Baghdad or Bust Read online

  Baghdad or Bust

  AIR WAR #3

  THE INCREDIBLE TRUE STORY OF THE COMBAT FLYERS

  INCLUDES A SPECIAL FOREWORD

  BY THE AUTHOR

  William ROBERT STANEK

  RP MEDIA

  REAGENT PRESS

  Baghdad or Bust

  AIR WAR #3

  This Edition Copyright © 2015 William Robert Stanek.

  Original release © 2006 William Robert Stanek

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. Printed in the United States of America.

  RP Media

  Cover design & illustration by RP Media

  Cover photo licensed from ThinkStock

  Stanek, William Robert.

  Baghdad or Bust: Air War #3. The Incredible True Story of the Combat Flyers / William Robert Stanek.

  p.cm.

  1. Persian Gulf War, 1991—Personal narratives, American.

  2. United States. United States Air Force.

  3. Stanek, William Robert. Title.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR: WILLIAM ROBERT STANEK

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  THE AIR PLAYERS

  THE PACKAGE

  THE COMBAT CREW

  INNER SHIP’S COMMUNICATIONS

  FOREWORD

  SUNDAY, 3 FEBRUARY 1991

  AFTERNOON, MONDAY, 4 FEBRUARY 1991

  TUESDAY, 5 FEBRUARY 1991

  WEDNESDAY, 6 FEBRUARY 1991

  THURSDAY, 7 FEBRUARY 1991

  FRIDAY, 8 FEBRUARY 1991

  SATURDAY, 9 FEBRUARY 1991

  MORNING, MONDAY, 11 FEBRUARY 1991

  TUESDAY, 12 FEBRUARY 1991

  WEDNESDAY, 13 FEBRUARY 1991

  VALENTINE’S DAY, THURSDAY, 14 FEBRUARY 1991

  FRIDAY, 15 FEBRUARY 1991

  SATURDAY, 16 FEBRUARY 1991

  SUNDAY, 17 FEBRUARY 1991

  GLOSSARY OF TERMS

  TIMELINE

  About the Author:

  William Robert Stanek

  The author proudly served in the Persian Gulf War as a combat crewmember on an EC-130H, an Electronic Warfare aircraft. During the war he flew numerous combat missions and logged over two hundred combat flight hours. Additionally, he has nearly 1000 hours of EC-130H flight time.

  In his military career, he has always been at the top of his class—a two-time distinguished graduate, honor graduate, and unit technician of the year. His civilian education includes a B. S. in Computer Science, magna cum laude, and a Master of Science Information Systems with distinction. His distinguished accomplishments during the Gulf War earned him nine medals, including our nation’s highest flying honor, the Air Force Distinguished Flying Cross.

  His last station while in the Air Force was at the 324th Intelligence Squadron, Wheeler Army Airfield, Hawaii. His initial training in the intelligence field was as a Russian linguist. His language background also includes Japanese, Korean, German and Spanish. As a writer, he has always preferred book-length fiction and non-fiction. One of his essays on military life won a writing contest, earning him a cash award and the George Washington Honor medal from the Freedom Foundation at Valley Forge.

  His experiences in the Persian Gulf War changed his life and helped drive his successful career as a writer and entrepreneur. To date, he has written and had published over 150 books. His books are sold all over the world and have been translated into many languages.

  Author’s Notes

  Times and dates are included to provide a sense of chronology and are not absolutes. The notes in my journal had times referenced in Greenwich Mean Time (Zulu), which were converted to local times dependent on location.

  The events depicted in the story are taken from real accounts, my personal journal, and various other unclassified sources. Names have been changed to protect the privacy rights of those involved. Some aspects of the story have been dramatized to provide a more complete view of the air war.

  The Air Players

  Callsign

  Aircraft type

  Role

  Gas Station

  KC

  Refueler.

  Gypsy

  AWACS

  Airborne warning and control.

  Paladin

  F-15C Eagle

  Air support. CAP. MiG Sweep.

  Phantom

  RC-135

  Reconnaissance.

  Shadow

  EC-130

  EW/Communications jammer.

  The Package

  Nickname

  Aircraft type

  Role

  Buff

  B-52

  Heavy bomber.

  Eagle

  F-15C

  Air superiority fighter/interceptor.

  Falcon

  F-16

  Air-to-air, air-to-ground fighter.

  Raven

  EF-111

  EW, primary radar jammer, attack.

  Strike Eagle

  F-15E

  Deep interdiction; carries payload.

  Thunderbolt

  A-10

  Ground attack aircraft.

  Weasel

  F-4G

  EW radar jammer, attack, reconnaissance.

  Note: A suffix indicates the aircraft’s number as part of a group. Paladin-1 is the leader (Paladin Leader). Paladin-2 is his wingman. Paladin-3 is the next fighter. Paladin-4 is Paladin-3’s wingman.

  The Combat Crew

  Normal crew load is 13 (this can vary)

  Front Crew

  Nickname

  Full Name

  AC

  Aircraft Commander; the pilot

  Co

  Copilot

  Eng

  Engineer

  Nav

  Navigator

  AMT

  Air Maintenance Technician

  Mission Crew

  Nickname

  Full Name

  MCC

  Mission Crew Commander

  MCS

  (Pos. 5)

  Mission Crew Supervisor

  Positions

  1, 2, 3, 4

  Junior operators/ operators

  Positions 6, 7

  Senior operators

  Inner Ship’s Communications

  Channel

  Description

  Flight Crew Hot

  For emergencies. When pulled, it activates the headset microphone without having to key it. Also called Ship’s Hot.

