Punk's War

by Ward Carroll

  “F-15Es don’t do defensive counter-air missions,” Rhino answered.

  “Why not?”

  “Because they’re not designed for them and the crews don’t train for them.”

  “Where are all the F-15Cs?”

  Rhino checked his sheet again. “In offensive counter-air missions up north.”

  “Why don’t they come south?”

  “Because they’re up north looking for MiGs,” Rhino countered. “You remember what the general said: ‘Choose the best weapon for the job.’”

  “If we’re so concerned about the best weapon for the job,” Punk asked, voice growing in volume as he spoke, “why do we have B-52s flying all the way from a small island in the middle of the Indian Ocean to launch a few cruise missiles when we can fire all the cruise missiles we need from ships in the Gulf?”

  “That’s kind of a parochial attitude don’t you think?”

  “Parochial? That’s a—”

  “Hey, you two,” the team leader, a Marine Harrier pilot, shouted across the room, “knock it off! Take a break. Go get some fresh air.”

  Punk and Rhino looked at each other like two roughhousing brothers who’d been ordered outside of the house by their father. They sheepishly shuffled out of the room, down several hallways, past the cipher-locked steel main door, by the guard shack and badge issue station, and through the barb-wire-trimmed fence that surrounded the world-within-a-world that was the Planning and Targeting Cell at JTF-SWA.

  The two pilots walked onto the compound’s dusty main street. Punk stretched out his arms and yawned. “I wonder where one goes for a pick-me-up around here?”

  “I dunno,” Rhino replied, directing his attention to a group of enlisted airmen who happened by. “Excuse me, guys, is there a central hooch here?”

  “Yeah,” one of them replied. “The Thirsty Camel. Down that way, on the right. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks,” Rhino said, and they started down the road.

  “Don’t get your hopes up too high,” the airman called back to them. “This is a Condition One post.”

  “Condition One?” Punk asked.

  “No alcohol,” Rhino explained before re-addressing the airman. “Got it. Thanks again.”

  As they continued down the street, Punk considered his new boots and noticed with pleasure an absence of pain from his ankle. “Man, these things are comfortable,” he observed, looking down toward his moving feet highlighted by the stadium lighting that washed over the entire base, leaving no shadows in which saboteurs could hide.

  “Yeah, they are, aren’t they?” Rhino agreed. “That’s the Army’s contribution to Goldwater-Nichols.”

  “Ah, yes,” Punk mused, “jointness: the military’s forced march of cooperation. What’s the Air Force’s contribution again?”

  “Strategic airlift and tankers,” Rhino answered matter-of-factly, ignoring Punk’s attempted dig, “and everything else associated with power projection from the air, of course, except tactical reconnaissance and electronic warfare, the two missions the Navy now owns thanks to a few bad decisions some of our generals made in the eighties.”

  “Hey, that reminds me,” Punk returned, “did you guys figure out how the Serbians were able to shoot down that F-117? Stealth technology hasn’t been exploited, has it? That would be ugly since we’ve put so many of the taxpayers’ eggs in that basket.”

  “You’re worried about taxpayers’ eggs? How much does an aircraft carrier cost again?”

  “How much did we have to throw at Arab royal families to base you guys in this region? A carrier battle group goes wherever it wants for free, and it’s a stand-alone unit once it gets there.”

  “So what was that divert to Al Jabar you were telling me about?” Rhino countered. “When’s the last time an Air Force pilot tried to divert to an aircraft carrier?”

  Punk started a line about the spindly struts and dental floss tailhooks on delicate Air Force jets but ran out of momentum halfway through it. The two officers silently strode the rest of the short distance to the Thirsty Camel. Rhino tugged on the front door’s old refrigerator latch and they entered the pre-fab shed that stood in stark architectural contrast to the rest of Escavah Village’s neat clusters of identical one-story brown buildings.

  The shed was roomier than it appeared from the outside. The decor featured a sports theme with appointments that would make any stateside establishment proud. The walls were punctuated with memorabilia, including a number of autographed jerseys displayed in ornate frames. In one corner, two airmen played a mini-basketball free throw game. Punk’s eyes were drawn to the bank of four wide-screen televisions, each tuned to a different event. Say what you will about the Air Force, thought Punk, they know how to relax.

