Free Afterburners by William Robert Stanek

at your nine o’clock!”
        No questions asked, the pilot did an evasive combat dive and our hearts jumped into our mouths. Everything that wasn’t bolted down went flying and we learned our first important combat lesson: if you don’t need it, don’t put it on your position.
        We were leveling off and about to turn back onto our orbit when Gypsy called out again, “Shadow, those bogies are bandits. Repeat, bandits nine o’clock high!” I’m not sure if anyone pissed in his pants, but I imagine some came close. The pilot took the Lady into another hard dive. Part of the MiG CAP sped off, chasing the Bandits. Gypsy was directing them hard—the crew in the AWACS were just as excited as we were.
        We stayed on orbit, continuing our evasive maneuvers for fifteen tortured minutes. The radios were alive with screaming voices. Eagle Leader was advising that the Bandits were Soviet-made MiGs. And Gypsy was still directing the Eagle formation hard.
        In the background I heard that Phantom was returning to base—bugging out as we called it.
        Paladin-1, the Eagles’ leader was screaming, but I couldn’t discern his squawk from amidst all the other chatter. The radios were drowned in a clutter of excited voices.
        The Eagles were doing their job, following Gypsy’s advice, and some of us were praying. It’s a good thing that during combat stations we were to remain strapped in and that no one had been in the rear except for the Spotter who was clinging to the starboard door for his life. Big John, the AMT, and Craig, who was supposed to sit Position Four but was spotting, were thanking the Almighty that they had their chutes on. Later that morning, someone would call Craig, the newly wed, Cosmo, and the name would stick.
        “Gypsy, Paladin-3 advises Bandits are Mirages not MiGs,” the voice of Paladin-1 squawked into my headset along with all the others.
        The F-1 Mirage wasn’t the deadliest fighter in the Iraqi inventory, but the F-1 crews were very skilled and had been tempered by the long Iran-Iraq war. I was sure the Eagles were taking the confrontation with deadly seriousness.
        We continued to work, our hearts in our throats. I didn’t have time to look about the cabin; but from the voices in my ears, I knew who was doing his job and who wasn’t. PBJ to my right was still visibly shaken. He just sat there still as can be, his eyes glossed over. In combat you either rise or you fall, and PBJ was teetering on the edge of that bottomless pit.
        Abruptly Captain Willie’s voice tweaked in our ears, “Pilot, MCC, the packages have safely egressed. We’re cleared off stations. Let’s get out of here now!”
        “Roger, MCC, breaking off,” responded the pilot, relieved.
        We headed home. The prospect of safety somewhere ahead snatched PBJ away from the endless fall. I could see in his eyes that he, like me, was a survivor. It had only taken him longer to realize it.
        No one relaxed again until we were wheels down. In the end, the bandits got away, but we didn’t care, our CAP of Eagles had done their job—in the confusion, that final bit of information had been lost. The incident prepared some of us for a day when the shit really would hit the fan, a day when the bandits would be coming after us hungry.
        The adrenaline pump I felt wouldn’t slip away until well after debrief. Debrief lasted about an hour.
        Afterward, we turned in our weapons and the extra gear we had checked out. It was 13:00 before we left base ops and it was only then that I realized how exhausted I was; functioning on three hours of sleep just didn’t cut it. In the PME, I fell asleep, flight suit and all. At the time, none of us knew it, but this would be our shortest and easiest day for days to come.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
Monday, 21 January 1991
     
     
     
    I’m weary, bone tired. Saturday and Sunday I flew on my second and