottle. “Here's to Ian and Michael. May they come back safe.”

“Here, here,” Gledhill said, picking up his own bottle. Clink.

“So....What happened out over the Atlantic?' Guru asked. “Chasing down Backfires and Bears, culling out ASW choppers from a Red convoy, and finding lost sheep straying from the Air Bridge would be my guess.”

“You guess right,” Gledhill said. “Backfires and Badgers from Iceland, Badgers from Cuba, and the odd Forger or helicopter from a convoy. We don't have to worry about Iceland now that's been liberated, your Navy culled out the Badgers from Cuba, and so...”

“So you're here,” Guru finished. “What happened to the two crews who weren't found? Get too close to a Red convoy?”

“One of them, that's very possible. But they were at least a hundred miles from the convoy when the wingman reported them down,” said Gledhill. He should know, for he had been in the element lead. “They were at night, and anything could have happened: vertigo, spatial disorientation, hypoxia, anything's possible.”

“Bermuda,” someone said next to Guru. He turned, and it was Colonel Brady. “You do know where you were, Squadron Leader. Right at the apex of the Triangle.”

Gledhill laughed. “The locals did give us some razzing about that,” he said. “Never did see anything strange.”

“What about the other one?” Guru asked.

“Nobody knows,” said Gledhill as he took another pull on his beer. “Just that they went in from 15,000 feet, no Mayday call or anything, the element leader said. No beepers or chutes, just a splash in the water and some pieces floating...”

“Another mystery of the sky,” Guru noted. “Too many of those.”

“Ever see anything strange, Major?” Brady asked. He was curious, and open-minded about such things.

“If you mean out over there? No, sir,” said Guru. “Took my F-4 training at Homestead AFB-that's south of Miami,” he explained for Gledhill's benefit. “Three years ago or three lifetimes, it seems. Anyway, I did have an instructor there who had two UFO sightings within three weeks.”

“Well, now,” Brady said. “What'd he tell you?”

“First time, he said they were on a ACM flight over the Atlantic, east of Homestead. His student dives on what he thinks is one of the other flight, and it turns out to be an egg-shaped thing about fifty feet long. They overshoot, and both come around for another pass. Silver color, with no wings, props, jet, rotors, and no insignia. They overshot again, and this time, the damn thing goes from 2500 feet to 15,000 in the blink of an eye, straight up. Then it shoots off and left four F-4s as if they were chained to a post.”

“Whoa...” Smitty said. He'd been listening in, like a typical barkeep. “What happened next?”

Guru took another pull on his beer. “The radar controllers saw it, so when they got back, here's a friendly Intelligence Officer waiting with a stack of forms. Filled them out, and the intel guy said 'We'll contact you if we need more information.' Never did, and three weeks later, it happens again.”

Both Brady and Gledhill looked at him. “What?”

“That's right, three weeks later, on a night navigation flight. They went up to Kennedy Space Center, then back down well off the coast. They're about parallel to Bimini in the Bahamas, close enough to see the lights from the island, Flight climbs up and turns towards Florida, and the Homestead radar tells them they've got company. Everybody's looking around, and here's a disc-shaped thing about fifty feet in diameter, with four lights-red-blue-green-white, on the rim, another green light on the top, and a red light on the bottom. Instructor calls the break, and they turn into it. Damn thing just stops, and they overshoot. As they did, he and his GIB saw what looked like a lighted cockpit, but it was so bright they couldn't see inside. Flew out maybe two miles, then turned and came back in. GIB has his radar on, and two things happened: first, the radar screen turns to hash.”

“They were being jammed,” Gledhill recognized that at once.

“That,” Guru nodded. “And the damn thing just stands up at a forty-five degree angle, and is off like a shot. One second he's there, next he's a blur, then he's gone.”

Smitty then asked, “What happened when they got back?”

“Same friendly intel guy with the same stack of forms.”

Brady was curious. “Why'd your instructor tell you, Major?”

Guru shrugged. “Guess he felt that if I was going up with him, I had a right to know. Never did see something, but heard some folks did. After what my instructor said, I promised not to laugh at anybody who said they had a similar experience. And this: at the post-graduation reception? We were talking, and the subject came up between us. He said, 'I don't know who's flying them, where they're from, or what they're fully capable of, but there's one thing I would like.' I said, 'What's that, Major?' And he had this evil-looking grin on his face. 'I want to fly one!'”

Hearing that, Smitty laughed. “Having been around pilots, Major? Any of you guys would.”

