超级军网1991年1月19 F-16空袭伊拉克核研究所的真实HUD录像
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Heart stopping video footage from the HUD of an American F-16, as it uses evasive manuevers to dodge Surface-to-air missiles over Baghdad in the 1991 Gulf War.
The aircraft, callsign Stroke 3, is one of 72 aircrafts that composed the largest strike package throughout the war, named package Q, launched on the 3rd day of the air campaign with targets in and around downtown Baghdad. During the raid, 3 aircrafts, Stroke 1, Stroke 4 and Clap 4 (an F-15C) were lost due to surface to air missiles. The result prompted air commanders to realize that defenses in Baghdad remained lethal, and it was not worth the risk to send more conventional, non-stealth aircrafts into the heart of those defenses. Moreover, F-16 packages remained small, thus more managable and easily coordinated.
Apparently, this was no longer the case 12 years later, when F-16s returned to baghdad with enhanced capabilities, performing surpression of enemy air defense, combat air patrol and close air support for coalition forces in the air, and on the ground.
More info on the links below
http://www.f-16.net/index.php?na ... iewtopic&t=6737
http://www.f-16.net/index.php?na ... ewtopic&t=10941
http://www.f-16.net/articles_article8.html
http://www.lucky-devils.net/afm.html
http://www.lucky-devils.net/baghdad.html
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=dc0_1240788325
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=4df_1240789834
飞行员的记叙：
19 JANUARY 1991
"Here's the lineup for today's mission," Damien began. "I'll be the mission commander, and our target is the Iraqi nuclear research facility in Tawaitha, just south of downtown Baghdad. Everything you need—maps, satellite photos, lineup cards, tanker cards, and attack cards—is in your envelopes. The package will consist of seventy-eight aircraft. Pennzoil, a flight of four F-15s, will be on the point. They'll be followed by eight F-4Gs—call sign Schlitz and Lowenbrau. Wedge, a flight of two EF-111 s, is next in line, followed by my flight, Basset 01 through 08."
Pilots from all three squadrons filled the makeshift beer tent, which reeked of stale cigar smoke and spilled beer. For many, that afternoon's mission would be their first in combat. Every commander in the wing, including Col. Navarro, was in attendance. By the looks on their faces, the sortie was going to be a tough one.
"Collar 11 through 18 will follow Basset," Damien continued. "Next will be Rover 21, a flight of four. They'll be followed by twelve pilots from the 69th—Dane 31, a flight of eight, and Ruff 41, a flight of four. Howler 51 and Pointer 61—a pair of eight-ships from the 4th—will complete the package from the 388th. Sixteen more Vipers assigned to the 401st TFW from Torrejon AB, Spain, will depart Doha, Qatar, and merge with us when we push across the Saudi border. Their call signs will be Clap 71 and Stroke 01."
The element I'd be flying in was about a third of the way into the package. Cliffy's call sign was Collar 11, and his flight included Raj, Harpo, and Martyr. Grover, sitting to the right of me, was scheduled to lead Collar 15 flight. I'd fly on his wing as Collar 16. Rounding out the rest of the formation were Capt. lay "Mans" Moheit and Lt. Steve "Wheel" Ferris. While we copied down the lineup, Mans leaned over: "Thank God we're not at the end of this thing."
Damien spent the next hour covering every aspect of the mission. The weather over the target area was supposed to clear by the time we arrived, so everyone would get a good look at the facility as they rolled in. Unfortunately, clear weather also meant the Iraqi gunners would have a good view of us. Being shot at wasn't going to be fun.
As soon as Damien finished, Col. Navarro stood up to address the group. The Warden hadn't spoken to a room full of pilots in months, and everyone was surprised. Other than in the mess hall, I hadn't even seen him since Gen. Glosson was on base.
"Let me have your attention, if I could. Today's mission may very well be the most important mission of the war. For those of you who don't remember, on 7 June 1981, eight Israeli F-16s bombed the Osirak nuclear reactor in Tawaitha. The nuclear facility has since been rebuilt, and in a few hours you'll attempt to destroy it a second time."
Everyone listened intently. No one knew how close the Iraqis were to building a nuclear weapon, but if this mission was successful, Saddam Hussein's ability to build one would suffer another major setback.
"The 388th TFW is going to be in the spotlight today," Navarro continued. "President Bush and other coalition leaders will be watching closely to see how we do. You've trained all your lives for a mission like this, and a lot of people are depending on you. Make them proud. Make your country proud. Fly safe, put your bombs on target, and I'll see you at the bar after you land."
Since the nuclear research facility was so important to Saddam Hussein, we figured it would be Iraq's most heavily defended target. We expected to see a barrage of SA-2s, SA- 3s, SA-6s, and SA-8s as we had encountered the day before. The AAA, ranging in size from 12.7 millimeters to 100 millimeters, should be thick as well. I also expected a confrontation with the Iraqi air force. Seventy-eight American fighters mixing it up with Iraqi MiGs would result in one hell of a fur ball.
10:00:00z
"Basset 01, check," Damien calls out.
"Basset 02, loud and clear." "Basset 03, loud and clear." "Basset 04, loud and clear."
"Basset 05, loud and clear." "Basset 06, loud and clear." "Basset 07, loud and clear."
"Basset 08, loud and clear." "Collar 11, loud and clear." "Collar 12, loud and clear."
"Collar 13, loud and clear." "Collar 14, loud and clear."
All of a sudden, a pause.
Grover isn't answering. I hesitate a moment, then chime in: "Collar 16, loud and clear." The rest of the pilots continue the check-in. I look around to see where Grover is. I spot him across the ramp in the back of the line chief's pickup truck. He's on his way to a spare jet.
Son of a bitch! This is the mission of a lifetime, and my flight lead has a broken jet. There's no way he'll be ready to take off on time. If he can't go, there's a good chance I'll have to ground-abort with him. We need a four-ship flight lead to replace Grover, and we need him now. Mans and I are only two-ship flight leads, and Wheel is just a wing- man. I'm disappointed, but I'm going to continue on until someone tells me otherwise. If the 388th TFW is going to make history, I want to be a part of it.
After the check-in, forty-seven Vipers begin to taxi. Only twenty minutes to takeoff, and Grover still doesn't have a jet. As I roll past the 69th ramp, Dane and Ruff flights complete their final preparations. All of a sudden, Lt. Col. Rackley calls out: "Collar 13, this is Taz."
"Collar 13, go ahead," Harpo replies.
"Are you ready to be a four-ship flight lead?" Taz asks.
"Yes, sir!" Harpo replies with gusto.
"Okay. Your new call sign is Collar 15, and Collar 11 will go as a three-ship."
"Collar 11 copies," replies Cliffy.
"Collar 15 copies," replies Harpo.
Harpo is only a two-ship flight lead, but he has plenty of experience in the F-16, and handling a four-ship shouldn't be difficult for him. I'm relieved. As soon as we reach the arming area, Harpo and I look at each other and throw our fists in the air.
Only five minutes to go before takeoff and I can feel the excitement on the flight line. Maintenance personnel standing along the taxiway cheer as the F-16s roll by. Dozens more wave from the balcony atop the 4th squadron.
As soon as I pull into the arming area, the crew chiefs rush over to arm my weapons. Once their inspection is complete, I turn on my VTR and title my tape.
"Captain Keith Rosenkranz... Collar 16 ... 2211 foxtrot... Two MK-84s... TOT is 13:33 zulu ... Takeoff time is 10:50 zulu ... Date is 19 January '91 ... Tail number is 452."
10:50:00z
Damien releases his brakes. Basset 02 and other members of the formation follow every twenty seconds. As each pilot begins his takeoff roll, another Viper taxies into position. Approaching the runway, I pass by Taz and give him the Juvat snake signal. Taz, a former Juvat himself, returns the signal and motions me on my way. I taxi into position alongside Harpo, set my brakes, and wait for my turn to take off. When Basset 08 releases his brakes, Harpo taxies forward to the 1,000-foot marker. By the time he arrives, Collar 11 begins his takeoff roll. I watch as the nozzle from Cliffy's engine expands. A burst of orange flame. The thrust rocks my wings. As he propels down the runway, I pull forward into position. One minute to go.
Before I run my engine up, I glance at the giant MK-84s sitting beneath my wing. The bomb on my right says "Candice and Kristen" on one side and "To Saddam from Phil and Charlee" on the other. The bomb on the left says "Sweet Colette" and "To Saddam from Dion." I know Skull would give anything to be a part of this. Unfortunately, most of the weapons-school instructors are back at Nellis AFB instead of where they should be—with us on this mission. If I can't fly on Skull's wing, the least I can do is let him fly on mine.
10:53:50z
With my feet firmly on the brake pedals, I push my throttle up to 80 percent RPM and check my engine instruments. After a quick salute to Mans, I'm on my way. Once airborne, I raise my gear and begin to search for Harpo. I spot him on radar passing through one thousand feet, and, within minutes, I complete the rejoin. Crossing the shoreline, I select steerpoint two—a tip of land at the southeastern edge of Qatar. Now that the mission is underway, I feel a lot more comfortable and confident. But anxiety still persists, and I know it will worsen as the mission progresses.
The "Railroad" ARCP is four hundred miles on our nose, and our ETA is 1 l:48:00z. As soon as we reach the track, we'll have roughly thirty-five minutes to refuel. Push time is 12:22:17z and we expect to cross into Iraqi territory at 12:49:12z. Our TOT is set for 13:33:00z, a little less than three hours from now. The plan isn't much different than what we did yesterday. Damien will check the entire package in with AWACS, and, to maintain the element of surprise, all air refueling will be accomplished using comm-out procedures.
12:49:12z
Passing steerpoint five, Harpo calls for a fence check, and the flight transitions to fluid-four. The afternoon sun is positioned above my right shoulder, and the clouds of yesterday have scattered. Below me, the brownish red tint of Iraq's desert landscape is plainly visible. Every muscle in my body is tense, but my mind is focused. The volume of my RWR is turned up, my air-to-air radar is scanning from 33,000 feet down, and my head is on a swivel, clearing for SAMs and bogeys. AWACS is calling "picture clear," but I have a feeling the Iraqis are nearby.
Passing steerpoint six, we veer left to a 335-degree heading. Our IP, an Iraqi airfield called Shayka Mazhar, is 253 miles on our nose. Tawaitha is only eighteen miles north of the airfield and sits on the eastern banks of the Tigris River. If everything goes as planned, we'll pick up a 337-degree heading after the IP and parallel the river. The sun should help disguise our roll-in and prevent Iraqi gunners from picking us up visually. In addition, transmissions from our ECM pods combined with radar-jamming from the EF-11 Is should flood Iraqi radar sites with dozens of false targets.
I know what it's like to be scared in the air. I can't begin to imagine how terrified the Iraqi soldiers must be on the ground. In less than thirty minutes, 128 MK-84s will begin to rain from the sky. Each bomb contains 945 pounds of tritenol explosive filler, encased in 1,000 pounds of steel. They're the largest weapons carried by an F-16 and are normally used to destroy buildings, bridges, runways, and concrete-reinforced bunkers. An instant before it explodes, the MK-84's steel casing swells to twice its normal size. The blast creates a fifty-foot-wide crater. It sends jagged pieces of steel half a mile in every direction. Within that half mile, death is instantaneous.
13:27.-00z
I switch on my VTR and select HUD. Our element is 26 miles from the IP, at 27,000 feet. My RWR scope is clean. A check of my GPS page shows high system accuracy. My INS diamond should be directly over the target when I roll in.
The closer I get to the facility, the faster my heart pounds. Again, a flight suit soaked in sweat. I'm waiting for the MiGs. They haven't shown themselves. Then an F-15 pilot calls out a visual on a missile at his left ten o'clock. As soon as he makes his call, another voice calls out: "That's Lowenbrau 3's HARM!" I check my RWR and air-to-air radar to be sure. They're both clean.
13:28:27z
"Basset 01 is in," Damien calls out.
Three seconds later, Basset 02 follows him down the chute. I check my master arm switch to ensure it's armed, and continue to clear for SAMs. The first bombs are about to hit the facility.
Twenty miles south of the IP, an SA-2 symbol appears in the upper-right quadrant of my RWR scope, and a steady buzz fills my headset. Before I can say anything, a series of seven beeps ring out. The SA-2 site has me targeted, and the missile is airborne.
"Collar 16, launch right two o'clock!" I radio frantically.
A death grip on my stick, I begin to weave while punching out bundles of chaff. A few seconds later, a second symbol appears on the scope, followed by another launch indication. I key my mike and call out again: "Collar 16, two launch on the nose!"
"Collar 18 is tally-ho!" Wheel answers. Trying to stay calm, I continue my weave and search for the missile. Finally, I spot the contrail at my twelve o'clock.
"Collar 16, tally cons on the nose!" I radio.
Approaching the IP, my RWR is going ballistic. SA-2s, SA-3s, SA-6s, SA-8s—they're everywhere!
