given. After all, it was ludicrous to think that the troops guarding the nukes would just step aside and hand them over. As Pape's platoon leader pointed out, the first reaction of the Ukrainian guards when they saw a battalion of rangers armed to the teeth and spoiling for a fight come boiling out of the night wasn't going to be a challenge and request for a password.
It was therefore no surprise that the commander of the 1st Ranger Battalion, 77th Infantry, translated the line in his operations order directing him to use minimum force to mean swift, violent, and overwhelming firepower applied in the shortest amount of time. Such aggressive thinking was infectious and, to the rangers, welcome. Pape's company commander, carried away by what the first sergeant called the spirit of the bayonet, restated the phrase minimum force to mean using the fewest bullets in the shortest amount of time to kill the most Ukrainians. At their final briefing the young captain told his assembled troops that he expected them to 'go in, blow away anyone that gets in our way, secure the nukes, and wait for the Air Force. No muss, no fuss.'
So it was not surprising that young Kevin Pape, raised in the shadows of John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and Rambo, drilled in the skills of war until he could perform without thinking, and fired up by bold, aggressive, and confident officers, should feel invulnerable to the point of being cocky. There was no room in his mind that night for the image of shattered bodies brutalized by grenades and automatic weapons. Pape's young nostrils had yet to inhale the stench of burned flesh or the contents of human bowels and intestines, mixed with warm blood, spilled at his feet. There was, in training, no way to simulate the screams of wounded and dying men that sounded more like wild animals than the cries of sons and fathers. Combat, only combat, brutal and bloody, can cure a young soldier's naivete. Pape in less than fifteen minutes was about to receive his first treatment.
If Pape lacked the ability to visualize what was about to happen, Colonel Ed Martin, commander of the 404th Tactical Fighter Squadron, more than made up for him. Easing his F-l17 fighter down to an altitude of 20,000 feet, Martin prepared to commence his final run-in. There wasn't actually much for him to do. Since takeoff, his fighter had for all practical purposes been on automatic pilot. All he needed to do to keep his aircraft on course was to keep the little green indicator on the display to his front that represented his aircraft's actual heading aligned with the command-heading indicator that the computer in the aircraft's navigational system told him he should be on. Even if Martin altered the airspeed or altitude, the navigational system's computer took this into account, made new computations, and transmitted a new command heading, if necessary, for Martin to follow.
As easy as that was, the actual bomb run would be, technically, easier. Once he had reached the point where he would initiate his attack, all the pilot of an F-l17 had to do was activate the weapons controls, ensure the laser designator was on its mark, and then let his aircraft take over the bomb run. He would make what the designers called 'a hands-off attack,' meaning the firepower control computer, working with the navigational system computer, would do everything. Martin was just there to keep an eye on everything and make sure nothing went wrong. In theory a piece of cake.
For Martin, however, this mission was anything but a joy ride. Although he was the commander of the 404th, at that moment the only thing he commanded was the aircraft that he was in. And even that point, given all the computers and such, was questionable. In the past, the necessity of flying the aircraft, staying on top of the tactical situation, and keeping track of a wing man occupied the pilot's mind, leaving little time to dwell on fears, real and imagined. Glancing to his left and then his right, Martin looked at the night sky. He could not escape the thought that somewhere out there eleven other aircraft of his squadron, swallowed up by a bitter cold night sky, were boring down on their designated targets, alone, like his. It was times like this that made Martin regret not having a backseater that he could talk to. Now, Martin thought, if they could only come up with a computer that alleviated the apprehensions and concerns of a commander, he'd be out of a job, which at the moment didn't seem to be such a bad idea.
Below him, buried under tons of dirt, rock, and concrete in command and control bunkers and remote missile sites, soldiers of the Ukrainian air defense command sat monitoring their radar screens and sensors, searching for them. It was, Martin thought, a high-tech contest. After all, he and the rest of his pilots were betting that American technology would allow them to win the game of hide-and-seek against the best air defense system in the world. Given that, they had to win the intelligence war. They were betting that American intelligence was good enough to win the information battle, the results of which had been used to program his navigational and weapons-control panel for this attack. In that struggle, American intelligence agencies had to overcome Ukrainian counter- intelligence and operational security measures designed to throw their efforts off far enough so that the real targets were missed. And even if Martin and his men made it to the correct target, there was always the question of whether or not the weapons they carried would do the job. What a waste, he thought, to come all this way just to put a hole in the ground.
