Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

never seemed to grasp that we could and did.
I knew without looking that my wingman would be floating around behind me
about a mile away, so I flipped on the autopilot, pulled the throttle back to hold 300
knots, and unfolded my map. In the twenty-first-century Air Force, it was oldfashioned
to carry a map, but I always did, precisely for times like these.
The coordinates AWACS had plotted were out along Highway 8, barely ten
miles south of Baghdad, just north of the small town of Iskandiriyah. Tactical maps
have lots of good information on them, and I tapped my finger over a huge lake
southwest of Baghdad. Milk Lake, we called it. Besides the purpose of this
reconnaissance, my other concerns included not knowing what was actually
beneath me and not being able to see whatever was there. If I came in from the
west over the lake, then those two problems would be temporarily solved. At least,
long enough for me to get in and get out.
That is, until I popped back out over the land on the eastern shore of the lake.
But the ability of an unsuspecting Iraqi patrol to acquire, track, and shoot at a
target rocketing along at 550 miles per hour was a chance I’d take. I stuck the map
under the kneeboard as my hands and eyes moved smoothly around the cockpit.
Chaff and flares were armed, seat was up, threat-warning volume was up. The jet
was ready for combat.
“WICKED TWO . . . ONE ON VICTOR.”
“Go ahead.”
My wingman today was a lieutenant named Ian Toogood. Really. We called him
“Notso.” Get it Notso Toogood. Actually he was good. A typical brainless
lieutenant (just like I’d been) but utterly fearless.
He’d heard the whole exchange, but I explained what I was going to do and that
included leaving him up in the clear air. He wasn’t happy about being left behind,
but there was no reason to risk his life, too. Also, a combat flight lead is just that—
a flight leader—so wingmen do what they’re told. Especially if the flight lead is
also a Weapons Officer. So I zippered the mike and sliced away below him,
heading west. Pulling my power back, I glided down toward the thick brown fuzz
and squinted at the ground.
Nothing—no holes or breaks in the clouds.
Leveling off at about 15,000 feet, I left 5,000 feet between me and the clouds in
case of a SAM. Eyeballing the HUD, I continued west until I was thirty miles—less
than four minutes—from the point on the highway.