Baghdad: First strike report

(This second-hand download, datelined Saturday May 2003, is attributed to an “L. Weeks”, who is not prominent in senior US naval aviation circles. The report rings true in many respects and it reads as though written by the CO of the Prowler detachment, but it might just as well be apocryphal.)

 15:45: Time to get out of the rack. After five hours of tossing and turning, I brief for the most important event of my career, the opening strike of the “Shock and Awe” campaign. After a quick bowl of oatmeal I head to the Ready Room to check on our aircraft status and make sure everything is still on track for the big night over Iraq.

When the Ground War started we got the word that Air Day would be two days later. It so happened that the Air Wing Commander was given the overall lead for the first strike. So, I was given charge of the entire Suppression Effort. That’s the EA-6B Prowlers specialty, keeping the enemy’s air defences, their Surface-to-Air missiles (SAMs) and their radar from targeting our strike aircraft. Our first wave had about 80 aircraft directly involved.

That’s huge.

To provide protection, we planned for Prowlers from five different squadrons (three aircraft carriers and two shore-based), lots of anti-radiation missiles from Navy and Air Force jets, and lots of standoff weapons deployed from outside the SAM engagement ranges.

 Of course, the plan looked great on paper but no one knew how Iraq would counter. War is like a football game, lots of reacting, improvising and changing on the fly. Now the pre-game planning was done. We were ready to go.

16:45:00: CAG (Commander, Carrier Air Group) starts the brief right on time even though the Admiral hasn’t arrived. Our shoe (non-aviator) Admiral is also fighting in a different war. He is charged with defending over one hundred Coalition ships in the Arabian Gulf.

That keeps him busy.

CAG’s brief has evolved into more of a pep talk. He’s long-winded but I somehow manage to keep attention. Then I hear CAG scream “Hey, somebody wake him up!” I elbow the shoe Admiral out of his coma. He sits up and says: “Harrumph, harrumph. Go get ‘em.”

(Not much help, but we all know the plan.)

18:00: It’s time to walk (out to the planes). I sense that my crews are a little concerned. I’m flying with Creepy, Jersey, and Donny. We’ve trained long and hard, worked up since June and yet no one knows exactly what will happen (during execution). I have a very competent squadron, so I’m not worried.

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Preflight inspection

18:20: I salute my plane captain (PC) and preflight my jet. Realise it is pitch dark out so even with my state-of-the-art government issue D-cell flashlight, I can’t see much. The flight deck is a hazardous place, especially at night. My jet is parked so close to the round-down (back edge of the carrier deck) that I can’t even walk under its tail for fear of slipping over the side of the ship. How embarrassing would that be? “CNN report at 11. First casualty of war. Navy pilot falls off USS Constellation lost at sea.”

So, I carefully climb into my jet and wait.

18:35 Exactly 40 minutes prior to launch, the loudspeakers blare the mantra that brings kinship to every past and present Tailhooker. It is more of a prayer than a warning:

On the flight deck. Aircrews are manning for event one.
Case three launch. (Night or bad weather.)
All unnecessary personnel must leave the Flight Deck.
Those remaining get in complete and proper flight deck uniform.
Helmets on and buckled. Goggles down. Sleeves rolled down.
Check one last time for chocks and chains and loose gear around the deck.
Now, start all the go-birds.
S-T-A-R-T-E-M-U-P!

I close the canopies and light off the engines. At night the PC and I communicate via light signals. My eyes haven’t fully adjusted so I see only his wands. After checking our systems, we are ready to go. The yellow wands signal our taxi. The superstructure’s ambient light aids in judging motion, but it’s still very treacherous, moving a 27-ton aircraft around without any perception of depth, or speed. I move slowly at night since the non-skid has worn off from five months of flight ops. It is not unusual to slide about ten feet before stopping.

I follow the director’s wands to the catapult. The Prowlers will be launched first tonight, kicking-off Operation Iraqi Freedom for the Constellation Battle Group.

19:10: Weird things come to mind while sitting there on a catapult at night. Very few things frighten me. Of course, I’m not counting those loser boyfriends my daughters dated, but luckily just the sight of a groomed, employed man scared them off. Perhaps helpless is a better description of how I feel, even after 300 night cat shots. There’s no doubt in a Tailhooker’s mind that if something goes wrong during that stroke – engine failure, generator failure, gyro failure, or worse yet, a cat malfunction – he is merely along for the ride.

