Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

500 knots, the jet was bouncing and pitching in the unsettled, turbulent air.
Still, it was just a flying situation. I mean, low altitude in shitty weather less than
twenty miles from Baghdad wasn’t exactly a walk in the park. But neither was it
MiGs and SAMs and Triple-A. So I wriggled backward against the seat and
concentrated on holding the fighter steady.
The highway!
Appearing beneath the ragged cloud curtains, a dark gray slash of paved surface
ran away to the north and south. The earth was greener here, and hundreds of
shabby little huts and brown boxlike houses dotted the landscape. Leaning forward,
I squinted through the canopy but couldn’t make out any vehicles or anything that
looked like a convoy.
The jet was skidding sideways from the wind, and I booted the rudder to hold it
steady. I felt the tremendous power of the engine through my fingertips as it fought
against the weather. My right hand was slick from sweat, and I wished I’d put my
gloves back on. Highway 8 was about a mile off the nose, and I rolled up on one
wing and looked north. There was nothing moving on the road. This was a waste of
time, I thought. Well—
Suddenly the sky changed color. The clouds turned coal-black and colors
exploded everywhere. Crimson reds and oranges and yellows. Tracers everywhere,
reaching out for me and zipping past the cockpit.
This is it, my shocked mind clicked. I’m dead!
Flying by sheer instinct and ingrained habit patterns, I jinked. I pulled Gs
violently left and right. I pulled up and shoved down. I pumped out chaff and
flares. I didn’t dare use the afterburner, because the few Iraqis that hadn’t seen and
heard me would see me then.
The fighter rocked sideways and my head hit the canopy. Huge red-orange
mushrooms tore aside the gray sheets of rain and lit up the darkness beneath the
clouds. It was like being inside a bag of fireworks that had suddenly erupted. Who
knows what hell looks like, but I think this was close.
“BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP . . .” The threat-warning receiver went ape-shit.
Blinking rapidly, I caught a glimpse of 6s and 8s and Triple-A on the little
saturated screen. Flashes from thousands of guns lit up the ground like sparklers.
Light gray fingers of smoke shot upward from all directions.
Mother of God!
Reacting instantly, I shoved the nose down, slammed the throttle forward, and
slapped out more chaff bundles. The adrenaline shooting through me went straight
up from my gut, through my heart, and out the top of my head. Shoulder-launched