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own villages lined the banks and I saw boats in the water. The men in the boats<br />
had seen and heard me. They were standing up, shaking their fists, and grabbing<br />
their undersized crotches, so, with a touch of bravado, I waggled my wings as I<br />
flashed past.<br />
“I should’ve kept the cluster bombs,” I muttered, rolled up on a wing, and gave<br />
them the finger.<br />
Once the Tigris disappeared, I began a smooth pull up through the dust and<br />
turned away from Baghdad toward the south. Initiating a data-link, I heard the little<br />
cricket noise as it found my wingman and displayed his position on my MFD.<br />
Passing 2,000 feet, I glanced at the display and saw WICKED 2 was actually about<br />
twenty-five miles due south of me.<br />
Angling southeast to give Shaykh Mazar a wide berth, I broke into the clear at<br />
8,000 feet and stared up at the sun. Taking a deep breath, I dropped the mask and<br />
leaned my head back against the ejection seat. I had the same feeling I’d had a few<br />
days earlier, at Nasiriyah, when I broke out safe above the mess. It was beautiful.<br />
For a few seconds, as I continued to climb away from the city, I just stared up at<br />
the powder-blue sky.<br />
But even at only 400 knots there isn’t much time for reflection, so I ran the airto-air<br />
radar out and locked onto my wingman.<br />
“WICKED Two, One is Bull’s-eye one-five-zero for fifty-six . . . passing ten<br />
thousand for twenty.”<br />
After a few seconds, I saw the familiar F-16 radar spike on my RWR.<br />
“Two is contact.”<br />
“Cleared to join . . . fighting wing. One is 5.1, tanks dry.”<br />
“Two is 8.7 . . . feeding.”<br />
So, I had about 5,000 pounds of fuel remaining, and my wing tanks had been<br />
sucked dry. I glanced at the digital time in the HUD. From the time I’d passed the<br />
shoreline of the lake headed inbound, the entire thing had lasted less than six<br />
minutes and taken almost 7,000 pounds of fuel. And four towed decoys and 120<br />
chaff and flare bundles. And two cluster bombs. And a partridge in a pear tree. I<br />
wondered if I hit anything. Sighing, I pulled out my gloves and wiped my face. It<br />
didn’t matter. They hadn’t hit me.<br />
“RAMROD, RAMROD . . . THIS IS WICKED 23.” I FIGURED I might as well give<br />
them the good news.<br />
“WICKED . . . stand by for update.”
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