CHAPTER 14
FRANCE HAD DECLARED WAR ON ISIL.
Two days after the Paris attack, the French started bombing Raqqa, the de-facto capital of ISIL in Syria. The US and its allies followed suit.
Together with a pack of four Eagles codenamed Trojan 11, Craig led USAF's first episode in a series of air strikes with one sole mission: decimate ISIL with no hope for recovery. Easier said than done.
Despite receiving heavy fire power from the French the past days, the ISIL was holding tight on its capital. This group was a monster of the same species with the Taliban but with a different level of hunger and motivation. Wounded maybe, but far from dead. After Paris, the ISIL knew this would happen and they were prepared for the retaliation.
His pack’s mission today was to destroy several ISIL-controlled oil facilities in the eastern part of Dier Ezzor, a province near the Iraq border, the major source of the group’s funding. Cut off the source of moolah and they’d eventually run out of cash to buy SAMs from the black market.
It was hard to understand the motives of this group. But he did his own readings. Understanding the enemy is a key to defeating them, that, he had always believed. However, that was always easier said than done. They were rapidly expanding and ravaging the world with ruthless intent and with the brutality that made heroes lose their balls and cry like babies. They had no particular face. Their leader, Abu Bakr Al-Baghdadi appeared only on TV once and never again. He was nothing like Bin Laden who constantly romanticized al-Qaeda’s bloody exploits with fancy speeches of Islamic patriotism. The ISIL was a religious extremist caliphate and its people advocated the apocalypse according to their fundamental understanding of the essence of true Islam. They were not politically motivated but religiously fanatical. They’d make a kill and claim responsibility as a group. They were all masked, literally and that made them more formidable. They could be anybody.
An enemy without a face was the worst. Ask Sun Tzu.
The moment his pack came within radar range, his HUD flashed SAM sites like hooters’ tits. The Raptors flew undetected over Lima Sierra (the code for their target) for reconnaissance earlier and relayed the SAM sites coordinates to his team. He couldn’t believe the ISIL had more SAMs this year than last year. When he bombed Syria last year, it was a walk in the clouds, literally. He didn’t even think they could defend their territory for much longer after the French rained shitstorm on them, but was he wrong. The French wasn’t able to shut them up, apparently.
He’d seen a lot of this shit during Operation: Iraqi Freedom. This was a motherfucking orgy of SAMs in the making and he hadn’t had any in some time. And that will happen in a few minutes.
They looked like a fucking cheering squad on his screen, wagging their deadly pompoms and shouting Salam Alaikum, we see you!
Fuckers, I see you, too and I’m not in the fucking mood to cheer you up.
He was still flying high enough out of the buggers’ range and his RWR (Radar Warning Receiver) hadn’t started screaming like a bitch yet, warning him of the armageddon. But once he got within range, those buggers could be already hiding in the clouds, waiting for heat to fuck in the ass. That would be his ass.
Not a good picture. Especially now that he had a son to come home to. And a woman, as well.
Don’t think about them now. Focus.
He called the AWACS freq. That was where a combat pilot got valuable info not appearing on his radar yet. Launched SAMs were undetectable from this distance yet but they could be picked up early by the AWACS plane 30 miles away which was carrying a huge satellite on its back. The satellite had a 200-mile radar range and can pick up all kinds of nasty elements within radius. “Titan, this is Trojan 11 on Victor. Advise SAM launches on Lima Sierra, over.”
“This is Titan. No SAM launches on Lima Sierra yet, over.”
“Copy, Titan. Over and out.”
It was a given, of course. They’d have to come within range of the SAMs to be able to hit their targets accurately. It was a catch 22 that all combat pilots had to deal with every mission flight like this.
The ISIL had been using people as human shields, which made it harder for the pilots to just drop mayhem without making sure of the exact location of the targets, avoiding collateral damage. They were not the Russians who’d been dropping the shit like dumping the shit, uncaring of civilian casualties. But then again, Russia’s motive in this particular war had always been suspect, as far as he was concerned. They just wanted to protect their base in Tartus, the Alawite stronghold of Bashar al-Assad, the president of Syria, a stalwart Russian supporter. They didn’t really give a shit about what happened in Paris.
