Spectre Rising

by C. W. Lemoine

  “No sir, I’m not saying that—”

  “Do you think the terrorists shot it down with a missile, and it vaporized mid flight?” Thomas interrupted.

  “No, not at all,” Baxter was starting to lose his cool. This prick was dismissing everything without even hearing him out.

  “Look, Baxter, I know you’re new at this, but you’re chasing a bad lead. Fighter jets crash. It’s the cost of doing business. Have you ever been fishing offshore? The ocean can get pretty nasty. I’m not surprised they haven’t been able to find the wreckage yet, but I doubt these guys have the technology to just vaporize a jet in mid air. Give it a few days, and I’m sure, when the weather gets better, they’ll find it. But for now, we’ve got a known terrorist on the run, and I’m not about to let this asshole get away. If you want to keep tagging along and help, that’s fine, but don’t waste my time unless you have something solid, are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Baxter replied meekly. He had been scolded like a child. He hated it, but he was far too new to rock the boat. Thomas had completely deflated him.

  “Good. I’ll see you at the JTTF tomorrow morning. I’m working on a few leads right now so bring your A game.”

  Thomas hung up without waiting for a response. Baxter felt embarrassed. The senior agent had completely discredited him without so much as hearing him out first. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His father lived and worked in a different time. It was a time before 9/11 and the constant public scrutiny involved with counterterrorism. But he wondered what advice his father would have in this case. Then it hit him.

  The truth is always in the details.

  And with that, Baxter knew what he had to do.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Joint Base Balad, Iraq

  1000 Local

  2009

  “SCRAMBLE! SCRAMBLE! SCRAMBLE!” It was the sound of the duty officer’s voice over the intercom system as the corresponding klaxons screamed from above.

  Spectre had been sitting in the Lay-Z-Boy recliner, G-suit and survival vest on, playing Call of Duty on the 50 inch Plasma TV with his flight lead, “Pounder” Van Pelt, when the scramble order was given. They instantly jumped from their chairs and ran for the door.

  They were sitting 15-minute alert at Balad Air Base in Iraq. In their role as the Air Sovereignty Alert fighters, they were the first line of defense against foreign airspace violations from neighboring countries. But, until now, Spectre had never been scrambled. He had been scheduled for alert over a dozen times, but had never gotten the call. His tour had been fairly quiet so far. Something real must’ve been happening.

  The two ran out the wooden alert shack to their respective F-16s in their hardened shelters. Spectre’s crew chief, the young Airman responsible for assisting with the launch, ran right past him from the maintenance shack at a full sprint toward the jet. Their pre-briefed contract with each other was simple – from the time they got the scramble order, they had only fifteen minutes to be airborne – Spectre had told him to do what he had to do to make the launch happen. He would handle the rest.

  As his crew chief plugged in his headset and began his checks, Spectre put on his harness and zipped up his G-suit. The jet was already pre-flighted and postured for a quick start, so there was no need to do a walk around or check anything. With his harness on, he hurried up the ladder, hopping into the F-16’s reclined ACES II ejection seat.

  Spectre had already briefed his crew chief at the crew changeover. As soon as the young Airman pulled the ladder, Spectre would fire the Jet Fuel Starter and begin the startup process. The JFS spun to life as the crew chief removed the ladder and set it aside. Within seconds, the JFS had spooled up and Spectre moved the throttle to idle, starting the powerful General Electric F100-110 engine. Spectre lowered the bubble canopy as the engine and electrical systems came online.

  The crew chief ran out of sight performing his checks as Spectre ran through his alert launch checklist. Most of his systems were already set up, requiring him only to power them up and run their respective Built in Test modes. A few minutes later, he gave the crew chief the signal to pull chocks.

  With the chocks pulled and the crew chief ready, Spectre released the brakes and taxied the F-16 forward. It was loaded for combat, with two 500 pound laser guided bombs, two AIM-120 air-to-air missiles, and two AIM-9 air-to-air missiles. Their mission called for flexibility. They could either be tasked to support troops on the ground, or a possible, but less likely, air threat.