“No doubt,” Brady said. “Major, change of subject. What the hell happened on your last one?”

“No idea, sir, and I was ready to tear into my intel, but it's a waste of time. He's just passing down what he's been told. But somebody's fucked up somewhere and I want some balls crunched,” Guru said angrily. He finished his beer and waved at Smitty for another.

“Major,” Brady nodded. “You know the intel community's motto: 'We're betting YOUR life.'”

“Ain't that the sorry truth, sir?” Guru asked. “Now I want my squadron's EW systems tweaked. And Dave? Yours might as well get that upgrade. ZSU-30-2 is no fun. Ask the Marines-they had a CO and two others in the same flight go down, no thanks to those puppies.”

“Thanks, Guru,” Gledhill nodded. And he decided then and there to have a talk with those Marines in question.

“And Squadron Leader?” Brady asked. “If you want to have a toast to your lost squadron mates? Be our guest. Just do it before Twelve-Hour kicks in.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gledhill replied. “I do appreciate that.”

Brady and Guru nodded, then Guru looked around. “Sir, on that note, I need to go to my flight's table. Almost time to eat, and we do have two newbies.” He nodded in that direction, and saw Kara, Sweaty, Hoser, Preacher, and Brainiac. Then Goalie came in with Snag, and Mark Ellis followed with Brandon Doucette.

“FNGs,” Brady nodded. “We were all like that, once. Major, one last thing. Word's gone around about your Major Carson and his Article 15.”

Gledhill looked at both Americans. “What's that?” He got a quick explanation from both Colonel Brady and Major Wiser. “Ah. So, now you're waiting for the other shoe to fall.”

“Something like that,” Guru said. “Three questions still outstanding. What's going to happen, when, and when it does, how many people get killed?”

Brady nodded. “All three are equally valid, Major.” He noticed the restraunteurs bringing in the night's dinner. “On that note, Major, time to get something to eat. You two have a good evening.”

“Will do, sir, and same to you,” said Guru. He left the bar, but before he found his table, he ran into Doc Waters, the squadron's flight surgeon. “Doc.”

“Major,” Doc nodded pleasantly. “Word's gone around about Frank.”

“His Article 15 came through,” Guru said. “That travels fast.” Seeing Doc nod, he continued. “I want you to watch him. Especially for anything that smacks of Emotional Instability. Or anything physical. Because if either one comes up...”

“I can ground him,” Doc said. He understood what the CO meant-and likely wanted. Apart from Carson transferring out voluntarily (unlikely, as even he knew), that was the most easiest way to get him out of everyone's hair. Especially if the reason for said grounding meant shipping him off somewhere for some tests......

“Smart man, Doc,” Guru said. He noticed two others in undress blues sitting at the same table as Frank. “Those two are guys from the Air Base Group.” It wasn't a question.

“They are. One's an unrated weenie who washed out of flight training, the other? He's got pilot's wings, but won't fly again. Broke both legs and a hip on bailout a few months before the balloon went up. Docs told him he'd never fly an ejection seat-equipped aircraft again.”

Guru nodded, for that was one guy he could really feel sorry for. Flying fighters one day, then, after the crash and injuries, being told that once you recovered, you'd fly trash-haulers-if anything. “And the other thing is they're all Academy grads,” he guessed.

“You're right about that. The pilot's a classmate of Frank's, the other guy's a year ahead,” said Doc. “And all three blow off steam together.

The CO understood that. “Still, Doc. Keep your eye on Frank.”

“Will do.”


When Guru got to the table his flight used, he found an extra. “Well, I guess you've taken in Snag,” he said.

“A friend of Goalie's is a friend of ours,” Kara said. “Even if she did go to Mile High U,” she added, referring to the derogatory nickname for the Air Force Academy used by those who weren't products of that institution.

“Down, girl,” Guru said. “Can't be that choosy, even if ninety percent of the officers in the Air Force these days are ROTC or OTS alumni.”

“Something that skunk Carson won't admit,” Goalie growled.

“No,” Sweaty said.

Snag nodded, then looked around. “I do recognize him from last time,” she nodded. “And those two. Only guys around here in undress whites. And he looks to be in a foul mood.”

“He's got a reason to be. Slapped an Article 15 on him today,” Guru replied. “And now there's a ton of pressure on him.”

“What for?” Snag asked, and Guru and the others explained. “Well, Lisa,” she said, referring to Goalie by her first name. “We had a few assholes like that in our class.”

