Imminent Threat (3 page)

    “MCC, One, complete,” said Tammy.

    “Three, MCC?”

    Ziggy was frozen in place. She keyed her mike but didn’t speak right away. After a long pause, she finally said, “Three, complete.”

    “MCC, MCS, and Six, complete.” I called out.

    We all knew the list Phantom had passed was just the tip of the iceberg. We still had to make sure we had the key Iraqi communications networks targeted. I turned to my spectrum analyzers first while the others went to the system signal list.

    As the data and voice experts, Mike and I became the coordination points for the time being. This helped speed up target confirmation. Positions One and Four passed potential targets to us as fast as they could. Position Three passed signals only sporadically. We worked to confirm the signals and pass them to the MCC.

    “MCC, Nav, we’ve reached our window.” The Nav’s words seemed to hang in our ears. The package was coming in. We were supposed to be in jam to support them. If we didn’t get the job done, the splashes today could be our own. We didn’t stop madly searching the environment for additional targets, but we did listen closely for Jim’s voice.

    He didn’t respond immediately. He was too busy pushing buttons. The wait was excruciating even though only a few seconds had passed.

    “Crew, we’re jammin’!” he called out, pushing in Hot and then keying his mike again, “The packages are ingressing now. Glory be, we did it!

    “Crew, MCC, good work! Now get ready to bust some ass. This day is just beginning and far from over! Stay on top of those signal changes and find me more!”

    “Pilot, Spotter, traffic low heading toward two o’clock. It’s the first wave, sir. Afterburners and all! They sure do look magnificent,” called out Sparrow.

    For a fleeting moment before I went back to madly searching the environment I saw those afterburners in my mind’s eye. My thoughts went to Katie in Germany. I knew she hated the loud roar of jet engines, but right then I imagined she’d think them as beautiful a sight as I did.

Thursday morning. It seemed incredible that I’d been there seven days already. Later that day, I flew my seventh combat flight.

    It was 22:00 when I returned to the PME after the flight the day before. I was not sure how many more of those never-ending days I could handle. The word was that things would only get worse before they got any better.

    That day was fourteen hours of suspense and anxiety straight from the pits of hell. The flights were also strangely uplifting. There’s no greater reward than knowing you’re saving American lives.

    Things on base continued to move toward normalcy. On Tuesday I discovered the nearby commissary. It was supposed to have reopened already, but Monday had been a holiday. Guess some people still got holidays off even in a war zone. Since we were officially TDY, it was just as expensive to eat at the open mess as it was to eat at the AAFES concession stands. With bills piling up at home, I couldn’t afford either.

    Still, I was doing quite well living off a stack of canned goods—pork and beans, beanies and weenies, canned peaches, and, of course, fig newtons, the strawberry kind—that I carried back along with a case of water. Happy and I were going to split the cost of the water. There was water at the squadron, but we were only supposed to take it when we flew. I guess I could have drunk tap water, but I didn’t want to risk a case of the shits.

    I discovered the base gym that had been serving as a shelter was open. It had hot showers! Guess the “O’s” were hoping to keep this one to themselves for a day or so, because I caught old Captain Smily coming down the street with a towel in one hand and a shaving kit in the other. He told me where he’d been, but not very quickly.

    I took my first real shower in eight days. The water was cold because by the time I got there dozens of other guys had made the same discovery. I didn’t care. The shower felt good, cold or not.

    Gentleman Bob came through on his promise of a rec tent. It was definitely a piece of work. It was probably a six-man tent, no larger, with a plywood platform forming the base. The one thing it had, though, that we all wanted was a television. We definitely owed Gentleman Bob for coming through on his promise of a TV!

    The odd thing was that when I returned, the tent was deserted. I thought a bunch of guys would be watching CNN. No one was. I quickly found out why: we didn’t have a heater and the tent was freezing at night. Alone, I watched the news for a time and unwound.

    Today, we had a 13:00 alert. Good old Happy was flying with us, so now I wasn’t the only one leaving the PME.

