Chapter 1

Lieutenant Sean “Poose” Forrette urged the cold, hungry nose of the Strike Eagle into Iraqi airspace on a moonless night. The control stick, cupped loose in his gloved left hand felt heavier than usual as he steered into combat for the first time.

Ten feet behind, Major Reggie “Cinder” Block finished the fifth iteration of “Funky Cold Medina,” complete with verbal percussion over the intercom.

“Did you get the lights?” asked Reggie, the weapons system officer. They were to go lights out, communications out before crossing the border.

“Damn, no,” Sean blurted. “Good catch.”

“Figured better me than the Fridge,” Reggie offered, referring to Lieutenant Colonel Phil “Fridge” McKenna, flying lead, a mile west.

“You’re right about that.”

Sean peered out the bulbous canopy toward flight lead, beholding only stars amid inky blackness. Somewhere out there, hundreds of allied aircraft were entering Iraq and he couldn’t see a single one.

Roughly 28,000 feet below, lights were sparse in the unwelcoming desert. Flashes appeared sporadically here and there, possibly oil wells or the fires of Bedouin tribes stopped for the night. The nearest concentration of surface light shone in the distant north-northwest—the dimmed lights of Tallil—where their target lay, a heavily defended command center.

This close to combat, Sean wondered how it would look and feel. All he knew was what he’d watched in movies and listened to during the barroom stories of past warriors. He knew any moment the serenity could erupt into a hellacious fury.

As minutes passed, Sean prepared himself for the possible outcomes. For the first time since hiding it away two years before, he slid a photo of his fiancée from its protective kneeboard sheath and spiritually imprinted her for a few precious seconds under a cherry-tinted floodlight.

“I love you, baby,” he said to himself, unlatching his mask long enough to kiss her face once more. Love, adrenaline, courage and fear merged into a surreally unfamiliar consciousness.

“Man, I can’t believe how quiet it is,” Reggie offered.

“You’re telling me. I hope that’s a good sign—their defenses are down.”

“I have a feeling when this thing goes down, it’s going to go down,” Reggie said.

He expected a ferocious response, knowing thousands of highly capable Iraqi air defenses could be waiting—fighter aircraft, surface-to-air missiles, and anti-aircraft guns. All with years of wartime experience.

“Well, let’s rock their world first. Are you acquiring the target yet? We’re coming into range.” Their position concealed by the work of a Prowler jamming the Iraqis’ electronic view of the sky, Sean maneuvered into orbit above the target.

“I’ve got it, Poose—it’s in and out of the puffies, but I’m keeping it marked,” Reggie referred to the low-level clouds below. “Two minutes ‘til T-O-T.”

Checking his watch, Sean backed up Reggie’s time on target for weapons, “Copy that.” He could feel his heart beating in the palms. He’d never played a part in death before. This was serious, solemn business.

“You still got it, Cinder?”

“X marks the spot—I’m on it baby,” Reggie used a joystick to keep the target marked on a small infrared image screen. “Three, two, one—shack!”

The ground and sky erupted in intensifying fireballs and streams of red, orange and yellow energy as simultaneous bombing throughout Iraq and Kuwait commenced. Within seconds, a barrage of anti-aircraft fire surrounded them.

“Ho-ly shit—it’s a hornets’ nest!” Reggie exclaimed.

Wordlessly, Sean pushed the throttles max thrust forward—climbing and jinking to make the aircraft more difficult to track.

Reggie noticed two eerie plumes of orange, glowing smoke launching from the surface. “We’ve got missiles airborne, two o’clock! They look like sixes,” he referred to the numerical designation for the Russian-built, surface-to-air missile “six”—code named Gainful.

“Got ‘em! Maneuvering, standing by on countermeasures! Keep your eyes on ‘em.” Sean thrust the Eagle into an ascending left turn, preparing to release missile-fooling chaff and flares. The physical responses ingrained in training overcame all thought. Triple-A still exploded brightly in all dimensions, but went ignored as 19-foot-long instruments of death honed in.

“Lead maneuvering,” Colonel McKenna’s calm, deep voice breached the radio silence.

“Two,” Sean instinctively replied, peering quickly at the heads-up display—lead was a mile and a half west.

One behind the other, the luminous missiles seemed headed right for them. “When they don’t appear to be moving is when you need to be worried,” Sean remembered an instructor telling him. “That means they’re coming at you.”

A loud beep over the intercom signaled another threat, and to their left two more missiles accelerated from the surface. It was a trap! Sean’s eyes doubled in size—he knew they were in deep trouble.

“Oh, God!” Sean said to himself. Then, over intercom, “Two more, 10 o’clock. If all these damn missiles are for us, we’re in trouble! Countermeasures!”
The first missile missed right by about 400 yards and detonated in a vicious, concentric fireball. The second was coming close behind.

“Countermeasures!”

“Two, you’ve got two more coming—breaking west,” Fridge’s voice sounded the same as on a casual flight over the Carolina coast—either amazing wartime coolness or a seeming total lack of urgency.

“This one’s gonna be close!” Reggie yelled. “Five-thirty, low.”

Sean, looking low ahead at the two guided weapons screaming higher, felt the energy from the Gainful striking countermeasures.

“It missed!” Reggie confirmed. “Goddamned close, though!”

“These two are one o’clock, low now. I can’t turn full left—we may have been hit!” Sean burst.

“Shit, shit, shit!”

“Hard right!”

The third missile fed on their lack of movement as it sharpened its trajectory to meet theirs. Out of the turn, Sean quickly rolled the Eagle, trailing flares in a yellow-hot corkscrew, and broke hard right again. The third projectile pierced through the expanding defensive salvo, missing them by less than 50 feet and failing to detonate!

