“And be sure the carriers are rearming all their aircraft as soon as they land. We’ll need them.”
NAVAHO FLIGHT
“Coming up on the IP, Panther. Slow to four fifty knots.” Lee heard his wingman acknowledge with two clicks just as he turned the Hornet over to its attack heading.
Throttling back, he watched his airspeed fall. They’d made a fast trip from their holding station to the initial point, but from here on, he wanted to take it slow and careful. Flying in a built-up area, against a non briefed target, he needed to look the situation over.
Lee switched his HUD to air-to-ground mode and made sure that his bombs were selected. He always took extra care with the ordnance panel-especially after an incident in training. He’d made a perfect bomb run on the target, only to find that he’d dropped his centerline tank instead.
The uneven surface of Durban’s rooftops flashed beneath him, individual homes and buildings blurring by too fast to make out much detail. His HUD showed the range to the target, which at this speed looked just like any other structure. An open box was centered over the computed position of the building, and Lee kept one eye on the box while he used the other to make sure he didn’t fly into anything.
An F/A-18 ordinarily attacked at six hundred knots or more, but that was usually at sea or over open terrain. Here,
the buildings rushing by made even a slower speed seem more like Mach two.
There still wasn’t any fire from the ground, and with a little relief, he concentrated on pinpointing his target. His targeting box seemed centered on a thick smoke column billowing high into the air. In a flash the scene filled his windscreen.
Lee’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t seen what he’d expected to see. The target was obvious, an already-bombed building in the exact center of the box. It was in ruins, no more than a pile of dirty brick and twisted steel. With an error of less than one foot, he couldn’t argue with the coordinates. That was the target.
During his one split second overhead, he saw people pointing up at his aircraft, running for cover. He had a momentary image of sandbags in front of the building next door, and men among them, and then he was past.
Lee checked his wingman. Panther Lewis was still in position. He waved a gloved hand as he spotted Lee looking him over.
“What’s the plan, boss?”
“Proceed as ordered, I guess.”
Panther’s voice revealed his doubts.
“There’s not much left to hit.”
” I know, but we don’t know the story, so we stick to plan A.”
By this time the two aircraft had “extended” away from the target-gaining enough distance to turn and line up on their programmed target again. Lee clicked his radio switch again.
“Reverse course, turn left in place. Now.”
Both Hornets dropped their left wingtips and neatly pivoted one hundred eighty degrees. Lee lined up on Lewis, the new leader, and pushed the throttle forward as his wingman said, “Accelerating.”
A four-fifty-knot stroll looking over the target was one thing, but they’d make the real attack run at full speed. Flying faster would make their bomb drop more accurate, increase their separation from the explosions, and make them harder targets for the now-alerted defenders.
The rooftops flashed by below them, and Lee followed his partner in.
MAIN TELEPHONE EXCHANGE, ON WEST STREET
The soldiers guarding the phone exchange watched the American planes scream past. They had a fleeting impression of sharp noses and gray, square-cut wings, combined with a roar that filled their heads.
The enemy planes were dangerous, but seemingly random in their destruction.
Less than two hours before, they had bombed the office building across the street into oblivion, while leaving the telephone building unscathed.
One soldier had suggested that there must have been secret military work going on in there, and that was why the Americans had bombed it. Among the laughter, the consensus had been that they were just poor shots. They had been lucky. That was something soldiers could understand.
NAVAHO FLIGHT
Rebel divided his attention between the rooftops, the cues on the HUD, and his wingman, now a mile in front of him. At six hundred knots, that distance became a six-second separation, barely enough time for the fragments from
Panther’s bombs to clear. The idea was to do this in one quick pass, in and out before the enemy recovered enough to shoot back.
Rebel’s HUD was filled with lines and numbers. Altitude, airspeed, weapons settings, steering, and aiming cues covered the angled glass in a confused jumble. Compared to air-to ground attacks, dogfighting was simple. His target box was still centered on the ruined building, but the target itself was obscured by the surrounding buildings.
Panther’s Hornet bobbed, and Rebel worried that something was making him break off the run. In the time it took him to think that, though, the plane in front of him steadied and then dove sharply, its nose pointing at the ground for a few short seconds.
He saw bombs fall from the wings, and in the same moment, tracers flew up from the ground, narrowly missing Panther’s aircraft. It was hard to tell, but they seemed to be coming from the building he had noted earlier. It was impossible to tell the exact type of weapon. It was probably just a machine gun, but it was the first flak they had seen.
A split second later, the bombs hit, and as Rebel closed on the target, he gauged Panther’s pattern to be a direct hit.
Fuck it, Rebel thought. The rubble’s been bounced and someone in that building shot at my wingman. Mentally, he reclassed his mission from “strike” to post attack flak suppression “
He lowered his nose.
MAIN TELEPHONE EXCHANGE
The soldiers were congratulating themselves. Once again, the American planes were bombing the other building, not them. Crouched behind their sandbag barriers, they smiled at their continued good fortune.
Their luck was running low.
A second screaming roar filled their ears as something big and gray streaked low overhead. Dark objects came off its wings, and eight five-hundred-pound bombs exploded in the street and on the building.
Those who were not killed by the fragments or the blast were finished when the telephone center collapsed on top of them.
LOUIS BOTHA INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
The artillery fire slackened momentarily, and Sgt. Jim Cooper looked out across the aAeld. Most of his squad crouched nearby-taking shelter inside a hangar near the LZ, hiding from the relentless Afrikaner barrage. But four of his men,
the slower ones, lay out on the tarmac, wounded or dead. He couldn’t tell which-not from this distance.
Cooper faced a serious dilemma. If he ran out to recover them, he might attract unwelcome attention to the hangar and the rest of his men.
Aluminum sheeting offered concealment-not protection.
But he couldn’t leave the guys lying out there, maybe bleeding to death.
He couldn’t.
Cooper slipped off his pack and laid his M16 down. If he moved fast enough, he might be able to get any survivors under cover while the unseen enemy gunners were shifting targets.
The barrage stopped.
Cooper sprinted out, gut-twisting fear pushing him the dozens of meters in record time. He skidded to a stop by the nearest man-PFC Olivera. He gagged. Ollie was gone, a hole in his neck the size of a fist. The next two he checked were dead, too. But the last Marine, Ford, was still alive.
The sergeant scooped his squad mate up in one clean motion and slung him over his shoulder like a side of beef. Then he started jogging and trotting back toward the hangar-expecting the first deadly shell burst at any moment.
