Although I have nowhere NEAR the writing skills of Dart or Beach, I thought I'd toss my hat in the ring with one of my projects too. Missions 1-7 are in the Jane's F/A-18 forum.
Well, now that life has calmed back down and started returning to at least a semblance of normalcy, I thought I'd better pick up where I'd left off before. Much more still to come! Now, picking up where I'd left off...
Life in the Gulf had gotten busy in the week since we’d flown our last strike mission, a wildly successful attack on Saudi Arabia’s last major oil refinery at Qatif. In the time since then, the British and French had deployed squadrons and troops to bases in Kuwait and Qatar. In addition, rumor had it that the aircraft carrier Charles de Gaulle (R91) was preparing to depart from her homeport of Toulon weeks ahead of schedule either to join us here in the Gulf, or the Ike hanging out in the Red Sea.
Airman Carolyn “Wheels” Norcom tried unsuccessfully to stifle a sneeze as the flight surgeon pressed her stethoscope to the young aircrew member’s back.
“Ma’am, it’s nothing but a little bit of a sniffle, probably brought on by the changing weather.” Norcom argued emphatically as Dr. Bremser placed her stethoscope on the counter of the examination room and picked up a pen and tablet.
“Airman Norcom, we’re in the middle of the desert. Not really a whole lot of changing weather going on here right now, but nice try anyway,” Dr. Bremser said with a smirk as she wrote on the tablet. “You’ve got a nasty head cold, and with the kind of congestion you have going on, you’re not getting anywhere NEAR a KC-135 for at least the next five days.”
“But ma’am-“ Norcom started to protest before she was cut off by the doctor holding up a hand.
“Your depth perception and balance are already off kilter because of all the congestion, and putting you into a pressurized, high- altitude environment would only throw it off even more. You could easily put that boom through the canopy of an F-15 without even realizing it, so you’re off flight status until I’m satisfied that you’re healthy enough to fly safely.” The doctor finished writing, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to Norcom.
“Five days rest in the dormitory, and light limited duty until you’re over that cold.” The doctor stated as Norcom started putting her uniform back on. “Besides,” Dr. Bremser added with a stern look on her face. “I’ve seen how many flight hours you guys have been getting the last month or two, and you need the break to recover.”
The doctor left the examination room, and Norcom sighed as she zipped up her flight suit. At least this base had internet access, she thought to herself. The refueling squadrons had moved back to Al Udeid Air Base in Qatar as soon as Great Britain and France had joined in the war effort, and her quarters on the expansive base rivaled those found on most Air Force Bases stateside. She headed to her barracks room, wondering if she’d get an email from her new-found penpal today.
“So Masterson, you got time to give me a quick line up?” I asked my shop’s workcenter supervisor, AZ2 Mike Masterson, and an accomplished barber as I finished my weekly review of the pilots’ logbooks and aircraft maintenance records we stored and maintained. It had been a couple of weeks, and I’d learned the hard way many years ago not to even bother trying to stand in line to get a haircut from the ship’s barber shop when one of my guys could do it better with no waiting.
“Yeah, not a problem, sir,” he replied with a smile. “Lemme clear some space here, and I’ll go grab my clippers.”
As I waited, I glanced over to where the other AZ’s were crowded around one of the computers, obviously all looking at something one of the younger guys was showing them on the screen.
“Hey guys, what’s got you all so interested over there?” I asked, causing several heads to pop up at the same time.
“Oh, Jacobs is just showing us pictures of his penpal in Qatar, sir,” Wright replied, rolling her eyes in mock boredom.
“Hey Jacobs, mind if I come have a look, or is it one of those things that officers aren’t supposed to be seeing?” I asked, not entirely sure if the young airman would pick up the thinly veiled hint.
Jacobs positively beamed back at me. “Oh, it’s nothing like that sir… yet,” he added. “Come have a look for yourself and tell me what you think.”
I crossed the small office and leaned in over the rest of my people crowded around the monitor. Jacobs pulled up several pictures in succession of a pretty petite blond wearing a tan Air Force flight suit and posed in front of a KC-135 Stratotanker. All of a sudden, I put the missing pieces into place in my head as Jacobs continued telling everybody about her.
