We took a closer look at our area of operations and the orbits depicted. The diagrams on the map were very familiar to us. We used them in our everyday operations and extensively during exercises. I’d planned scenarios that looked very similar to the ones scrawled across the map in different and coordinated colors many, many times. This was no longer a training mission or even a joint exercise we were looking at. It was a plan for a battle, a battle that was to be conducted solely from the air.
It was Allen who asked Lieutenant Albright to explain the plans. The LT cleared his throat then began. “Perhaps a review is in order. You all look like you could use it. It’s been a tough few days.”
He paused and looked at Allen. “Sergeant, I understand you are new to Combat Crew and EW, so I’ll explain the best I know how. If I’m going too slow or too fast, don’t hesitate to speak out.”
Allen nodded and the LT continued, “Just like on the ground, where unit activities have to be closely coordinated, air space also has to be closely coordinated. Once in or near the enemy areas, air assets are given certain areas to stay within, called an orbit box. A typical orbit box could be 100 nautical miles long and 50nm deep.
“Depicted in blue is the orbit box for AWACS. Typically AWACS has a position farthest removed from enemy territory. This allows them to see the whole combat arena, which is essential to their effectiveness since they provide much needed coordination and threat warnings.
“The KCs’ orbits are depicted in green; at least one KC will usually be on orbit. Their job of refueling air support fighters and deep interdiction fighters is absolutely critical. Without the KCs, you’ll have no CAP.
“Depicted in blue are the members of the Electronic Warfare Triad. Each has its own orbit box, which is usually in the forward area along the borders of Iraq. RC is critical for reconnaissance. As you know, EC provides jam support, which is necessary to block enemy communications at critical times. Lastly, Ravens and Weasels jam enemy radars.”
Lieutenant Albright touched the tip of his pointer to the map. “Here you see the High-Value Air Asset Combat Air Patrol, or HVAA CAP, assigned the protection of these vulnerable air assets. Two critical parts of this CAP are the MiG Sweep and the standard CAP. MiG Sweep has forward positions to intercept enemy fighters trying to destroy air assets. That’s you, combat crew. Standard CAP maintains defensive positions and at least one is always refueling with the KCs.
“The packages you’re supporting have air corridors for ingress and egress, but they aren’t limited to a single entrance or exit corridor. These corridors are the thick black lines pock-marking the border of Iraq. Targets the packages are striking are circled in red.”
We departed intel feeling prepared to do what needed to be done. I clutched at the survival vest I wore, examining its full contents. I knew it had a mirror, a compass, a whistle, a first aid kit, day and night flares, an emergency radio, and many other items. Right then, I needed to be reassured that they were there.
The gun holster was still empty, but our next stop was the SP section. We were each issued .38s and eighteen rounds in three clear plastic bags of six rounds each. Again, the guns were to remain unloaded until we hit the plane, but I couldn’t help wondering how long it would take me to pop in six rounds and ready the damn thing if necessary. I figured about thirty seconds—probably about twenty-nine seconds too long. I figured Iraq would seek the retribution against Turkey that we had just been warned about in intel, which would probably be in the form of terrorist attacks—terrorist attacks that were not that far away.
Our operation’s building housed KC ops, AWACS ops and EC ops. EC ops was our next stop. We checked the big board and signed the A-forms beside our typed names. Afterward, the AC gave his briefing. The last briefing, a more detailed outline of the packages we would be supporting, was later given by the MCC, good old Captain Willie.
Finally we were each given a briefing folder to look over and study while the MCC reviewed it with us. The briefing folder contained every last detail of the mission. It was used both to reinforce the material we had already been instructed about and to ensure that no details had been missed. It also provided a means to check for conflicts in the schedule that hadn’t already been worked out.
Captain Willie waited until we had reviewed the folders, then spoke, “I know things are going to be confused up there again tonight, so let’s get our procedures in line ahead of time. Robert, you’re on One.”