    Ziggy was going back to duty driving. I don’t think we gave her a fair shake. I don’t think she gave herself a fair shake for that matter. I guess that’s life in a war zone. Not everyone was born to fly into combat.

    This not only applies to females but also to males. There are a number of people who simply prefer to keep both feet on the ground. Something about a fear of dying that, although I understand, I cannot accept as a viable excuse.

    In the early afternoon I was eating peaches from a can, my eyes glued to the news, when I heard the crew van pull up. It wasn’t 13:00 already, was it? I poked my head out of the tent flaps that had been unzipped to see Ziggy stepping out of the crew van. Her face was long, and she had deep bags under the eyes.

    “Hey, Ziggy, what’s up?” I called out in greeting.

    She looked up and smiled then opened the van’s back door. Four guys jumped up, clutching their A-bags and their masks with the newbie death grip. Jesus, did I look that scared the first day?

    Happy, who had been sitting next to me watching the news, stepped out to greet them. I was sure glad he did.

    We spent the next hour showing the new arrivals how to set up their cots and properly ready their chem gear. They were relentless with their questions, which we did our best to answer.

    It was 12:45 when we finally told them we had to get ready to fly. I was looking forward to getting to base ops. They’d promised us that we could make a five-minute morale call home. It would be my first phone call home to Katie. I still hadn’t got off a single letter that I had promised though three of them were stacked up beneath my cot. They weren’t much more than I love you and I miss you, but at least they were written.

    In the coming weeks, my letters would get longer and I’d tell Katie about Turkey, the weather, and what I’d been up to. Everything but that which was the most important: flying and the war. I’d always sum that up in one or two sentences.

    At 12:55 Ziggy returned to alert us. I was ready to go to base ops, so when she went back I went with her. She didn’t say much during the short van ride, but I could tell things were eating at her. I tried to make polite conversation, but she wasn’t in a conversational mood.

    At ops, I went to the command center first. Gentleman Bob and Major James were engrossed in a discussion of mission progression. Major James was my direct commander and Gentleman Bob’s second in command. He was one levelheaded individual. He put up with a lot of guff on a daily basis, plowing through it without hesitation. He was the action man and he got things done.

    I stayed only long enough to check the big board and to make sure no serious changes had taken place then headed down to the ops support room to make my phone call.

    “How do I make a morale call?” I asked Quincy, one of the ops support guys. He told me, and the next thing I knew, I was dialing. Suddenly, my heart was skipping faster than it had during yesterday’s flight.

    “Hello? Yes? Yes, I’d like to make a morale call to West Germany. Yes, I’ll hold.”

    When the operator asked, I gave her the number. Again she told me to wait.

    “I’m sorry, the number’s busy. You’ll have to try back later,” she told me a moment later. My heart sank.

    I moped around ops for about fifteen minutes. I checked Life Support and the read files in intel before I went back to try again.

    “Yes, operator, I’d like to make a morale call to West Germany. The number?” I gave the operator the number. “Yes, I’ll wait. Hello? Yes? Yes. Thank you. Katie? Is that you?”

    My heart was pounding so fast, I had to sit down. I turned to look at Quincy who was still in the room. He didn’t get the hint right away that I wanted him to leave though he finally did leave.

    “How is everything at home? Did you get the car running? I miss you, too. I have an address for you so you can send me— Oh, the squadron already gave it to you.”

    We talked for five minutes. The operator cut in twice to remind us of how much time we had left, then to tell us the five minutes were up. The phone clicked and went dead before I got the chance to tell Katie I loved her more than anything else. I guessed she already knew, or at least I hoped she did.

    It was right then that I realized her birthday had been on the seventeenth and that in all the confusion, I hadn’t given her a card or even told her happy birthday. I felt like crying, but I didn’t. I just sat in that empty, quiet room for a long, long time afterward. I didn’t move from the chair or even look up. I stared at the floor and wondered when all this ended where it would leave Katie and me.

