War in the Gulf
Washington, DC (CNN) -March 12th, 1991
Known as "Operation Desert Storm" among military circles, a massive war has broke out in the Middle East. In the South, American Militia forces are pushing into Iraqi-annexed Kuwait. The bulk of Kuwait's oil fields were sized in the opening movements of the conflict, and now the battle is pushing inward into the urban maze of Kuwait city itself.
In the West, Royal Jordanian tanks have surged past the border and penetrated nearly a hundred miles in the first day. There are multiple but unconfirmed reports of Israeli jets ranging freely over Iraqi airspace, hunting for Sadaam's fabled Scud tactical ballistic missile transporter-erector-launchers (TELs) with smart bombs.
King Hussein denied these rumors outright, and military annalists have dismissed them as well. Israel would only be able to maintain the requisite operational tempo by launching its strikes from Jordanian airbases and refueling off Jordanian-contracted militia tankers.
To the East, Iranian forces are on high alert. Tehran claims the increased readiness of its troops is only a response to the sudden outbreak of war, but military annalists have ruled out a possible reconquest of Iraq's Khuzestan province.
Whatever the Iranian actions, the fact remains that Saddam Hussein is caught between a rock and a hard place, and neither one seems likely to go away soon.
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The F-111 Aardvark was a terrifyingly huge airplane. Fifty tons of iron and fire, it was almost exactly half again as heavy as a B-17, and carried seven times the bomb load. But that titanic burden was shouldered by tiny, tightly-swept wings barely a third the area. The 'Vark's swing-wings were up for the task, but only just.
There was precious little in reserve for hard maneuvering, giving your jet the approximate handling characteristics of a streamlined brick of a rhinoceros on ice skates. The hundred-thousand pound 'vark was going to fly the way it wanted to fly, and you—the nominal pilot—had very little say in the matter.
But dear god did it fly! The Aardvark was a big, heavy plane. And it's made the sound barrier its bitch without even touching the blowers. There's nothing—nothing—like the feeling of fifty-thousand pounds of afterburning thrust grabbing you by the balls and slamming you into your ejection seat, especially with the ground tearing by so close you could almost taste it.
It was enough to put a smile on anyone's face, and riding into battle as valiant knights-errant against the forces of sand-Hitler himself made the feeling even sweeter. It didn't hurt that good old Uncle Sam was comping the price of every bomb dropped on Saddam's forces.
Which was good, because you had fifteen and a half tons of Mark-82 and -84 retarded free-fall iron bombs, a few Rockeye cluster bombs, and a pair of sidewinders in case the situation got truly dicey. Every last one of which had been lovingly checked over by the portly Texan sitting to your right.
"Jolly, you with me?" you called. A few hundred feet off your tightly-swept wingtip—and somehow even lower—flew your wingman. Or rather, wing-woman.
Allison Bridger was ex-USAF like you, honorably discharged in the latest round of post-draw-down force reductions. Unlike you though, she never had a chance to fly a big jet in combat, even with the air force. From what you gather, joining the Knights was a natural step forwards for her, a chance to do what even the Air Force would never have allowed.
You'd heard that story—or variations like it—more than a few times since joining up. Flying big jets was still predominantly a man's world, but there was a bigger minority of women pilots in the Knights than there'd ever been in the Air Force.
"Yeah, Python." Jolly's voice came quick after you spoke, her tone tinged with equal measures excitement and boredom. You couldn't understand how anyone could be that non-nonchalant while bombing past the sound barrier so low you swear you saw her wing kick up a divot of spray when she banked. But that was Jolly, pre-mission jitters only honed her flight skills.
The horizon was already glowing with artillery and missiles. Tigers, Phantoms, and Vipers galore were swarming over Kuwait, making Saddam's forces pay dearly for the territory they'd annexed.
Overhead, fellow Knights riding Hornets strapped with SRAMs and backed up by EF-111 Ravens—Spark-varks, as everyone called them—tore towards the Iraqi coast with the single-minded intention to inform each and every SAM site in Iraq what it felt like to have an unlubricated anti-radiation missile forcibly inserted up their own assholes. Weasel drivers were a special kind of crazy, even considering the exorbitant sums they were paid. But they were the kind of crazy that kept you safe, so they were good people in your book.
Meanwhile, you and Jolly had a very different duty. While the fast-movers crushed the head of the snake, you'd rip out its guts. As the old saying goes, armatures study tactics, professionals study logistics, and the city of Basrah a scant thirty miles from the Kuwaiti border was the logistical hub of the Iraqi annexation force.
Well… it was for another few minutes, anyway. Your 'varks—and dozens more just like them—had a thing or two to say about that.
As your jets turned towards the coast, you took a moment to glance over your target priorities.
[ ] (write in) what're your target priorities?
[ ] (write in) what's your attack plan?
