Syria
03:45 Local (23:45 Zulu)

Isolated within the tight confines of his aircraft, Lieutenant Commander Kevin Shiflet found it difficult to maintain his focus. The muffled roar of jet engines and the sound of his own breathing accentuated by the mask he wore were the only sounds that broke the eerie stillness. Like his aircraft, his mind seemed to be suspended in a void. Mechanically, Shiflet turned his head this way and that, peering into the pitch black that his aircraft wore like a cloak. The night sky and featureless terrain below offered his unaided eye no clues as to where he was or what lay below. Only the faint light of his instruments, dimly reflected off the interior surface of his canopy, was visible.

The chatter of other Coalition aircraft operating throughout the region offered little in the way of distraction. While the data and mission reports the Coalition pilots rattled off at infrequent intervals were vital, they were not mentally stimulating. The monotone exchange of information between other strike aircraft and an aerial tanker came across to Shiflet as being no different than the canned audio clutter that instructors piped into every simulator scenario he was required to go through back on the carrier. At times like this, he had to remind himself that the arming switch before him was not a dummy but was, in fact, connected to very real bombs that would, if circumstances permitted, soon be dispatched against very real targets.

When he had opted for naval aviation after graduating from the Naval Academy, Shiflet had envisioned his career as being more akin to the zoom and boom dogfights that Hollywood was so fond of. Though far from being a Tom Cruise, Shiflet always thought of himself as an adventurous sort who had the "Right Stuff." Unfortunately for the naval aviator, the right stuff these days required a pilot to be more of a delivery boy than a swash-buckling brigand. This mission was a case in point.

The run-in to the initiation point had been uploaded into the navigational system hours before Shiflet set eyes on his aircraft. Likewise, data concerning the target, the ordnance to be used against that target, and the sequence of its release were fed into the F-18's fire control system. If all went well the entire mission would be about as routine and unspectacular as a high-speed ride at an amusement park.

From somewhere out of the darkness Shiflet heard his wingman call out. Equally bored, Lieutenant James Jefferson was picking up a conversation that the pair had started back on the USS Truman. "So, you haven't told your wife yet. I know if my Sally found out that our deployment was being extended from someone other than me, she'd be fit to tied."

When their rotation had begun eight months before, engaging in such nonessential chitchat in the midst of a mission would have been unthinkable. But like everything else, as their time on station stretched into months and one redeployment date after another came and went without any relief in sight, things had become looser. When senior officers on the Truman described the current state of their mission, they referred to unraveling of discipline or inattention to detail. The truth was, pilots and seamen alike were finding it harder and harder to care about what they were doing. Infractions of standard operating procedures and regulations had become so prevalent that even the most strident disciplinarian in the Truman's air group was now turning a blind eye to deficiencies that would have previously resulted in a written reprimand. If the truth were known, commanding officers considered the ebbing of morale justified because they too were just as angered by the breach of faith that had become routine, as the deployments kept getting extended.

"It's not going to make any difference to Peg who tells her or how she hears about it." Shiflet grunted. "She'll just saddle up that high horse of hers and go on a tear that will make a pornographer blush."

Jefferson chuckled. "I've got to hand it to your wife. She does have a gift for expressing herself."

"So, Jimmy, what do you think it's going to take to get shore leave in Athens?"

"Hey, you're going to have to find another dupe this time around. Do you know how much money I blew the last time we were there?"

The navy lieutenant commander chuckled. "As I recall, you managed to lay waste to a fair amount of my own disposable income."

"Well, you know what they say, Kevin. A fool and his money are soon parted."

As the attack aircraft continued to cut through the darkness that offered little real protection, the pair of aviators exchanged their views on how, exactly, they had managed to waste as much money as they had during their last shore leave. Back on the Truman, the personnel manning the ops center charged with monitoring the activities of their air group, heard the banter but didn't pay attention to what was being said. Like the pilots flying the mission they struggled to maintain the high state of vigilance that active air operations demanded, but the mind-numbing routine and long months on station made that difficult.

The first warning of imminent danger to the flight of F-18s being led by Lieutenant Commander Kevin Shiflet came from an officer aboard an E-3A Sentinel slowly orbiting Saudi airspace. "SAMs, SAMs, SAMs. All aircraft in Echo Seven, SAMs have been fired. I say again, all aircraft in Echo Seven, SAMs have been fired."

Startled, Shiflet blinked twice as he scanned his radar warning receivers. As if on cue, they lit up. Not knowing just how close the enemy missiles were and having no desire to waste any time finding out, Shiflet snapped, "Jimmy, we're it. Pop countermeasures, and break right on my count."

Without waiting for acknowledgment, the lieutenant commander triggered his chaff and flares and began counting. "On three -- two -- one -- break."

With a violent jerk Shiflet threw his aircraft into a hard bank as he increased his airspeed and began to dive. He didn't bother to look back to see if his wingman was following, or search the night sky for the surface-to-air missiles that were in pursuit. He didn't pay attention to the excited chatter as the E-3 AWACs issued vectors to a flight of air force aircraft assigned to SAM suppression. The naval aviator was focused on fighting the effects of the G force that was pushing him back into his seat, while doing his best to put as much distance as possible between himself and the countermeasures that he hoped would spoof the Syrian missiles. Time, which moments before had seemed to be plentiful, was now as much a foe as the SAMs dispatched to kill him.

Copyright © 2003 by Harold Coyle