Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

problematic. And irrelevant. I couldn’t have cared less if the Iraqis knew the exact
minute of our opening strike, because there wasn’t anything they could do to stop
it.
In fact, after the Dora Farm strike, British and American ground forces moved
north into Iraq and captured the Rumaila oil field. Splitting up then, the Americans
moved northwest toward Nasiriyah, and the Brits headed northeast into Basra.
More than thirty American special-ops teams, with their British and Australian
counterparts, infiltrated Iraq that day.
It’s also possible that the strike generated enough confusion to disrupt whatever
plans Saddam and his generals had made. These plans certainly included launching
Scuds at Israel. If that had occurred, followed by Israeli retaliation, who knows
what kind of a mess would’ve ensued. I really don’t think Syria and Egypt
would’ve attacked Israel. At least, not with all of us deployed to the Middle East.
This was Saddam’s big hope, of course, but, like so many of his other thoughts, it
was nonsensical. Whatever else might have happened, the air strikes immediately
following the Dora blast did knock the Iraqis off balance and put them on the
defense from the beginning.
This is always a good thing to do to your enemy at the start of a fight.
“BEEP . . . BEEP . . .”
I glanced down and saw the “3” blink on my scope. But there were about six of
them, and they were far enough away to not worry me.
Suddenly a string of explosions ripped through the darkness of downtown
Baghdad. Maybe B-52s or more Tomahawk missiles from the Navy in the Gulf—I
didn’t know, but the anti-aircraft fire became positively surreal.
Tens of thousands of Triple-A rounds shot angrily upward. The large-caliber
stuff made it level with me and exploded. But they even fired the smaller guns—
rapid-fire hoses of yellows and oranges that arced low over the ground and
detonated. Most of it was firing for effect and rage. No doubt tomorrow Radio
Baghdad would declare hundreds of American warplanes shot down. It was all
bullshit, of course, but it boosted Iraqi morale.
Zippering the mike, I came around to the right and snapped wings level. We
were now directly south of the city by twenty-five miles and heading east.
Searchlights were sweeping overhead in a vain attempt to catch a fighter or a B-52.
Running my eyes over the cockpit, I saw I’d used about a third of my chaff and my
wing tanks were empty. The decoy was still with me, and the warning receiver