I roll left, then quickly to the right. Flashes of orange and yellow appear from both sides of the river below. Each flash is followed by another launch indication on my RWR scope. White smoke trails from behind each missile as it rockets skyward. One passes well to my left and another to my right. As if the SAMs aren't enough, antiaircraft shells begin to explode around me, sending popcorn-shaped cloudbursts of black flak in every direction. How long can I take this?
13:29:40z
Harpo is 2,000 feet away at my left eleven o'clock. As he turns in front of me, I pull to the right to maintain position. SAMs continue to appear off our left, but the radios are saturated, and it's hard to get a call out.
"Basset 01, SAM left eleven!" Damien screams.
I follow his call with three more of my own: "Collar 15, check your left ten!" "Collar 16,17... check your left ten!" "Collar 18, check your left nine ... cons left nine!"
A pair of enemy SAMs are tracking our formation, and if we don't do something about it fast, we're going to get spanked. All of a sudden, one of the missiles detonates at my left eight o'clock—too low to have an effect. The other missile is still tracking us, but it appears to be running out of energy. Frozen and unable to suck a breath, I watch as the dormant missile falls back toward the ground.
I check my HUD. The target is only thirteen miles away. I call up my air-to-ground mode and descend to gain airspeed. With one eye on the ground and another on Harpo, I prepare for the roll-in. Missile contrails fill the sky. The flak is thicker than soup. At 8.3 DME, I get a Hawk symbol on the left side of my RWR scope, along with another launch indication.
"Collar 16, Hawk launch left nine!" I yell.
Within seconds, my RWR scope fills up again. The Iraqi gunners know exactly where I'm at, and they have me locked. The launch indications are continuous. It finally reaches a point where I can no longer hear them. My mind is task-saturated. I hear radio calls and tones from my RWR, but I don't have the time to discern their meaning. Nor could I—not with all my energy focused on one thing: hitting the target. If I get shot down, then so be it. I am wot going to miss this time.
I glance at the satellite photo, then outside again, looking for the bend in the Tigris River. The nuclear facility should be to the right of it and slightly south. Harpo is ahead and to my right. As soon as he rolls in, I pause for a moment, then follow. As I roll into ninety degrees of bank, the nose of my jet slices toward the ground. At this point, I'm oblivious to everything around me. Passing through 22,000 feet, I get the max-toss cue in my HUD. I still don't see the target. I increase my bank angle to 135 degrees, and, finally, my diamond appears. To my dismay, the entire facility is obscured by smoke. It has to be from the other bombs. My only option is to pickle on the diamond. I overshoot slightly to the left, then roll back right. Passing 17,000 feet, I'm thirty-five degrees nose-low at 450 knots. I hit the missile step button and transition from CCRP to CCIP. I level my wings and place the bombfall line directly over the diamond. As the pipper tracks upward, my thumb sits on the pickle button. If I so much as blink, the pipper will pass long.
Not yet... just a little b i t . . . now!
I hit the pickle button and start to pull off.
13:32:42z
Passing 14,700 feet, my aircraft shudders as the bombs release. I continue my five-G recovery until the nose of my F-16 reaches the horizon. I check right for Harpo, but he's nowhere to be found. With flak exploding in every direction, I plug in the afterburner and pull my nose up to thirty degrees. I'm in the heart of the SAM envelope. If I don't gain some altitude in a hurry, life as I know it will come to an end. I look to my right and see a bright red object streaking toward me. I pull back on the stick as hard as I can and scream into my mike: "Collar 16, SAM launch right nine!" I should have said "right three," but with so many missiles in the air, who cares?
I continue to climb and quickly realize that I've bled off too much energy. Passing 20,500 feet, my airspeed drops below 200 knots. If I'm going to outmaneuver this missile, I have to decrease my drag and regain my energy. My only hope is to jettison my wing tanks. Reaching toward my left console, I hit the emergency jettison button. The aircraft shudders. I look out the left side of my canopy and see the tanks tumbling in slow motion toward earth. When I check back to the right, I see the missile pass at my six o'clock. It must have missed, because I'm still here.
13:33:48z
Passing 21,000 feet on a 130-degree heading, I see a missile explode a few thousand feet in front of me. It looks as though an aircraft may have been hit. To designate the position, I hit the Mark button on my up-front control. This stores the coordinates of my present position. If AWACS calls and needs a reference point, I can call up the coordinates and pass them along.
I accelerate to 300 knots and continue climbing. The radios are saturated, and I'm still getting launch indications on my RWR scope. Most pilots have lost sight of their wingmen, including me. I have no idea where Harpo is or if he's even alive. Passing 26,000 feet, though, I finally hear his voice.
"Collar 16, posit!" Harpo barks out.
"Collar 16 is blind," I reply. "I'm on the three-two-zero for one-four off of egress."
"Copy that," Harpo answers. "I'm three miles on your nose."
As I gain altitude, my fear begins to subside. I call up my air-to-air radar and begin to search for Harpo's jet. I call up steerpoint ten, the Gabriel exit point. According to the ROE, every fighter must pass over this point or risk being shot down by the Eagles.
Approximately 183 miles north of the Saudi border, I pick up a visual on Harpo and begin to rejoin. Seconds later, the radios erupt again: "Stroke 1 took a hit! Stroke 1 took a hit!"
"Stroke 1 took a hit!" I call out to Choctaw.
For a moment, the radios fall silent.
"Okay, I got a fire ... standby... I'm just south of steerpoint number seven ... I'm still flying... and I'm heading south. Okay, I took a pretty good hit, and I've got no engine."
I check my position from steerpoint seven. Stroke 1 is sixty miles behind me.
"I'm good!" Stroke 1 radios. "I'm an F-16 in a left-hand orbit just south of steerpoint ten. I've lost everything up here, guys."
I can't believe I'm hearing this. There's nothing any of us can do to help him. My heart is in my throat.
"I'm good," he calls out. "I'm good."
Thinking he said "I'm gone," I key my mike and radio: "He jumped out!" But a few seconds later, he starts talking again.
"Okay... Stroke 1... I've still got an engine... it's still working. I'm angels 26! I don't know what steerpoint I'm at."
Angels 26 puts him at 26,000 feet. I'm only 175 miles from the border, so he must be just south of the IP.
"This is Stroke 1. I'm the wounded bird, and I got about three hundred fifty knots going two-eight-zero."
"Clap 7 is visual. I'm at your left eleven low!"
"Roger" Stroke one replies. "Unable to roll left very easily. I'm losing fuel like crazy up here. I've only got twenty-six hundred pounds worth of gas according to my totalizer. I'm going to take it as far as I can. How far are you from the border?"
I continue to close on Harpo, but all I can think about is Stroke 1. The border is too far. There's no way he's going to make it. Picturing myself in the same position reminds me of the movie The Bridges at Toko-Ri. William Holden plays a young fighter pilot whose jet is hit during a bombing run over Korea. His beautiful wife, played by Grace Kelly, and two young daughters are waiting for him to return to the United States. Unfortunately, he never makes it home. His jet can't make the border, and a search-andrescue team is shot down trying to save him. He eventually dies at the hands of the communists in a muddy Korean ditch.
"Okay, Stroke 1 just sel-jetted his tanks. I'm going for the moon."
"Choctaw,"AWACS calls out, "when able, posit on Stroke 1."
"Clap 7, Stroke 1.1 got no heading indication up here, buddy. What should I do?"
"Turn left thirty degrees," Clap 7 responds.
"I don't know what thirty degrees is," Stroke 1 answers with frustration. "Does this look good?"
13:52:25z
"Clap 7, this is Stroke 1. How am I doing, buddy?"
"Looking good, bud," Clap 7 replies.
"How far to the border?" Stroke 1 asks.
"Two-oh-six!"
"Copy... two-oh-six."
The radios are silent for a moment, and then the conversation continues.
"Okay, Clap. Stroke 1 is not going to make it too much longer. Any idea where I'm at?"
"One hundred eighty miles to point ten," Clap responds.
"Okay," Stroke 1 replies. "I'm starting to lose oil pressure now."
Harpo and I continue heading south at 35,000 feet. Gabriel is one hundred miles on our nose and, as soon as we cross the border, we'll head for the Kiwi air-refueling track for post-strike refueling. In the meantime, I'm doing my best to keep it together.
"I've got a Raven right underneath me," Stroke 1 calls out. "I got a Raven underneath me."
"Roger," the EF-111 pilot replies. "We're watching you. We'll stay with you."
"Okay, Wedge," Stroke 1 answers. "I appreciate it. Please don't get hurt, buddy. You can go out in front of me, okay?"
"We're gonna stay with you, man," Wedge answers. "Just hang on."
"I'm hangin' on," Stroke 1 laughs nervously. "Don't worry about me. I'm just a little low on the fuel now."
13:55:00z
"Okay, Wedge, this is Stroke 1... and we're about ready to lose it here. I'm okay right now. It ain't going to be much longer, though. The oil's just about zero. Hydraulics are good, though."
There's another pause and then Stroke 1 asks: "Hey, Wedge, how we doing? How far to the border?"
"One hundred sixty-four miles," Wedge responds.
"Okay. You get 'em out here for me in case I gotta go."
Before Wedge can respond, Stroke 1 calls out again: "Okay... Stroke 1... I just lost my engine ... I'm on EPU!"
The F-16 EPU is designed to operate automatically when an engine flames out. The unit is powered by hydrazine, a chemical mixture of nitrogen, hydrogen, ammonia, and water. When the EPU fires, the gaseous products spin a turbine gearbox, which powers the EPU generator and a hydraulic pump. Unfortunately, the system can only operate for about ten minutes. Once the hydrazine is depleted, the aircraft will go out of control.
"I'm doing my best Bogart here," Stroke 1 jokes.
14:OQ:OOz
"Choctaw, Stroke 1."
"Stroke 1, go!" the controller replies.
"Roger. Stroke 1 is squawking emergency right now. I'm not sure of my position, but
I'm about one hundred thirty miles nbrth of Gabriel is my guess... heading one-ninezero at this time."
"Stroke 1, Choctaw... good contact."
"Okay, I'm at angels 22 right now and I don't think I'm going to be with it much longer. We're hangin' on."
"Stroke 1, roger," Choctaw replies. "Good radar contact—good Mode C."
"Thank you," Stroke 1 responds quietly.
While Wedge continues to escort Stroke 1 south toward Gabriel, Clap 7 makes an emergency call for fuel.
"Choctaw, Clap 7."
"Clap 7, go," Choctaw responds.
"Got a three-ship of Vipers holding for fuel. Request snap to nearest tanker."
"Clap, say posit from Gabriel."
"Three-four-zero ... one-eighteen," Clap answers.
The controller pauses for a moment, then barks: "Clap, snap two-two-five!"
"Copy, snap two-two-five."
"Tanker two-two-zero ... one-eighteen," Choctaw radios.
"Two-two-zero ... one-eighteen ... Clap 7."
Without warning, Stroke 1 radios: "That's all I've got, guys. I'm outta here!"
There's a slight pause, and then I recognize Foot's voice on the radio.
"Good luck," he says.
It's a moment I'll remember as long as I live.
14:02:34z
As soon as we cross Gabriel and into Saudi airspace, Harpo turns toward the Kiwi airrefueling track. I'm getting low on fuel, and we need to find our tanker ASAP. As soon as we arrive at the ARCP, Harpo calls out contacts at our left ten o'clock for thirty miles. I check my radar and answer: "Two's same."
Harpo completes the rejoin and pulls to within a mile of the KG-10. The blue-andwhite Extender is the only tanker available, and it already has three chicks in tow.
"F- 16s on the Kiwi tanker, say call sign," Harpo radios.
"Collar 11, flight of three."
It's Cliffy!
"Collar 11, this is Collar 15. My wingman is low on fuel. Request permission to rejoin."
"Collar 15," Cliffy responds, "you're cleared to the right wing. As soon as Collar 18 is through, Collar 16 can refuel."
I open my air-refueling door as Harpo proceeds to the right wing of the tanker. When Wheel comes off the boom, I slide into position. I only need a few thousand pounds to make it back to Al Minhad, and, as soon as I have it, I disconnect and resume my position on the right wing of the KG-10. In the meantime, another flight reports the ARCP inbound. Cliffy tells me to head back to Al Minhad and puts Wheel on my wing for the flight home.
On our way back to the base, I level off and tell Wheel to take spacing. As soon as I call up steerpoint sixteen, I switch on my autopilot and proceed direct to Al Minhad. The sun has already set, and thousands of stars begin to flood the night sky. Looking back, I wonder how any of us made it out of the target area. If yesterday's flight was a milk run, today's sortie was the mission from hell.
Later that evening in the beer tent, pilots from all three squadrons met to congratulate each other on a job well done. Everyone had a war story to tell. It was hard to believe the 388th TFW didn't lose a single jet. The 401st TFW lost two F- 16s during the sortie: Stroke 1 and Stroke 4. According to Col. Huddle, a SAM pierced Stroke 4's jet as he came off target. His aircraft came apart, and a chute was never spotted. The news about Stroke 1 wasn't good either. Search-and-rescue forces tried to recover the downed pilot—without success.Heart stopping video footage from the HUD of an American F-16, as it uses evasive manuevers to dodge Surface-to-air missiles over Baghdad in the 1991 Gulf War.