Such thoughts cluttered Martin's mind as he approached the IP, or initial point, over Mukacevo. The price of failure was not an intangible that he had to leave to his imagination. During the Gulf War, Martin had had more than enough of an opportunity to see, up close and personal, what failure meant. His most vivid memory of the war was the loss of a close friend who misjudged his ability to bring his crippled aircraft home. In the midst of the air war, just when everything was settling down to almost a dull routine, Martin watched as one of the aircraft in the squadron he was assigned to came limping in after a raid over Iraq. Damaged by anti-aircraft fire, the pilot had lost some of his avionics as well as fuel. Still the pilot felt confident that he could make it. And he almost did. The pilot of the damaged aircraft actually made it to within two hundred meters of the runway before his lift and luck gave out. Martin, with two other pilots from the squadron, watched as the F-15E's landing gear bit into the desert sand just short of the runway and collapsed, sending the aircraft, still traveling at over one hundred miles an hour, tumbling forward, tearing itself apart. Despite his better judgment, Martin had run out to the aircraft, thinking that perhaps, somehow, his friend had miraculously survived. Miracles, however, were not in order that day. Like the F- 15E, there was little left of Martin's friend.
A small chirp over Martin's headset wrenched his mind from the bright barren vistas of a past war captured forever by his mind's eye back to the bitter darkness of the present one. Looking at his console, Martin saw that a Ukrainian air defense search radar was sweeping the area. The electronic warfare system identified the radar as belonging to an SA-10 surface-to-air missile battery. It also told Martin that the radar had not yet detected him, that it was still in the search mode. Another tone, with a slightly different pitch, warned Martin that he had reached the IP.
For a moment Martin considered his situation. Although he was still undetected, as soon as he began his bomb run he would have to open the bomb bay door and allow the 750-pound laser-guided bomb he carried to swing down into the release position. Unfortunately, for the briefest of moments, the bomb, built without the benefits of stealth technology, would be visible to the SA-10 battery's search radar. That meant in turn that so long as the bomb was attached to his aircraft while Martin was getting his laser dot on target, the SA-10 battery could engage him.
The question of whether he should initiate his attack now or try a different approach, one that perhaps would not expose him to the surface-to-air battery, momentarily crossed Martin's mind. As quickly as that thought came, however, he pushed it aside. Martin, a full colonel in the United States Air Force and a squadron commander, had a critical job to do. To his front, just east of Mukacevo, at a range of ten miles and 20,000 feet below, lay the command and control bunker from which the district military commander would coordinate the defense of the Ukrainian province of Ruthenia. Destruction, or even the temporary crippling of that bunker, would hamstring the efforts of the Ukrainian commander to respond to the Army's ground attack. To break off his attack might be the best option. But there was no assurance that a different approach would be any safer. After all, if the Ukrainians took the time to set up a battery to cover one approach, it was logical that they would ensure all approaches were covered. Besides, only an attack from the southwest would ensure penetration of the main chamber. Another approach simply would not do the job.
With some effort, Martin began to compose himself as he turned his fighter into the attack. Scanning his instruments, Martin could feel his heart begin to beat faster while his breathing became more rapid. Slowly he began to block out all thoughts and feelings that did not concern his attack. Instead, Martin focused his full attention on the heads-up display to his front, checking the aircraft's heading, fire control reticle, airspeed, altitude, weapons status, and a myriad of other information. He was committed. He was in the attack mode. In another minute it would all be over, success or failure.
Without further thought, Martin opened the bomb bay door and allowed the bomb to swing out on a trapezelike frame that locked the bomb into the drop position. Almost at the same instant, the tone in his ear changed as the electronic warfare system told Martin that the SA-10 battery had radar lock. The target acquisition