  “How ’bout a near beer?” Rhino asked. “A Condition One favorite.”

  “Sounds good,” Punk replied.

  “I’ve got the first round,” Rhino said as he moved toward the refreshment counter. “Why don’t you go grab us a couple of those chairs over by the TVs?”

  Punk stepped across the room, tossed his floppy desert hat onto the seat of one of the overstuffed chairs and took his place in another. He shifted his attention between the four professional football games on the screens before him and looked at his watch. They’re all live . . .

  “This is an impressive set up,” Punk commented as Rhino handed him a can of alcohol-free beer and took the adjacent seat. “A lot of places back home would kill for this sort of coverage.”

  “We have one just like this at Al Jabar,” Rhino said. “Ours is called the ‘Sandshaker.’ They’re shipped as a single unit—lock, stock, and barrel. Size is only limited by the width of a C-5’s cargo bay.” He gestured over his shoulder. “Did you see the satellite dish farm on the right as you cleared security at the main gate? Only half of those are used for military purposes. The others are for sports and movie reception.”

  “Man,” Punk sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I could get used to this.”

  “This . . .” Rhino returned with a sweep of his arm about the room, “is killing retention in the Air Force.”

  “What?” Punk asked with knitted brow. “Lazy Boys and live sports coverage?”

  “No,” Rhino said. “The desert . . .”

  “What’s wrong with the desert? It beats life on the Boat.”

  “The Boat is no surprise to you,” Rhino tried to explain as he lowered the volume of the televisions with the four remotes mounted on the big plywood coffee table in front of them. “You knew it was part of the deal when you joined the Navy. The desert has become the Air Force’s culture, but none of us signed up for it. It’s like a breach of contract. Now we’re here all the time.”

  “Where did you think you were going to go?” Punk asked.

  “Germany, Thailand, Korea . . . places like that, places with character.”

  “Didn’t I read they just shortened the length of your deployments?”

  “They did,” Rhino confirmed. “They shortened them from ninety to forty-five days to stop the complaining, but that was just smoke and mirrors. What the secretary of defense forgot with his concept of rightsizing is that, when you do the same with less, those left in the military wind up doing more. So now we’re over here twice as often. It’s actually more of a hassle to do the shorter ones. And we seem to be doing fewer and fewer things of any importance each year we’re here. I’m not against doing my duty, but any idiot can see there’s no mission, or at least not one that requires the level of effort we’ve put into this region since Desert Storm. I mean, just look at this drill we’re doing now. You think we’re ever going to execute this thing?”

  “Maybe . . .”

  “No way. This is just part of the entire harassment package, nothing more. And we’ve still got another whole day of strike planning left.”

  “So are you getting out?”

  “Damn right, ten months and counting. How ’bout you?”

  “I’m serio
usly considering it,” Punk replied. “And being in the great outdoors the last couple of days makes me realize how unnatural it is living on a boat for six months at a time. It confines the spirit.”

  “I visited a boat a few years back,” Rhino said. “I thought it was great. Clean sheets, hot running water, real ice cream with every meal, no need to walk through the wind and the cold to take a piss . . .”

  “Your runway doesn’t move.”

  “Your runway moves to scenic European ports.”

  “You can go for long runs in the desert.”

  “You don’t have to go for long runs in the desert.”

  “We fly jets older than most of the lieutenants in the squadron.”

  “We only fly at night.”

  “My girlfriend broke up with me.”

  “My wife divorced me.”

  “All right,” Punk admitted, “You win. Your life sucks worse than mine. I’d get out in a heartbeat if I were you, too.”

  Rhino smiled contentedly and then considered his victory. “Wait,” he said. “My life really isn’t that bad . . .”

  EIGHT

  “SAM trap . . .” Holly said softly as she compared the satellite image in one hand, a list of coordinates in the other, and the replay of the tactical picture over southern Iraq on the computer screen in front of her. “It’s a SAM trap,” she shouted. “Steven, check this out.”

