TORBIN DOLK POSITIONED HIS SIZE THIRTEEN BOOT ATOP the engine fairing for the F-4G Phantom Wild Weasel, then carefully levered himself from the boarding ladder to the aircraft, easing his weight onto the ancient metal like a kid testing lake ice after an early thaw. The metal had been designed to withstand pressures far greater than the bulky electronic warfare officer's weight, but he always climbed up gingerly. He wasn't so much afraid of breaking the plane as he was of somehow offending it, for if anything mechanical could be said to have a personality or even a soul, it was Glory B.

The broad-shouldered Phantom was one of the last of her kind still on active duty in the Air Force, and in fact she had escaped orders to report as a target sled two weeks ago only because of some last minute paperwork snafu with the plane designated to take her place patrolling northern Iraq. She waited on the ramp in front of the hangar with her chin up proudly, no doubt recalling the first flight of her kind nearly forty years before. The F4H-1 that took off that bright May day in 1958 was a very different aircraft than Glory B -- cocky where she was dignified, fidgety where she was staid. The F4H-1 was also a Navy asset, a fact Glory B with her USAF markings glossed over in her musings. The Phantom, for all its imperfections, surely qualified as one of the service's most successful airframes, a versatile jet that notched more hours in the sky than the sun.

Torbin touched the glass of the raised canopy, patting it gently for good luck. Then he put his hands on his hips and looked down at the tarmac, where his pilot was proceeding with his walkaround. Captain Dolk had flown with Major Richard "Richie" Fitzmorris for nearly a month; during that time, Fitzmorris's preflight rituals had nearly doubled in length and rigor. Pretty soon he'd be counting brush strokes on the nose art.

"Yo, Richie, we flying today?" yelled Torbin.

Fitzmorris, who probably couldn't hear him, waved. The crew chief, standing a few feet behind the pilot, smirked, then ducked forward as Fitzmorris pointed at something below the right wing.

Torbin lowered himself on his haunches atop the plane. His gaze drifted across the large airfield toward the F-16s they were to accompany, then to a pair of large C-5A transports and a fleet of trucks taking gear away. Torbin's mind drifted. His brother-in-law had recently offered to go partners in his construction business back home, and he was giving it serious thought. His career in the Air Force seemed to have come to a dead end, though that was largely his own fault. He'd come back to the Weasels two years ago even though he knew they were doomed to extinction. Life at the Pentagon had become boring beyond belief, and he'd wanted to go where the action was. Once the Phantom bit the dust, his options would be severely limited.

"So we going or what?" said Fitzmorris, who'd managed to sneak up on him.

The major's voice surprised him so much, Torbin didn't have a comeback. He dropped into the cockpit sheepishly, and hadn't even finished snugging his restraints when the pilot and ground crew began negotiating for power. The start cart on the tarmac revved up its turbine; a few moments later the Phantom's right engine cranked to life, its growl mimicking a tiger protecting his food. Glory B's left engine kicked in and the plane shuddered against her brakes, Fitzmorris pushing power to about fourteen percent. Fuel flow nudged 500 pounds per minute. The indicators swung up green -- good to go, boys, good to go.

Glory B rocked expectantly as her two passengers worked through their checklists, making sure they were ready. Finally she loped forward, winking at the end-of-runway crew as she paused to have her missiles armed; she was so anxious, she almost refused to hold short when the pilot had to stop and run through another of his interminable checklists. Finally cleared, she roared into the sky after the F-16s, a proud mare chasing down her foals.

Roughly an hour and a half later Glory B held her wings stiff as she bucked through turbulence deep in enemy territory. The area below belonged to Iraqi Kurds, who were currently engaged in a low-intensity, multidimensional war against not only Saddam Hussein's army, but themselves. Infighting between the various Kurdish factions had helped Saddam consolidate power in the northern mountains above the Euphrates. Though ostensibly forbidden to use force there by the decrees that ended the Gulf War, he was currently backing "his" Kurds against the others with light tanks and ground troops. The F-16s were on the lookout for helicopters; the Iraqis occasionally used them to attack villages sympathetic to the guerrillas.

"You awake back there?" Fitzmorris asked.

"Can't you hear me snoring, stick boy?"

"Just don't play with the steering wheel," answered the pilot. It was an old joke -- the G model of the Phantom featured a stick and flight controls in the rear cockpit.

"Glory B, this is Falcon leader," the F-16 commander broke in. "We have some movement on the highway in box able-able-two. We're going to take a look."

"Roger that," replied the pilot.

