Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

obviously tracking and others just fired for effect. It made the Iraqis feel better to
shoot their guns, and they had plenty of ammunition. Twisting and weaving, I flew
south along the Tigris River, trying to work east and away from downtown.
The first SAM had disappeared. After an almost slow-motion start, it quickly
accelerated past the sound barrier, gaining altitude and speed. My RWR gave an
electronic depiction of all the radars and missiles tracking my aircraft, and it was
completely saturated. There was so much jizz, or radar emissions, in the air that the
display looked like a Scrabble board. At last count, there were still more than fifty
SAM sites in Baghdad alone.
New flashes erupted from the right, and I winced as a stream of fireballs arced
up in my direction. Then another. And another. Crazed streams of glowing beads
that crisscrossed the sky on all sides of my jet. Anti-aircraft artillery. Triple-A.
There were ten thousand guns down there.
“ELI One . . . Triple-A . . . defending east.”
Yanking the jet sideways, I booted the rudder pedal and glanced to my right. As
the fighter skidded through the air, I took a breath and glanced at the suburbs. Lots
of glowing, white-hot pellets shooting upward from the rooftops.
Too many.
“ELI Two . . . come in from the west . . . don’t follow me in.”
“Unable,” came the terse reply.
Shit. Again. He was already committed.
Everyone in Baghdad was awake now and looking up at the two American
fighter jets who were insane enough to come down low over their capital city and
basically flip the bird to every SAM and anti-aircraft gun on the ground. I think it
really pissed them off.
Down . . . down . . . down. The fighter was shuddering from the speed and the
weight of the cluster bombs under my wings. Five hundred and twenty knots now
. . . 600 miles per hour. What a way to spend a birthday. Today I was thirty-nine,
and I’d really rather be on a beach with a pitcher of margaritas.
Fanning the speed brakes again, I cranked the jet back to the left, twisting
eastward to put some distance between myself and the anti-aircraft fire. Berserk
garden hoses, spraying streams of glowing droplets and leading me like a duck on
the wing. I pulled up and felt the F-16 jump. Holding it a long moment, I bunted
forward again and forced the nose down. The gunners tried to keep up but they
liked straight and level bombers—not jinking, gray targets like me.
Target . . . screw that. I’m the predator. I whipped my head around toward the
south and east.