  He rushed from his target folder–laden desk and looked at the display over his female doppelgänger’s shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

  “Watch . . .” She let the file run. “This happened a few hours ago when some Air Force F-15s were working the offensive counter-air stations just south of the thirty-third parallel. Take a look at the pattern these MiG-23s fly.”

  Steven keenly studied the view. “They came south of thirty-three . . .”

  “Yeah,” Holly confirmed, “but we already knew that. Look at this . . .” With a keystroke, she halted the motion of the symbols on the screen. “See where they start turning north?” She ran the cursor over the position and pointed to the corresponding coordinates displayed in the data box at the bottom of the screen while simultaneously running her finger across one of the papers on her desk. “According to the latest imagery, there’s an SA-6 site there.” She craned around to face Steven. “This is not like the other feints we’ve occasionally seen them perform to probe our reaction. This is a SAM trap.”

  “Did the Eagles get any shots off?” he asked.

  “No, the Iraqis timed their moves perfectly. They know what they’re doing here.”

  Steven peered at the screen again. “Hold it . . . Where did those MiGs originate?”

  Holly pointed to a spot just south of Baghdad. “Al Sharat Air Base.”

  Steven hurried back to his desk and dug a sheet out of a messy stack towering over the rest of the clutter. He read the page for a short time and then carried it over to Holly. “This is the latest air order of battle from national sources,” Steven said as he threw the paper down on her desk. “There are no MiG-23s at Al Sharat anymore; those are either MiG-25s or 29s.”

  “That’s even worse,” Holly pronounced as she looked at her watch. “Who’s the lead for the next Southern Watch mission?”

  “Smoke,” Steven replied. “He’s briefing a reconnaissance package down in our ready room right now.”

  They grabbed what evidence they could and rushed out of CVIC.

  Smoke moved to the easel adjacent to the podium at the front of the ready room and ran his hand along a line of thin red tape on the large chart. “This is a TARPS mission,” he said, referring to the Tactical Airborne Reconnaissance Pod System, a device that housed three types of cameras and was strapped to the bottom of the Tomcat specifically for photo missions. “The two TARPS birds, with Biff in the lead jet and Scooter on his wing, will start here, just north of Kuwait. They’ll take it north until they fly right against the thirty-third parallel, work their way to the east past Al Kut to the Iranian border, and then come south along the Shat al Arab to Al Basrah and then back out feet wet. They’ll be flying at ten thousand feet for the entire run to get the tasked resolution.

  “The fighter package, led by me, is a mixed division with two Tomcats and two Hornets. We’ll fly in front of and above the TARPS birds.” Smoke pointed at the closed circuit television set that had hosted their intelligence brief minutes before. “Now, you heard that MiGs are flying today, which is consistent with some of the rhetoric we’ve listened to in recent days on the news about increased Iraqi resistance to the no-fly zone and other bullshit like that. The fighters really need to be heads-up. Remember the rules of engagement; no hot-dogging, but if a shot opportunity presents itself, take advantage of it.

  “Finally, the interdiction package will be led by Punk, whom we’re proud to welcome back to the land of the living as he embarks on his first flight into Iraq since his mishap.” Smoke led the other aviators in a short, polite round of applause, and Punk acknowledged the recognition with a papal wave. “Punk has another LANTIRN-equipped Tomcat and two Prowlers with him, and that package is ready to take out any pop-up SAM activity with precision-guided bombs or HARM missiles.” Smoke gestured toward the two RIOs in Punk’s element. “Spud and Einstein, just as the fighter package needs to suitcase the ROE, you two own the burden of ensuring you bomb the right target if it comes to that.” Both RIOs nodded confidently. Smoke scanned across the two Prowler crews. “Quite honestly, your business is a complete mystery to me. Do the right thing.”

  Smoke moved back behind the podium. “Okay, that’s the overview. Why don’t we break into elements and brief our particulars in the smaller groups? Also, review the search and rescue procedures. Are there any final questions before—”

  The Pats tripped through the front door of the ready room with the grace of two foals on ice. “SAM trap,” Holly shouted at Smoke as she worked to catch her breath.