Goalie nodded. “That we did, Corrinne,” she said. “There's always those kind of assholes around, no matter where you went to school.”

“Yeah,” Preacher said. “Even in the seminary, there were a couple like that.”

“Boss,” Sweaty said to change the subject. “Any word on those guns?”

“Guns?” Snag asked.

“ZSU-30-2,” Guru said. “And those fuckers are very bad news.”

“That bad?”

“Think a Gepard with missiles,” Kara spat. “Missiles that are optically guided, and our EW gear hasn't been tweaked to pick up their radars.”

“Yet,” Brainiac added.

Snag looked at her new CO. “Any counters I should know?”

“Yeah,” Guru said, pulling on his beer, then he got serious. “If you're packing Mavericks? Take the shots. If not, and you see basketball-sized tracers coming up? Take evasive action. You see them at the target? Abort.”

“All you can do,” Hoser added.

“Pretty much,” Kara said. “Until the tech geeks come by and tweak the EW gear.”

“And when did General Olds say that would be?” Goalie asked.

“Two weeks,” Guru said. “Three, at the most. I've got a query in to Tenth Air Force to see if they can't speed things up.”

“And no reply yet,” nodded Sweaty. It wasn't a question.

“Not yet.”


A minute later, Don Van Loan came in. “Boss, got the newspapers off the C-141. L.A. Times,”

“That's mine,” Guru said, and the Ops Officer tossed the paper to the CO.

“Orange County Register,” Van Loan went on, and Goalie snapped up the paper. “And both Stars and Stripes and USA Today.”

“I'll take USA,” Kara said.

“Stars and Stripes here,” Sweaty added.

“Don, you met Captain Cassidy when she brought that F-4 from the ferry run?” Guru asked.

The Ops Officer nodded and put out his hand. “Sure do, and the pleasure's mine again.”

“Likewise,” Cassidy said.

“She might be your new wingman,” Guru said. “Call sign Snag, by the way.”

“Still not a guy,” Van Loan grinned. “Almost gave that to Flossy, Boss.”

“That we did,” Kara grinned.

“You'll know tomorrow who your new wingman will be,” Guru said. “So will Mark.”

Van Loan nodded. “Fair enough, Boss. Mark's talking with Dave Golen and the other FNG.” He nodded in the direction of the table the XO's flight preferred, where Doucette was talking with the XO's people, and Dave Golen had stopped by. “And chow's here.” The restraunteurs and Marine Mess people were bringing in dinner.

“Folks, got a surprise,” one of the restraunteurs said. “Real meat loaf, with Bison instead of beef, with mashed potatoes and gravy, or grilled chicken with beans and rice.”

After people got what they wanted, it was time for Walter Cronkite on AFN. This evening, there wasn't much to interest anyone. “Slow news day,” Snag observed.

“Not much here, either,” Guru said, reading from the L.A. Times and having some of the meat loaf. “Other than they're putting the squeeze on Proxmire's aides.”

“Good for them,” Goalie said. “Anything in the international section?”

“Says here the UN got a protest about a Space Shuttle flight a few weeks ago.”

“What about it?” Kara asked as she attacked her chicken.

Guru took a bite of meat loaf, then grinned. “They're hollering because the crew limpet-mined a 'weather satellite.' Yeah, right.”

Cosmo overheard that, next table over. “Boss, no way is a weather satellite in Low Earth Orbit. That was a recon sat, plain and simple.”

“No doubt about that,” Goalie said. She took a bite of meat loaf, then scanned her paper. “Orange County Register has a piece on the protests in West Germany. They're getting bigger.”

Sweaty was looking at Stars and Stripes. “How much bigger?”

“Try this: 200,000 in Hamburg. Same in Munich. 150,000 in Dussseldorf, 100,000 in Frankfurt,” said Goalie. “Stuttgart had 75,000, and Mainz had the same.”

“Anything from West Berlin?” Sin Licon asked, one table over.

Goalie scanned the article. “They had 80,000 at an anti-neutralist rally within sight of the wall, and 40,000 not far off, that was pro-neutralist, and unlike the others, had some property damage before the West Berlin cops broke it up.”

“They still have the Berlin Brigade there, right?” Hoser asked. He had a cousin who, prior to NATO's breakup, had been with the Army's Berlin Brigade.
“They do,” Sin Licon said. “Us, the Brits, and the French. Ivan never did tear up the Four-Power Agreement.”

“Supporting them's got to be a bitch, but yeah, no way would we leave West Berlin hanging,” said Guru.