Speaking of the Ruskies, he was not really comfortable flying the skies with them MiGs, friendlies (for now) or not. As an American combat pilot, the equation was simple. MiGs were Darth Vader’s. He was with Luke and Obi’s team. MiGs were ALWAYS bad news.
The scenario was hilarious. F-15s and MiGs in a friendly mode? Hah! Knowing thy enemy was wise, said Sun Tzu, too. Keeping them close, with an arsenal that can decimate an entire city, or counter the force of the coalition was stupid. Worse, flying alongside them was a Russian Roulette, pun fucking intended.
“Trojan Two, Three, Four, what do you see, over.” He preferred to ditch the codes in his team’s freq. They worked better if they talked plainly, with no fancy codes.
Each of his team reported several SAM sightings, similar to what he was seeing on his HUD.
“Any 6, over,” he asked anybody in particular. The SA-6 was a type of radar-guided missile they didn’t want to deal with at this early. It was very hard to shake off like a gnat with a deadly buzz that would blow an Eagle to oblivion in a flash. Yup, funny analogy? Truth. The Eagle can be felled by a fucking gnat.
Fortunately, nobody saw a 6 yet.
“Alright boys, let’s get this show rolling. Trojan One diving in. Over and out.”
He dropped altitude to ten thousand feet.
——*****——
Andi couldn’t sit still. She’d been watching CNN and Al Jazeera all day as they covered the massive air strikes done by the French over Syria. It was reported earlier that the US Air Force will start conducting their own air strikes any day now. That would definitely be Craig’s squadron.
“How were you able to endure this all these years?” she asked Bella who was carrying a sleeping Richard. They were sitting on opposite ends of the wide sofa in the living room.
“By not watching too much TV,” Bella replied simply.
She sighed deeply. She tried not to open the TV, but she couldn’t sleep at night. She wanted some assurance that the US Air Force hadn’t suffered major casualties there. To be more blunt, she wanted to make sure there were no US fighter planes shot down over Syria.
She even went as far as research about F-15 Eagle fighter planes. She heaved a sigh of relief that only one Eagle had been downed by enemy anti-aircraft artillery during combat and that was a decade ago, during the onslaught of the Iraq War. That reassured her, at least. Craig was an elite pilot, according to Bella. He had survived the Iraq War. He would survive the Syrian Civil War.
But the nagging fear inside her won’t shut up.
“He hasn’t called yet,” she said to Bella.
It had been a week since Craig left. She’d been waiting for his call every day. Every hour. It was pure torture, not knowing what was happening to him.
“Don’t worry, if he doesn’t call, that means he’s okay. He never called me while he was away. I only got a call when he was scheduled to come home. What I dread most is somebody else calling me about him.”
That wasn’t comforting at all.
“Sorry, hun.” Bella smiled at her with sympathy. “Don’t worry too much, okay? He’ll call you soon, I know.”
She shook her head. “I won’t count on it.”
“Are you missing him already?” Bella teased her.
She evaded Bella’s eyes and didn’t answer. In the past few days that Craig’s sister had lived with her, they’d gotten pretty close. Bella was good vibes personified. Her aura was always positive. She wouldn’t have survived being alone in the apartment thinking about Craig fighting in a war in a foreign land.
“By the way, how did you two meet?”
Heat crept up her cheeks. “Uhm…”
“Craig has never introduced a girlfriend to me.”
That perked her up some. “Ever?”
“Uh-huh. Imagine my shock when he said he got his girlfriend pregnant.”
Craig told his sister they had a relationship? A white lie but one she was grateful for. She felt joy suffuse her.
“We met in a bar,” she fibbed. Sorry, Bella, I can’t possibly tell you the deets of how I met your brother. I’m getting embarrassed myself thinking about that first night.
“Well, I’m glad he finally found someone! I’ve been asking him for years to look for a woman he’d like to settle down with but he was married to his job. However now, I’m so happy for him, for you both. This little bundle is just so precious. I have a gorgeous nephew. Finally.”
Bella nuzzled the baby’s cheek. “Soooo cute! Mmmm mmmm…”
She smiled. The sight of Craig’s sister going crazy over Richard took her mind off of her worries. It was useless to fight it now. She felt it with every breath that she took yearning for him.
As hard as she’d tried to resist the feeling, she had fallen madly in love with a soldier.
Be safe, my love. Come back to me.
