CHAPTER 15

Lieutenant Chip Wiggins said to Lieutenant Bill Satherwaite, "We're getting a strong crosswind. There's that south wind that blows out of the desert. What's it called?"

"It's called the south wind that blows out of the desert."

"Right. Anyway, that'll be a good tailwind for getting the hell out of there-plus, we'll be four bombs lighter."

Satherwaite mumbled a reply.

Wiggins stared out the windscreen into the dark night. He had no idea if he'd see the sun rise on this day. But he knew that if they accomplished their mission, they'd be heros-but nameless heros. For this was no ordinary war-this was a war against international terrorists whose reach went beyond the Middle East, and thus the names of the pilots on this mission would never be released to the press or the public, and would be classified top secret for all time. Something about that rubbed Wiggins the wrong way; it was an admission that the bad guys could reach out, right into the heartland of America, and exact a revenge against the pilots and crew or their families. On the other hand, even though there would be no parades or public awards ceremonies, this anonymity made him a little more comfortable. Better to be an unnamed hero than a named terrorist target.

They continued east over the Mediterranean. Wiggins thought about how many wars had been fought around this ancient sea and especially on the shores of North Africa-the Phoenicians, the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Carthaginians, the Romans, the Arabs, on and on for thousands of years right up until the Second World War-the Italians, the German Afrika Korps, the British, the Americans… The sea and the sand of North Africa was a mass grave of soldiers, sailors, and airmen. To the shores of Tripoli, he said to himself, aware that he was not the only flier that night to think those words. We will fight our country's battles…

Satherwaite asked, "Time till turn?"

Wiggins came out of his reverie and checked his position. "Twelve minutes."

"Keep the clock."

"Roger."

Twelve minutes later, the formation began a ninety-degree turn to the south. The entire air armada, minus tankers, was on a course toward the Libyan coast. Satherwaite pushed his throttles forward and the F-lll gathered speed.

Bill Satherwaite scanned the clock and the flight instruments. They were approaching the aerial gate where the attack preparations and profiles would begin. He noted his indicated air speed at true four hundred eighty knots and his altitude at twenty-five thousand feet. They were less than two hundred miles from the coast and headed dead-on for Tripoli. He heard a series of radio clicks, which he acknowledged in kind, and with the rest of his squadron began his descent.

Satherwaite was inclined to start the final checklists right then, but he knew that it was a little early, that it was possible to get yourself peaked too soon, and that was not a smart way to go into combat. He waited.

Wiggins cleared his throat, and over the interphone it sounded like a roar and gave them both a start. Wiggins said, "One hundred miles to feet dry," using the aviator's term for land.

"Roger."

They both looked at the radar screen, but there was nothing coming out of Libya to greet and meet them. They leveled off at a mere three hundred feet above sea level.

"Eighty miles."

"Okay, let's get started on the attack review."

"Ready."

Satherwaite and Wiggins began the litanies of the checklist and reviews. Just as they were finished, Wiggins looked up and saw the lights of Tripoli straight ahead. "Tally-ho." Satherwaite looked up, too, and nodded. He moved the hydraulic wing position lever, and the outstretched wings of the F-lll began to sweep further aft, like the wings of a hawk who's spotted his meal on the ground.

Wiggins noticed that his heart had speeded up a little, and he realized he was very thirsty.

Satherwaite increased power again as the F-111s approached the coast in formation. Their run-in altitude remained at three hundred feet, and they'd been told there were no radio towers or skyscrapers that high to worry about. Their run-in speed was now five hundred knots. It was zero-one-fifty hours. In a few minutes, they'd break formation and head toward their individual targets in and around Tripoli.

Wiggins listened closely to the silence in his headset, then heard a warbling tone that indicated a radar lock-on. Oh, shit. He looked quickly at his radar homing and warning screen and said, with as cool a tone as he was able to fake, "SAM alert at one o'clock."

Satherwaite nodded. "I guess they're awake."

"I'd like to kick that briefing officer in the nuts."

"He's not the problem and neither are those missiles."

"Right…" The F-III was flying too low and fast for the missiles to score a hit, but now at three hundred feet, they were squarely in the killing zone of the anti-aircraft guns.

Wiggins watched two missiles rise up on his radar screen, and he hoped these Soviet-made pieces of junk really couldn't track them at their speed and altitude. A few seconds later, Wiggins visually spotted the two missiles off their starboard side streaking upward into the night sky with their fiery tails burning red and orange.

Satherwaite commented dryly, "A waste of expensive rocket fuel."

It was Wiggins' turn not to reply. He was, in fact, finally speechless. In total contrast, Satherwaite was now chatty and was going on about the shape of the coastline and the city of Tripoli and other inconsequential matters. Wiggins wanted to tell him to shut up and fly.

They crossed over the coast and below them lay Tripoli. Satherwaite noted that despite the air raid in progress, the streetlights were still on. "Idiots." He caught a glimpse of the Arch of Marcus Aurelius and said to Wiggins, "There's your arch. Nine o'clock."

But Wiggins had lost interest in history and concentrated on the moment. "Turn."

Satherwaite peeled out of the formation and began his run-in toward Al Azziziyah. "How do you say that word?"

"What?"

"Where we're going."

Wiggins felt sweat forming around his neck as he divided his attention between the instruments, the radar, and the visuals outside his windscreen. "Holy shit! Triple-A!"

"Are you sure? I thought it was Al-something."

Wiggins didn't like or appreciate Satherwaite's sudden cockpit humor. He snapped back, "Al Azziziyah. What fucking difference does it make?"

"Right," Satherwaite replied. "Tomorrow they'll call it rubble." He laughed.

Wiggins laughed, too, despite the fact that he was scared out of his mind. Arcs of anti-aircraft tracers cut through the black night much too close to their aircraft. He couldn't believe he was actually being shot at. This really sucked. But it was also a rush.

Satherwaite said, "Al Azziziyah, dead-on. Ready."

"Rubble," replied Wiggins. "Rubble, rubble, toil and trouble. Ready to release. Fuck you, Moammar."