  As Spectre taxied forward, he looked out to the adjacent Hardened Aircraft Shelter and saw Pounder taxi his jet out as well. He tuned to the mission frequency on his UHF radio and listened in.

  “Snake One-One check secure.” Pounder’s voice sounded hollow, as if he were talking through a tin can. It was a secure frequency to ensure no enemy could listen in.

  “Two,” Spectre replied crisply.

  Pounder checked in with the controlling agency and they were given their tasking: investigate an unknown aircraft near the Iraq/Iranian border, slow moving. Pounder acknowledged.

  Spectre wrote down the clearance and followed his lead to the runway. “Investigate” was not clearance to engage. That would require positive enemy indication and some sort of hostile act from the aircraft. Essentially, they were just going to Observe and Report, like mall cops.

  Within seconds, Pounder’s F-16 was in full afterburner hurtling down the 10,000 foot runway. Fifteen seconds later, Spectre selected full afterburner and followed, holding low on the runway once airborne until reaching 400 knots, and then starting an aggressive climb to follow Pounder. It was standard procedure to avoid any small arms threats that might be waiting on the other side of the base’s fence by climbing quickly to stay out of range.

  Spectre rejoined to a combat formation as they climbed out. They were holding 400 knots as they made their way to the area of the bogey aircraft. Spectre wondered what they might expect to find. The last time he had heard of jets being scrambled on an air-to-air mission was years prior when an Iranian UAV had been shot down after crossing into Iraqi airspace. He figured it was probably something similar, especially being a slow moving target.

  As they checked in with the controlling agency for that sector, they were given their tasking.

  “Snake One-One, investigate BRAA 090/50, 1000, track west, bogey, slow mover, maintain block 10-15,” the female voice directed. The aircraft was fifty miles due east of their position, tracking toward Baghdad at a slow speed. They were given clearance to maintain between 10,000 feet and 15,000 feet. It’s probably an Iranian UAV, Spectre reasoned. The aircraft was not squawking the appropriate IFF transponder code or talking to anyone.

  “Snake One-One copies,” Pounder responded and then keyed up their interflight radio. “Ok, Two, game plan will be eyeball, cover. You have the top two thousand feet of the block; I’ll take the bottom two thousand feet. I’ll go in and get the visual ID while you cover from the wheel. Green’em up.”

  Spectre’s head tilted in the cockpit. “Green’em up” was a directive to arm the aircraft’s offensive weapons. It was usually reserved for times when ordnance would be employed, to prevent an inadvertent drop or accidental firing.

  “Confirm going green?” Spectre asked.

  “Affirm,” Pounder replied. “Aircraft type is unknown. Could be Iranian attack helicopters.”

  “Two,” Spectre replied. Now wasn’t the time to argue, but he decided not to flip the Master Arm switch from SAFE to ARM. If he needed it, he could do it later. There was no reason to end up on CNN for accidentally dropping a 500 pound bomb on a village. Pounder’s attitude bothered him a bit. They had only flown together a few times, but he seemed to be chomping at the bit for action much more than other pilots he had flown with.

  “Snake One-One, radar contact 080/20,” Pounder declared. He had picked up the unidentified aircraft twenty miles ahead. Spectre shifted his attention to his radar screen. He rolled the radar antenna lower a
nd found a return 20 miles off his nose. When the aircraft locked the contact, Spectre studied the data. It was moving 100 knots directly toward them. He looked up and maneuvered into position as Pounder offset for the visual identification.

  “Snake Two targeted,” Spectre announced. It was an informative call to let his flight lead know he also had radar contact. Pounder could spend more time getting the VID than trying to talk his wingman’s eyes onto the target.

  As the range decreased, Pounder requested a lower block to get a visual ID.

  “Negative, Snake One-One, unable,” the female controller responded.

  “Say reason,” Pounder snapped.

  “Multiple UAVs block 4-8 BRAA 080/15, maintain block 10-15,” she responded. Spectre didn’t like it. Why didn’t they get the drone traffic out the way?

  Pounder acknowledged and switched back to interflight. “Two, the game plan will remain the same. We’ll set up a five-mile wheel over the target and get a targeting pod ID.”