The aircraft, callsign Stroke 3, is one of 72 aircrafts that composed the largest strike package throughout the war, named package Q, launched on the 3rd day of the air campaign with targets in and around downtown Baghdad. During the raid, 3 aircrafts, Stroke 1, Stroke 4 and Clap 4 (an F-15C) were lost due to surface to air missiles. The result prompted air commanders to realize that defenses in Baghdad remained lethal, and it was not worth the risk to send more conventional, non-stealth aircrafts into the heart of those defenses. Moreover, F-16 packages remained small, thus more managable and easily coordinated.
Apparently, this was no longer the case 12 years later, when F-16s returned to baghdad with enhanced capabilities, performing surpression of enemy air defense, combat air patrol and close air support for coalition forces in the air, and on the ground.
More info on the links below
http://www.f-16.net/index.php?na ... iewtopic&t=6737
http://www.f-16.net/index.php?na ... ewtopic&t=10941
http://www.f-16.net/articles_article8.html
http://www.lucky-devils.net/afm.html
http://www.lucky-devils.net/baghdad.html
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=dc0_1240788325
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=4df_1240789834
飞行员的记叙：
19 JANUARY 1991
"Here's the lineup for today's mission," Damien began. "I'll be the mission commander, and our target is the Iraqi nuclear research facility in Tawaitha, just south of downtown Baghdad. Everything you need—maps, satellite photos, lineup cards, tanker cards, and attack cards—is in your envelopes. The package will consist of seventy-eight aircraft. Pennzoil, a flight of four F-15s, will be on the point. They'll be followed by eight F-4Gs—call sign Schlitz and Lowenbrau. Wedge, a flight of two EF-111 s, is next in line, followed by my flight, Basset 01 through 08."
Pilots from all three squadrons filled the makeshift beer tent, which reeked of stale cigar smoke and spilled beer. For many, that afternoon's mission would be their first in combat. Every commander in the wing, including Col. Navarro, was in attendance. By the looks on their faces, the sortie was going to be a tough one.
"Collar 11 through 18 will follow Basset," Damien continued. "Next will be Rover 21, a flight of four. They'll be followed by twelve pilots from the 69th—Dane 31, a flight of eight, and Ruff 41, a flight of four. Howler 51 and Pointer 61—a pair of eight-ships from the 4th—will complete the package from the 388th. Sixteen more Vipers assigned to the 401st TFW from Torrejon AB, Spain, will depart Doha, Qatar, and merge with us when we push across the Saudi border. Their call signs will be Clap 71 and Stroke 01."
The element I'd be flying in was about a third of the way into the package. Cliffy's call sign was Collar 11, and his flight included Raj, Harpo, and Martyr. Grover, sitting to the right of me, was scheduled to lead Collar 15 flight. I'd fly on his wing as Collar 16. Rounding out the rest of the formation were Capt. lay "Mans" Moheit and Lt. Steve "Wheel" Ferris. While we copied down the lineup, Mans leaned over: "Thank God we're not at the end of this thing."
Damien spent the next hour covering every aspect of the mission. The weather over the target area was supposed to clear by the time we arrived, so everyone would get a good look at the facility as they rolled in. Unfortunately, clear weather also meant the Iraqi gunners would have a good view of us. Being shot at wasn't going to be fun.
As soon as Damien finished, Col. Navarro stood up to address the group. The Warden hadn't spoken to a room full of pilots in months, and everyone was surprised. Other than in the mess hall, I hadn't even seen him since Gen. Glosson was on base.
"Let me have your attention, if I could. Today's mission may very well be the most important mission of the war. For those of you who don't remember, on 7 June 1981, eight Israeli F-16s bombed the Osirak nuclear reactor in Tawaitha. The nuclear facility has since been rebuilt, and in a few hours you'll attempt to destroy it a second time."
Everyone listened intently. No one knew how close the Iraqis were to building a nuclear weapon, but if this mission was successful, Saddam Hussein's ability to build one would suffer another major setback.
"The 388th TFW is going to be in the spotlight today," Navarro continued. "President Bush and other coalition leaders will be watching closely to see how we do. You've trained all your lives for a mission like this, and a lot of people are depending on you. Make them proud. Make your country proud. Fly safe, put your bombs on target, and I'll see you at the bar after you land."
Since the nuclear research facility was so important to Saddam Hussein, we figured it would be Iraq's most heavily defended target. We expected to see a barrage of SA-2s, SA- 3s, SA-6s, and SA-8s as we had encountered the day before. The AAA, ranging in size from 12.7 millimeters to 100 millimeters, should be thick as well. I also expected a confrontation with the Iraqi air force. Seventy-eight American fighters mixing it up with Iraqi MiGs would result in one hell of a fur ball.
10:00:00z
"Basset 01, check," Damien calls out.
"Basset 02, loud and clear." "Basset 03, loud and clear." "Basset 04, loud and clear."
"Basset 05, loud and clear." "Basset 06, loud and clear." "Basset 07, loud and clear."
"Basset 08, loud and clear." "Collar 11, loud and clear." "Collar 12, loud and clear."
"Collar 13, loud and clear." "Collar 14, loud and clear."
All of a sudden, a pause.
Grover isn't answering. I hesitate a moment, then chime in: "Collar 16, loud and clear." The rest of the pilots continue the check-in. I look around to see where Grover is. I spot him across the ramp in the back of the line chief's pickup truck. He's on his way to a spare jet.
Son of a bitch! This is the mission of a lifetime, and my flight lead has a broken jet. There's no way he'll be ready to take off on time. If he can't go, there's a good chance I'll have to ground-abort with him. We need a four-ship flight lead to replace Grover, and we need him now. Mans and I are only two-ship flight leads, and Wheel is just a wing- man. I'm disappointed, but I'm going to continue on until someone tells me otherwise. If the 388th TFW is going to make history, I want to be a part of it.
After the check-in, forty-seven Vipers begin to taxi. Only twenty minutes to takeoff, and Grover still doesn't have a jet. As I roll past the 69th ramp, Dane and Ruff flights complete their final preparations. All of a sudden, Lt. Col. Rackley calls out: "Collar 13, this is Taz."
"Collar 13, go ahead," Harpo replies.
"Are you ready to be a four-ship flight lead?" Taz asks.
"Yes, sir!" Harpo replies with gusto.
"Okay. Your new call sign is Collar 15, and Collar 11 will go as a three-ship."
"Collar 11 copies," replies Cliffy.
"Collar 15 copies," replies Harpo.
Harpo is only a two-ship flight lead, but he has plenty of experience in the F-16, and handling a four-ship shouldn't be difficult for him. I'm relieved. As soon as we reach the arming area, Harpo and I look at each other and throw our fists in the air.
Only five minutes to go before takeoff and I can feel the excitement on the flight line. Maintenance personnel standing along the taxiway cheer as the F-16s roll by. Dozens more wave from the balcony atop the 4th squadron.
As soon as I pull into the arming area, the crew chiefs rush over to arm my weapons. Once their inspection is complete, I turn on my VTR and title my tape.
"Captain Keith Rosenkranz... Collar 16 ... 2211 foxtrot... Two MK-84s... TOT is 13:33 zulu ... Takeoff time is 10:50 zulu ... Date is 19 January '91 ... Tail number is 452."
10:50:00z
Damien releases his brakes. Basset 02 and other members of the formation follow every twenty seconds. As each pilot begins his takeoff roll, another Viper taxies into position. Approaching the runway, I pass by Taz and give him the Juvat snake signal. Taz, a former Juvat himself, returns the signal and motions me on my way. I taxi into position alongside Harpo, set my brakes, and wait for my turn to take off. When Basset 08 releases his brakes, Harpo taxies forward to the 1,000-foot marker. By the time he arrives, Collar 11 begins his takeoff roll. I watch as the nozzle from Cliffy's engine expands. A burst of orange flame. The thrust rocks my wings. As he propels down the runway, I pull forward into position. One minute to go.
Before I run my engine up, I glance at the giant MK-84s sitting beneath my wing. The bomb on my right says "Candice and Kristen" on one side and "To Saddam from Phil and Charlee" on the other. The bomb on the left says "Sweet Colette" and "To Saddam from Dion." I know Skull would give anything to be a part of this. Unfortunately, most of the weapons-school instructors are back at Nellis AFB instead of where they should be—with us on this mission. If I can't fly on Skull's wing, the least I can do is let him fly on mine.
10:53:50z
With my feet firmly on the brake pedals, I push my throttle up to 80 percent RPM and check my engine instruments. After a quick salute to Mans, I'm on my way. Once airborne, I raise my gear and begin to search for Harpo. I spot him on radar passing through one thousand feet, and, within minutes, I complete the rejoin. Crossing the shoreline, I select steerpoint two—a tip of land at the southeastern edge of Qatar. Now that the mission is underway, I feel a lot more comfortable and confident. But anxiety still persists, and I know it will worsen as the mission progresses.
The "Railroad" ARCP is four hundred miles on our nose, and our ETA is 1 l:48:00z. As soon as we reach the track, we'll have roughly thirty-five minutes to refuel. Push time is 12:22:17z and we expect to cross into Iraqi territory at 12:49:12z. Our TOT is set for 13:33:00z, a little less than three hours from now. The plan isn't much different than what we did yesterday. Damien will check the entire package in with AWACS, and, to maintain the element of surprise, all air refueling will be accomplished using comm-out procedures.
12:49:12z
Passing steerpoint five, Harpo calls for a fence check, and the flight transitions to fluid-four. The afternoon sun is positioned above my right shoulder, and the clouds of yesterday have scattered. Below me, the brownish red tint of Iraq's desert landscape is plainly visible. Every muscle in my body is tense, but my mind is focused. The volume of my RWR is turned up, my air-to-air radar is scanning from 33,000 feet down, and my head is on a swivel, clearing for SAMs and bogeys. AWACS is calling "picture clear," but I have a feeling the Iraqis are nearby.
Passing steerpoint six, we veer left to a 335-degree heading. Our IP, an Iraqi airfield called Shayka Mazhar, is 253 miles on our nose. Tawaitha is only eighteen miles north of the airfield and sits on the eastern banks of the Tigris River. If everything goes as planned, we'll pick up a 337-degree heading after the IP and parallel the river. The sun should help disguise our roll-in and prevent Iraqi gunners from picking us up visually. In addition, transmissions from our ECM pods combined with radar-jamming from the EF-11 Is should flood Iraqi radar sites with dozens of false targets.
I know what it's like to be scared in the air. I can't begin to imagine how terrified the Iraqi soldiers must be on the ground. In less than thirty minutes, 128 MK-84s will begin to rain from the sky. Each bomb contains 945 pounds of tritenol explosive filler, encased in 1,000 pounds of steel. They're the largest weapons carried by an F-16 and are normally used to destroy buildings, bridges, runways, and concrete-reinforced bunkers. An instant before it explodes, the MK-84's steel casing swells to twice its normal size. The blast creates a fifty-foot-wide crater. It sends jagged pieces of steel half a mile in every direction. Within that half mile, death is instantaneous.
13:27.-00z
I switch on my VTR and select HUD. Our element is 26 miles from the IP, at 27,000 feet. My RWR scope is clean. A check of my GPS page shows high system accuracy. My INS diamond should be directly over the target when I roll in.
The closer I get to the facility, the faster my heart pounds. Again, a flight suit soaked in sweat. I'm waiting for the MiGs. They haven't shown themselves. Then an F-15 pilot calls out a visual on a missile at his left ten o'clock. As soon as he makes his call, another voice calls out: "That's Lowenbrau 3's HARM!" I check my RWR and air-to-air radar to be sure. They're both clean.
13:28:27z
"Basset 01 is in," Damien calls out.
Three seconds later, Basset 02 follows him down the chute. I check my master arm switch to ensure it's armed, and continue to clear for SAMs. The first bombs are about to hit the facility.
Twenty miles south of the IP, an SA-2 symbol appears in the upper-right quadrant of my RWR scope, and a steady buzz fills my headset. Before I can say anything, a series of seven beeps ring out. The SA-2 site has me targeted, and the missile is airborne.
"Collar 16, launch right two o'clock!" I radio frantically.
A death grip on my stick, I begin to weave while punching out bundles of chaff. A few seconds later, a second symbol appears on the scope, followed by another launch indication. I key my mike and call out again: "Collar 16, two launch on the nose!"
"Collar 18 is tally-ho!" Wheel answers. Trying to stay calm, I continue my weave and search for the missile. Finally, I spot the contrail at my twelve o'clock.
"Collar 16, tally cons on the nose!" I radio.
Approaching the IP, my RWR is going ballistic. SA-2s, SA-3s, SA-6s, SA-8s—they're everywhere!
I roll left, then quickly to the right. Flashes of orange and yellow appear from both sides of the river below. Each flash is followed by another launch indication on my RWR scope. White smoke trails from behind each missile as it rockets skyward. One passes well to my left and another to my right. As if the SAMs aren't enough, antiaircraft shells begin to explode around me, sending popcorn-shaped cloudbursts of black flak in every direction. How long can I take this?