“She’s a boom operator with the 92nd Air Refueling Squadron, riding in the tails of KC-135R’s, and her name is-“
“Senior Airman Carolyn Norcom,” I interrupted, “originally from Charlotte, North Carolina, she’s been in the Air Force now for about a year and a half and usually flies in a tanker with the call sign Tango Seven One, and she’s most likely a better shot than you with any gun you could think of.”
Jacobs staring at me in open-mouthed shock and I shrugged in reply. “She grew up across the street from me, and my folks emailed me a couple of weeks ago to let me know she was stationed in the region. I didn’t put two and two together until just now. Besides, isn’t she a little bit old for you?”
The rest of the office was still giggling at Jacobs as Masterson came back in, clippers in hand. He took in the scene for a moment before turning to me.
“What’d I miss?”
I strolled in to our ready room shortly before three thirty in the morning to meet with LT Nate “Papercut” Harrison and brief our 0515 mission launch time.
“Good morning Ted,” he said with a smile as he looked up from where he was talking to Helga seated at the Duty Officer’s desk. Aside from the three of us, the ready room was completely empty; the morning strike wouldn’t be briefing for at another couple of hours, and we’d all been advised to try and rest up as much as possible between flights, paperwork, and our other obligations.
“This morning we get to test out all those BFM skills I’ve been working with you on for the last few days- we’ve got the air wing’s first fighter sweep of the morning. I specifically asked Errol to schedule you on this flight with me, as I think you’re progressing fastest among the newest nuggets to join the squadron, but you still need more practice.
We’ll get more details when we stroll over to Air Intelligence in a few minutes,” he continued, a wolfish smile on his face, “but in the meantime, I’ll give you the quick and dirty rundown of the changing picture, as was briefed to me last night by CAG and the Skipper.” His typically lighthearted manner was gone now, completely replaced with a deadly serious tone as he got into the meat of the briefing.
“Now that we’ve virtually destroyed the Saudi capability to refine and move oil, we need to gain air superiority over the Gulf and Saudi airspace. That means in addition to hitting airfields and SAM sites, we get to start destroying all those shiny expensive jet fighters we and the Europeans sold them over the last twenty or so years.”
Papercut smiled thinly at this. “The good news from that is, we’ll be fighting against planes we routinely play war games with. Of course, that bad news from that is, we’re fighting planes that our side is still using. AWACS will be up and in business, and it’s going to be vitally important to check and verify all your targets before you take a shot at anybody.”
We departed the ready room and walked down the passageway to the Air Intelligence office for the rest of the details. It was already busy around the O-3 level, with aircrews from other squadrons and staff personnel heading from place to place- the early tempo was hinting that it was going to be another long day for everybody.
LT. Barkley was waiting for us in front of the big map of the Persian Gulf region.
“Good morning gents, as you can see your flight this morning is going to be a sweep over the northern coastal areas of Saudi Arabia, to see what you can flush up out of KKMC and Prince Sultan Air Base.”
We both studied the map, paying particularly close attention to the known EW and SAM sites as we jotted notes down for our kneeboard cards. In a few moments, I lifted my head to let Barkley know I was ready for him to continue with the brief. More slides came out on the planning table in front of us.
“Hey Jake, what kind of birds are we trying to flush up this morning, anyway?” I asked Barkley as we jotted down notes for our kneeboards about other elements expected to be in the area.
Barkley grimaced apologetically as he tossed another sheet in front of us. “You guys are going to love this part.”
“We really want to take out some of their F-15’s, or if we could get really lucky, those Typhoons they just picked up from the Brits a couple of years ago.”
Nate and I both exchanged audible groans at this- some of our air combat training over the last several days had included tangling with the Brits in their Eurofighters, and to say the planes were impressive would be an understatement.
“The good news is, our friends at Honeywell, and their European counterparts at EADS have been busy the last couple of weeks making sure that those Saudi jets won’t come up as friendly or neutral on our IFF’s.”
I smiled to myself at this- although we hadn’t encountered any problems up until this point with the IFF gear, but rumors had been running rampant around the ship to that effect.
Intelligence briefing completed, we headed back to the ready room to finish the briefing and review a few points about tactics and weapons employment before we trooped to the locker room to finish getting into our gear before we headed topside to man our planes.
Within the hour we were tensioned up, me on cat 3, and Nate on cat 1 next to the E-2 that would be orbiting the battle group as our eyes and ears in the sky.