  They would set up a five-mile orbit around the target aircraft and use the advanced targeting pod to get a visual. It was a fairly standard technique, and since it was still daylight, they would be able to use either the Electro Optical or Forward Looking Infrared sensors of the targeting pod.

  Spectre pulled up the targeting pod on his right Multi-Function Display. It was slaved to the radar lock, immediately giving him a black and white image of the target. He zoomed in. At this range, the targeting pod was good enough to give them a general idea of what they were looking at. It was a helicopter.

  Helicopters made Spectre nervous. It wasn’t because they were dangerous. They could be. Although many attack helicopters carried air-to-air missiles, most fighter pilots weren’t overly concerned about being shot down by a helicopter. Instead, the real threat in this theater was friendly fire. It was a fear reinforced by history and the blood of American serviceman.

  In 1994 during Operation Provide Comfort in Iraq, two F-15s had been scrambled on a very similar mission. Like the helicopter Spectre and Pounder were orbiting, two American UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters had failed to squawk appropriate IFF codes as they flew over Northern Iraq. The F-15s mistook the Blackhawks for Iraqi Mi-24 Hind gunships, and shot both down, killing all 26 aboard. It was one of the deadliest friendly fire incidents in US history and resulted in disciplinary action for both pilots and the controller that failed to properly identify the target.

  Pounder relayed the identification to the controller as they set up their orbit. The controller told them to monitor the aircraft as she cleared the airspace for them to get a better look.

  “It looks like an attack helicopter, maybe a Toufan,” Pounder said over aux. The Toufan was the Iranian version of the AH-1 Cobra. It was a two-seat light attack helicopter produced indigenously by the Iranian Aviation Industries Organization.

  Spectre said nothing. He maintained his formation position and switched between the TV/EO mode of the pod and the FLIR mode. He was hoping to get a better look before confirming anything. It was definitely an attack helicopter, but country of origin would be hard to determine without looking at the markings up close.

  “Snake One-One, you’re cleared surface to ten thousand block, previously called traffic no longer a factor,” the female controller advised.

  Pounder acknowledged and then updated the plan, “Two, you’ve got from six to ten, I’ll get an ID. This is an attack helicopter that crossed the border. Any hostile act and take it out with a heater. I don’t want to be the F-16 guy that gets shot down by a helicopter.”

  “Two,” Spectre replied. He wasn’t sure why Pounder even mentioned that. What would an Iranian Toufan be doing alone in Iraqi airspace? That would be a suicide mission and clear act of war. No way. It was probably just an American Marine AH-1 Cobra with a bad transponder or something.

  As they descended to their respective altitudes, Spectre set up his orbit. The helicopter wasn’t deviating from its route of flight as it steadily headed west.

  Spectre watched as Pounder rolled in on the helicopter from the east. It was still mid morning, so the sun would be at his back, making it more likely for an unobserved ID. It also kept Pounder behind the helicopter in an offensive position, but it would be much harder to identify markings. From his altitude, Spectre could only make out the fact that it was a helicopter when he looked outside, so he kept his focus on the MFD with the targeting pod image.

  “Snake One-One in from the east,” Pounder declared. Spectre kept his eye on the targeting pod. Suddenly the helicopter made an aggressive left hand turn as Pounder neared. Spectre’s targeting pod lit up as a string of self-protection flares, designed to decoy IR missiles, came off the helicopter.

  “Target maneuver, Snake One is defensive, missile in the air!” Pounder screamed over the primary frequency. “ID hostile, Two, status shot?”

  Pounder wanted Spectre to shoot. He must have mistaken the flare for a missile. This was starting to go downhill. Spectre could see the situation deteriorating.

  “Snake One-Two, negative, knock it off,” Spectre replied. He hoped that “knock it off” would allow Pounder to pause and realize that the situation was much different than it seemed.

  “Negative!” Pounder screamed “Snake One-One is in for immediate re-attack, hostile! Hostile!”

  Spectre could feel the pit in his stomach. They had no idea if this helicopter was friendly or hostile, but Pounder was running on adrenaline and ego. He wanted a kill and thought he had fulfilled the rules of engagement. Spectre had to act fast.