13:29:40z
Harpo is 2,000 feet away at my left eleven o'clock. As he turns in front of me, I pull to the right to maintain position. SAMs continue to appear off our left, but the radios are saturated, and it's hard to get a call out.
"Basset 01, SAM left eleven!" Damien screams.
I follow his call with three more of my own: "Collar 15, check your left ten!" "Collar 16,17... check your left ten!" "Collar 18, check your left nine ... cons left nine!"
A pair of enemy SAMs are tracking our formation, and if we don't do something about it fast, we're going to get spanked. All of a sudden, one of the missiles detonates at my left eight o'clock—too low to have an effect. The other missile is still tracking us, but it appears to be running out of energy. Frozen and unable to suck a breath, I watch as the dormant missile falls back toward the ground.
I check my HUD. The target is only thirteen miles away. I call up my air-to-ground mode and descend to gain airspeed. With one eye on the ground and another on Harpo, I prepare for the roll-in. Missile contrails fill the sky. The flak is thicker than soup. At 8.3 DME, I get a Hawk symbol on the left side of my RWR scope, along with another launch indication.
"Collar 16, Hawk launch left nine!" I yell.
Within seconds, my RWR scope fills up again. The Iraqi gunners know exactly where I'm at, and they have me locked. The launch indications are continuous. It finally reaches a point where I can no longer hear them. My mind is task-saturated. I hear radio calls and tones from my RWR, but I don't have the time to discern their meaning. Nor could I—not with all my energy focused on one thing: hitting the target. If I get shot down, then so be it. I am wot going to miss this time.
I glance at the satellite photo, then outside again, looking for the bend in the Tigris River. The nuclear facility should be to the right of it and slightly south. Harpo is ahead and to my right. As soon as he rolls in, I pause for a moment, then follow. As I roll into ninety degrees of bank, the nose of my jet slices toward the ground. At this point, I'm oblivious to everything around me. Passing through 22,000 feet, I get the max-toss cue in my HUD. I still don't see the target. I increase my bank angle to 135 degrees, and, finally, my diamond appears. To my dismay, the entire facility is obscured by smoke. It has to be from the other bombs. My only option is to pickle on the diamond. I overshoot slightly to the left, then roll back right. Passing 17,000 feet, I'm thirty-five degrees nose-low at 450 knots. I hit the missile step button and transition from CCRP to CCIP. I level my wings and place the bombfall line directly over the diamond. As the pipper tracks upward, my thumb sits on the pickle button. If I so much as blink, the pipper will pass long.
Not yet... just a little b i t . . . now!
I hit the pickle button and start to pull off.
13:32:42z
Passing 14,700 feet, my aircraft shudders as the bombs release. I continue my five-G recovery until the nose of my F-16 reaches the horizon. I check right for Harpo, but he's nowhere to be found. With flak exploding in every direction, I plug in the afterburner and pull my nose up to thirty degrees. I'm in the heart of the SAM envelope. If I don't gain some altitude in a hurry, life as I know it will come to an end. I look to my right and see a bright red object streaking toward me. I pull back on the stick as hard as I can and scream into my mike: "Collar 16, SAM launch right nine!" I should have said "right three," but with so many missiles in the air, who cares?
I continue to climb and quickly realize that I've bled off too much energy. Passing 20,500 feet, my airspeed drops below 200 knots. If I'm going to outmaneuver this missile, I have to decrease my drag and regain my energy. My only hope is to jettison my wing tanks. Reaching toward my left console, I hit the emergency jettison button. The aircraft shudders. I look out the left side of my canopy and see the tanks tumbling in slow motion toward earth. When I check back to the right, I see the missile pass at my six o'clock. It must have missed, because I'm still here.
13:33:48z
Passing 21,000 feet on a 130-degree heading, I see a missile explode a few thousand feet in front of me. It looks as though an aircraft may have been hit. To designate the position, I hit the Mark button on my up-front control. This stores the coordinates of my present position. If AWACS calls and needs a reference point, I can call up the coordinates and pass them along.
I accelerate to 300 knots and continue climbing. The radios are saturated, and I'm still getting launch indications on my RWR scope. Most pilots have lost sight of their wingmen, including me. I have no idea where Harpo is or if he's even alive. Passing 26,000 feet, though, I finally hear his voice.
"Collar 16, posit!" Harpo barks out.
"Collar 16 is blind," I reply. "I'm on the three-two-zero for one-four off of egress."
"Copy that," Harpo answers. "I'm three miles on your nose."
As I gain altitude, my fear begins to subside. I call up my air-to-air radar and begin to search for Harpo's jet. I call up steerpoint ten, the Gabriel exit point. According to the ROE, every fighter must pass over this point or risk being shot down by the Eagles.
Approximately 183 miles north of the Saudi border, I pick up a visual on Harpo and begin to rejoin. Seconds later, the radios erupt again: "Stroke 1 took a hit! Stroke 1 took a hit!"
"Stroke 1 took a hit!" I call out to Choctaw.
For a moment, the radios fall silent.
"Okay, I got a fire ... standby... I'm just south of steerpoint number seven ... I'm still flying... and I'm heading south. Okay, I took a pretty good hit, and I've got no engine."
I check my position from steerpoint seven. Stroke 1 is sixty miles behind me.
"I'm good!" Stroke 1 radios. "I'm an F-16 in a left-hand orbit just south of steerpoint ten. I've lost everything up here, guys."
I can't believe I'm hearing this. There's nothing any of us can do to help him. My heart is in my throat.
"I'm good," he calls out. "I'm good."
Thinking he said "I'm gone," I key my mike and radio: "He jumped out!" But a few seconds later, he starts talking again.
"Okay... Stroke 1... I've still got an engine... it's still working. I'm angels 26! I don't know what steerpoint I'm at."
Angels 26 puts him at 26,000 feet. I'm only 175 miles from the border, so he must be just south of the IP.
"This is Stroke 1. I'm the wounded bird, and I got about three hundred fifty knots going two-eight-zero."
"Clap 7 is visual. I'm at your left eleven low!"
"Roger" Stroke one replies. "Unable to roll left very easily. I'm losing fuel like crazy up here. I've only got twenty-six hundred pounds worth of gas according to my totalizer. I'm going to take it as far as I can. How far are you from the border?"
I continue to close on Harpo, but all I can think about is Stroke 1. The border is too far. There's no way he's going to make it. Picturing myself in the same position reminds me of the movie The Bridges at Toko-Ri. William Holden plays a young fighter pilot whose jet is hit during a bombing run over Korea. His beautiful wife, played by Grace Kelly, and two young daughters are waiting for him to return to the United States. Unfortunately, he never makes it home. His jet can't make the border, and a search-andrescue team is shot down trying to save him. He eventually dies at the hands of the communists in a muddy Korean ditch.
"Okay, Stroke 1 just sel-jetted his tanks. I'm going for the moon."
"Choctaw,"AWACS calls out, "when able, posit on Stroke 1."
"Clap 7, Stroke 1.1 got no heading indication up here, buddy. What should I do?"
"Turn left thirty degrees," Clap 7 responds.
"I don't know what thirty degrees is," Stroke 1 answers with frustration. "Does this look good?"
13:52:25z
"Clap 7, this is Stroke 1. How am I doing, buddy?"
"Looking good, bud," Clap 7 replies.
"How far to the border?" Stroke 1 asks.
"Two-oh-six!"
"Copy... two-oh-six."
The radios are silent for a moment, and then the conversation continues.
"Okay, Clap. Stroke 1 is not going to make it too much longer. Any idea where I'm at?"
"One hundred eighty miles to point ten," Clap responds.
"Okay," Stroke 1 replies. "I'm starting to lose oil pressure now."
Harpo and I continue heading south at 35,000 feet. Gabriel is one hundred miles on our nose and, as soon as we cross the border, we'll head for the Kiwi air-refueling track for post-strike refueling. In the meantime, I'm doing my best to keep it together.
"I've got a Raven right underneath me," Stroke 1 calls out. "I got a Raven underneath me."
"Roger," the EF-111 pilot replies. "We're watching you. We'll stay with you."
"Okay, Wedge," Stroke 1 answers. "I appreciate it. Please don't get hurt, buddy. You can go out in front of me, okay?"
"We're gonna stay with you, man," Wedge answers. "Just hang on."
"I'm hangin' on," Stroke 1 laughs nervously. "Don't worry about me. I'm just a little low on the fuel now."
13:55:00z
"Okay, Wedge, this is Stroke 1... and we're about ready to lose it here. I'm okay right now. It ain't going to be much longer, though. The oil's just about zero. Hydraulics are good, though."
There's another pause and then Stroke 1 asks: "Hey, Wedge, how we doing? How far to the border?"
"One hundred sixty-four miles," Wedge responds.
"Okay. You get 'em out here for me in case I gotta go."
Before Wedge can respond, Stroke 1 calls out again: "Okay... Stroke 1... I just lost my engine ... I'm on EPU!"
The F-16 EPU is designed to operate automatically when an engine flames out. The unit is powered by hydrazine, a chemical mixture of nitrogen, hydrogen, ammonia, and water. When the EPU fires, the gaseous products spin a turbine gearbox, which powers the EPU generator and a hydraulic pump. Unfortunately, the system can only operate for about ten minutes. Once the hydrazine is depleted, the aircraft will go out of control.
"I'm doing my best Bogart here," Stroke 1 jokes.
14:OQ:OOz
"Choctaw, Stroke 1."
"Stroke 1, go!" the controller replies.
"Roger. Stroke 1 is squawking emergency right now. I'm not sure of my position, but
I'm about one hundred thirty miles nbrth of Gabriel is my guess... heading one-ninezero at this time."
"Stroke 1, Choctaw... good contact."
"Okay, I'm at angels 22 right now and I don't think I'm going to be with it much longer. We're hangin' on."
"Stroke 1, roger," Choctaw replies. "Good radar contact—good Mode C."
"Thank you," Stroke 1 responds quietly.
While Wedge continues to escort Stroke 1 south toward Gabriel, Clap 7 makes an emergency call for fuel.
"Choctaw, Clap 7."
"Clap 7, go," Choctaw responds.
"Got a three-ship of Vipers holding for fuel. Request snap to nearest tanker."
"Clap, say posit from Gabriel."
"Three-four-zero ... one-eighteen," Clap answers.
The controller pauses for a moment, then barks: "Clap, snap two-two-five!"
"Copy, snap two-two-five."
"Tanker two-two-zero ... one-eighteen," Choctaw radios.
"Two-two-zero ... one-eighteen ... Clap 7."
Without warning, Stroke 1 radios: "That's all I've got, guys. I'm outta here!"
There's a slight pause, and then I recognize Foot's voice on the radio.
"Good luck," he says.
It's a moment I'll remember as long as I live.
14:02:34z
As soon as we cross Gabriel and into Saudi airspace, Harpo turns toward the Kiwi airrefueling track. I'm getting low on fuel, and we need to find our tanker ASAP. As soon as we arrive at the ARCP, Harpo calls out contacts at our left ten o'clock for thirty miles. I check my radar and answer: "Two's same."
Harpo completes the rejoin and pulls to within a mile of the KG-10. The blue-andwhite Extender is the only tanker available, and it already has three chicks in tow.
"F- 16s on the Kiwi tanker, say call sign," Harpo radios.
"Collar 11, flight of three."
It's Cliffy!
"Collar 11, this is Collar 15. My wingman is low on fuel. Request permission to rejoin."
"Collar 15," Cliffy responds, "you're cleared to the right wing. As soon as Collar 18 is through, Collar 16 can refuel."
I open my air-refueling door as Harpo proceeds to the right wing of the tanker. When Wheel comes off the boom, I slide into position. I only need a few thousand pounds to make it back to Al Minhad, and, as soon as I have it, I disconnect and resume my position on the right wing of the KG-10. In the meantime, another flight reports the ARCP inbound. Cliffy tells me to head back to Al Minhad and puts Wheel on my wing for the flight home.
On our way back to the base, I level off and tell Wheel to take spacing. As soon as I call up steerpoint sixteen, I switch on my autopilot and proceed direct to Al Minhad. The sun has already set, and thousands of stars begin to flood the night sky. Looking back, I wonder how any of us made it out of the target area. If yesterday's flight was a milk run, today's sortie was the mission from hell.
Later that evening in the beer tent, pilots from all three squadrons met to congratulate each other on a job well done. Everyone had a war story to tell. It was hard to believe the 388th TFW didn't lose a single jet. The 401st TFW lost two F- 16s during the sortie: Stroke 1 and Stroke 4. According to Col. Huddle, a SAM pierced Stroke 4's jet as he came off target. His aircraft came apart, and a chute was never spotted. The news about Stroke 1 wasn't good either. Search-and-rescue forces tried to recover the downed pilot—without success.