“Talon one five seven, airborne,” I called to the departure controller on the ship as I felt the deck drop away beneath me. Pulling up my gear and flaps, I started climbing towards Papercut’s plane above and ahead of me.
As I slid in to the lead of the formation, a quick glance at the radar display showed friendly contacts of other aircraft going about their missions over the gulf.
“Panhead two one, this is Striper two one, checking in,” I called as continued our outbound flight.
“Copy Striper,” the AWACS controller orbiting over the fleet behind us replied, “you’re cleared to continue outbound. Good hunting.”
Within a few minutes we were closing on the welcome KC-135R to top off our tanks before we headed into Saudi airspace.
“Tango two one, this is Striper two one, flight of two Super Hornets, closing from your six o’clock at three miles, requesting fuel,” I called.
The reply from the tanker crew came back almost immediately. “Striper two one, you’re cleared on pre-contact. Holding on course two six zero, angles two two, speed three hundred.”
I flipped on the EMCON and checked my Master Arm switch safe as I visually acquired the tanker ahead of me, popping out my refueling probe as I changed course to intercept the waiting tanker.
“Tango two one, Striper two one, switches safe, nose cold, looking for 3k,” I called, holding about a quarter mile behind the tanker.
“Copy striper, you’re cleared on,” the reply came back quickly. I nudged the throttles forward slightly and moved into position towards the tanker and its welcoming drogue.
Within a few minutes, Papercut and I had both finished topping off our tanks and we started our approach to the Saudi coast, switching control to the Air Force E-3 AWACS orbiting closer to our position.
“Tango two one, thanks again for the gas,” I called as we dropped away from the big tanker ahead of us.
“Not a problem, Striper,” the call came back. “We’ll see you in a little bit on your way out. Tango two one out.”
The voice of the AWACS controller interrupted our reverie.
“Striper flight, this is Shovelhead. Bandits inbound your position, sixty miles, bearing one eight zero, angels twenty,” the voice on the other end radioed urgently. “They’re going after the tanker- intercept and prosecute, buster!”
“Striper flight copies,” I replied, pulling into a hard right turn towards the pair of contacts that had been transmitted to our screens.
“Light ‘em up! Two, master arm on, weapons hot!” I called to Papercut as I ran the throttles up to the firewall and deployed my towed decoy. A mic click signaled his reply as we closed on the distant targets.
I slewed my radar cursor over the lead bandit on my display, punched the designator button, and watched the distance closely before I flipped on my ECM equipment and selected an AMRAAM, praying that the bandit rapidly closing with us was carrying Sparrow missiles.
“Striper two one, Fox one!” I called as the “shoot” cue lit up on the top of my canopy rail and I pressed the pickle button on top of the stick.
The missile shot away with a blinding flash, and a few minutes later, Papercut called me.
“One, this is two. I’m seeing his smoke trail from here, confirmed that’s a kill!”
Shortly after that, he called to announce he was launching his own missile.
“Striper Two one, this is two two, have a positive lock on another bandit, and I’m taking the shot, Fox three!”
He fired and as soon as the missile went active turned to rejoin me. A few moments later we saw a flash on the horizon before AWACS called to confirm.
“Striper flight, scratch one more. Good kill guys. For the moment, the picture is clear.”
We flew on in silence for a while longer before we crossed out of Shovelhead’s protective umbrella of radar coverage. It was too quiet, and we were both apprehensive as I made the next call to the AWACS controllers orbiting far above us.
“Shovelhead three one, this is Striper two flight, feet dry. Striper flight is feet dry.”
“Copy Striper two one,” the reply came shortly. “Good hunting.”
Aside from the occasional query from a search radar measuring our intrusion into enemy territory, our continued patrol was disconcertingly quiet. As we ventured further into the country, we were able to pick up transmissions from a flight of British Tornadoes north and west of us who were obviously having a much harder go of things than we were.
“Bravo flight, targets in sight, rolling in hot!” the Brits called time and again in their clipped accents as they obviously attacked enemy ground emplacements, their calls of hits and misses mixed in every now and again with calls for support or reporting damage.
As we turned towards our last patrol waypoint, we suddenly got a frantic call from another flight passing close by.
“Striper flight, heads up! Eurofighters heading your way, coming in from the west, hot!”
