Again the sergeant impressed the men as he plotted the six targets on the briefing boards, double-checked the accuracy of each plot and told them to check his work while he searched his files for reconnaissance photos and materials for each target. He then queried Intel’s computer by entering the latitude and longitude of the center point of the target area, and a high-speed printer spat out information updating the defenses in the area. The sergeant whistled as he read the printout. “SAMs and Triple A are growing like weeds. Looks like the PSI is getting serious about the war.”
Carroll’s face was a mask as he bent over the reconnaissance photos and measured the distance from the FEBA, the Forward Edge of the Battle Area, in front of Basra, to the six targets. “These look like good targets.” He let out his breath, satisfied the wing was getting worth-while frag orders. “We’re going after artillery batteries, a decent troop concentration and two supply dumps. All of this stuff has been recently moved up. I’m willing to bet the PSI is getting ready for a major push against Basra.” The 45th was being used for tactical interdiction, precisely as Cunningham had explained to the reporters.
Jack planned to attack each target with six aircraft divided into flights of two. The men worked backward, first selecting three IPs around each target area. They wanted to find a feature on the ground a pilot and wizzo could easily find and recognize, one that would point them into the target and still help them avoid the growing number of SAMs. Once the points were identified, Jack assigned two crews to each IP and let them plan their own low-level route.
The number of red rings on the map that signified known SAM sites worried Jack. After mulling it over he decided to use a “get-the-hell-out-of-Dodge” option. “I want to saturate Gomer’s command and control network and give ’em too many threats to sort out at one time,” he told the men. “We get everyone in and out fast while the Wild Weasels open the front door by keeping the air defenders busy. We’ve got to keep our time in bad-guy land to a minimum.” Together the men decided on the timing for each flight to ingress the target area and coordinated their TOTs.
They finished by selecting their escape routes and turning it over to C.J., who agonized his way through the plan, making sure his Weasels would be in position to suppress the enemy’s ground defenses that would be brought to bear on the attacking Phantoms. “I can’t knock them all out,” he said to Jack. “But I can get their heads down while you’re in the area, especially if I can get Colonel Gomez to buy your idea. Then I’ll be able to cover you better.”
“C.J., you’ve get a screw loose somewhere. You’re going to have the Weasels all over them like stink on shit.”
C.J. accepted the compliment.
When the planning was completed they briefed Waters and Gomez on the mission. Waters listened carefully, calculating the wing’s chances of success. The timing of the raid made him think of the Ahlhorn training exercise that Jack had planned. Doubts started to nip at the edge of his mind, and the thought of losing more crews nipped even more. “Has Intel run this through their computer and come up with an expected attrition rate?” he finally asked.
“Yes, sir,” Thunder told him. “Bill calculates about one percent. That’s because we only have to take on ground defenses and not worry about being jumped by MiGs. According to the frag order the UAC is providing us with a CAP — Saudi F-15s.”
The way Jack had assigned each flight a relatively simple and quick attack and then blended them all together with timing fascinated Waters. But his nagging doubts remained. “Okay,” he told them, “give me a few minutes. You’ve impressed me.” He got up, stretched and motioned Gomez to follow him outside.
“Tom, it looks fine on paper, like Ahlhorn did. But something says it’s too aggressive. What’s the weakness? What am I missing?”
“It looks great to me,” Gomez said. “I wish we could fly our own CAP in case MiGs jump us. But the UAC is supposed to have their F-15s up and in the area. Exactly how far they’ll come into bad-guy territory to cover us is anybody’s guess. Besides, we haven’t seen a single bandit yet.
“I’m more worried about the damn call signs the frag has assigned to us. It’s hard enough remembering your own name when the heat is on, much less what Old Joe Blow is being called today. When I have to warn him about a missile coming his way or need to call him back onto a new target I’ve got to get his name right the first time. We need to use tactical call signs.”
Gomez waited, then said, “C.J. needs more birds for air-defense suppression. He wants to try an idea Jack dreamed up and mate an F4-G Weasel with an F-4E as a wingman and use the Weasel to direct the E onto threats that come up. That will double his strength and allow two birds for suppression on each target… Muddy, I’m sure this attack’ll work. Look, let me fly and I’ll abort the mission if things start to hell in a hand-basket. Jack’s planned a beauty. We really shouldn’t waste it.”
The DO’s confidence was the deciding factor. “Okay, Tom. Ops is your show. Go with the mission as planned, use tac call signs, give C.J. his wingmen, and abort the mission if things get too hairy up there. I’ve got to get over to the Security Police and work on base defense with Chief Hartley, so get this thing on the road.”
Bull Morgan led the first eight planes onto the active runway. Six of the Phantoms were pregnant with bomb loads destined for the first target. A Weasel and his wingman taxied with them. Forty more Phantoms stretched out behind them, broken into similar cells. Jack was sandwiched between the second and fourth cell; he had picked the third and most heavily defended target for himself. There had been no lack of volunteers to fly with him so it was easy to pick his five other crews at random. C.J. had also opted to fly with Jack’s cell and followed them onto the Active, his F4-G Wild Weasel teamed with an E model from the 377th. C.J.’s bird bristled with anti-radiation Shrike and Harm missiles while his wingman was loaded with CBUs and three AGM-65 Mavericks, electro-optically guided and not dependent on enemy radiations for homing.
Jack’s flight took oft” on a southerly heading, turning back to the north as the formation fell into place. As soon as they were positioned he started to descend, hugging the water as the cell flew up the Gulf.
Twenty-five miles before they coasted in at the mouth of the Shatt-al-Arab, the first tell-tale flickers of radar activity started to light Thunder’s Radar Homing and Warning receiver. “Can you sneak it down a little lower?” Thunder asked.
Without breaking radio silence Jack led his flight down to seventy-five feet above the calm and smooth surface of the Persian Gulf. They coasted in undetected and now were flying over the marsh land along the coast.
“Bandits two o’clock high, four miles, going away,” Jack warned his flight, breaking radio silence as he sighted enemy fighters. “The Gomers are up today, where in the hell did they come from?”
Streaks of vertical contrails pillared the skies as the PSI’s air-defense system started to react, indication that Morgan was already at work on his target. Jack concentrated on the orbiting enemy fighters he suspected were looking for his flight. But the Phantom’s camouflaged paint blended with the land, and the Floggers could not pick them out. Jack pushed their speed up to 480 knots, seventy miles out from their targets, and climbed to two hundred feet. “Split now,” he commanded, and the eight fighters broke, each pair going its own way, with C.J. taking the most direct route to the target in order to arrive seconds before the attack. “Glad we hadn’t planned to come back this way,” Jack said, trying to ease the building pressure. Sweat poured as he kept inching down to the deck.