“Forget about that and get back on the bomb run.”
Mace silently muttered a “Fuck you.” The crosshairs tracked perfectly as well, which meant the heading and velocities in the bombing system were perfect. “Got the final aimpoint… taking the fix.” He set the right side MFD to the NAV Present Position page, checked that the update mode was in RADAR, then pressed the ENTER FIX Option Select Switch. The reverse video on the ENT FIX legend went out, and the FIXMAG readouts went to zero, indicating a successful position update. Mace switched his right side MFD from the Present Position page to the SRAM Air page and placed the Bomb Data page on the left MFD. “Got the fix. I need—”
“Holy Mother of God!” Parsons suddenly heeled the bomber into a steep right turn, then rolled left again to stabilize. Mace looked up from the radarscope and saw two American F-15E Strike Eagle fighter-bombers streak away to the north. The Strike Eagles were two-man versions of the F-15 Eagle fighter, modified for precision low-level bombing but retaining their air-to-air intercept and dogfighting capability. They had crossed the F-111G’s path less than five hundred feet away. “Jesus!” Parsons shouted. “Where did they come from?”
“Those were F-15s!” Mace said incredulously. “They had Sparrows and bombs on board! Why are they heading toward the target area?”
“What difference does it make? We’re on the bomb run.”
“Bob, this attack should have been deconflicted,” Mace said. “Any aircraft within twenty miles of ground zero will probably get blasted out of the sky. Those guys will be practically right over the target when the SRAM detonates.”
“Jesus, Mace, we got a valid launch message … just punch that fucking missile out,” Parsons said. “Put the launch mode switch in ‘auto’ if you got any problems. When I see the ‘safe-in-range’ light, I’ll start a turn and head outbound. When I roll out of the turn, the missile will launch.”
“Parsons, don’t you get it? Something’s wrong here!” Mace snapped. “Somehow I think we decoded an invalid message. I don’t know how, but something’s really wrong.”
Parsons said, “It’s impossible to validate an incorrect message. Either the message doesn’t make sense or the authentication doesn’t check. Both were correct. Stay on the missile run.”
“We’ll be killing our own guys!”
“You don’t know that, Mace!” Parsons shouted. “Those guys can be heading anywhere. All we know is the orders we’re given. Now stay on the goddamn bomb run!”
But Mace kept on looking across the gradually brightening sky, and the more he looked the more he was shocked to see dozens of other aircraft passing nearby, going in all directions — but mostly going north into Baghdad.
“Safe-in-range light,” Parsons reported. “Countdown to turn started.” The SAFE IN RANGE light indicated that the SRAM missile was within its launch envelope, or “footprint,” and capable of hitting its target. The SRAM footprint extended not only ahead of the bomber’s flight path but behind it as well, so Mace and Parsons could accomplish an “over-the-shoulder” launch. They would fly westbound until they were about fifteen miles from the target, then turn 180 degrees away from the target and launch the missile after rolling out of the turn. At detonation, the F-111G would be at least forty miles from ground zero, safe from the blast and EMP effects.
The sixty-second high-speed run toward the turnpoint was the most frightening of Mace’s young life. “Thirty seconds to turn …”
It was sheer luck that Mace was looking right at the very spot on the ground — he saw a bright flash of light, like a searchlight or beacon light, then a long streak of yellow light. The spot of bright light began spiraling toward them at incredible speed. He had never seen one before, but he knew exactly what it was: “SA-7, three o’clock!” he shouted. He hit the FLARE button, then shouted, “Break right!” It was a Soviet-made, shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile, as common as ants in Iraq, and they were deadly at this close range.
Parsons did not hesitate — he rolled into a 90-degree bank turn and pulled on the control stick. Mace stopped popping decoy flares as soon as he felt the G-forces hit. He lost sight of the missile in the break — he was lucky enough to stay conscious, let alone maintain visual contact on a Mach-two missile — but as soon as Parsons rolled out of the break, Mace saw more flashes of light on the ground. “More SA-7s, two and three o’clock!” He popped more flares as Parsons did another right break.
Parsons had to sweep the wings forward once again to keep from stalling — two hard-break maneuvers in a row bled off a lot of airspeed very quickly. In just a few seconds the wings were forward to 26 degrees, he was in full military power, and the angle of attack was still just 5 degrees below the stall. “I’ll roll wings level,” he said to Mace. “Punch out the missile! Do it!”
“Keep at it, Bob,” Mace shouted. “Level turn back left to the launch point. Still twenty seconds to the turn.”
Just then they heard on the GUARD channel, again in the clear, “Breakdance, Breakdance, this is Nightmare, abort your missile run, repeat, abort your missile run. We show you ninety seconds to launch time. Do not fire your missile. Repeat, do not launch. Acknowledge.” They then gave another date-time group and a new authentication code. Mace flipped open the code book he had already opened to the proper page, and in just a few seconds he discovered it was another valid message — valid, but still not acceptable to the Aardvark crew.
But the voice was definitely American, and the messages were real messages. Either it was a very clever, very well trained Iraqi, or it was for real and meant for them. But they had no choice in the matter — they had to ignore clear-text messages … they had to! But how could anyone else but the Pentagon know their launch time? “Christ, Bob, they know our launch time — down to the fucking second!”
This time Parsons hesitated, and it was obvious that he was scared and worried. Someone, anyone, could fake the first clear-text message they’d received — the second was impossible. They had indeed named their target time down to the second. Parsons shouted, “I’m rolling out for a few seconds to get our smash back. Get on GUARD and talk to someone. We’ve gotta stay on the missile run, but try to get confirmation. Clear my left turn, then get on the radio.”
After making sure there were no missiles nearby being fired at them, Mace cleared Parson’s left turn, then used the IFF/COMM page on his CDU and switched his radio to UHF 243.0, the international emergency channel that the voice who called itself Nightmare was using. The SA-7 missile was no match for an F-111G bomber at high speed and low altitude, and they had avoided or decoyed all the missiles fired at them so fair. But they were down to about a dozen flares remaining, enough for two or three more attacks.
“Nightmare, Nightmare, this is Breakdance. We copy your message, but we cannot comply. We need a coded message to authenticate. Over.” There was no reply. Maybe it was a fake radio message. “Nightmare, this is Breakdance, how copy? We need a coded message over our tactical network to authenticate. We will not respond to clear-text messages. Over.”
Parsons turned hard left and rolled out, carefully watching his airspeed tapes. “Those damn SAMs are all around us,” he said. “I’ve seen at least six so far! We’re right in the middle of a damn Republican Guard division or something!” The airspeed was building rapidly, and he was able to sweep the wings back to 54 degrees to build up even more.
“I’ve got us at the turnpoint,” Parsons shouted. “Coming right.