Viper Pilot: A Memoir of Air Combat (6 page)

Einstein, ever the father of tactics, correctly stated that every action has an opposite reaction. Everyone started going low after Vietnam, so, to counter the low-altitude threat, Soviet and American engineers developed systems that had no real clutter notch, because they tracked an aircraft’s velocity. These missiles could also be launched visually using TV cameras, since a fighter at low altitude was easier to see than one at 20,000 feet.

The new radars were designed to be faster and more accurate, because they had to acquire, track, and launch in seconds rather than minutes. They were also mobile. Big, fixed SAM sites like the SA-2 were easy to see and therefore simple to avoid unless they were deployed around high-value targets we needed to destroy. The Soviets were aware of this, so they’d developed a particularly nasty family of mobile SAMs and greatly improved anti-aircraft guns. These systems filled in the gaps in distance and altitude coverage and were deployed around the larger strategic sites for overlapping coverage. They were highly mobile and attached to ground forces for air defense. This meant there were lots of them, and they could be anywhere.

The next-generation model, called SA-6, was fielded in the late 1960s. A mobile SAM on a tracked vehicle, it used a STRAIGHT FLUSH radar and each battery contained about twenty-four missiles. NATO called it a “GAINFUL,” though it was known to the Soviets as a “KUB,” meaning “cube,” as there were three missiles per launcher. It was guided by the launching radar, so the steering commands for most of the intercept came directly from the STRAIGHT FLUSH. However, during the terminal phase of flight, the missile “sees” the reflected signal from the target and provides its own steering. This is called Semi Active Radar Homing (SARH) and is much deadlier than command guidance, as the reaction times are far faster.

Soviet SA-6s were sold to Egypt, among others, and were responsible for most of the Israeli Air Force F-4 Phantom and A-4 Skyhawk losses during the 1973 Yom Kippur War. They were also used, though not very successfully, by the Syrians in the Bekaa Valley. The SA-6 brought down at least one American F-16 during the First Gulf War and another in Kosovo.

Then there is the SA-8 GECKO. Though it looks like a six-wheeled Winnebago, the system isn’t funny at all. Extremely mobile, the SA-8’s LANDROLL target-tracking radar could switch on, find you, pass the information to the missile, and shoot in a matter of seconds. It was also a short-ranged system, so there wasn’t much time to react anyway. In fact, if you got an SA-8 spike, then you reacted instantly or you wouldn’t survive to fight back.

There were others. One of the most dangerous systems was the ROLAND, which the French were good enough to sell to anybody with cash. The French have been lousy warriors since Napoleon died, but they did make good equipment. Man-portable systems, called MANPADs, were also further refined and manufactured in huge numbers. These were particularly dangerous to low-altitude fighters, because as infrared (IR) trackers, they tracked heat sources and gave no warning at all unless you happened to see them launched. If you did see one, it could usually be thrown off by a series of flares. But there were always more than one, and spotting it is next to impossible. IR SAMs are simple, cheap, and ideal for the Third World.

The American military had long been enamored with radar-guided SAMs. They were more accurate, longer-ranged, and much harder to defeat, but the problem with that was we assumed everyone else had gone high-tech as well. U.S. fighters weren’t then equipped with any kind of IR warning device. The only warning you had, if any, was when the nasty things zipped past your canopy or your engine blew up.

L
EARNING THE STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES OF THE ENEMY
and his equipment took up a great deal of a new pilot’s time. He also had to study the local flying procedures, remain instrument-qualified, and perfect his fighting skills. And there were always tests. Written exams, check-rides, spot evaluations, and formal training programs called upgrades. It was endless and all-consuming.

And I loved every minute of it.

After the initial two years required just to get into a fighter squadron, a pilot is only a wingman. In order to be listed as Mission Ready, he then goes through additional three or four months of checkout in the various missions for which his squadron is responsible. He’s still a wingman, so he always goes up with a “flight lead.”