The aircraft, callsign Stroke 3, is one of 72 aircrafts that composed the largest strike package throughout the war, named package Q, launched on the 3rd day of the air campaign with targets in and around downtown Baghdad. During the raid, 3 aircrafts, Stroke 1, Stroke 4 and Clap 4 (an F-15C) were lost due to surface to air missiles. The result prompted air commanders to realize that defenses in Baghdad remained lethal, and it was not worth the risk to send more conventional, non-stealth aircrafts into the heart of those defenses. Moreover, F-16 packages remained small, thus more managable and easily coordinated.
Apparently, this was no longer the case 12 years later, when F-16s returned to baghdad with enhanced capabilities, performing surpression of enemy air defense, combat air patrol and close air support for coalition forces in the air, and on the ground.
More info on the links below
http://www.f-16.net/index.php?na ... iewtopic&t=6737
http://www.f-16.net/index.php?na ... ewtopic&t=10941
http://www.f-16.net/articles_article8.html
http://www.lucky-devils.net/afm.html
http://www.lucky-devils.net/baghdad.html
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=dc0_1240788325
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=4df_1240789834
飞行员的记叙：
19 JANUARY 1991
"Here's the lineup for today's mission," Damien began. "I'll be the mission commander, and our target is the Iraqi nuclear research facility in Tawaitha, just south of downtown Baghdad. Everything you need—maps, satellite photos, lineup cards, tanker cards, and attack cards—is in your envelopes. The package will consist of seventy-eight aircraft. Pennzoil, a flight of four F-15s, will be on the point. They'll be followed by eight F-4Gs—call sign Schlitz and Lowenbrau. Wedge, a flight of two EF-111 s, is next in line, followed by my flight, Basset 01 through 08."
Pilots from all three squadrons filled the makeshift beer tent, which reeked of stale cigar smoke and spilled beer. For many, that afternoon's mission would be their first in combat. Every commander in the wing, including Col. Navarro, was in attendance. By the looks on their faces, the sortie was going to be a tough one.
"Collar 11 through 18 will follow Basset," Damien continued. "Next will be Rover 21, a flight of four. They'll be followed by twelve pilots from the 69th—Dane 31, a flight of eight, and Ruff 41, a flight of four. Howler 51 and Pointer 61—a pair of eight-ships from the 4th—will complete the package from the 388th. Sixteen more Vipers assigned to the 401st TFW from Torrejon AB, Spain, will depart Doha, Qatar, and merge with us when we push across the Saudi border. Their call signs will be Clap 71 and Stroke 01."
The element I'd be flying in was about a third of the way into the package. Cliffy's call sign was Collar 11, and his flight included Raj, Harpo, and Martyr. Grover, sitting to the right of me, was scheduled to lead Collar 15 flight. I'd fly on his wing as Collar 16. Rounding out the rest of the formation were Capt. lay "Mans" Moheit and Lt. Steve "Wheel" Ferris. While we copied down the lineup, Mans leaned over: "Thank God we're not at the end of this thing."
Damien spent the next hour covering every aspect of the mission. The weather over the target area was supposed to clear by the time we arrived, so everyone would get a good look at the facility as they rolled in. Unfortunately, clear weather also meant the Iraqi gunners would have a good view of us. Being shot at wasn't going to be fun.
As soon as Damien finished, Col. Navarro stood up to address the group. The Warden hadn't spoken to a room full of pilots in months, and everyone was surprised. Other than in the mess hall, I hadn't even seen him since Gen. Glosson was on base.
"Let me have your attention, if I could. Today's mission may very well be the most important mission of the war. For those of you who don't remember, on 7 June 1981, eight Israeli F-16s bombed the Osirak nuclear reactor in Tawaitha. The nuclear facility has since been rebuilt, and in a few hours you'll attempt to destroy it a second time."
Everyone listened intently. No one knew how close the Iraqis were to building a nuclear weapon, but if this mission was successful, Saddam Hussein's ability to build one would suffer another major setback.
"The 388th TFW is going to be in the spotlight today," Navarro continued. "President Bush and other coalition leaders will be watching closely to see how we do. You've trained all your lives for a mission like this, and a lot of people are depending on you. Make them proud. Make your country proud. Fly safe, put your bombs on target, and I'll see you at the bar after you land."
Since the nuclear research facility was so important to Saddam Hussein, we figured it would be Iraq's most heavily defended target. We expected to see a barrage of SA-2s, SA- 3s, SA-6s, and SA-8s as we had encountered the day before. The AAA, ranging in size from 12.7 millimeters to 100 millimeters, should be thick as well. I also expected a confrontation with the Iraqi air force. Seventy-eight American fighters mixing it up with Iraqi MiGs would result in one hell of a fur ball.
10:00:00z
"Basset 01, check," Damien calls out.
"Basset 02, loud and clear." "Basset 03, loud and clear." "Basset 04, loud and clear."
"Basset 05, loud and clear." "Basset 06, loud and clear." "Basset 07, loud and clear."
"Basset 08, loud and clear." "Collar 11, loud and clear." "Collar 12, loud and clear."
"Collar 13, loud and clear." "Collar 14, loud and clear."
All of a sudden, a pause.
Grover isn't answering. I hesitate a moment, then chime in: "Collar 16, loud and clear." The rest of the pilots continue the check-in. I look around to see where Grover is. I spot him across the ramp in the back of the line chief's pickup truck. He's on his way to a spare jet.
Son of a bitch! This is the mission of a lifetime, and my flight lead has a broken jet. There's no way he'll be ready to take off on time. If he can't go, there's a good chance I'll have to ground-abort with him. We need a four-ship flight lead to replace Grover, and we need him now. Mans and I are only two-ship flight leads, and Wheel is just a wing- man. I'm disappointed, but I'm going to continue on until someone tells me otherwise. If the 388th TFW is going to make history, I want to be a part of it.
After the check-in, forty-seven Vipers begin to taxi. Only twenty minutes to takeoff, and Grover still doesn't have a jet. As I roll past the 69th ramp, Dane and Ruff flights complete their final preparations. All of a sudden, Lt. Col. Rackley calls out: "Collar 13, this is Taz."
"Collar 13, go ahead," Harpo replies.
"Are you ready to be a four-ship flight lead?" Taz asks.
"Yes, sir!" Harpo replies with gusto.
"Okay. Your new call sign is Collar 15, and Collar 11 will go as a three-ship."
"Collar 11 copies," replies Cliffy.
"Collar 15 copies," replies Harpo.
Harpo is only a two-ship flight lead, but he has plenty of experience in the F-16, and handling a four-ship shouldn't be difficult for him. I'm relieved. As soon as we reach the arming area, Harpo and I look at each other and throw our fists in the air.
Only five minutes to go before takeoff and I can feel the excitement on the flight line. Maintenance personnel standing along the taxiway cheer as the F-16s roll by. Dozens more wave from the balcony atop the 4th squadron.
As soon as I pull into the arming area, the crew chiefs rush over to arm my weapons. Once their inspection is complete, I turn on my VTR and title my tape.
"Captain Keith Rosenkranz... Collar 16 ... 2211 foxtrot... Two MK-84s... TOT is 13:33 zulu ... Takeoff time is 10:50 zulu ... Date is 19 January '91 ... Tail number is 452."
10:50:00z
Damien releases his brakes. Basset 02 and other members of the formation follow every twenty seconds. As each pilot begins his takeoff roll, another Viper taxies into position. Approaching the runway, I pass by Taz and give him the Juvat snake signal. Taz, a former Juvat himself, returns the signal and motions me on my way. I taxi into position alongside Harpo, set my brakes, and wait for my turn to take off. When Basset 08 releases his brakes, Harpo taxies forward to the 1,000-foot marker. By the time he arrives, Collar 11 begins his takeoff roll. I watch as the nozzle from Cliffy's engine expands. A burst of orange flame. The thrust rocks my wings. As he propels down the runway, I pull forward into position. One minute to go.
Before I run my engine up, I glance at the giant MK-84s sitting beneath my wing. The bomb on my right says "Candice and Kristen" on one side and "To Saddam from Phil and Charlee" on the other. The bomb on the left says "Sweet Colette" and "To Saddam from Dion." I know Skull would give anything to be a part of this. Unfortunately, most of the weapons-school instructors are back at Nellis AFB instead of where they should be—with us on this mission. If I can't fly on Skull's wing, the least I can do is let him fly on mine.
10:53:50z
With my feet firmly on the brake pedals, I push my throttle up to 80 percent RPM and check my engine instruments. After a quick salute to Mans, I'm on my way. Once airborne, I raise my gear and begin to search for Harpo. I spot him on radar passing through one thousand feet, and, within minutes, I complete the rejoin. Crossing the shoreline, I select steerpoint two—a tip of land at the southeastern edge of Qatar. Now that the mission is underway, I feel a lot more comfortable and confident. But anxiety still persists, and I know it will worsen as the mission progresses.
The "Railroad" ARCP is four hundred miles on our nose, and our ETA is 1 l:48:00z. As soon as we reach the track, we'll have roughly thirty-five minutes to refuel. Push time is 12:22:17z and we expect to cross into Iraqi territory at 12:49:12z. Our TOT is set for 13:33:00z, a little less than three hours from now. The plan isn't much different than what we did yesterday. Damien will check the entire package in with AWACS, and, to maintain the element of surprise, all air refueling will be accomplished using comm-out procedures.
12:49:12z
Passing steerpoint five, Harpo calls for a fence check, and the flight transitions to fluid-four. The afternoon sun is positioned above my right shoulder, and the clouds of yesterday have scattered. Below me, the brownish red tint of Iraq's desert landscape is plainly visible. Every muscle in my body is tense, but my mind is focused. The volume of my RWR is turned up, my air-to-air radar is scanning from 33,000 feet down, and my head is on a swivel, clearing for SAMs and bogeys. AWACS is calling "picture clear," but I have a feeling the Iraqis are nearby.
Passing steerpoint six, we veer left to a 335-degree heading. Our IP, an Iraqi airfield called Shayka Mazhar, is 253 miles on our nose. Tawaitha is only eighteen miles north of the airfield and sits on the eastern banks of the Tigris River. If everything goes as planned, we'll pick up a 337-degree heading after the IP and parallel the river. The sun should help disguise our roll-in and prevent Iraqi gunners from picking us up visually. In addition, transmissions from our ECM pods combined with radar-jamming from the EF-11 Is should flood Iraqi radar sites with dozens of false targets.
I know what it's like to be scared in the air. I can't begin to imagine how terrified the Iraqi soldiers must be on the ground. In less than thirty minutes, 128 MK-84s will begin to rain from the sky. Each bomb contains 945 pounds of tritenol explosive filler, encased in 1,000 pounds of steel. They're the largest weapons carried by an F-16 and are normally used to destroy buildings, bridges, runways, and concrete-reinforced bunkers. An instant before it explodes, the MK-84's steel casing swells to twice its normal size. The blast creates a fifty-foot-wide crater. It sends jagged pieces of steel half a mile in every direction. Within that half mile, death is instantaneous.
13:27.-00z
I switch on my VTR and select HUD. Our element is 26 miles from the IP, at 27,000 feet. My RWR scope is clean. A check of my GPS page shows high system accuracy. My INS diamond should be directly over the target when I roll in.
The closer I get to the facility, the faster my heart pounds. Again, a flight suit soaked in sweat. I'm waiting for the MiGs. They haven't shown themselves. Then an F-15 pilot calls out a visual on a missile at his left ten o'clock. As soon as he makes his call, another voice calls out: "That's Lowenbrau 3's HARM!" I check my RWR and air-to-air radar to be sure. They're both clean.
13:28:27z
"Basset 01 is in," Damien calls out.
Three seconds later, Basset 02 follows him down the chute. I check my master arm switch to ensure it's armed, and continue to clear for SAMs. The first bombs are about to hit the facility.
Twenty miles south of the IP, an SA-2 symbol appears in the upper-right quadrant of my RWR scope, and a steady buzz fills my headset. Before I can say anything, a series of seven beeps ring out. The SA-2 site has me targeted, and the missile is airborne.
"Collar 16, launch right two o'clock!" I radio frantically.
A death grip on my stick, I begin to weave while punching out bundles of chaff. A few seconds later, a second symbol appears on the scope, followed by another launch indication. I key my mike and call out again: "Collar 16, two launch on the nose!"
"Collar 18 is tally-ho!" Wheel answers. Trying to stay calm, I continue my weave and search for the missile. Finally, I spot the contrail at my twelve o'clock.
"Collar 16, tally cons on the nose!" I radio.
Approaching the IP, my RWR is going ballistic. SA-2s, SA-3s, SA-6s, SA-8s—they're everywhere!
I roll left, then quickly to the right. Flashes of orange and yellow appear from both sides of the river below. Each flash is followed by another launch indication on my RWR scope. White smoke trails from behind each missile as it rockets skyward. One passes well to my left and another to my right. As if the SAMs aren't enough, antiaircraft shells begin to explode around me, sending popcorn-shaped cloudbursts of black flak in every direction. How long can I take this?
13:29:40z
Harpo is 2,000 feet away at my left eleven o'clock. As he turns in front of me, I pull to the right to maintain position. SAMs continue to appear off our left, but the radios are saturated, and it's hard to get a call out.
"Basset 01, SAM left eleven!" Damien screams.