Beside me Nate cursed feelingly. “Without the AWACS coverage, I don’t know if we’re going to even see them coming. The things are supposed to have a radar cross section smaller than a Rafale or a Gripen. Keep your eyes open, and if I were you, I’d go ahead and call up the Sidewinders. They might be the only chance they have.”
I quickly switched the SMS to one of my two wingtip AIM-9X Sidewinders and uncaged the seeker head, hoping the wide field of view of the sensitive infared would cue me in before I got zapped.
“Ted, break left!” a sudden, frantic call came through my earphones. “You’ve got a Typhoon make a run on you from your five o clock high!”
Without a moment’s hesitation I threw the stick hard to the left, yanked back as hard as I could, and jammed the throttles all the way to full afterburner. The single Typhoon overshot me and circled back around for another pass.
“Two, this is one. Engage when you have tally- I’ll cover you!” I yelled to Papercut, knowing his superior dogfighting skills would most likely save both our hides in the current situation.
“Copy one,” he replied. “I have him in sight coming up behind you again, rolling high. I’m in hot!”
I reversed my hard left hand turn, trying to keep the two of them in sight as they did the deadly dance of the dogfight, both planes trying their hardest to get inside the turn circle of the other.
Finally, the Saudi pilot made a mistake, getting too aggressive in his eagerness to climb above us and ran out of airspeed before he could bring his nose back down. In a flash Papercut was on him.
“I’ve got him! Guns! Gun! Guns!”
Twenty millimeter tracers sprayed from the nose of his jet, and a greasy smoke trail showed us where the Eurofighter was.
“Striper flight, this is Shovelhead three one. That’s enough for one day, go ahead and head for home. Picture is clear.”
I let out a loud sigh as I acknowledged the order and signaled to Papercut to rejoin the flight. I hadn’t realized that I’d been holding so much of my breath watching the absolutely ferocious dogfight that had gone on between him and that Saudi pilot.
Within half an hour of getting the order to return to base, we were able to make the call to AWACS that we were on our way out.
“Shovelhead three one, this is Striper two flight, feet wet. I say again, Striper flight is feet wet.”
“Copy Striper, good work today.” The AWACS controller replied.
Within another half hour we were in the visual pattern over the Reagan, and before too much longer we were back on deck.
“Well, it looks like you guys had a relatively quiet morning,” Lt. Barkley said with a quiet smile as he met us in the Air Intelligence Office as we came in from the catwalks surrounding the O-3 level.
“We were hoping to bag more of the Saudi planes, but seeing as they weren’t in the sector we had you patrolling, I personally am happy with the results you guys achieved. Two F-15’s down are two more than none, after all.”
“Do you guys have any ideas about what happened to that Eurofighter I was tangling with?” Papercut asked. “I didn’t get a chance to see if he hit the ground or not- we were kinda busy hauling it out of there.”
Barkley grinned happily, then looking around with a conspiratorial air, motioned for us to lean in closer. “I’m not supposed to know this, but the Crypto guys up in the SSES Shack intercepted messages from the Royal Saudi Air Force to a few companies and third party purchasers inquiring about massive lists of spare parts for the personal plane of Prince Al-Faisal. It looks like he survived, but it looks like you forced down a member of the royal family. And if nothing else, we know they only have five more of the damn things.”
We finished our debriefing and turned in our own after-action reports before we trudged back down the passageway to our locker room to stow our gear and get cleaned up.
“You did good out there, Glow Worm,” Papercut said with a smile and a friendly pat on the shoulder as we removed our heavy gear, our flight suits sticky with sweat, despite the chilly predawn we’d flown the majority of the mission in. “I’ll go over the rest with you in more detail in a little bit, but in the meantime, let’s head to the dirty shirt before the line gets too long- I seem to recall that Tuesday morning is one of the days they serve biscuits and gravy up forward.”
“What about debriefing the skipper and CAG?” I asked, knowing the two of them were waiting to hear about how the squadron’s first air to air sweep had gone, and even more to know how one of the nuggets had performed.
Papercut snorted. “The skipper and CAG can wait. Debriefings happen all the time. But biscuits and gravy-“he said, shooting me a significant look- “only happens twice a week, and I'm hungrier than a hostage. They’ll wait for us.”
V/R,
NN99
Calendar
Downloads
FAQ
Library
Multiplayer
News
Release Dates
SimHQ TV
Previous Topic
Index