“No one makes a decision to abort this mission except me,” Parsons snapped.
Mace turned to his pilot in absolute surprise.
“The Pentagon can either recall or terminate this mission, but it cannot order us to abort because of a systems malfunction. You got that, Major?”
“Hey, Colonel, “ Mace said. “This plane didn’t come with just one seat. It came with two. It’s a crew decision to abort.”
“I decide where this warplane goes and when,” Parsons declared. “Your job is to maintain the navigation and bombing systems and assist me.”
“Hey, don’t tell me what my job is,” Mace retorted. “I don’t know when you developed this emperor complex.”
“About the same time you chickened out,” Parsons shot back. “You’ve wanted to turn tail and run ever since we got executed. You probably noticed that gauge malfunction a long time ago.”
“That’s bullshit,” Mace said angrily. “I don’t dump my computers or roll weapons on purpose, and I’m sure as hell not afraid to do this mission. We have instructions to transmit status messages anytime we have a serious aircraft or weapons malfunction, and that’s what I’m going to do.” He immediately began composing a status message and transmitted it to the Pentagon via AFSATCOM; Parsons could do nothing but monitor the instruments.
The bomber’s flight path took them just east of Dukan Reservoir in eastern Iraq, then directly south between the cities of Kirkuk and As-Sulaymaniyah, but no missile launch indications were received.
They were now out of the Torosular Mountains and into the endless desert plains, only fifteen minutes to the missile launch point. Without the mountains to hide them, it seemed as if the entire Arabian Peninsula was visible to them — and, in turn, every fighter pilot, radar operator, and gunner in Iraq could see them, yet no dangerous radar emissions locked on to them.
A yellow light marked SATCOM RCV blinked on the forward instrument panel, and Mace waited impatiently as a thin strip of thermal paper rolled out of the printer. Parsons’ attention was riveted on the instruments as they zoomed around low, rocky outcroppings and dove into dry riverbeds, but every now and then he sneaked a peek at his partner as Mace decoded the message: “Acknowledging our rescue and aircraft status messages,” Mace said a few moments later. “No other orders.”
Parsons said nothing.
The bomber skirted the Iraq-Iran border east of the As Sa’ Diyah Reservoir, and it was here, near the city of Tolafarush, that they were “tapped” by their first fighter. A search radar with a height-finder from Subakhu found them and locked on. “Search radar … height-finder item of interest. Descend and accelerate.”
“Clear me on those power lines and a left turn,” Parsons said. “Stand by on chaff.”
“Clear left and clear for two hundred feet,” Mace said, checking the radar. Power lines and transmission towers showed up fairly well on the AN/APQ-114 attack radar, but the AN/APQ-134 terrain-following radar sometimes had trouble with them. He switched the TFR clearance plane to two hundred feet and punched out chaff as Parsons banked steeply left. “More power lines at twelve o’clock. We gotta climb in about sixty seconds. Twelve minutes to the launch point. We accelerate to six hundred in two.”
“I’m already at six hundred,” Parsons reported. The exasperated tone in his voice told Mace that he was thinking the same thing — the earlier they went to higher power settings, the farther behind they’d be on the fuel curve. Their five-hundred-pound fuel margin to bingo would be eaten up in no time, and then he’d have no choice but to abort the mission — but by then they’d be in the center of the air defense beehive of Baghdad, risking their necks for nothing. But Parsons had already made his decision, and he wasn’t about to give the likes of Daren Mace the opportunity to be right. Parsons took a firmer grip on the control stick, swallowed hard, and added, “We’re continuing. Gimme a countdown on those power lines.”
Boy, Parsons would rather bust the minimums than do a fuel abort now, Mace decided. Something really serious was going to have to happen before Parsons would call this mission off.
Resigned to keep his mouth shut and press on, Mace turned back to the attack radar: “Roger. Range five miles. Thirty—” Just then an inverted “V” symbol appeared on the RHAWS scope, along with a high-pitched fast warbling tone. “Fighter at our three o’clock,” Mace said. The symbol stayed on the scope and moved from the three to four o’clock position. At the same time, a yellow warning light marked MISSILE WARNING illuminated, and an “I” symbol appeared on the RHAWS scope, indicating that the AN/AAR-34 infrared warning receiver, a supercooled heat-seeking eye that scanned behind the bomber looking for enemy aircraft, was tracking the fighter. “He’s locked on … Jesus! Climb now!”
He had almost forgotten about the power lines, and the TFR radar had not commanded on them. Less than two seconds before impact, Parsons hauled back on the control stick. Mace was slammed back in his seat, then slammed into the centerline rail as Parsons executed a steep right bank, then pressed down into his seat as the TFR system pulled them out of the steep descent back to two hundred feet above ground. Parsons was yelling “Chaff! Chaff!” as the radar warning tone continued to sound.
“Unload, dammit!” Mace shouted. The G-forces from the violent turns were preventing Mace from reaching the ejector buttons.
Parsons decreased his bank angle slightly, allowing Mace to reach the chaff/flares ejector panel, but Parsons was reaching for it first: “Dammit, Daren, punch that chaff out before I turn!” The fighter “bat-wing” symbol was still present and still locked on to them, so Parsons hit two chaff buttons and then reversed turn and jinked left. The bat-wing symbol disappeared — they had successfully broken the fighter radar’s lock. It only made Mace feel even more helpless and edgy to watch his pilot activating the switches he, not Parsons, was responsible for. “I’ll kick your ass all the way back to New Hampshire if you don’t get with it,” yelled Parsons.
“Fuck y—” Another high-pitched warbling tone erupted in the interphone, followed by a red MISSILE LAUNCH light. When the AN/AAR-34 infrared threat sensor was locked on to a target behind them and then detected a second pulse of energy, it interpreted that second flash as a heat-seeking missile launch. As it notified the crew, the system automatically ejected chaff and flare decoys. Parsons shoved the throttles to max afterburner, banked left, and pulled on the control stick, squishing Mace into his seat. The sudden, rapid-fire changes in direction made Mace’s head spin, and for the first time he found himself completely disoriented — his inner ear was telling him he was turning, his seat told him he was not turning but descending, and his eyes were believing both of them. For the first time in his flying career, he felt an uncontrollable wave of nausea wash over him, and he ripped his oxygen mask off just before vomiting on the control console between his legs.
“Flares! Flares!” Parsons screamed as he reversed his turn. The stall-warning horn was blaring — even though they were careening through the night sky at well over seven miles per minute, the wings at full-aft position, and. the airspeed bleeding off during the tight turns meant a drastic loss of lift. Mace jabbed his thumb at the flare ejector button, then gripped tightly to the glare shield and stared at the standby attitude indicator on the front instrument panel to reorient himself.
Although the engines were roaring, in and out of afterburner power, Mace could feel the aircraft sinking as Parsons held the bomber right on the edge of the stall — the airplane wasn’t flying anymore, it was wallowing. “Stall horn!” Mace shouted over interphone. Parsons looked as if he was fighting the stall-inhibiting system, which was trying to lower the nose to regain flying speed. “Get the nose down! Wing sweep!”