I follow his call with three more of my own: "Collar 15, check your left ten!" "Collar 16,17... check your left ten!" "Collar 18, check your left nine ... cons left nine!"
A pair of enemy SAMs are tracking our formation, and if we don't do something about it fast, we're going to get spanked. All of a sudden, one of the missiles detonates at my left eight o'clock—too low to have an effect. The other missile is still tracking us, but it appears to be running out of energy. Frozen and unable to suck a breath, I watch as the dormant missile falls back toward the ground.
I check my HUD. The target is only thirteen miles away. I call up my air-to-ground mode and descend to gain airspeed. With one eye on the ground and another on Harpo, I prepare for the roll-in. Missile contrails fill the sky. The flak is thicker than soup. At 8.3 DME, I get a Hawk symbol on the left side of my RWR scope, along with another launch indication.
"Collar 16, Hawk launch left nine!" I yell.
Within seconds, my RWR scope fills up again. The Iraqi gunners know exactly where I'm at, and they have me locked. The launch indications are continuous. It finally reaches a point where I can no longer hear them. My mind is task-saturated. I hear radio calls and tones from my RWR, but I don't have the time to discern their meaning. Nor could I—not with all my energy focused on one thing: hitting the target. If I get shot down, then so be it. I am wot going to miss this time.
I glance at the satellite photo, then outside again, looking for the bend in the Tigris River. The nuclear facility should be to the right of it and slightly south. Harpo is ahead and to my right. As soon as he rolls in, I pause for a moment, then follow. As I roll into ninety degrees of bank, the nose of my jet slices toward the ground. At this point, I'm oblivious to everything around me. Passing through 22,000 feet, I get the max-toss cue in my HUD. I still don't see the target. I increase my bank angle to 135 degrees, and, finally, my diamond appears. To my dismay, the entire facility is obscured by smoke. It has to be from the other bombs. My only option is to pickle on the diamond. I overshoot slightly to the left, then roll back right. Passing 17,000 feet, I'm thirty-five degrees nose-low at 450 knots. I hit the missile step button and transition from CCRP to CCIP. I level my wings and place the bombfall line directly over the diamond. As the pipper tracks upward, my thumb sits on the pickle button. If I so much as blink, the pipper will pass long.
Not yet... just a little b i t . . . now!
I hit the pickle button and start to pull off.
13:32:42z
Passing 14,700 feet, my aircraft shudders as the bombs release. I continue my five-G recovery until the nose of my F-16 reaches the horizon. I check right for Harpo, but he's nowhere to be found. With flak exploding in every direction, I plug in the afterburner and pull my nose up to thirty degrees. I'm in the heart of the SAM envelope. If I don't gain some altitude in a hurry, life as I know it will come to an end. I look to my right and see a bright red object streaking toward me. I pull back on the stick as hard as I can and scream into my mike: "Collar 16, SAM launch right nine!" I should have said "right three," but with so many missiles in the air, who cares?
I continue to climb and quickly realize that I've bled off too much energy. Passing 20,500 feet, my airspeed drops below 200 knots. If I'm going to outmaneuver this missile, I have to decrease my drag and regain my energy. My only hope is to jettison my wing tanks. Reaching toward my left console, I hit the emergency jettison button. The aircraft shudders. I look out the left side of my canopy and see the tanks tumbling in slow motion toward earth. When I check back to the right, I see the missile pass at my six o'clock. It must have missed, because I'm still here.
13:33:48z
Passing 21,000 feet on a 130-degree heading, I see a missile explode a few thousand feet in front of me. It looks as though an aircraft may have been hit. To designate the position, I hit the Mark button on my up-front control. This stores the coordinates of my present position. If AWACS calls and needs a reference point, I can call up the coordinates and pass them along.
I accelerate to 300 knots and continue climbing. The radios are saturated, and I'm still getting launch indications on my RWR scope. Most pilots have lost sight of their wingmen, including me. I have no idea where Harpo is or if he's even alive. Passing 26,000 feet, though, I finally hear his voice.
"Collar 16, posit!" Harpo barks out.
"Collar 16 is blind," I reply. "I'm on the three-two-zero for one-four off of egress."
"Copy that," Harpo answers. "I'm three miles on your nose."
As I gain altitude, my fear begins to subside. I call up my air-to-air radar and begin to search for Harpo's jet. I call up steerpoint ten, the Gabriel exit point. According to the ROE, every fighter must pass over this point or risk being shot down by the Eagles.
Approximately 183 miles north of the Saudi border, I pick up a visual on Harpo and begin to rejoin. Seconds later, the radios erupt again: "Stroke 1 took a hit! Stroke 1 took a hit!"
"Stroke 1 took a hit!" I call out to Choctaw.
For a moment, the radios fall silent.
"Okay, I got a fire ... standby... I'm just south of steerpoint number seven ... I'm still flying... and I'm heading south. Okay, I took a pretty good hit, and I've got no engine."
I check my position from steerpoint seven. Stroke 1 is sixty miles behind me.
"I'm good!" Stroke 1 radios. "I'm an F-16 in a left-hand orbit just south of steerpoint ten. I've lost everything up here, guys."
I can't believe I'm hearing this. There's nothing any of us can do to help him. My heart is in my throat.
"I'm good," he calls out. "I'm good."
Thinking he said "I'm gone," I key my mike and radio: "He jumped out!" But a few seconds later, he starts talking again.
"Okay... Stroke 1... I've still got an engine... it's still working. I'm angels 26! I don't know what steerpoint I'm at."
Angels 26 puts him at 26,000 feet. I'm only 175 miles from the border, so he must be just south of the IP.
"This is Stroke 1. I'm the wounded bird, and I got about three hundred fifty knots going two-eight-zero."
"Clap 7 is visual. I'm at your left eleven low!"
"Roger" Stroke one replies. "Unable to roll left very easily. I'm losing fuel like crazy up here. I've only got twenty-six hundred pounds worth of gas according to my totalizer. I'm going to take it as far as I can. How far are you from the border?"
I continue to close on Harpo, but all I can think about is Stroke 1. The border is too far. There's no way he's going to make it. Picturing myself in the same position reminds me of the movie The Bridges at Toko-Ri. William Holden plays a young fighter pilot whose jet is hit during a bombing run over Korea. His beautiful wife, played by Grace Kelly, and two young daughters are waiting for him to return to the United States. Unfortunately, he never makes it home. His jet can't make the border, and a search-andrescue team is shot down trying to save him. He eventually dies at the hands of the communists in a muddy Korean ditch.
"Okay, Stroke 1 just sel-jetted his tanks. I'm going for the moon."
"Choctaw,"AWACS calls out, "when able, posit on Stroke 1."
"Clap 7, Stroke 1.1 got no heading indication up here, buddy. What should I do?"
"Turn left thirty degrees," Clap 7 responds.
"I don't know what thirty degrees is," Stroke 1 answers with frustration. "Does this look good?"
13:52:25z
"Clap 7, this is Stroke 1. How am I doing, buddy?"
"Looking good, bud," Clap 7 replies.
"How far to the border?" Stroke 1 asks.
"Two-oh-six!"
"Copy... two-oh-six."
The radios are silent for a moment, and then the conversation continues.
"Okay, Clap. Stroke 1 is not going to make it too much longer. Any idea where I'm at?"
"One hundred eighty miles to point ten," Clap responds.
"Okay," Stroke 1 replies. "I'm starting to lose oil pressure now."
Harpo and I continue heading south at 35,000 feet. Gabriel is one hundred miles on our nose and, as soon as we cross the border, we'll head for the Kiwi air-refueling track for post-strike refueling. In the meantime, I'm doing my best to keep it together.
"I've got a Raven right underneath me," Stroke 1 calls out. "I got a Raven underneath me."
"Roger," the EF-111 pilot replies. "We're watching you. We'll stay with you."
"Okay, Wedge," Stroke 1 answers. "I appreciate it. Please don't get hurt, buddy. You can go out in front of me, okay?"
"We're gonna stay with you, man," Wedge answers. "Just hang on."
"I'm hangin' on," Stroke 1 laughs nervously. "Don't worry about me. I'm just a little low on the fuel now."
13:55:00z
"Okay, Wedge, this is Stroke 1... and we're about ready to lose it here. I'm okay right now. It ain't going to be much longer, though. The oil's just about zero. Hydraulics are good, though."
There's another pause and then Stroke 1 asks: "Hey, Wedge, how we doing? How far to the border?"
"One hundred sixty-four miles," Wedge responds.
"Okay. You get 'em out here for me in case I gotta go."
Before Wedge can respond, Stroke 1 calls out again: "Okay... Stroke 1... I just lost my engine ... I'm on EPU!"
The F-16 EPU is designed to operate automatically when an engine flames out. The unit is powered by hydrazine, a chemical mixture of nitrogen, hydrogen, ammonia, and water. When the EPU fires, the gaseous products spin a turbine gearbox, which powers the EPU generator and a hydraulic pump. Unfortunately, the system can only operate for about ten minutes. Once the hydrazine is depleted, the aircraft will go out of control.
"I'm doing my best Bogart here," Stroke 1 jokes.
14:OQ:OOz
"Choctaw, Stroke 1."
"Stroke 1, go!" the controller replies.
"Roger. Stroke 1 is squawking emergency right now. I'm not sure of my position, but
I'm about one hundred thirty miles nbrth of Gabriel is my guess... heading one-ninezero at this time."
"Stroke 1, Choctaw... good contact."
"Okay, I'm at angels 22 right now and I don't think I'm going to be with it much longer. We're hangin' on."
"Stroke 1, roger," Choctaw replies. "Good radar contact—good Mode C."
"Thank you," Stroke 1 responds quietly.
While Wedge continues to escort Stroke 1 south toward Gabriel, Clap 7 makes an emergency call for fuel.
"Choctaw, Clap 7."
"Clap 7, go," Choctaw responds.
"Got a three-ship of Vipers holding for fuel. Request snap to nearest tanker."
"Clap, say posit from Gabriel."
"Three-four-zero ... one-eighteen," Clap answers.
The controller pauses for a moment, then barks: "Clap, snap two-two-five!"
"Copy, snap two-two-five."
"Tanker two-two-zero ... one-eighteen," Choctaw radios.
"Two-two-zero ... one-eighteen ... Clap 7."
Without warning, Stroke 1 radios: "That's all I've got, guys. I'm outta here!"
There's a slight pause, and then I recognize Foot's voice on the radio.
"Good luck," he says.
It's a moment I'll remember as long as I live.
14:02:34z
As soon as we cross Gabriel and into Saudi airspace, Harpo turns toward the Kiwi airrefueling track. I'm getting low on fuel, and we need to find our tanker ASAP. As soon as we arrive at the ARCP, Harpo calls out contacts at our left ten o'clock for thirty miles. I check my radar and answer: "Two's same."
Harpo completes the rejoin and pulls to within a mile of the KG-10. The blue-andwhite Extender is the only tanker available, and it already has three chicks in tow.
"F- 16s on the Kiwi tanker, say call sign," Harpo radios.
"Collar 11, flight of three."
It's Cliffy!
"Collar 11, this is Collar 15. My wingman is low on fuel. Request permission to rejoin."
"Collar 15," Cliffy responds, "you're cleared to the right wing. As soon as Collar 18 is through, Collar 16 can refuel."
I open my air-refueling door as Harpo proceeds to the right wing of the tanker. When Wheel comes off the boom, I slide into position. I only need a few thousand pounds to make it back to Al Minhad, and, as soon as I have it, I disconnect and resume my position on the right wing of the KG-10. In the meantime, another flight reports the ARCP inbound. Cliffy tells me to head back to Al Minhad and puts Wheel on my wing for the flight home.
On our way back to the base, I level off and tell Wheel to take spacing. As soon as I call up steerpoint sixteen, I switch on my autopilot and proceed direct to Al Minhad. The sun has already set, and thousands of stars begin to flood the night sky. Looking back, I wonder how any of us made it out of the target area. If yesterday's flight was a milk run, today's sortie was the mission from hell.
Later that evening in the beer tent, pilots from all three squadrons met to congratulate each other on a job well done. Everyone had a war story to tell. It was hard to believe the 388th TFW didn't lose a single jet. The 401st TFW lost two F- 16s during the sortie: Stroke 1 and Stroke 4. According to Col. Huddle, a SAM pierced Stroke 4's jet as he came off target. His aircraft came apart, and a chute was never spotted. The news about Stroke 1 wasn't good either. Search-and-rescue forces tried to recover the downed pilot—without success.Heart stopping video footage from the HUD of an American F-16, as it uses evasive manuevers to dodge Surface-to-air missiles over Baghdad in the 1991 Gulf War.
The aircraft, callsign Stroke 3, is one of 72 aircrafts that composed the largest strike package throughout the war, named package Q, launched on the 3rd day of the air campaign with targets in and around downtown Baghdad. During the raid, 3 aircrafts, Stroke 1, Stroke 4 and Clap 4 (an F-15C) were lost due to surface to air missiles. The result prompted air commanders to realize that defenses in Baghdad remained lethal, and it was not worth the risk to send more conventional, non-stealth aircrafts into the heart of those defenses. Moreover, F-16 packages remained small, thus more managable and easily coordinated.