Robert nodded. “Charlotte, Two. Thomas, Three. Craig, Four. That’s the right side of the plane. You’re general search.” Captain Willie paused and eyed Allen. “You’re our ace in the whole. You’ll be sitting Seven.”
Captain Willie turned back to face the rest of us. “In a critical situation, you pass the signal to me first. Give the specifics to Six or Seven second and let them take it from there.
“Senior crew, you know your positions. You’re the left side and I’ll depend on you. We jam someone, they’re going to jump channels. Remember, you’re the only ones with the capability to track them and lock them. Watch them closely.” Captain Willie paused to take a sip of his coffee.
“If anyone has an important signal and I’m too bogged down to answer you, pass it to Todd on Five. As MCS, he’ll also be helping to keep the jam list updated. That’s all I have, gentlemen and lady. Unless someone has something they’d like to add.”
No one spoke up, so all we had to do was wait in the lounge for the crew van. Life Support and the Med Techs had a room off the lounge where we could get earplugs and check our gear if need be.
The crew lounge was a cavernous room that the Turks had apparently used for a similar purpose: waiting. It had cushioned couches and cushioned chairs, most of which were only framework now since the ground support personnel and those flyers who were on permanent mission planning cell had scrounged the cushions to sleep on or to use as pillows. Their quarters were also in a room off the lounge.
Those who were living here were lucky. They had a shower in a bathroom down the hall with warm running water, a TV in the lounge, and even a microwave. Right about now I would have killed for anything cooked up in a microwave, yet I’d wait for the MRE I’d hopefully eat during the flight. At the moment, I was more tired than hungry.
We clustered a group of chairs around empty bookshelves, sitting rather quietly. Bobby stretched out on a couch and was soon near sleep. We didn’t say much as we waited; rather, we just stared at one another. That feeling of impending doom returned. Yet along with it there was this undeniable adrenaline pump, feeding us along and sustaining us while time eked by.
We’d been here since 20:30 and it was now approaching 02:00.
Thirty minutes more seemed like a lifetime and the day was only beginning. I couldn’t wait to hear words I knew I would later dread. Nonetheless, I wanted to hear Captain Smily’s voice tweak into my headset.
“Crew, we’re rolling,” I knew he’d say.
Evening,
Monday, 21 January 1991
The morning’s flight went well. The crew was back at the PME by 14:00. We were all utterly exhausted. Big John was already snoring away. He had one loud snort! I didn’t even think it would bother me one bit. I was writing my journal entry then because I doubted I’d have time later and because I was too wound up to sleep.
We knew for a fact that we would have another Go soon, but we had no idea when the alert would come. With lines flying round the clock, I was betting it would be soon. I was hoping for 20:00.
Patriot missile batteries had been set up after continued Iraqi threats against Turkey for allowing U.S. warplanes to stage bombing attacks against Iraq from there. I hoped Iraq would never launch against us, but I was glad the Patriots were there.
Gentleman Bob came by the PME to see how we were all getting along. He looked tired and worn, but he was still going strong. He promised that we’d get a recreation tent that we could put up soon and a much-heralded TV to watch CNN.
Tuesday, 22 January
1991
In the wee hours of the morning just after midnight, a dark panel van raced along a blackened Turkish road. Our driver stopped as he reached the flight line and performed the customary FOD checks, then climbed back onto a sweaty cushioned seat, driving away at flight line speed—a sedate pace.
Captain Smily, the pilot, was seated in the single passenger seat to the driver’s right. In the back of the van, sitting on a bare and cold steel floor, twelve figures silently waited—Captain Willie, PBJ, Cosmo, Thomas, Charlotte, Allen, Bobby, Lt. Faber the copilot, Jerry the Eng, Captain Wilcox the Nav, Big John the AMT, and me. This would be our fifth wartime flight. I’d been here ninety-six hours and had gotten exactly fifteen hours’ sleep since Friday night. Breakfast would be an MRE on the plane.
