don’t let me die in the next twenty seconds.
She took her right hand from the stick and saluted the catapult officer, signaling all systems were good for launch.
She braced her head against the seat rest as the catapult officer reached down and touched the deck, getting himself down to survive the wash of air as he visually told the operator just off the flight deck to launch the plane. The operator depressed the launch button.
The hold bar released. The steam-driven catapult fired.
The F/A-18 shot forward.
Her head was driven back, her chest felt like it was being crushed, and her eyes watered.
Aerodynamics. Lift. Propulsion. Come on, beat gravity; you can do it. . . .
The ship was gone from beneath her; she was looking at the sky. Her hand crept toward the yellow and black striped ejection handle as the plane dipped and the airspeed slowed approaching 110 knots. She had to reach 120 knots or she died. Had they set the catapult weight wrong? Was she going to suffer a cold shot?
The plane’s speed crept past the safety of 120 knots and her hands returned to the stick and throttle. The thirty-degree climb was grabbing air now, beating it into submission—she could feel the plane taking control of the aerodynamic battle.
“Viper 02, airborne.” Her calm words reflected none of the surging adrenaline. She’d survived.
A launch was almost as harrowing as a landing, a moment in time where everything she had ever feared dumped its emotions into her system and left her with wet palms and exhausted muscles when it was over.
The ship and its carrier deck were half a mile behind her. She had the sky, the plane, and the beat of her own heart. Six years flying an F/A-18 Hornet and every time up was like the first time. This moment of joy could never be described.
There wasn’t time to savor it. She switched from talking to the carrier air traffic control center to the combat control center, cleared her panels to flight status, and scanned for weapons or navigation failures. The last thing she needed was for live ordnance to jam during the jolt of takeoff and be stuck a few feet away under her wing.
“Viper 01, airborne.”
She couldn’t see Thunder, but he was now in the climb-out pattern somewhere to her right. They would be flying a mile apart in a combat spread, protecting each other from a plane getting in their dangerous six o’clock blind spot. The full squadron would be in similar formations assigned to a half-mile-wide lane of airspace.
A touch of a button brought up the navigation markers she had preprogrammed into the system. They would enter Turkish airspace, fly the length of the country, and pass over the massive dams on the Euphrates. They would enter Iraq along the Tigris River valley.
Gracie arched her back and settled deep in the seat, getting comfortable; they would be flying over international waters, and then it would be land beneath them. Another long mission had begun.
Eight
* * *
FORWARD OPERATING LOCATION
T URKEY /I RAQ B ORDER
Mission underway.”
The communications officer didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. He was giving play-by-play and there was not a PJ in the room who wasn’t hanging on those words. The planes had just crossed into Iraqi airspace. Wolf and the other SEALs led by Bear Baker would soon be crossing the Syrian border to race for their pickup.
Striker glanced at the clock. Right on time. It was going to be a very long night. He got to his feet and stepped around Rich, who was spreading out his first of hundreds of games of solitaire. Bruce stepped outside. The sun had set over the Taurus Mountains and stars covered the sky. To the west the first clouds of the incoming cold front darkened the horizon. The temperature had dropped noticeably.
As soon as Iraq realized the extent of the strike, they would throw everything they had at the planes. Surface-to-air missiles, antiaircraft artillery—as good as the coalition pilots were, there were
She took her right hand from the stick and saluted the catapult officer, signaling all systems were good for launch.
She braced her head against the seat rest as the catapult officer reached down and touched the deck, getting himself down to survive the wash of air as he visually told the operator just off the flight deck to launch the plane. The operator depressed the launch button.
The hold bar released. The steam-driven catapult fired.
The F/A-18 shot forward.
Her head was driven back, her chest felt like it was being crushed, and her eyes watered.
Aerodynamics. Lift. Propulsion. Come on, beat gravity; you can do it. . . .
The ship was gone from beneath her; she was looking at the sky. Her hand crept toward the yellow and black striped ejection handle as the plane dipped and the airspeed slowed approaching 110 knots. She had to reach 120 knots or she died. Had they set the catapult weight wrong? Was she going to suffer a cold shot?
The plane’s speed crept past the safety of 120 knots and her hands returned to the stick and throttle. The thirty-degree climb was grabbing air now, beating it into submission—she could feel the plane taking control of the aerodynamic battle.
“Viper 02, airborne.” Her calm words reflected none of the surging adrenaline. She’d survived.
A launch was almost as harrowing as a landing, a moment in time where everything she had ever feared dumped its emotions into her system and left her with wet palms and exhausted muscles when it was over.
The ship and its carrier deck were half a mile behind her. She had the sky, the plane, and the beat of her own heart. Six years flying an F/A-18 Hornet and every time up was like the first time. This moment of joy could never be described.
There wasn’t time to savor it. She switched from talking to the carrier air traffic control center to the combat control center, cleared her panels to flight status, and scanned for weapons or navigation failures. The last thing she needed was for live ordnance to jam during the jolt of takeoff and be stuck a few feet away under her wing.
“Viper 01, airborne.”
She couldn’t see Thunder, but he was now in the climb-out pattern somewhere to her right. They would be flying a mile apart in a combat spread, protecting each other from a plane getting in their dangerous six o’clock blind spot. The full squadron would be in similar formations assigned to a half-mile-wide lane of airspace.
A touch of a button brought up the navigation markers she had preprogrammed into the system. They would enter Turkish airspace, fly the length of the country, and pass over the massive dams on the Euphrates. They would enter Iraq along the Tigris River valley.
Gracie arched her back and settled deep in the seat, getting comfortable; they would be flying over international waters, and then it would be land beneath them. Another long mission had begun.
Eight
* * *
FORWARD OPERATING LOCATION
T URKEY /I RAQ B ORDER
Mission underway.”
The communications officer didn’t have to raise his voice to be heard. He was giving play-by-play and there was not a PJ in the room who wasn’t hanging on those words. The planes had just crossed into Iraqi airspace. Wolf and the other SEALs led by Bear Baker would soon be crossing the Syrian border to race for their pickup.
Striker glanced at the clock. Right on time. It was going to be a very long night. He got to his feet and stepped around Rich, who was spreading out his first of hundreds of games of solitaire. Bruce stepped outside. The sun had set over the Taurus Mountains and stars covered the sky. To the west the first clouds of the incoming cold front darkened the horizon. The temperature had dropped noticeably.
As soon as Iraq realized the extent of the strike, they would throw everything they had at the planes. Surface-to-air missiles, antiaircraft artillery—as good as the coalition pilots were, there were
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