——*****——
The HUD was full of symbols coming from various types of flying objects being picked up by his plane’s radar which was on search mode, painting the horizon. Lots of them were SAMs.
One thing was for sure, all of them were hostile and would be chasing him in a flash if they sensed his plane’s heat.
Now, if they were radar-guided…
Lots of local folks wanted him fried today for sure.
“Heads up, One! 6 in the air!…6 in the air!” That was Trojan Two puffing like he’d seen the devil himself rising from the clouds.
Shit! They unleashed the most vicious of the bitches early. The SA-6 was a medium-range radar-guided missile with altitude range as high as 161 miles. It was designed to kill Eagles and Vipers. It can engage as low as 100 meters above ground. If one managed to lock on you, you’d better know how to fly like a god to throw the fucker off of your back or you’re toast.
Then his pack were all in deep shit.
“Four, defending 6!” Trojan Four had another 6 locked on him.
“Three, defending 6! Close!”
Fuck, they were all locked on. The fuckers down there could be tracking him now, too, not only by one but many, but he couldn’t see what was after his ass. His HUD was a mess of signals coming in like a blitzkrieg.
He bunted and rolled his plane, doing irregular movements to throw off radar signals, scanning the horizon for the missiles.
Then his RWR went hysterical with the beeping. He was locked on now and the threat was VERY close. Threat he couldn’t distinguish from the mess on his HUD, so he would lump them all as a war party of SAMs out to end his days. Lots of nasty symbols moving on the screen. He didn’t think the Muj could still be this aggressive after suffering the wrath of the French. Wrong again.
His men were busy saving their own asses.
Just then, he saw Trojan Three zoom by at more than 500 knots, followed by a 6. It looked like Three was dragging an air-skier.
It was spectacular, a missile tailing a fighter jet on the cloudless sky. They were like playing an aerial cat and mouse game. The missile was actually just a few seconds from destroying the plane, if it caught it.
“Three, this is Trojan One. I got joy on your nasty. Go high-level G. Will shoot it down, over! All Trojan players, all Trojan players, One shooting down 6 at my two o’clock in 20 secs, over.”
“Roger that, One. Fuck, this hooker’s got an ambitious pimp after my nuts, over,” was Trojan Three’s cool answer. He wasn’t fooled. Three was nervous. In the thick of combat where life and death depended on quick judgment and sharp instinct delivered at a mere flick of a finger or twist of the hand — you could be blown out of the sky in a confetti of Titanium and your own skin and teeth before you’d even know what hit you— sense of humor was a must. This was the coping mechanism of most soldiers in the tour, to laugh in the fangs of death, flip the bird at it and die fighting. Three was a younger pilot with genius-level results in Red Flags (elite air combat exercises) but still very much a rookie in actual combat. This kid was a general’s son. They were, in fact, baby-sitting him.
He chased after them. Three pumped the afterburner and shot off, then turned sharply to the right. The sudden shift in Three’s angle made the missile lose tangent, giving him a window to fire. He sicced a Sidewinder on it, guiding the Death Dot to kiss its tail, then locking on it.
He fired the missile.
He counted a few seconds. The 6 went off in a giant fireball in the distance.
“Three, 6’s out, over.”
He heard Three’s deep sigh. “Copy, tango, Trojan One, over.”
“Two and Four, report SAM status,” he asked the rest of his pack.
“Mofo still on me, over.” Four replied.
“Lost mine. Tailing Four’s nasty, over,” Trojan Two said.
Good. “Copy, Two. Carry on, over.”
Then he saw a gnat appear in the horizon again, right in front of him, a fuselage of gray in profile. He saw it turn, facing him.
This was HIS gnat. Death staring him in the face.
“One, defending 6. Defending 6,” he calmly said.
He rolled out, made a series of high-level Gs and released his decoys, chaffing to confuse the radar signal of the missile. He hoped the fucker would follow the decoy instead of his ass. But that was wishing for ice-cream in the middle of the desert.
He had to lose this shithead, make it overshoot or burn out airspeed, whatever, as long as it didn’t touch his 30-million dollar bird. He climbed higher.
One of the reasons the Raptors were not used in the Gulf Wars was it would be the laughingstock of the entire aviation history if it got killed by a mere gnat. Not that the Raptor won’t swat the gnat easy while lazing about in the sky, but gnats were tenacious and the ISIL had plenty of the fuckers. It could happen.