Happy wasn’t our driver this night. His turn as duty driver was over. When I had seen him earlier, he was looking forward to his first flight sometime later that day. Gentleman Bob promised our crew that tomorrow we’d get some time off—tomorrow seemed so far away.
By the time the van pulled up in front of the Lady, the ground support crews already had the external power equipment hooked up and humming. So far, they were doing one hell of a job of ensuring that the planes were ready to fly. More incredibly, for these past few days they’d been doing it with minimal manning. Back home more than 600 ground support personnel are needed for maintenance on a round-the-clock basis. Here we had roughly sixty.
The crew out there with our bird I knew on sight. I’d seen them dozens of times before. They are as proud and as true a group of silent heroes as any. Their rewards for a twelve-to sixteen-hour day oftentimes were only tired, time-hardened hands caked with dirt and grease so thick that it was nearly impossible to scrub away.
We were halfway to the crew entrance door when the warning sirens kicked in. From the warbling tone, we knew it was an Alarm Red. The scene that followed was one of mass frenzy. One of the ground crewmen appropriately raced across the tarmac to a nearby ditch. His only piece of ground gear was his mask, which he put on as an afterthought when he hit the ditch.
I dropped to one knee, pulled out my mask and hood, and slipped it on. Once the seals were clear, I raced across the tarmac to the ditch. Only two others followed.
Spread out across the flight line between the plane, the van, and the ditch, the rest of the crew were donning their ground crew ensembles. Some put the chem pants on first, others the charcoal insulated overcoat, while others had wisely chosen their masks and hoods.
PBJ, to my left, already had on his helmet, mask, and hood. Now he was lying on his back, struggling with the zipper of his chem pants. Charlotte was recognizable to my right only because of her small size. She was lacing up the plastic overboots, the proper final piece of her ground crew ensemble. Both had come a long way since that first awful night.
The sirens continued to wail as the rest of the crew scrambled for the safety of the ditch. A-bags were strewn all over the place. My helmet in place over my mask and hood, I hugged the ditch close while I finished tying my plastic boots.
At this point no one really knew what was going to happen. Silently we waited while the sirens screamed. Tel Aviv was probably taking a pounding again by Iraqi Scuds—Scuds that we were well within the range of, Scuds that we expected to hit Turkey.
The Iraqis were relying heavily on their mobile Scud launchers, which over the past days they had been using quite extensively. The Soviet-made Scud wasn’t an effective weapon. Its aim was poor and even if its destination were precisely calculated and targeted, it could still miss its target by as much as a kilometer.
We lay in that wet ditch, our lives flashing before our eyes. We knew anything could happen. There were few rules in war. The All Clear eventually came, but not for many excruciating minutes.
Retaliatory fighters were immediately launched. Their job would be to help find the mobile launchers and destroy them before they got a chance to slip back into the night and strike again another day. Our Scud hunters had already done a tremendous job in helping to knock out numerous fixed Scud launch sites and quite a few mobile launch sites. We had faith in them as we watched them depart, afterburners lighting up the night sky.
Climbing from the ditch, we were angry, wet, and muddy. We marched as creatures possessed to the plane. The Alarm Red had wasted valuable time. We’d have to scramble hard to meet our station’s window, or packages would arrive without jam support. And that would cost lives, American or allied lives.
In an incredible ten minutes, the Lady was racing down the runway. As soon as we climbed to an adequate altitude, Big John began the arduous chore of bringing up the system. We each did our part. Miraculously, the plane was turned onto orbit, the system was up, and we were logged in ready to go to work on time.
PBJ was on radios to Phantom while the copilot contacted Control and Gypsy. We had done it and it was a minor miracle. But the job had only begun. We still had to locate the enemy communications networks for their AAA, SAM, ground and air elements. It was a tall order in fifteen minutes.
