Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

Zing’s reply was immediate. “ELI Two’s in from the east.”
Looking back, I could see the smoke drifting south with the wind, which was
good. My wingman would have a clear look at the remaining helos.
“Push it up, Two . . . the other copter may bolt outta here.”
I damn well would, if several of my buddies had just disappeared in front of me.
“ELI Two . . . thirty seconds.”
He must’ve been cheating on the ten-mile arc. Didn’t matter now.
“ELI Two . . . your target is west of the smoke . . . west of the smoke . . . next to
the runway. A single Hoplite with its rotor turning.” A Hoplite was a Soviet-made
Mi-2 helicopter.
“ELI Two is tally the smoke . . . looking.”
“And Two . . . I’m gonna arc west of the runway and keep the Triple-A busy.
Don’t come off west.”
The mike zippered in reply. I pulled the F-16 up about sixty degrees and rolled
sideways to keep the airfield in sight. So, with my nose jacked up, I was now
skidding sideways at about 6,000 feet above the northern suburbs. The Triple-A
was still firing, but I thought they were having a tough time seeing my gray jet
against gray clouds. However, I wanted them to see me and not my wingman, so
I’d have to help them with that.
I put out a flare. Then another.
Eyeing the HUD, I let the airspeed bleed off to 400 knots, overbanked, and
pulled down toward the ground. Coming all the way over on my back, I glanced to
the west, to a bend in the river that looked like a big ear, and saw my bright orange
flares drifting slowly to earth. There was also an SA-6 site marked on my map,
which supposedly lived there. It was a very nasty SAM nest, so my eyes were
everywhere.
But nothing came up at me. Accelerating toward the ground now, I tugged the
throttle back a bit and rolled left to see the airfield. My flares had definitely
attracted attention, and all the gunfire was arcing west toward me. Most of it was
being shot visually, but I saw several Triple-A radar symbols on my threat- warning
system. I could live with that. Just no SA-6s. I could die from that.
It was a dangerous game. I was trying to get shot at by what I knew was there,
while not sure what else was tracking—or waiting until I got real close before
shooting. This was the essence of SAM killing—Wild Weaseling. “You’ve gotta be
shitting me,” indeed.
The airspeed made the jet shudder. Raw power. Without taking my eyes off the
ground, I blended the roll with a pull back up through the horizon. Straining against