There are “two-ship” and “four-ship” flight leads. That is, a pilot who can command the essential fighting element of two aircraft, or one who can lead two pairs. The two-ship, also called an “element,” is the basic fighting pair. These are usually combined into four-ships, six-ships, or even bigger packages, depending on the mission.

Progressing upward through the various tiers of fighter aviation is called “upgrading.” Every wingman aspires to become a flight lead, and his acceptance into that first big upgrade is strictly a matter of performance and individual ability. Lives are at stake, in the air and on the ground. Tens of millions of dollars are at risk every time a flight takes off, so this is not entered into lightly. After a year or two of being a wingman, a young pilot has his name put forward at a weekly meeting of the squadron Instructor Pilots, and his record is discussed. This includes all of his check-rides, test scores, and previous performance in his Mission Qual checkout. His attitude and, most of all, his maturity. On this note, we’re talking about professional maturity and decision-making related to flying. If we were judged by O’Club maturity, everyone would still be a wingman.

This first upgrade is important, because for the previous three to four years you’ve been following others, learning, and generally trying to stay alive. Though there’s considerable autonomy in a single-seat fighter, there’s still always a more experienced pilot nearby to plan, direct, and make most of the decisions. To lead. This mentality change is the first big step.

The actual program is straightforward. Like all upgrade and training programs, it is well organized. There is a syllabus outlining minimum requirements for every aspect of each training flight and the proficiency level needed to pass. It’s all graded.

One of the most significant hurdles for a prospective flight lead is learning the art of the briefing. Briefings are supposed to last no longer than an hour and a half. This sounds like a lot of time, but I can tell you it really isn’t. Now, except in rare cases, the pilots taking part in the mission all helped plan it the day prior. Peacetime briefing rooms are in the part of a fighter squadron called “The Vault.” This is behind a huge metal door, like a bank vault, and contains all the classified information necessary for the squadron’s various missions. No one gets in but pilots and intelligence types. The rooms are about ten by fifteen and set up to accommodate a four-ship briefing. The pilots sit around a central table and the flight lead stands up front and talks. There are white boards for drawing details and tactical scenarios. Sliding panels along the front wall contain things that are usually “standard” for most missions. Rules of engagement for employing weapons, divert field data, ground operations, etc.

The flight lead is responsible for the organization and “flow” of the brief. It starts with a time hack—a synchronization of watches. The “Overview,” which is the intended mission sequence, is discussed. This is called the “Motherhood,” and is all the non-tactical aspects of getting jets off the ground, to and from the base, and back on the ground. Types of takeoffs (afterburner or not), rejoin formations, routes, communications, and the expected return-to-base procedures are all briefed. These events vary considerably with the experience level of the pilots, training requirements, and weather. Contingency plans are a big part of each phase of a brief. How does a four-ship operate as a three-ship if a jet breaks? Who leads the flight if the flight lead doesn’t make it? Air-refueling, night procedures, and a host of other “what if”s? The permutations are endless. Emergencies are also reviewed quickly and concisely, just as they’d be dealt with at 400 knots. There’s always an EP (Emergency Procedure) of the day, where the causes, indications, and solutions are discussed.

A typical briefing will spend about twenty minutes discussing and reviewing this before getting into the point of the mission.Called the “Meat,” this occupies the remaining time. Say it’s a Wild Weasel mission to find and destroy an SA-6 battery protecting a target that is to be hit by strike aircraft. The first step of the Meat is laying out the “Big Picture.” This would include composition of the strike package, their routes into the target area, call signs, radio frequencies, and timing. The latest intelligence is also reviewed—location of the main target, locations of SAMs and Triple-A, and the expected reaction from whomever you’re trying to kill. The “Ingress” to the target area is outlined, including the type of tactical formations, reactions to enemy fighters and SAMs, and communications. A good flight lead will blend in extra information, like countermeasure usage, countertactics, or combat search-and-rescue in the event a jet goes down.