The scene became tense as positions One through Six—I was sitting Six—madly searched the signal environment. The system could flag frequencies that had RF energy on them as well, but whether we jammed enemy signals or not when the MCC turned on the jammers was entirely up to how well we operators did. Our job was to sort through the tremendous amount of signals available in the RF spectrum and to use our years of analysis training to identify and target enemy signals.
Signals could emanate from the ground or air. They could be voice or data, encrypted or clear. We relied on our banks of equipment, the system, our ears, and sometimes our guts to help us make sense of it all. It was a difficult task even under the best of circumstances, made even more difficult by the number of variables. The airwaves were cluttered with friendly and hostile comms signals, not to mention comms from outside sources—those considered neither hostile nor neutral.
Both the MCC and MCS worked on updating the jam list, a list of targeted signals we operators had identified. Each signal was given a priority for jamming based on actual or expected activity for that particular signal. Again, it came down to the operators’ telling the MCC and MCS what we’d identified.
Suddenly I heard Cosmo’s voice hissing into my ears. He was the spotter on this mission. “Pilot, Spotter, traffic low moving twelve to six.”
This was the first wave of the strike package heading in. They were five minutes early. To support them, we had to jam before our window came. I guessed they were eager to get in and see if they could spot any of those Scuds.
Cosmo would call in three more times and I’d only hear his voice among a discord of voices. I had too many other things to listen to at the time to worry about the status of the packages passing by. The only word I listened for was bandits.
It was a practiced skill to be able to listen to and follow two or three conversations at once, but between the three channels of outside ship chatter, ship’s Interphone, two channels of Private, Select, and the live signals I was active on, I was listening to nine. I liked to know what was going on. More important, sitting Six, I had to be able to back up the MCS, who was to my right, on radios if necessary.
“Crew, MCC,” hissed Captain Willie’s voice into my headset from Private. “We’re coming out of jam to take a good look around us for one minute. Tell me if you got anything that’s hot and I’ll throw her back into jam.”
I punched out Interphone and switched off Select, which put me down to seven channels, as I called out a target to the MCC. The target wasn’t an immediate threat so the MCC didn’t put the system back into jam.
Big John was headed up toward One when Two called out, “MCC, Two, target, immediate threat.” My heart seemed to skip a beat as I keyed into Private A. “Sir, I have an Iraqi tower controller directing fighters to take off.”
“Two, pass me the signal, give the specifics to Seven,” responded the MCC.
“MCC, Two, you should have the
signal and, sir, he’s about to change frequencies.”
“Two, I have the new signal. Crew, we’re back in jam. Two, MCC, pass the fighter ID to Seven.”
I switched the settings on my spectrum analyzer to the end of the spectrum I expected the fighter to switch to and watched for a new signal spike to appear. “MCC, Six, I got him up on air,” I called out. “He just switched freqs.”
All of a sudden, I heard it, the inevitable call I had been waiting to hear, “Bandits five o’clock low. They are a threat,” warned Gypsy, “suggest evasive maneuvers. They’re climbing fast!”
The AC cut the orbit short and turned the Lady hard. My heart jumped up into my throat as the blood rushed to my head. My hands and arms went heavy as I tried to type onto the keyboard in front of me and then was thrown into the chair as we began to climb. The Lady was by no stretch of the imagination as maneuverable as a fighter, but the pilot was taking her through all the evasive maneuvers she could manage. In this situation, it was prudent to remain a haphazardly moving target so the fighters couldn’t get a missile lock if they were within range.
My heart was beating nonstop; and my fingers, glued to my keyboard, were trembling. It seemed as if the whole of the Gray Lady from front to aft was covered in silence. At Gypsy’s direction, a two-ship of Eagles, our MiG Sweep, peeled off for intercept, afterburners aglow. The chase was on. The Bandits were coming in strong, and they were hungry.
Paladin Leader’s remaining two-ship edged forward while Gypsy shifted as far back as possible. Phantom was far enough away today that he didn’t much care. They had plenty in their own area to be concerned about.
Afterburners Page 7