Apparently, this was no longer the case 12 years later, when F-16s returned to baghdad with enhanced capabilities, performing surpression of enemy air defense, combat air patrol and close air support for coalition forces in the air, and on the ground.
More info on the links below
http://www.f-16.net/index.php?na ... iewtopic&t=6737
http://www.f-16.net/index.php?na ... ewtopic&t=10941
http://www.f-16.net/articles_article8.html
http://www.lucky-devils.net/afm.html
http://www.lucky-devils.net/baghdad.html
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=dc0_1240788325
http://www.liveleak.com/view?i=4df_1240789834
飞行员的记叙：
19 JANUARY 1991
"Here's the lineup for today's mission," Damien began. "I'll be the mission commander, and our target is the Iraqi nuclear research facility in Tawaitha, just south of downtown Baghdad. Everything you need—maps, satellite photos, lineup cards, tanker cards, and attack cards—is in your envelopes. The package will consist of seventy-eight aircraft. Pennzoil, a flight of four F-15s, will be on the point. They'll be followed by eight F-4Gs—call sign Schlitz and Lowenbrau. Wedge, a flight of two EF-111 s, is next in line, followed by my flight, Basset 01 through 08."
Pilots from all three squadrons filled the makeshift beer tent, which reeked of stale cigar smoke and spilled beer. For many, that afternoon's mission would be their first in combat. Every commander in the wing, including Col. Navarro, was in attendance. By the looks on their faces, the sortie was going to be a tough one.
"Collar 11 through 18 will follow Basset," Damien continued. "Next will be Rover 21, a flight of four. They'll be followed by twelve pilots from the 69th—Dane 31, a flight of eight, and Ruff 41, a flight of four. Howler 51 and Pointer 61—a pair of eight-ships from the 4th—will complete the package from the 388th. Sixteen more Vipers assigned to the 401st TFW from Torrejon AB, Spain, will depart Doha, Qatar, and merge with us when we push across the Saudi border. Their call signs will be Clap 71 and Stroke 01."
The element I'd be flying in was about a third of the way into the package. Cliffy's call sign was Collar 11, and his flight included Raj, Harpo, and Martyr. Grover, sitting to the right of me, was scheduled to lead Collar 15 flight. I'd fly on his wing as Collar 16. Rounding out the rest of the formation were Capt. lay "Mans" Moheit and Lt. Steve "Wheel" Ferris. While we copied down the lineup, Mans leaned over: "Thank God we're not at the end of this thing."
Damien spent the next hour covering every aspect of the mission. The weather over the target area was supposed to clear by the time we arrived, so everyone would get a good look at the facility as they rolled in. Unfortunately, clear weather also meant the Iraqi gunners would have a good view of us. Being shot at wasn't going to be fun.
As soon as Damien finished, Col. Navarro stood up to address the group. The Warden hadn't spoken to a room full of pilots in months, and everyone was surprised. Other than in the mess hall, I hadn't even seen him since Gen. Glosson was on base.
"Let me have your attention, if I could. Today's mission may very well be the most important mission of the war. For those of you who don't remember, on 7 June 1981, eight Israeli F-16s bombed the Osirak nuclear reactor in Tawaitha. The nuclear facility has since been rebuilt, and in a few hours you'll attempt to destroy it a second time."
Everyone listened intently. No one knew how close the Iraqis were to building a nuclear weapon, but if this mission was successful, Saddam Hussein's ability to build one would suffer another major setback.
"The 388th TFW is going to be in the spotlight today," Navarro continued. "President Bush and other coalition leaders will be watching closely to see how we do. You've trained all your lives for a mission like this, and a lot of people are depending on you. Make them proud. Make your country proud. Fly safe, put your bombs on target, and I'll see you at the bar after you land."
Since the nuclear research facility was so important to Saddam Hussein, we figured it would be Iraq's most heavily defended target. We expected to see a barrage of SA-2s, SA- 3s, SA-6s, and SA-8s as we had encountered the day before. The AAA, ranging in size from 12.7 millimeters to 100 millimeters, should be thick as well. I also expected a confrontation with the Iraqi air force. Seventy-eight American fighters mixing it up with Iraqi MiGs would result in one hell of a fur ball.
10:00:00z
"Basset 01, check," Damien calls out.
"Basset 02, loud and clear." "Basset 03, loud and clear." "Basset 04, loud and clear."
"Basset 05, loud and clear." "Basset 06, loud and clear." "Basset 07, loud and clear."
"Basset 08, loud and clear." "Collar 11, loud and clear." "Collar 12, loud and clear."
"Collar 13, loud and clear." "Collar 14, loud and clear."
All of a sudden, a pause.
Grover isn't answering. I hesitate a moment, then chime in: "Collar 16, loud and clear." The rest of the pilots continue the check-in. I look around to see where Grover is. I spot him across the ramp in the back of the line chief's pickup truck. He's on his way to a spare jet.
Son of a bitch! This is the mission of a lifetime, and my flight lead has a broken jet. There's no way he'll be ready to take off on time. If he can't go, there's a good chance I'll have to ground-abort with him. We need a four-ship flight lead to replace Grover, and we need him now. Mans and I are only two-ship flight leads, and Wheel is just a wing- man. I'm disappointed, but I'm going to continue on until someone tells me otherwise. If the 388th TFW is going to make history, I want to be a part of it.
After the check-in, forty-seven Vipers begin to taxi. Only twenty minutes to takeoff, and Grover still doesn't have a jet. As I roll past the 69th ramp, Dane and Ruff flights complete their final preparations. All of a sudden, Lt. Col. Rackley calls out: "Collar 13, this is Taz."
"Collar 13, go ahead," Harpo replies.
"Are you ready to be a four-ship flight lead?" Taz asks.
"Yes, sir!" Harpo replies with gusto.
"Okay. Your new call sign is Collar 15, and Collar 11 will go as a three-ship."
"Collar 11 copies," replies Cliffy.
"Collar 15 copies," replies Harpo.
Harpo is only a two-ship flight lead, but he has plenty of experience in the F-16, and handling a four-ship shouldn't be difficult for him. I'm relieved. As soon as we reach the arming area, Harpo and I look at each other and throw our fists in the air.
Only five minutes to go before takeoff and I can feel the excitement on the flight line. Maintenance personnel standing along the taxiway cheer as the F-16s roll by. Dozens more wave from the balcony atop the 4th squadron.
As soon as I pull into the arming area, the crew chiefs rush over to arm my weapons. Once their inspection is complete, I turn on my VTR and title my tape.
"Captain Keith Rosenkranz... Collar 16 ... 2211 foxtrot... Two MK-84s... TOT is 13:33 zulu ... Takeoff time is 10:50 zulu ... Date is 19 January '91 ... Tail number is 452."
10:50:00z
Damien releases his brakes. Basset 02 and other members of the formation follow every twenty seconds. As each pilot begins his takeoff roll, another Viper taxies into position. Approaching the runway, I pass by Taz and give him the Juvat snake signal. Taz, a former Juvat himself, returns the signal and motions me on my way. I taxi into position alongside Harpo, set my brakes, and wait for my turn to take off. When Basset 08 releases his brakes, Harpo taxies forward to the 1,000-foot marker. By the time he arrives, Collar 11 begins his takeoff roll. I watch as the nozzle from Cliffy's engine expands. A burst of orange flame. The thrust rocks my wings. As he propels down the runway, I pull forward into position. One minute to go.
Before I run my engine up, I glance at the giant MK-84s sitting beneath my wing. The bomb on my right says "Candice and Kristen" on one side and "To Saddam from Phil and Charlee" on the other. The bomb on the left says "Sweet Colette" and "To Saddam from Dion." I know Skull would give anything to be a part of this. Unfortunately, most of the weapons-school instructors are back at Nellis AFB instead of where they should be—with us on this mission. If I can't fly on Skull's wing, the least I can do is let him fly on mine.
10:53:50z
With my feet firmly on the brake pedals, I push my throttle up to 80 percent RPM and check my engine instruments. After a quick salute to Mans, I'm on my way. Once airborne, I raise my gear and begin to search for Harpo. I spot him on radar passing through one thousand feet, and, within minutes, I complete the rejoin. Crossing the shoreline, I select steerpoint two—a tip of land at the southeastern edge of Qatar. Now that the mission is underway, I feel a lot more comfortable and confident. But anxiety still persists, and I know it will worsen as the mission progresses.
The "Railroad" ARCP is four hundred miles on our nose, and our ETA is 1 l:48:00z. As soon as we reach the track, we'll have roughly thirty-five minutes to refuel. Push time is 12:22:17z and we expect to cross into Iraqi territory at 12:49:12z. Our TOT is set for 13:33:00z, a little less than three hours from now. The plan isn't much different than what we did yesterday. Damien will check the entire package in with AWACS, and, to maintain the element of surprise, all air refueling will be accomplished using comm-out procedures.
12:49:12z
Passing steerpoint five, Harpo calls for a fence check, and the flight transitions to fluid-four. The afternoon sun is positioned above my right shoulder, and the clouds of yesterday have scattered. Below me, the brownish red tint of Iraq's desert landscape is plainly visible. Every muscle in my body is tense, but my mind is focused. The volume of my RWR is turned up, my air-to-air radar is scanning from 33,000 feet down, and my head is on a swivel, clearing for SAMs and bogeys. AWACS is calling "picture clear," but I have a feeling the Iraqis are nearby.
Passing steerpoint six, we veer left to a 335-degree heading. Our IP, an Iraqi airfield called Shayka Mazhar, is 253 miles on our nose. Tawaitha is only eighteen miles north of the airfield and sits on the eastern banks of the Tigris River. If everything goes as planned, we'll pick up a 337-degree heading after the IP and parallel the river. The sun should help disguise our roll-in and prevent Iraqi gunners from picking us up visually. In addition, transmissions from our ECM pods combined with radar-jamming from the EF-11 Is should flood Iraqi radar sites with dozens of false targets.
I know what it's like to be scared in the air. I can't begin to imagine how terrified the Iraqi soldiers must be on the ground. In less than thirty minutes, 128 MK-84s will begin to rain from the sky. Each bomb contains 945 pounds of tritenol explosive filler, encased in 1,000 pounds of steel. They're the largest weapons carried by an F-16 and are normally used to destroy buildings, bridges, runways, and concrete-reinforced bunkers. An instant before it explodes, the MK-84's steel casing swells to twice its normal size. The blast creates a fifty-foot-wide crater. It sends jagged pieces of steel half a mile in every direction. Within that half mile, death is instantaneous.
13:27.-00z
I switch on my VTR and select HUD. Our element is 26 miles from the IP, at 27,000 feet. My RWR scope is clean. A check of my GPS page shows high system accuracy. My INS diamond should be directly over the target when I roll in.
The closer I get to the facility, the faster my heart pounds. Again, a flight suit soaked in sweat. I'm waiting for the MiGs. They haven't shown themselves. Then an F-15 pilot calls out a visual on a missile at his left ten o'clock. As soon as he makes his call, another voice calls out: "That's Lowenbrau 3's HARM!" I check my RWR and air-to-air radar to be sure. They're both clean.
13:28:27z
"Basset 01 is in," Damien calls out.
Three seconds later, Basset 02 follows him down the chute. I check my master arm switch to ensure it's armed, and continue to clear for SAMs. The first bombs are about to hit the facility.
Twenty miles south of the IP, an SA-2 symbol appears in the upper-right quadrant of my RWR scope, and a steady buzz fills my headset. Before I can say anything, a series of seven beeps ring out. The SA-2 site has me targeted, and the missile is airborne.
"Collar 16, launch right two o'clock!" I radio frantically.
A death grip on my stick, I begin to weave while punching out bundles of chaff. A few seconds later, a second symbol appears on the scope, followed by another launch indication. I key my mike and call out again: "Collar 16, two launch on the nose!"
"Collar 18 is tally-ho!" Wheel answers. Trying to stay calm, I continue my weave and search for the missile. Finally, I spot the contrail at my twelve o'clock.
"Collar 16, tally cons on the nose!" I radio.
Approaching the IP, my RWR is going ballistic. SA-2s, SA-3s, SA-6s, SA-8s—they're everywhere!
I roll left, then quickly to the right. Flashes of orange and yellow appear from both sides of the river below. Each flash is followed by another launch indication on my RWR scope. White smoke trails from behind each missile as it rockets skyward. One passes well to my left and another to my right. As if the SAMs aren't enough, antiaircraft shells begin to explode around me, sending popcorn-shaped cloudbursts of black flak in every direction. How long can I take this?
13:29:40z
Harpo is 2,000 feet away at my left eleven o'clock. As he turns in front of me, I pull to the right to maintain position. SAMs continue to appear off our left, but the radios are saturated, and it's hard to get a call out.
"Basset 01, SAM left eleven!" Damien screams.
I follow his call with three more of my own: "Collar 15, check your left ten!" "Collar 16,17... check your left ten!" "Collar 18, check your left nine ... cons left nine!"
