Viper Pilot_ A Memoi..

“Affirmative. Clear all friendlies out to fifteen miles and above fifteen K.
AGNEW is descending over the lake.”
“AGNEW One . . . this is MUSKET One.”
“Go.”
“There’s light Triple-A in addition to the SA-3.”
It was actually an SA-2, but he was trying to be helpful. “Posit”
“AGNEW, call contact on the pond east of town.”
“Contact.”
“Go one pond length due west to the city.”
“Continue.”
“Intersection of a north-south hard ball road and an east-west road with a curve
in it. Movers and trucks.”
“Contact. Thanks,” I added.
As KARMA cleared everyone out of our way, we dropped smoothly down to
10,000 feet and headed south over Tartar Lake. On Victor, I said, “Two . . .
FENCE, green it up, check AGM power.”
I glanced out at the big Mavericks under my wings. These were H-model
missiles, newly arrived and perfect for this sort of Weaseling. Eight feet long, about
half of its 700-pound weight was the warhead. This variant used electro-optical
guidance (think television camera) and was improved specifically for use in the
desert. The picture was so good that we used it like a targeting pod. Although still
in testing when the war began, Kanga Rew had moved heaven and earth to get a
limited number of them here.
I checked my fuel and looked over at my wingman. “AGNEW One is 8.7.”
“AGNEW Two is 9.5. Power on.”
I saw a gray puff beneath his left wing as the Maverick’s dome-shaped cover
blew off. This was a thin, fragile coating that protected the seeker head and was
generally left in place until the missile was ready to fire. Sunlight glinted off metal,
and I looked up. Four F-16s passed overhead several thousand feet above me, and
the leader rocked his wings. Returning the greeting, I pushed the nose down farther,
tugged back the throttle, and we glided down over the gunmetal-gray lake water.
Leveling at 5,000 feet, I held 400 knots and stared past the left wing. The Tigris
snaked southward like a dirty green ribbon before disappearing into the Baghdad
suburbs. I zippered the mike, pulled the F-16 around, and headed for the river.
“MUSKET One . . . this is AGNEW. Any friendlies down there”
“Ah . . . negative on that, AGNEW. No friendlies.”
I’d trust battlefield intel from an A-10 pilot. He’d have the latest and greatest