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Nothing.<br />
This really wasn’t my day. Rummaging through the disorganized bag of mission<br />
materials was useless. Pages and pages of radio frequencies and even a copy of the<br />
Laws of Armed Conflict, in case I wanted a little light reading. You’ve Gotta Be<br />
Shittin’ Me.<br />
“If I get out of this, I swear no one else will have to deal with this horseshit . . .”<br />
Muttering disgustedly, I stuffed all the paper back into my helmet bag. Maybe I<br />
could start a fire with it after I ejected.<br />
The sun had disappeared into a really nasty wall of sand that was growing along<br />
the horizon. The orange glow had faded fast into the haze, and soon it would be<br />
dark. Rejoining on a tanker, assuming I could find one, at night, in a sandstorm,<br />
with no gas, was enough to pucker anyone’s sphincter.<br />
“Fuck it.”<br />
Bringing the F-16 around in a slow turn, I headed for Kuwait. There were two<br />
big air bases in that country, plus Kuwait International Airport. I’d find a piece of<br />
concrete. Just then, of course, my VHF radio came alive.<br />
“ROMAN One, this is Two on Victor!”<br />
“Go.”<br />
“One . . . Two is Bull’s-eye one-six-zero for two-seventy, Angels 22 . . . tanker<br />
in tow.”<br />
Immediately reversing, I came back heading southwest and slewed my radar<br />
cursors to the position he gave. There! About fifty miles off the nose. I locked onto<br />
the brightest return and was rewarded with an aircraft symbol at 22,000 feet,<br />
heading directly for me at 300 knots.<br />
“ROMAN One is radar contact. I’m off your nose, fifty miles, Angels 20.”<br />
“Two is contact. The tanker is TENDON 31 on Carmine 33.”<br />
“Just give me the frequency.” Radio freqs were always color-coded and you<br />
had to have the daily communications list to break the code. I didn’t feel like<br />
tearing through the bag again and, frankly, couldn’t care less if the Iraqis heard me<br />
air-refueling.<br />
“Copy . . . that’s 310.6.” He sounded a little abashed. But the boy had done<br />
good work by somehow persuading the tanker to come north toward me. Tankers<br />
were understandably reluctant to venture into Indian Country, and who could<br />
blame them Switching frequencies, I stared through the HUD at the distant<br />
contact. I couldn’t see the tanker, but the radar could. Close enough—this just<br />
might work.<br />
“TENDON 31 . . . this is ROMAN 75.”
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