Most daytime catapult emergencies would be child’s play for us Navy flyboys. But at night, if my copilot God doesn’t grab the stick, our skill probably won’t be sufficient to fly up and away from the water.

Launch

19:14:25: The director’s yellow wands signal “take tension” to the catapult officer and I feel the tug of the shuttle on my launch bar. I smoothly advance to full power and hear the roar of my two engines. “There’s one, two, three good caution light wipe-outs, oil and hydraulics in the O.K. band, RPM, EGT, fuel flow in limits. Ready? (Consent by silence from my three ECMOs)

“Lights are on!”

I signal my launch by turning on the exterior lights. I watch the Catapult Shooter dip his wand down to signal our shot. “Here we go,” I say, just prior to bracing.
There’s nothing outside, so I fixate on my attitude indicator and grunt “good shot” as we get slung into the black. I can tell a good shot because my head and torso are pressed back into my seat so hard that I can’t lean forward. It’s the most comforting uncomfortable feeling in the world.

“We’re climbing” is my call after I rotate the aircraft, still staring at my instruments. In fact, there’s no reason to look outside until I am well above 2,000 feet high. That’s also when I start to breathe again.

19:20: Northwest bound with wingman in tow. We have an appointment with a refuelling tanker about 250 miles away.

I can see tons of aircraft while driving up the “ocean parkway” (name given to the route we take to Iraq). A few years ago, I would have been able to see only some stars and oil platforms. But now we all fly on Night Vision Devices (NVDs).

Night vision goggles

It is nothing like seeing in the day and they don’t work through clouds. Everything appears greenish. But they are sensitive enough to pick up headlights, campfires, etc. from miles away. I can see other aircrafts’ lights from over fifty miles. And on a moonlit night, it’s easy to make out ground features such as fields, roads, rivers etc.

20:15: We arrive at the tanker’s track. Rendezvousing on the tanker is usually the most dangerous part of the mission. There are airplanes all over the place. There is high potential to collide with someone else because lots of planes are arriving from different altitudes and directions. It gets real sporty when the weather is bad. But tonight is clear. I avoid a few planes, and join up as number four in line for gas.

20:35: Finally, my turn behind the KC-10. I “smoothly” make a last minute full cross-controlled rudder slam to get the fuelling probe into the basket. Ten thousand pounds of JP kerosene later we are topped off and on our way north; next stop Baghdad.

21:15: Somewhere just south of Baghdad. There are scattered clouds below us but I can clearly see the capital. I can see bright Tomahawk cruise missile explosions all throughout the city. To the right and left I can see trails, like Roman candles, streaking toward Baghdad. I cannot see the aircraft launching the missiles because, of course, all of us had our lights turned off so the enemy could not optically target us from below.

Fox News shows bombs exploding randomly for hours and it may appear to be a free-for-all, similar to a “food fight”. But there is very little randomness in the military.

In fact, the larger the strike, the more precise. So, as I watch six anti-radiation missiles fired from two Hornets 10 miles to my right, and I see the F-14 Tomcats above me tapping burner to accelerate at the Ingress Point. I know our execution is on time. I also know there is no evil empire on this earth that can defeat our awesome Jedi forces. All is good and right.

SAM salvo launched

There’s still plenty of work left for my crew and I as we watch streams and streams of AAA rising from downtown and suburbia. We see numerous SAMs being launched. But none will guide because our ten venerable Prowlers are obliterating all enemy radar with a relentless storm of ’trons. On the other hand it is still unnerving, especially when we see a salvo of SAMs launched near us.

My heart stops beating until we determine that nothing is tracking us. Seconds later Creepy calls “Break left,” directing me to turn the plane as hard as aerodynamically possible. Seems as if a barrage of AAA was exploding outside our starboard canopy. For over one-half hour we jammed, dodging fountains of AAA and sporadic SAMs, watching explosions decorate Baghdad like mosquitoes flickering into a bug zapper, protecting coalition brethren from all over the globe. It seemed like only minutes.

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22:20: There’s not a lot of cockpit chatter on the way home. Of course the radios have been squawking non-stop all night. The hundreds of planes airborne tended to make our controllers very chatty. I fly quiet. The satisfaction of surviving is enough to keep us comfortable as we head out to sea.

Feet wet, I remove my goggles to regain 100 per cent night vision. I need all the help I can get on night trap for landing. If I were only in the Air Force. Aside from not knowing my parents, I would have no problems, just a simple landing on a two-mile long runway. But some idiot wanted to sail the world. After de-goggling all I see is black.