“Hallelujah, it misfired—we’re clear of three!” Reggie yelled as Sean turned them upside down through a second, slower right roll.

“This one is onto us!” Reggie shifted to the final threat. “Six-thirty, high.”

“Countermeasures!” Sean shouted, straining against mounting G forces as he pulled aggressively back in the roll, releasing a final, tube-emptying volley.

The 1,300-pound arrow held too true. At the base of the second roll, the missile discharged just yards beneath and behind the soft underbelly, sending a shock wave of fierce, saw-tooth metal and combustion into the F-15E. A shear of pain and geyser of blood sprayed from Reggie’s left leg as knife-like shards of metal cut through the aft cockpit.

Sean knew their time airborne was limited, as multiple warning indicators blinked and sounded throughout the cockpit. At full throttle, engine RPMs dropped critically low in both engines. “We gotta get outta here!” he shouted, their crippled bird still wallowing through a torrent of Triple-A.

“Two, status,” Fridge’s voice quickly, calmly requested.

“We’re losing both engines. We’re punching out!” Sean replied.

“I’ll pull on three!” Reggie wiped the blood scatter from his mask before reaching for the handles. Crunching himself back against the seat as straight and stiff as possible, he reached to find and clutch the oval-looped handles alongside his thighs. “One. Two. Three!” Reggie tugged and clenched for the 12-G ride into a nightmare. Sean, grappling with the wavering controls, struggled to get himself into position, as he’d also eject with Reggie’s pull.

The pull failed.

Sean fought the controls while watching the altimeter needle rotate counterclockwise in deliberate descent, “Did you pull?”

“I pulled. It’s a no go back here, partner,” Reggie sounded resigned, knowing his end was near. “Poose, you need to pull yourself out of here if you can.”

Sean fixated on keeping the Eagle upright as his mind raced, “I’m not leaving you here if we have a chance.”

“Chance of what?”

“Of landing.”

“We have no chance of landing this rock; get the hell out while you can! I’ll be fine.” Reggie noticed the blood gurgling profusely from his thigh.

“You’ll be dead.”

“I’m gushing blood back here; I’m finished even if we land. Get the hell out!”

“Try to wrap it ‘til we land.”

“Lead, two, we’ve been hit—have limited control, only idle power, and a seat malfunction,” Sean paused, “We’re going down.”

There was silence, as Fridge calculated his response. He knew there wasn’t time for question or debate. His rookie wingman’s plate was overflowing, “Copy that, two. We’ve got your position and will have a rescue out shortly. Good luck.”

Reggie chimed over the radio, “Sir, Cinder here. My seat’s broke. He won’t pull his handles! Order him to pull his damn handles!”

“Two, pull your handles.”

Sean didn’t answer.

“Poose, pull your handles. That’s an order!”

Sean reached down and switched off the UHF radio. His mind was made up and he didn’t want to hear any more from the colonel.

“If we have any chance of getting down in one piece, Reggie, I need your help. I’ve shut off the radio.”

Reggie shook his head, “I’m God damned with you, partner!” Reggie gave up—it was hard to argue with the guy trying to save your life.

They’d fallen over 20,000 feet during this exchange and were now below 10,000. Behind them, Sean could see the eerie glow of burning and streams of enemy fire from Tallil, now about 20 miles northwest. “There should be a four-lane highway somewhere down here. Look for lights.”

“Looking. At least we’re not being shot at.”

“I wish I could say the worst is behind us,” Sean responded, considering how difficult it would be to land safely and evade capture. “I’m going to try lowering the gear, but I’m not expecting much.”

“Copy.”

Sean lowered the gear handle. The nose gear indicated down and locked, but no movement of either main gear. “Nose gear only. I’ll try emergency gear down.”

Fifteen seconds later, without success, Sean added, “No joy, and I can’t bring the nose gear back up.”

“Copy.”

“This landing’s gonna be a rough one.”

“There, about 11 o’clock, those look like highway lights to me!” Reggie reported.

“Got ‘em. I hope I can get this pig over that far.”

“You can do it, Poose.” Reggie paused before continuing. “You gotta do me one more favor.”

“Sure.”

“And this is not negotiable!”

“Okay, what is it?”

“When we lay this hunk on the ground, you gotta try to eject. You know that’s your best bet. You’ve gotten me this far, and I appreciate it, man. But you gotta do something to save yourself, and marry that girl of yours. Deal?”

“Deal—we’ll meet up on the ground,” Sean tried to keep the optimistic tone of the moment.

“Thank you, Poose. You’re the only dude I know who’d do this. You know that,” Reggie said as he agonizingly secured a helmet bag around his liquidated left thigh.

Sean concentrated on the final 500 feet between them and the Iraqi roadway. With limited flaps and no speed brake to slow their approach, they were landing with only a nose gear—and 125 miles per hour quicker than normal. Teeth clenched and both hands on the stick, he pulled in a last-ditch attempt to slow, but they hit the highway with ferocious momentum, collapsing the gear immediately. There was no more controlling their destiny.

Loitering 10 miles south at 15,000 feet, Fridge could see a long trail of sparks illuminating an otherwise dark surface as metal shred against concrete.

“It’s time, buddy. Get the hell out!” Reggie yelled.

“See you outside, partner, meet you off the nose,” Sean screamed back over the painfully loud abrasion. He braced back and yanked his handles, thrusting instantly into the night sky.

Fridge saw the flame from the ejection seat as it climbed, then extinguished. Moments later, the Eagle slid under an overpass and slammed into something apparently hiding there, sending explosions of color out both sides of the bridge. He knew both men likely perished, but still marked the position.

“Damn heroes,” Fridge muttered as he turned for home base.