The type of attack is painstakingly detailed. This is, after all, what it’s all about. Weapons with their plethora of settings and variations are discussed. As always, contingencies and how to deal with them at 500 knots, when people are shooting at you, are a major point of discussion.
Everything
bad that could happen can’t be addressed, of course, but the main idea is to have plans that will adapt and work when the shit hits the fan. For instance, suppose a SAM targets you during your attack, or a MiG appears. How is it dealt with? And how do you then re-attack the target? What if the weather over the target area is too bad for your primary chosen attack? Again, lots of variables.

W
HILE THE
C
OLD
W
AR WAS ENDING, WE ONLY DEPLOYED
from our home bases for training. These were never very long, and usually to nice places. In Europe, we had Sardinia for air-to-air training, and England or Spain were our primary deployments for air-to-ground training. Requirements—called “currencies”—are endless in the flying world. You had to drop so many bombs, shoot missiles, land so many times at night, etc. . . . so many per month, every month, or you became non-current. We had to drop a required amount of bombs, within various accuracy parameters, to maintain our Mission Qualified status. When the weather in Germany was bad (about six months out of the year), then we went elsewhere.

A fighter pilot’s first trip to Spain’s Zaragoza Air Base was a chance to participate in a small squadron deployment, which was good practice, and also to go fly in the sun for thirty days with your buddies. Much better than winter in Germany. Zaragoza—or Zab, as we called it—began several thousand years ago as a Roman settlement for army veterans. Goths, Arabs, the Inquisition, and Napoleon had all harassed this place long before we got there. It’s a beautiful city, where bright flowers soften the beige medieval fortifications and Moorish architecture still reigns supreme.

We would usually fly at least once a day; a beautiful, low level along the Spanish coast or through the mountains to the Bardenas bombing range. Wingmen became better wingmen, flight leaders better leaders, and upgrade training was conducted for those who deserved it. Evenings were spent at the Officer’s Club, drinking the local sweet sangria, singing songs, and cooking out on huge open grills. The smells of honeysuckle, charcoal smoke, and fresh fruit are forever etched in my memory. Spain.

It was superb . . .

Every few nights, when the flying schedule permitted, we’d take little taxicabs downtown to eat or see the sights. One of the initiation rights for an unworldly American pilot on his first trip to Zab was the fabled Green Bean Tour. It worked like this. The new guy was assigned an “instructor” to take him through the narrow, dark streets behind the big cathedral in downtown Zaragoza. These little streets were called the Tubes and were lined with carts, street vendors, and hole-in-the-wall snack shops. I use the word
snack
only because you
could
physically eat the stuff.

Actually, that was the game. The new guy had to eat whatever the instructor told him to eat. Between courses, he also had to drink the local red wine, called Tinto, from a leather bouda bag. The rest of the squadron came along to assist in this.

The idea was to survive this haute cuisine gauntlet, and the Tinto, without puking. To my knowledge, no one ever did. At the end of the Tubes was a small stone plaza, where the squadron commander and the higher-ranking officers waited. Having seen this just a few times over the years, they usually opted for a quiet drink together while we promoted goodwill for America among the locals. Well, not really, but they did love our money.

I did fine for most of it. I mean, to the point where I thought I was going to make it to the end. I’d used the Tinto to wash down and disinfect the candied snake, locust poppers, and half a dozen other Spanish treats that had been shoved in my face. But near the end my guide refilled the bouda bag and handed me something on a stick.

“You gotta try this.”

There was some snickering from the crowd.

“Whaddacallit?” I burped back.

“Kinda like a Spanish . . . corndog. Yeah . . . a corndog.”

More snickers.

Well, it was dark and I’d figured out pretty quick not to look closely at the things I was eating. Besides, this was the last stop and I thought I’d made it. Feeling cocky, I swallowed some Tinto to numb my one remaining taste bud, closed my eyes, and took a bite of something crunchy.

I remember briefly feeling quite proud. Whatever I was eating wasn’t too bad and then I’d be finished. The two other lieutenants were already on their hands and knees, getting a better view of the thousand-year-old gutter. Everyone else was chuckling, since they’d been in the same situation at some point in their careers.

“Howizzit?” someone asked.

I nodded, now an expert on all Spanish snack food, and replied with total confidence, “Good. How ’bout another?”