Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

were two big runways that came together in a “V” with the point facing southeast.
We’d taken particular pleasure in knocking the crap out of this place, since it had
been a thorn in our sides between the wars. I leaned forward, stared at the onceproud
fighter base, and grinned.
Not so proud anymore.
Thin columns of black smoke rose from all over the center section of runway.
They looked like pillars with no roof to support. At about eight miles, I zippered the
mike and gradually swung around to the north in the standard Weasel arc. Balad
lay just west of the Tigris, and the long, gray runways were easy to see against the
flood plain. Several of us had been flying with binoculars, so I flipped the autopilot
on and stared at the base.
The main area was between the eastern runway and the river. There were lots of
buildings, a road network, and housing. I shrugged. Nothing worth sticking my nose
down there for. Holding the binoculars with one hand, I reached down and adjusted
the autopilot to keep the turn coming. The burned-out fuselages from our last trip
here were clearly visible. I smiled. The Iraqi air-defense gunners had been pissed
off. I always wondered how the Iraqi fighter pilots felt as they peeked out of their
shelters at the Gamblers swirling overhead and strafing the shit out of their base.
Probably the same way the 363rd Ops Group commander felt when our returning
jets would roar overhead and spill his coffee. Impotent.
There’d been so much Triple-A over the airfield that day it looked like a small
thunderstorm. But no SAMs, which was strange. Nor any today, I confirmed with a
glance at the RWR. Yet. No, everything of value looked like it had been smacked
hard. Planes were burning bright, hot yellow flames with dark-red edges gave way
to the thin plumes of black smoke.
Suddenly, a series of rippling flashes caught my eye, and I dropped the
binoculars. Anti-aircraft fire from at least three different pits had found us. Judging
by the rapid twinkling, I’d guess it was 57-mm and, a few seconds later, I saw the
bursts.
“FABLE 33, Triple-A, Balad,” I said calmly. We were about three miles from
the base, so I wasn’t concerned. However, where there’s Triple-A there are usually
SAMs.
“FA . . . FABLE Two copies. I see the bursts!” Again, I smiled at his
excitement, but it was his first combat mission, and I understood. We were crossing
the northern end of both runways looking down the funnel at the point of the “V.”
“Two, heads-up for SAMs. We’ll continue arcing around to the east.”
“FABLE Two copies.” He sounded slightly incredulous. We’d said all this on a