    The rest of the crew arrived at 14:00. After a host of briefings, we were ready to go. I sat solemnly in the back of the crew van and watched the road fall away behind us—watched my thoughts fall away.

At the start of my second week I was on my way to my eighth wartime flight in eight days at a little after 05:00. The missions were gradually getting longer and bolder as allied forces gained domination over Iraqi skies. I feared we were getting a little too bold, but only time would tell.

    Nearly 120,000 Turkish troops had amassed on the Turkish-Iraqi border after continued Iraqi threats. God help them if Saddam should choose to open up a second front.

    If the flight went well, I would be back at the PME shortly after midnight. We seemed to be settling into a routine of fly, sleep, watch CNN, fly, sleep, watch CNN. Gentleman Bob told us we shouldn’t expect a break any time soon. The plan was to turn up the heat on Iraq another notch.

    The new crew was surprisingly energetic and a lot of fun. Although we were losing Mike to the MPC, I looked forward to flying with Cowboy. There would be three of us leaving the PME together now.

    Allen, PBJ, and Cosmo came into ops as we were leaving. They were still flying with Captain Willie though the rest of the crew had been changed around. They looked like they were getting by.

    My attention turned to Gentleman Bob as he began. “Today, gentlemen and ladies, we are supporting a very special mission package.” Gentleman Bob liked to play things up so they seemed bigger than life. He let the words hang there ominously.

    We’d been through the intel briefings already. For the most part, we knew what to expect. He began again, “Priority targets remain early warning and radar sites, airfields and aircraft. As you know, a substantial number of Iraqi fighter jets have fled north. More fighters in our area mean a substantially greater threat to our missions. Like you, I’d prefer that we destroyed every one of those damned fighters to make our job safer.

    “However, as you know, special emphasis has been placed on completely eliminating the Iraqi chemical, biological, and nuclear threat. Toward this end, part of the package has a very special target.” Gentleman Bob paused and Derrin from intel flicked on the overhead projector. “This picture is of a suspected Iraqi chemical warfare depot.”

    He began pointing with his pointer. “You can see from all the activity here that something is going on. Also, most of those fortifications are new. A contingent of Falcons will be striking those bunkers circled in red with smart missiles. The Buffs will follow and lay down a fine carpet.

    “To support this package, we’re going to have to be airborne longer than usual. I want you all at your best out there today. I know you’re tired and it’s been a damned long week. Together we can do it if we just hang tough,” concluded Gentleman Bob. It was a nice close to an invigorating speech. It was clear he wanted us charged up when we were in the air that day. At the moment, we definitely were.

    Tennessee Jim did his thing next. He wasn’t good with words like Gentleman Bob. In fact he was rather blunt, but in his own way I guess it was endearing. Spit cup raised to his lips, he began, “I’m not sure if any of you looked at the big board or not, but it looks like we have an afternoon Go tomorrow. This being morning, war, and God willing, we should be finished by late afternoon. Crew beers in my quarters after the flight. I know that Cowboy has the first case.”

    Cowboy tried to argue that he wasn’t buying, but it didn’t work. He knew the rules. Tennessee continued, and somehow his mixed drawl moved us just as much as Gentleman Bob’s pep speech.

    Stress affects different people in different ways. For Crow, it was pushing him way beyond anything that could be considered normal even on the beaches of Oahu where he grew up and his mind seemed to be. The weird thing was that with Cowboy and Happy beside him, they seemed the perfect trio. Sparrow was the quiet type. She didn’t say much. Tammy was quite the opposite. She spoke her mind, yet her youth was clear in her words.

    Popcorn and I were also quiet, pensive types. We never said much while waiting in the crew lounge. It was always after a mission that we exploded to life.

    Bobby was driving the crew van today. When he entered the lounge, we knew it was time to go even before Jim shouted, “Time to saddle up!”

    We gathered up our things. I grabbed two bottles of water from Life Support on the way out. One I’d guzzle during the flight while I ate my pork and beans and fig newtons. The other I’d bring back to the PME with me.