The RWR calmed down except for the symbols of Triple As being launched all over Lima Sierra. The entire oilfield was a nest of SAMs. It would be very hard to release the Mavericks from a very high altitude. It may land in Raqqa.
He didn’t want more innocent body count on his conscience.
What he’d give to be a Rusky on a fucking MiG right this minute, just drop the shit all over the place and go back to base. They didn’t need to engage in this merry chase with the SAMs.
Yeah, since Richard was born, his conscience was pretty active, giving him stupid thoughts like mercy when gnats were trying to blow him out of the sky.
He had to go below five thousand feet. Into another orgy with gnats called SA-3. Low-altitude missiles.
“Trojan One, lost the 6. Trojan Two and Four, report, over.” They didn’t scream May Day so they must be okay.
“Four, still locked on by the 6. Over.”
Shit, they were fucking up their time table big time. They should have rained the Mavericks already and gotten out of there ten minutes ago.
“Trojan One going down 3K to engage Target 1. We gotta be outta here in five mikes. Four, lure the fucker higher so the Raptors can take care of it. Two and Three, cover me. Over.”
They replied in affirmative.
He barreled down to 3,500 feet. A pair of SA-3s went off the ground, both of them were most probably after his butt as he was the one flying the lowest. The 6 doesn’t dwell much on this altitude so he was relatively safe from that fucker for now. He hoped! But the Triple As were shooting up like it was fourth of July. These were little cannons controlled by radar, too, not as damaging as a missile but he didn’t want any variety of gnats touching his plane.
“Two and Three, take care of the 3s, over.”
They both copied.
The RWR was freaking out again but he focused on his task while keeping eye on the 3’s proximity and movements. Fortunately, Two and Three were eye-balling the 3s while he did his job. Hopefully the 3s were infrareds (heat-seeking missiles) and would be after all of their asses, not only his.
He released his counter-measures, nonetheless. It was literally hell to be aiming at his target while evading 3s and dodging a barrage of cannons.
The Targeting Pod displayed a clear visual. He locked on Target 1. He keyed in the weapons display and called in the Mavs. He aimed on the circle on the screen, the exact loc of the target and holding his breath, unleashed a Maverick.
He felt the slight vibration of the plane as the missile kicked out from confinement.
He saw the target explode seconds later.
Locking on Target 2, he popped another Mav, rolling over just as Triple As zoomed by, missing his left wing by a hair.
Shit. He rolled over several times, evading more Triple As. This altitude was their playground.
Two shouted. “6 in the air! Heads up, Trojan One! Right behind you. Close!”
“You gotta be shitting me, buddy,” he muttered under his breath but the RWR was spitting mad, confirming Two’s warning. Dammit, the mother of the gnat bitches found him again!
I rolled to the right, dropped lower then climbed, then rolled over again and again, trying to break the radar coordinates locked on me so Two and Three could shoot down the fucker.
“Two, how close?!”
“He’s kissing your ass, Trojan One! Go higher! Over!”
Shit, shit, shit!
He released several decoys, chaffed like mad, but it was still on him based on the RWRs screeching.
He quickly glanced at Andi and Richard’s picture taped on the dashboard to his left. For the first time in his decorated military career, he prayed for his life in the middle of action. He had always been ready to go anytime. But now…God, please...
He dropped altitude abruptly, made loops that defied G-force and made his insides churn madly, then surged up. “Two, posit of 6? Over!”
“Still after your ass, One! I’m locking on it, over!”
Just then, Four chimed in. “Four on Target 3 over Lima Sierra, over.”
Thank fuck, Four was finally getting back in the action!
“Copy that, Four. Two and Three, cover Four. I can handle this 6, over!”
They did as told.
He climbed higher and did a complicated flight pattern to throw off the 6.
“This is Trojan One over Lima Sierra. Calling any Rogue in the area. Any Rogue in the area. Defending 6. Need assistance, over!”
A Raptor responded immediately. “This is Rogue Two, tally SAM deets, over.”
He relayed the 6’s details to Rogue Two. “Rogue Two locking on it, firing in ten secs, get out of the way, Trojan One.”
He kicked the afterburner and let Rogue Two handle the 6.
He swooped down to get back to Lima Sierra.
“Trojan One here. Four, target status, over?”