“I'll bet,” Mark Ellis said from another table. He, too had a paper, USA Today in his case “Boss, anything in your edition about Proxmire?

Guru checked again. “Yeah....says here another aide's talking. This guy went to the FBI and started talking. Care to bet he's got a grant of immunity, thanks to the U.S. Attorney?”

Kara laughed. “That's a bet I wouldn't take. Still, one more nail in Proxmire's political coffin. No way is he getting reelected with at least two aides in a spy scandal.”

“If they don't get him,” Cosmo said. “After the way he treated NASA and DOD? Good riddance.”

People nodded at that. Proxmire's anti-military and anti-NASA views were well known, and to those in the tent, the currently unfolding spy scandal couldn't have happened to a more deserving person. “He's done, politically,” Snag observed. “Even if he does like his Milk subsidies.”

“That he does,” KT said. She had borrowed the sports section of USA Today from Kara. “IOC says they're canceling the '88 Summer Olympics in Seoul. Took them long enough.”

“No surprise,” Brainiac said.

“No,” Guru added. He had some more meat loaf, then skimmed the Op-eds in the LA Times. “Oh, boy. Got two opposing Op-eds here. First one's from both the National Commanders of the American Legion and the VFW. They're saying that once we kick the Russians and and their lackeys out, “'The Cubans and Mexicans must pay the price for facilitating, supporting, and participating in the invasion.'
So we go to Mexico City and Havana before going home.”

Heads nodded at that. All had unfinished business with the Mexicans and Cubans. “No arguing that, Boss,” Brainiac nodded. “What's the other guy say?”

“Hold onto your seats, and I'm enough of a historian to understand a point of view that I hold in total contempt. But this fella's a professor at some college in Santa Monica.”

Goalie let out a scowl. “People's Republic of,” she growled. “Or they were.”

“What's he saying, Boss?” Preacher asked.

“Says that there should be a cease-fire and the UN should host a peace conference, where all parties can discuss 'a peace without aims, peace without victory, a just and honorable peace for all sides. If the conference fails, it fails. We can always resume the battle.'” Guru's voice was dripping with contempt. “Can you believe this shit?”

“Where was this guy when the balloon went up?” Snag wanted to know. “Where was this scumbag when Hips were dropping in on Laughlin? Or Fencers over San Antonio?” She was recalling her own Day One.

“Day one for me,” Brainiac said. “Scrambling from Clark to intercept Badgers out of Cam Ranh Bay.”

“Or seeing a MiG-21 shoot down an airliner,” Guru spat. “This guy's going to get run out of town so fast he'll never know what hit him.”

Kara nodded, then looked at Goalie and Sweaty. She and the other two women had their own Day One experiences. For Kara, getting ready to, then actually evacuating, Reese AFB a few days later was no fun. Goalie had been a C-130 nav at Little Rock, and there had been lots of confusion. Sweaty was waiting to start a tour as a T-38 IP at Columbus AFB in Mississippi, and though Spetsnatz hadn't paid a visit, everyone had been jumpy and on edge. “Well, Boss, he gets what he deserves.”

“I'll drink to that,” Hoser said. He hadn't been in uniform on that day, but wound up spending most of it-and the next, in various lines as he joined the Air Force.

“Hear, hear,” Sweaty added.


After dinner, AFN showed a rerun of a L.A. Raiders-San Diego Chargers game, while Kara went to the Pool Table. Guru then went to the bar, intending to get another beer, and after getting it, found Dave Gledhill. “Dave,” Guru said.

“Guru,” Gledhill replied, shaking the CO's hand. “I see this place still goes, even after someone doesn't come back.”

“You know the saying by now: 'Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow they may not separate us from the rest of the airplane.”

“We've got a similar saying,” Gledhill observed. “Even if in this case, you don't know whether or not to mourn. On Bermuda, we knew those two crews weren't coming back.”

Guru nodded. “Here, though, there's a chance they managed to evade, and if they did, either Jolly Green goes in, or the Resistance finds 'em and they either join up, or they get passed on a rat line until the Jolly Greens can go in.”

“Not much of a chance, though. From what Karen McKay said.”

“I know, but still, there's always a chance,” Guru reminded him. “Get a little drunk, then I'll let you know when it's getting close to Twelve-Hour. We can have your toast to the lost crew then.”

“Gladly.”


Guru got some nachos, then went back to the table. “Here.” He glanced around, and saw Kara holding court at the Pool Table. “She's at her throne.”