  “Snake One-One, abort,” Spectre replied, directing his flight lead to discontinue the attack, “Snake Two is in.”

  He knew Pounder wouldn’t risk the midair as Spectre rolled in, so he took the opportunity to roll in on the helicopter. It was still in a left hand turn away from their flight.

  He watched as Pounder discontinued his turn and climbed. At least he wasn’t so caught up in his blood lust that he was completely ignoring basic safety of flight concepts.

  Spectre transitioned to looking completely out the window. The targeting pod image showed great detail, but it was almost useless when it came to identifying markings.

  As Spectre neared the helicopter with his F-16, he strained to see the markings. The left turn made it easier for him to see the side of the helicopter and its tail rotor. He could barely make it out, but when he did, it all clicked. It said MARINES.

  “Friendly! Friendly!” Spectre said as he climbed his F-16.

  “Say again?” Pounder replied. The doubt in his voice was clear.

  “That’s a Marine Cobra, do not engage!” Spectre replied.

  “Marine? No that Cobra fired a heater at me, it’s hostile,” Pounder said, referring to the flares they had seen. It was obvious Pounder had developed a sort of channelized attention. He was convinced that the flare had been an air-to-air missile, and that the helicopter was Iranian.

  “Negative, Snake One, that was a flare. Recommend knock it off and we shadow.”

  “Snake One copies,” Pounder replied. There was almost a bit of disappointment in his voice. Moments ago, he thought he was fighting a foreign attack helicopter. Spectre only hoped he realized he had nearly shot down a friendly.

  Pounder took up his position and they shadowed the helicopter as turned back on course to the west.

  They flew in silence as they orbited the Cobra. It continued west for ten more minutes, until it landed at a Marine Forward Operating Base just east of Baghdad.

  As it landed, Spectre’s face felt wet. He awoke to Zeus licking his face and putting his head on Spectre’s chest. It was nearly midnight. He had been asleep for only a few hours since getting home from the Sheriff’s Department. He had been home from Iraq for nearly five years, but it all still seemed very real.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Homestead, FL

  Spectre rolled out of bed and let Zeus out. He had gone straight to bed without changing or showering when he got home. He just wanted
to sleep the horror of the last couple of days away.

  As he shuffled through the house like a zombie, Spectre thought about the vivid dream he had just been through. It seemed more and more he was reliving his last deployment in Iraq, like a ghost haunting him.

  This particular dream was a first. Like the others, it felt so very real. He could feel the mask on his face, hear the static of the radios, and see the F-16’s avionics in front of him. He remembered landing and going toe to toe with Pounder over nearly shooting down a friendly helicopter.

  Spectre wanted Pounder to fess up for what he had done. Just admit his mistake and let everyone else learn from it. But Pounder wasn’t buying into it. Instead, he wanted Spectre to drop it, and when Spectre pressed him, he threatened to block Spectre’s upcoming upgrade to Instructor Pilot.

  Spectre regretted his reaction. In the heat of the moment, as they were discussing this on the flight line walking back into their alert shack, Spectre turned to Pounder, got right in his face and said, “With all due respect, you can go fuck yourself.”

  He then turned around and walked off, not talking to Pounder the rest of the day. This was the first stone in an avalanche that would eventually end Spectre’s flying career. When the leadership found out, specifically Coach Louhan, he was grounded for a week and was downgraded from flight lead to wingman for the rest of the deployment.

  Later, when Spectre decided to argue the case, the Digital Video Recorders from the flight from both aircraft had somehow been erased, leaving no record of Spectre averting a friendly fire disaster. It was his word against Pounder’s, and Coach wasn’t interested in Spectre’s side.

  With all that had been going on, Spectre wondered why the dreams were just starting now. He made a sandwich and sat down at his dinner table. He knew he probably wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. His mind was still racing, thinking about everything that happened.

  He was dealing with the shootout fairly well. He had never killed anyone up close before. Sure, he had killed people in combat, but that was remote. He felt disconnected from them. They were little more than blurry images in the targeting pod, blurred out by dust from the 20MM bullets or 500 pound bombs. It was impersonal. The personal connection was with the friendlies on the ground. They were the ones that mattered. They were the only ones that were real.