Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

Even as I watched, the fiery plume got stubbier and I realized the missile was
turning in our direction. Frowning, I pushed the throttle up and felt the jet
accelerate.
“MOXIE One is tally one . . . no, two . . . spiked from the west.”
I looked and saw at least two more SAMs lift off from the center of the city.
“STOIC One . . . attacking SA-3 from the south.”
I went to full mil power and pointed directly at the launch site. Hesitating a halfsecond,
I saw my camera was on, looked at the switch again, and checked the
selected weapon. I closed my right eye this time and pickled.
A brilliant flash lit up the cockpit and left an orange smudge under my right
eyelid. The jet kicked a little as the missile accelerated, and I fought the urge to
stare. As the anti-radiation missile pitched up, I stared down at Baghdad, opened
my eye, and pulled hard away to the right.
Even as I moved, the closest anti-aircraft fire shifted and began shooting in my
general direction. They were aiming at the flash, which was precisely why you
changed directions as soon as you fired. Another reason not to carry a HARM. But
tonight it was all we had.
“MOXIE One . . . defending . . . uh . . . west. SA-3,” he added.
MOXIE One had never seen combat but was an experienced F-16 flight lead. In
fact, none of the other members of this flight were combat veterans. Surprisingly,
there were very few of us remaining who’d fought in either Desert Storm or
Kosovo, though half our pilots had been into Iraq before, between the wars. So
each four-ship was at least led by a combat veteran.
“STOIC One . . . Magnum SA-3 . . . Baghdad south.”
I dumped the nose and picked up speed. Northeast-bound now, I was slowly
arcing around the city. The 100-knot wind from the west actually helped, because it
was trying to push me away from Baghdad, not into it. Up off the nose, there were
lights on the ground from little towns, so I knew I was approaching the Tigris River.
“MOXIE One . . . updating three-zero-zero . . .”
“MOXIE Two is blind . . .”
I pictured it in my head. MOXIE was continuing to defend himself and was
passing through northwest, or 300 degrees. His wingman had just lost sight of him
—not uncommon at night, when you’re getting shot at—and was “blind.” I
zippered the mike, then spoke, twisting around in the seat as I did.
“STOIC Two . . . Slapshot SA-3 bearing two-nine-zero . . .”
In the greenish-white circles of my night-vision goggles, I saw a gray shape glide
across my tail and point northwest. Looking forward again quickly, I came around