Fitzmorris adjusted his course to take them farther east, following the fighters. As they swung south, their AWACS gave them an update -- nothing hostile in the sky.

Thirty seconds later an SA-2 icon blossomed in the right corner of the Plan Position Indicator at the center of Torbin's dash. In the quarter second it took his fingers to respond, his brain plotted the flicker of light against the mission brief. Then he began doing several things simultaneously, cursoring the target and transmitting data to one of the AGM-88 HARM missiles beneath his wings. Two small gun-dish icons flashed on the left side of the threat screen, their legends showing they were about five miles closer than the SA-2 but well beyond their firing range. Smart enough to sort and prioritize the threats, the APR-47 concentrated on the long-range missile. Torbin, who could override the system, agreed.

"Got a Two," he told Fitzmorris. They were about thirty miles away.

His gear flashed -- an SA-8 had come up. It was flicking on and off, but his gear got a decent read anyway, marking it just beyond the SA-2 site, out of range for the admittedly nasty missile.

He'd take it after the SA-2. They were almost in position to fire.

The SA-2's radar went off, but it was too late -- Torbin had the location tattooed on his HARM's forehead. But just then one of the Falcon pilots broke in. "I'm spiked! An SA-8!"

No you're not, thought Torbin; don't overreact. The radar had just flicked off. There was a launch, but it was the SA-2 -- which now seemed to be running without guidance.

"Torbin!" said Fitzmorris. "Shit, twenty-five-mile scope. Shit."

"Right turn," Torbin said. "Relax. The F-16's okay. The only thing that can get him is the two, and its radar just went off. He'll beat it."

"Yeah."

"All right, we have an SA-8 south. There are SA-9s well south," said Torbin. His threat scope was suddenly very crowded. "Not players."

"Shit."

"Out of range. We'll take my two, then the eight."

Balls of black, red, gray, and white flak rose in the distance. More indications lit the screen, more radars.

Torbin had never seen so many contacts before. Radars were switching on and off throughout a wide swath of territory. The Iraqis were trying something new. The APR-47 hung with them all like a trooper, though the sheer number of contacts was pushing it toward its design limits.

"Torbin!"

"Fifteen miles. Start your turn in three," Torbin told the pilot.

"The SA-8." Fitzmorris's voice was a loud hiss, pointing out another threat that had popped onto the screen.

"You fly the plane." An SA-9 battery fired one of its short-range missiles well off to the west. Torbin concentrated on the SA-2, had a good read. "Target dotted! Handoff. Ready light!"

"Shoot him, for chrissakes!"

"Away, we're away," said Torbin, handing off the SA-8 to a second HARM missile and firing almost instantaneously. The two radar seekers thundered away, accelerating past Mach 3 as they rushed toward their targets.

"Rolling right!" said Fitzmorris, jinking to avoid the enemy radars.

"Triple A," warned Torbin, who could see a large patch of black roiling over the canopy glass as they tucked around.

"Shit." Fitzmorris's voice seemed calmer now.

"We're clean," said Torbin. He craned his head around as Fitzmorris spun to a safe distance. A white puff of smoke appeared on the ground off the left wing.

Bagged somebody. Meanwhile, the other Iraqi radars had flickered out. Their jinking cost him a shot at any of the smaller SA-9 batteries; they were too far north now to fire.

"Falcon Flight, what's your status?" Fitzmorris asked the F-16s as they regrouped.

"Where the hell were you guys?" the Falcon leader snapped. "Two's down."

"Two's down?" said Torbin.

"You have a parachute?" asked Fitzmorris.

"Negative. Fucking negative. He's down."

"What hit him?" Torbin heard the words coming out of his mouth, powerless to stop them.

"What the hell do you mean?" the F-16 pilot answered. "You're the damn Weasel. You should have nailed those motherfuckers, or at least warned us. Shit, nobody told us jack."

"I nailed the SA-2. Shit."

"Go to hell," said the F-16 commander.

Torbin pushed back in his seat, staring at the now empty threat screen. He listened to the traffic between the AWACS and the F-16s as they pinned down a search area and vectored a combat air patrol toward it. The short-legged F-16s would have to go home very soon; other airplanes were being scrambled from Incirlik to help in the search but it would be some time before they arrived. The Phantom, with its three "bags," or drop tanks of extra fuel, had the search to itself.

"They launched at least three missiles," said Fitzmorris over the interphone.

"The missiles that launched were well out of range," said Torbin. "They were SA-9s. No way they hit the F-16. No way."

"Tell that to the pilot."

Copyright © 2003 by Air Battle Force, Inc.