A pair of enemy SAMs are tracking our formation, and if we don't do something about it fast, we're going to get spanked. All of a sudden, one of the missiles detonates at my left eight o'clock—too low to have an effect. The other missile is still tracking us, but it appears to be running out of energy. Frozen and unable to suck a breath, I watch as the dormant missile falls back toward the ground.
I check my HUD. The target is only thirteen miles away. I call up my air-to-ground mode and descend to gain airspeed. With one eye on the ground and another on Harpo, I prepare for the roll-in. Missile contrails fill the sky. The flak is thicker than soup. At 8.3 DME, I get a Hawk symbol on the left side of my RWR scope, along with another launch indication.
"Collar 16, Hawk launch left nine!" I yell.
Within seconds, my RWR scope fills up again. The Iraqi gunners know exactly where I'm at, and they have me locked. The launch indications are continuous. It finally reaches a point where I can no longer hear them. My mind is task-saturated. I hear radio calls and tones from my RWR, but I don't have the time to discern their meaning. Nor could I—not with all my energy focused on one thing: hitting the target. If I get shot down, then so be it. I am wot going to miss this time.
I glance at the satellite photo, then outside again, looking for the bend in the Tigris River. The nuclear facility should be to the right of it and slightly south. Harpo is ahead and to my right. As soon as he rolls in, I pause for a moment, then follow. As I roll into ninety degrees of bank, the nose of my jet slices toward the ground. At this point, I'm oblivious to everything around me. Passing through 22,000 feet, I get the max-toss cue in my HUD. I still don't see the target. I increase my bank angle to 135 degrees, and, finally, my diamond appears. To my dismay, the entire facility is obscured by smoke. It has to be from the other bombs. My only option is to pickle on the diamond. I overshoot slightly to the left, then roll back right. Passing 17,000 feet, I'm thirty-five degrees nose-low at 450 knots. I hit the missile step button and transition from CCRP to CCIP. I level my wings and place the bombfall line directly over the diamond. As the pipper tracks upward, my thumb sits on the pickle button. If I so much as blink, the pipper will pass long.
Not yet... just a little b i t . . . now!
I hit the pickle button and start to pull off.
13:32:42z
Passing 14,700 feet, my aircraft shudders as the bombs release. I continue my five-G recovery until the nose of my F-16 reaches the horizon. I check right for Harpo, but he's nowhere to be found. With flak exploding in every direction, I plug in the afterburner and pull my nose up to thirty degrees. I'm in the heart of the SAM envelope. If I don't gain some altitude in a hurry, life as I know it will come to an end. I look to my right and see a bright red object streaking toward me. I pull back on the stick as hard as I can and scream into my mike: "Collar 16, SAM launch right nine!" I should have said "right three," but with so many missiles in the air, who cares?
I continue to climb and quickly realize that I've bled off too much energy. Passing 20,500 feet, my airspeed drops below 200 knots. If I'm going to outmaneuver this missile, I have to decrease my drag and regain my energy. My only hope is to jettison my wing tanks. Reaching toward my left console, I hit the emergency jettison button. The aircraft shudders. I look out the left side of my canopy and see the tanks tumbling in slow motion toward earth. When I check back to the right, I see the missile pass at my six o'clock. It must have missed, because I'm still here.
13:33:48z
Passing 21,000 feet on a 130-degree heading, I see a missile explode a few thousand feet in front of me. It looks as though an aircraft may have been hit. To designate the position, I hit the Mark button on my up-front control. This stores the coordinates of my present position. If AWACS calls and needs a reference point, I can call up the coordinates and pass them along.
I accelerate to 300 knots and continue climbing. The radios are saturated, and I'm still getting launch indications on my RWR scope. Most pilots have lost sight of their wingmen, including me. I have no idea where Harpo is or if he's even alive. Passing 26,000 feet, though, I finally hear his voice.
"Collar 16, posit!" Harpo barks out.
"Collar 16 is blind," I reply. "I'm on the three-two-zero for one-four off of egress."
"Copy that," Harpo answers. "I'm three miles on your nose."
As I gain altitude, my fear begins to subside. I call up my air-to-air radar and begin to search for Harpo's jet. I call up steerpoint ten, the Gabriel exit point. According to the ROE, every fighter must pass over this point or risk being shot down by the Eagles.
Approximately 183 miles north of the Saudi border, I pick up a visual on Harpo and begin to rejoin. Seconds later, the radios erupt again: "Stroke 1 took a hit! Stroke 1 took a hit!"
"Stroke 1 took a hit!" I call out to Choctaw.
For a moment, the radios fall silent.
"Okay, I got a fire ... standby... I'm just south of steerpoint number seven ... I'm still flying... and I'm heading south. Okay, I took a pretty good hit, and I've got no engine."
I check my position from steerpoint seven. Stroke 1 is sixty miles behind me.
"I'm good!" Stroke 1 radios. "I'm an F-16 in a left-hand orbit just south of steerpoint ten. I've lost everything up here, guys."
I can't believe I'm hearing this. There's nothing any of us can do to help him. My heart is in my throat.
"I'm good," he calls out. "I'm good."
Thinking he said "I'm gone," I key my mike and radio: "He jumped out!" But a few seconds later, he starts talking again.
"Okay... Stroke 1... I've still got an engine... it's still working. I'm angels 26! I don't know what steerpoint I'm at."
Angels 26 puts him at 26,000 feet. I'm only 175 miles from the border, so he must be just south of the IP.
"This is Stroke 1. I'm the wounded bird, and I got about three hundred fifty knots going two-eight-zero."
"Clap 7 is visual. I'm at your left eleven low!"
"Roger" Stroke one replies. "Unable to roll left very easily. I'm losing fuel like crazy up here. I've only got twenty-six hundred pounds worth of gas according to my totalizer. I'm going to take it as far as I can. How far are you from the border?"
I continue to close on Harpo, but all I can think about is Stroke 1. The border is too far. There's no way he's going to make it. Picturing myself in the same position reminds me of the movie The Bridges at Toko-Ri. William Holden plays a young fighter pilot whose jet is hit during a bombing run over Korea. His beautiful wife, played by Grace Kelly, and two young daughters are waiting for him to return to the United States. Unfortunately, he never makes it home. His jet can't make the border, and a search-andrescue team is shot down trying to save him. He eventually dies at the hands of the communists in a muddy Korean ditch.
"Okay, Stroke 1 just sel-jetted his tanks. I'm going for the moon."
"Choctaw,"AWACS calls out, "when able, posit on Stroke 1."
"Clap 7, Stroke 1.1 got no heading indication up here, buddy. What should I do?"
"Turn left thirty degrees," Clap 7 responds.
"I don't know what thirty degrees is," Stroke 1 answers with frustration. "Does this look good?"
13:52:25z
"Clap 7, this is Stroke 1. How am I doing, buddy?"
"Looking good, bud," Clap 7 replies.
"How far to the border?" Stroke 1 asks.
"Two-oh-six!"
"Copy... two-oh-six."
The radios are silent for a moment, and then the conversation continues.
"Okay, Clap. Stroke 1 is not going to make it too much longer. Any idea where I'm at?"
"One hundred eighty miles to point ten," Clap responds.
"Okay," Stroke 1 replies. "I'm starting to lose oil pressure now."
Harpo and I continue heading south at 35,000 feet. Gabriel is one hundred miles on our nose and, as soon as we cross the border, we'll head for the Kiwi air-refueling track for post-strike refueling. In the meantime, I'm doing my best to keep it together.
"I've got a Raven right underneath me," Stroke 1 calls out. "I got a Raven underneath me."
"Roger," the EF-111 pilot replies. "We're watching you. We'll stay with you."
"Okay, Wedge," Stroke 1 answers. "I appreciate it. Please don't get hurt, buddy. You can go out in front of me, okay?"
"We're gonna stay with you, man," Wedge answers. "Just hang on."
"I'm hangin' on," Stroke 1 laughs nervously. "Don't worry about me. I'm just a little low on the fuel now."
13:55:00z
"Okay, Wedge, this is Stroke 1... and we're about ready to lose it here. I'm okay right now. It ain't going to be much longer, though. The oil's just about zero. Hydraulics are good, though."
There's another pause and then Stroke 1 asks: "Hey, Wedge, how we doing? How far to the border?"
"One hundred sixty-four miles," Wedge responds.
"Okay. You get 'em out here for me in case I gotta go."
Before Wedge can respond, Stroke 1 calls out again: "Okay... Stroke 1... I just lost my engine ... I'm on EPU!"
The F-16 EPU is designed to operate automatically when an engine flames out. The unit is powered by hydrazine, a chemical mixture of nitrogen, hydrogen, ammonia, and water. When the EPU fires, the gaseous products spin a turbine gearbox, which powers the EPU generator and a hydraulic pump. Unfortunately, the system can only operate for about ten minutes. Once the hydrazine is depleted, the aircraft will go out of control.
"I'm doing my best Bogart here," Stroke 1 jokes.
14:OQ:OOz
"Choctaw, Stroke 1."
"Stroke 1, go!" the controller replies.
"Roger. Stroke 1 is squawking emergency right now. I'm not sure of my position, but
I'm about one hundred thirty miles nbrth of Gabriel is my guess... heading one-ninezero at this time."
"Stroke 1, Choctaw... good contact."
"Okay, I'm at angels 22 right now and I don't think I'm going to be with it much longer. We're hangin' on."
"Stroke 1, roger," Choctaw replies. "Good radar contact—good Mode C."
"Thank you," Stroke 1 responds quietly.
While Wedge continues to escort Stroke 1 south toward Gabriel, Clap 7 makes an emergency call for fuel.
"Choctaw, Clap 7."
"Clap 7, go," Choctaw responds.
"Got a three-ship of Vipers holding for fuel. Request snap to nearest tanker."
"Clap, say posit from Gabriel."
"Three-four-zero ... one-eighteen," Clap answers.
The controller pauses for a moment, then barks: "Clap, snap two-two-five!"
"Copy, snap two-two-five."
"Tanker two-two-zero ... one-eighteen," Choctaw radios.
"Two-two-zero ... one-eighteen ... Clap 7."
Without warning, Stroke 1 radios: "That's all I've got, guys. I'm outta here!"
There's a slight pause, and then I recognize Foot's voice on the radio.
"Good luck," he says.
It's a moment I'll remember as long as I live.
14:02:34z
As soon as we cross Gabriel and into Saudi airspace, Harpo turns toward the Kiwi airrefueling track. I'm getting low on fuel, and we need to find our tanker ASAP. As soon as we arrive at the ARCP, Harpo calls out contacts at our left ten o'clock for thirty miles. I check my radar and answer: "Two's same."
Harpo completes the rejoin and pulls to within a mile of the KG-10. The blue-andwhite Extender is the only tanker available, and it already has three chicks in tow.
"F- 16s on the Kiwi tanker, say call sign," Harpo radios.
"Collar 11, flight of three."
It's Cliffy!
"Collar 11, this is Collar 15. My wingman is low on fuel. Request permission to rejoin."
"Collar 15," Cliffy responds, "you're cleared to the right wing. As soon as Collar 18 is through, Collar 16 can refuel."
I open my air-refueling door as Harpo proceeds to the right wing of the tanker. When Wheel comes off the boom, I slide into position. I only need a few thousand pounds to make it back to Al Minhad, and, as soon as I have it, I disconnect and resume my position on the right wing of the KG-10. In the meantime, another flight reports the ARCP inbound. Cliffy tells me to head back to Al Minhad and puts Wheel on my wing for the flight home.
On our way back to the base, I level off and tell Wheel to take spacing. As soon as I call up steerpoint sixteen, I switch on my autopilot and proceed direct to Al Minhad. The sun has already set, and thousands of stars begin to flood the night sky. Looking back, I wonder how any of us made it out of the target area. If yesterday's flight was a milk run, today's sortie was the mission from hell.
Later that evening in the beer tent, pilots from all three squadrons met to congratulate each other on a job well done. Everyone had a war story to tell. It was hard to believe the 388th TFW didn't lose a single jet. The 401st TFW lost two F- 16s during the sortie: Stroke 1 and Stroke 4. According to Col. Huddle, a SAM pierced Stroke 4's jet as he came off target. His aircraft came apart, and a chute was never spotted. The news about Stroke 1 wasn't good either. Search-and-rescue forces tried to recover the downed pilot—without success.
lz，这么晚了还发视频！！！
不过还可以，首见哈！
不过还可以，首见哈！
最后几分钟飞飞的呼吸是亮点
是开加力了吧，我看过训练航天员时过载过大就要主动调整呼吸的。
During the raid, 3 aircrafts, Stroke 1, Stroke 4 and Clap 4 (an F-15C) were lost due to surface to air missiles.
一架F15C失踪，怎么回事，不是说F15没有被击落的记录吗，这架飞机后来怎么说
一架F15C失踪，怎么回事，不是说F15没有被击落的记录吗，这架飞机后来怎么说
求翻译帝
LS+1:shutup:
既考阅读，又考听力。
应该是1981年吧
lastmike 发表于 2011-4-12 07:40 ![]()
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