“Target 3, done, over,” Four replied.
“Firing 2 Mavs at Target 4,” Three said.
He saw smoke explode as Mavericks hit home one after the other.
They had two more remaining targets.
“Trojan One, this is Titan on Victor.” That was the AWACS pilot.
“Trojan One here, go,” he said.
“Comanche advised to abandon Lima Sierra now. I repeat, abandon Lima Sierra now. Over.”
Comanche was the one directing the mission from his office in Turkey, no doubt eating Shawarma and watching the action from a huge screen. His stomach growled at the thought of food. Shawarma wasn’t bad. “Roger that, Titan. Over and out.”
He told the pack to leave the area immediately. He heard a collective happy affirmatives. Weren’t they all glad to get out of this gnat-infested hellhole.
They shot out in formation, pumping the Gs, away from Lima Sierra.
At thirty thousand feet, he bingoed. Running out of fuel. Good thing the tankers were just nearby for refueling.
No 6 followed them anymore. Maybe the Muj didn’t want to waste too much SAMs on them. They knew another pack will arrive in a few hours to rain shit on their asses again.
We hit four valuable targets.
That was good enough for one session.
They will definitely be back.
——*****——
He was never the one to wax poetic but he could really say now, the sound of her voice on the other line was music to his ears after hearing RWR beeps signaling his probable death the whole day. He participated in two air strikes in two regions of Syria today. They were both badasstic SAM and Triple Alpha parties. The ISIL were like amoeba. Cut them to pieces and they’d multiply still.
“Hey, are you okay?” was her first question.
“I’m fine, sugar. How’s the little one?”
“Sleeping with Bella now. Just finished nursing him.”
Silence.
He controlled his breathing as his heart was thumping like a gong against his rib cage. He was still in his flight suit.
“How are you?” he finally asked her.
“I’m good. So grateful Bella’s around. Auntie Frida sleeps here during the weekend when Bella needs to go home. Poor Gordon, abandoned by his wife and kids for two weeks now. Greta comes around a lot, too. Richard is everyone’s darling. I’m so jealous.”
He smiled. She was blabbering. Glad he was not the only one feeling like wings were flapping in his gut. “Poor baby.”
“Yeah. Hey, I watch the news all the time.”
“Which channel?” He hoped it was some showbiz oriented show she watched or shit like that.
“CNN and Al Jazeera.”
He sighed. “Baby, sometimes it’s not good to watch the news all the time.”
“When will it end?”
“I don’t know, baby.”
“Do you fly everyday?”
“Not everyday, but most of the week, yeah.”
“F-15s are tough planes, right?”
That made him smile. “You’ve been googling my plane.”
“Well, I’m bored when Richard’s sleeping. Those missiles cannot get to your plane because it’s so fast, right? Like supersonic fast? Faster than sound?”
He knew what she was trying to say. His chest ached. “No baby. No missile can outfly my plane. It’s twice faster than the speed of sound,” he said, to pacify her worries.
He heard her heavy sigh.
Silence.
“Craig?” came her little voice after a while.
“Hmm?”
“You will come back, right?”
That, he could never promise.
He inhaled deeply again to ease the tightness in his chest and the lump in his throat that was choking the breath out of him. He unzipped his flight suit down to his waist.
“You have to promise me you’ll come back.”
He closed his eyes.
“Richard needs you.”
God.
“I need you.”
He couldn’t stop them.
They fell down his cheeks. He bowed his head to hide his face from his comrades lounging nearby. Major Craig Walker, the War Thug, the scourge of the Muj, was crying like a sissy. Shaking in his balls like a yellow-ass.
“Craig?”
“I promise,” he forced the words out of his throat.
“Say it again.”
“I promise to come back to you and Richard.”
“Okay.”
Seconds ticked by again. He had so many things he wanted to tell her but he didn’t know how to articulate them. He was never good with words. He expressed better with actions.
It became too much to bear. “I gotta go, baby. I’ll call you again, soon, okay? Hug me for Richard.”
“I’ll wait for you,” she said, barely a whisper. But it resonated inside him.
It was her who cut the call.
He leaned over on the table and rested his head on his arm.
It was true what a lot of his comrades had lamented one too many times while on tour. He used to scoff at them. Not any more.
Love made men soft.
Worse, it made battle-hardened soldiers fear death.