Tonight there is no Commander’s moon. In fact, it’s – darker than fresh cow dung on a moonless prairie night – darker than a dead witch’s hat – darker than a black hole – darker than the backside of the moon – not my lines, but you get the point, it’s damn dark.

22:56:00: “503 commencing descent, altimeter 2-9-8-7,” calls Donny as we push downhill out of the marshal stack point. I ease our rate of descent as we pass through 5,000 feet. I don’t want to add my name to that sad list of navy pilots who started their approach and continued their descent right into the water. Believe me, it’s not a far stretch. There’s nothing to see outside except black. I padlock on the instruments. I level off at 1,200 feet. Jersey asks, “Hey Germ, do you have your cheaters on?” After my laser surgery I could see 20-15 in both eyes, but it’s been three years so I need cheaters (glasses) to see 20-20. Around the boat, vanity is not a welcome sidekick.

Landing stress

They’ve done studies on stress and found that carrier landings at night increase a pilot’s heart rate more than any other flight task. You think it would be cake after 18 years, but in truth it was easier when I was young and fearless. At least now I am smart enough to know I’m not great, so I don’t believe the seat of my pants (at night it will kill you) and I listen to the Landing Signal Officer (Paddles), who watches and waves us aboard.

I am only ten miles behind the boat but Donny doesn’t see it. After lowering the flaps and landing gear, we slow down to 136 knots. I drive into three miles and begin my descent. Donny says, “I got the boat, we’re lined up a little left.” “Thanks Donny, let me know when we hit centreline.” Donny can look out the windscreen at the laser line-up lights and also the carrier droplights, which depict centreline. I have to “stay inside” on the gauges because every night carrier approach is like landing with near-zero visibility because there is no horizon, no approach lighting, and no frame of reference. Try turning off all the lights then staring at a small point source. It will start to move, or does it? Or are you? That’s why I stay inside on the instrument approach needles until just prior to touchdown.

“Five-oh-three, on glide slope, on course, three-quarter mile, call the ball,” says the approach controller. In case you were expecting the “Maverick has a ball” quote from Topgun, “Five-oh-three, Prowler, Ball, 6.8” is the correct call as Donny states our side number, aircraft type, Ball – meaning he sees a landing source light (meatball) on the glide slope lens, and our fuel state is 6.8 thousand pounds.

I stay inside the cockpit on the needles but start peeking outside. When I can’t stand it anymore I look outside and tell my crew “I’ve got a Ball, three down and locked.”

I’m looking at a postage stamp with blinking centreline lights. I work my butt off to stay on-speed, line-up, and glide slope. I hear paddles click the mike and before he even asks for “a little power” I’ve already jumped on the throttles. Now I’m too high and fast, better than low and slow, but still not pretty. I squeak off some power until I see the ball starting to settle lower. Experience tells me I’m over the ramp. I add some power to break my descent, accepting a slightly low ball so I don’t bolter and miss the trap.

The jet touches down. I go to full power while simultaneously getting thrown forward into my harness straps. In seconds, we come to a stop and get tugged back by the wire. I quickly cut the throttles, turn off the landing lights and raise the flaps and hook.

As we taxi out of the landing area I finally take a full breath and tell my crew “good job, guys.” Knowing we did a good job is all the gratitude any of us need.

Post flight

23:30: After post-flighting for battle damage and thanking our fine sailors I make my way downstairs. Smiling ear to ear, I get stopped by a group of reporters in the P-way. If you saw the clips, you know it’s true:

“What was the scariest part of the flight?” “My landing.”
“How do you feel?” “I’m hungry. I’ve been waiting all night to grab a slider.”

(A slider is a hamburger; it’s tradition to eat a slider after a tough night trap.)

00:55: There is a powerful energy throughout the ship. And everything is going well. We will be launching and recovering planes until this afternoon, eighteen straight hours of flight operations. And we’ll get up and do it again and again.

No planes shot down yet. That’s what I care about. Slider and Free-dom (non-French) fries on a plate, I take my seat. Smiling, messy haired, red mask-faced, sweaty-collared pilots are enjoying lunch. The wardroom is bustling with combat accounts. Moving their hands the pilots’ wrist watches are being shot down from all directions. Old folks like myself taking it all in while big-eyed twenty-somethings struggle to contain themselves. This is what the tailhook Navy is all about. It is a night to recall … but not a life experience to dwell upon.

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