“And holding court,” Goalie nodded. “Two Navy guys and somebody whose C-130 is doing a RON tried already.”

Guru knew the rest by heart. “And had their wallets lightened.”

“They did.”

Then Colonel Brady came by. “Major,” he said. “I've waited a long time to do this.”

“Sir?” Guru asked. “Are you...?”

“She's entitled to a crack at me, after all this time,” Brady said. “And if I lose, I shake hands, get another beer, and come back tomorrow night.” He then headed to the pool table.

“Oh, boy..” Guru muttered as Colonel Brady went to the Pool Table. He and Kara showed their money, then went down to business. Even though Brady had more experience, this time, Kara's skills were superior, for she defeated the Colonel. He smiled, nodded, shook hands with Kara. Then he paid her, and went to the bar. There, he got another beer, and came back to the 335th's people. “Sir, don't say we didn't warn you,” Guru said.

“I know, Major,” Brady said. “There's a couple of guys in the Da Nang Officer's Club that she could've run with, back in '67 and early '68.”

“Still in touch with those guys, sir?” Brainiac asked.

“One of 'em went to Hanoi a couple of weeks before I did,” Brady said. “Other one, he was flying for TWA last I heard.”

“Which makes him now on the Air Bridge, or they reactivated him and put him back in a fighter cockpit,” Mark Ellis noted.

“Probably,” Brady agreed. “Either answer can be graded as correct.”

Time passed, and it was soon 1840. “Twenty minutes to Twelve-Hour!” Doc Waters called.

“Major,” Brady said, gathering up the Squadron CO s. Guru followed him and the others to the bar, where the MAG-11 CO rang the bell. “Okay, people! Simmer down and we've got a few things to talk about. First, our RAF friends had their combat debut, and though two of their crews got MiGs, and MiG-29s at that, they did lose a crew today.” Brady paused to let that sink in. “Squadron Leader Gledhill?”

Dave Gledhill stood up and raised a beer bottle. “Here's to Ian and Michael. May they come back safe.”

“Hear, hear,” voices said.

After the Marine CO s had their turn, introducing their own FNGs-and all were guys, in their squadrons, it was Guru's turn. “Okay, our RAF frends kicked some today, and Ivan took a bite out of 'em, too. So....Dave?” He turned to Gledhill. “Your guys might take a few days to a few weeks to come back. Maybe longer.” Guru, too, raised his beer. “Let's hope Jolly Green and the Snake-Eaters are on the ball with this one.”

“Hear, hear!” Kara said, and others echoed her.

“Okay, now, the Chiefs have two FNGs, though one of 'em really isn't. Captain Corinne Cassidy, call sign Snag, stand up.”

Snag did, conspicous in her dress blues. “Major,”

“Snag,” Guru nodded. “Fresh off the TransPac Ferry Run, has more night and instrument time than most of us. And she's got a hell of a Day One story, which involves a bunch of Hip troop-carriers and some Hinds, and her in a T-38.”

She grinned, and said, “You'll get it tomorrow, Major.”

“All right, that we will. Lieutenant Brandon Doucette, stand up!”

“Uh-oh...” Doucette said as he stood up. “Major?”

“Lieutenant,” Guru said. “Now, he's really an FNG, right out of Kingsley Field, and tomorrow night? We'll get you a call sign. And if you don't like it? We'll find one even more embarrassing!”

Doucette gulped. “Gee, thanks, Major.”

“You may be FNGs tonight, but tomorrow? Animals in the zoo.”

“Or inmates in the asylum,” Preacher muttered to Sweaty, who nodded agreement.

“So get used to it, both of you,” Guru said. “Colonel?”

Brady nodded. “Thanks, Major. Now, ten minutes to Twelve-Hour, so drink up!”

People finished their drinks, and ten minutes later, a Navy Flight Surgeon rang the bar bell. “Twelve-Hour now in effect for those flying in the morning!”

Those who hadn't finished turned theirs in, and chose something nonalcoholic. For Guru, it was iced tea. “Well, can't have a beer, but, what'll we drink to?” He asked Goalie.

“How about being still alive?” Goalie replied, and both Preacher and KT, who were still at the table, nodded.

The evening went on, until Doc Waters rang the bar bell at 2100. “Aircrew curfew for those on the morning flight schedule, folks!”

Those affected headed off to their tents, and sleep. For it wouldn't be long until 0430 and aircrew wakeup, and another day of flying.

[Matt Wiser]

Thoughts on the RAF's first day in Texas, gents?