  “What?”

  “Your intelligence brief . . . is not complete,” Steven explained, as winded as his co-worker. “We know . . . some things you . . . you need to know.”

  Smoke studied them suspiciously but yielded to their intensity. “All right, let’s not break up just yet. Our intel team has something to add.” With some reluctance, he handed the floor to the Pats and took a seat in the front row.

  Holly composed herself behind the podium for a few seconds and then began speaking. “One of the things our photo interpreters will be looking for in the TARPS images you get this flight is the location of SA-6 sites,” Holly said. “Unlike the larger surface-to-air missile systems like the SA-2 or SA-3, the SA-6 is mobile. The Iraqis have been slowly moving these systems south since James Gleason was shot, and we’re having a tough time keeping track of where they are.

  “As you heard during the televised brief from CVIC, the Iraqi Air Force is active today.” Holly moved to the chart. “This morning some Iraqi fighters came below the thirty-third parallel, which is something we’ve seen before, albeit not very often. But what we haven’t seen before today is the jets flying through a SAM envelope as they made their way back north.

  “Now we know that the Iraqis subscribe to classic Soviet doctrine and have the connectivity to de-conflict airplanes and SAMs, but we also suspect their leadership is willing to risk one of their own jets to shoot down one of ours. They will fire at you even with a MiG in the same envelope.”

  With a motion from Holly, Steven took the stage. “Remember the SA-6 can be fired optically and, if it is, you may not get any indications on your radar warning receivers. As briefed, the weather is clear, so you’ll be able to see the ground, but they’ll also be able to see you.”

  The Pats looked at each other and exchanged shrugs. “That’s it . . . good luck,” Holly said. They made for the exit, fearing the perception that they’d taken up too much valuable brief time.

  “Hey, you guys,” Smoke said, stopping them in the doorway. “Thanks.” They responded with impassive nods but w
ere both smiling as they left the room.

  “Okay,” Smoke said, “I know Southern Watch events have become routine, even boring for us in the four months we’ve been flying here. I also know we’ve all grown frustrated lately with wondering if the president is going to show the Iraqis how this game’s played and call on us to fight the war Punk and the gang cooked up when they were in Saudi Arabia.” He poked a thumb over his shoulder toward the door. “You’ve heard the evidence. Put your game face on because Punk’s war might start today.”

  Punk mustered his element at the back of the ready room. His group consisted of Spud and him in the lead jet, Monk and Einstein on his wing, and the two Prowler crews. In the lead Prowler was one of the only two female pilots in the air wing, and her presence in the brief, despite the recent push for gender integration by the system, was still a bit unusual for those who’d been in the business longer than three years. After reviewing the navigation plan and the ROE, he dismissed the Prowler flyers back to their ready room to perform a last-minute update to their mission computers.

  As the jammer crews excused themselves past the legs of the fighter guys, Punk couldn’t help but notice that Einstein was fairly beaming. “First flight without the skipper?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Einstein effused back. “He has a flight physical this morning down in medical, and Weezer has the duty, so Biff stuck us together.”

  “Beautiful,” Punk returned. “This is going to be a good hop. All right, let’s go through some of the details. Monk, don’t worry about rendezvousing overhead the Boat. I’ll see you on the tanker or, if I miss you there, I’ll see you at the push point.”

  He shuffled through the handful of kneeboard cards perched on his left knee. “Break out the navigation plan and your tactical charts. Now, as you look at the TARPS birds’ route of flight, you can see that they won’t fly through any known SAM envelopes. But remember, as the Pats said, the SA-6 is a mobile system. That’s why we’re flying these recon missions twice a day.

  “So once we get feet dry, Monk, I want you to kick out into defensive combat spread. And, at that point, I want all eyes out of the cockpit and looking at the ground for SAM launches. You own the area under us and we own the same scan under you. The gouge Steven gave us about the absence of radar warnings is crucial. For all of our fancy equipment, the SAM that’ll get you is the one you don’t see with your eyes.