  Listen

  For listening to Flight Crew Hot comms.

  PA

  The ship’s loudspeaker; only the front-end can talk on PA.

  Private A

  The mission crew commander’s channel, used to pass targeted signals to the MCC.

  Private B

  The mission crew’s channel, and for comms to the mission crew supervisor.

  Select

  Patch directly to other positions, like a dial-in telephone switching bank for general chatter.

  Ship’s Interphone

  Cockpit comms and comms to the front-end.

  FOREWORD

  May, 2015

  My accomplishments during my 11-year military career earned me 29 commendations. When I left the military, I was one of the most highly decorated in the command.

  My commander and supervisor loved it when I put on my dress blues and participated in the various parades and celebrations on base, especially Memorial Day, Veteran’s Day, and the 4th of July. I met a few presidents, including George W. Bush and Bill Clinton, and a few generals, including Colin Powell and H. Norman Schwarzkopf, that way. And let me tell you, it was truly great to have presidents and generals shake my hand and meant it.

  With what’
s happening in the world right now, it’s a good time to look back and reflect. I served my country in foreign lands and during several tours of duty in combat zones, including two combat tours in Iraq. During the tour of duty I write about in this book, I flew on 32 combat missions from the opening days of the war to its end. In that time, there was never a day I didn’t look death in the face. Never a day I didn’t face AAA, SAMs and more as we flew our missions.

  Because of that service, I will always know that when the darkest of hours arrives I will not hesitate. When asked, I answered. When called, I went. When death stared up from the void, I did not fear. I gave because it was my duty and because I felt it was the right thing to do.

  I write about some of my experiences in this book, which was featured in a full-page review in the Journal of Electronic Defense and on NPR. Though a memoir, the book is largely a tribute to the men and woman I served with.

  As you read, I hope the book opens a window for you as big as the original experiences did for me. After combat, the world never seemed quite the same. The return to normalcy was a strange experience, never quite accomplished. I don’t, in fact, think I ever slowed down or ever quite touched the earth after those experiences. For it was afterward that everything in this world changed—that everything in this world became so clear. And afterward that I set my sights on the future and never looked back.

  Terrible experiences can change a person for better or worse. I’d like to think the terrible experiences recounted herein changed me for the better and opened my eyes to the wider world. As you read my story and that of those I served with, remember that I wrote this book as I lived it, when I was a much younger man than I am today.

  Sunday, 3 February 1991

  The mission of the previous day had gone well. We supported a full mission package with one significant change. We also supported a group of fighters whose payload was hundreds of thousands of psy-ops leaflets. Baghdad radio was running a propaganda campaign to the Iraqi people and the neighboring states; the Allies were countering with their own.

  The leaflets were dispersed over Iraqi troop concentrations. Winds scattered them far and near. The ultimate aim of the leaflets was to inform Iraqi soldiers that if they would surrender they would be treated fairly and given food, water, and medical treatment.

  We had one other surprise on the flight. Gentleman Bob was our AC. He even shared crew beers with us in Tennessee Jim’s quarters after the flight.

  At a little after 20:00, our crew was alerted, and I received great news. A C-5 transport had come in from Sembach. I went to ops expecting a letter; I was elated to find a package. Inside I found civvies. Finally civvies. My old blue jeans, not the ones with the holes in the knees, but a pair that would do just as well. Sweat shirts, t-shirts, a jogging outfit.

  Yes, Katie made me a tape too. Her voice sounded so sweet. Underneath it all was a loaf of homemade, mouth watering, banana-nut bread. I shared some with the guys; the rest I put away.

  One last thing—we had a brand new grill sitting next to the picnic table. I remembered those conversations with Big John about a thick, juicy steak. He was probably home eating one right then. I was still dreaming about it and hoping I wouldn’t have to dream much longer. So many good things happening in one day made me wonder what was lurking around the corner that I just couldn’t see.

  Shortly after midnight, I was clinging to the right side paratroop door looking out the portal when the wing dipped and left me staring straight down into the grim desert floor. Anti-aircraft artillery was so clear in my night-vision goggles it looked as if it could reach out and touch me—us. We were just finishing a very long communication jamming sortie. There in the background, far out to my right, the last of the secondary explosions caused by the Buffs’ heavy bombing raid was lighting up Mosul airfield. It was both the most spectacular thing I’d ever seen and the most spine-chilling. A familiar voice was tweaking in my ears, mixing in with Gypsy’s airborne warning. For a brief moment I tuned in.

  “Thank you for listening to K-J-A-M radio,” Crow cried out over ship’s Private. “We’re AM, FM, and all the way across the dial. We hope you’re enjoyed our programming today and that you’ll join us again soon, real soon. This final selection, Born in the U.S.A., by Mr. Bruce Springsteen, goes out to a Mr. Saddam Hussein. We all know who you are, but do you know who we are?”

  Ship’s PA tweaked. Captain Sammy called out, “Crew, Pilot, you know the words, so sing along!” The lyrics to Born in the U.S.A. screamed over the PA. I began screaming the lyrics into my headset microphone. We were just finishing up an especially tense combat sortie so Captain Sammy was letting us blow off a little steam.

  “Pilot, Navigator, Gypsy’s cleared us off stations in five mike.”

  “Roger, Nav.”

  Before the pilot brought the Lady off orbit, we went through one final combat turn, a crisp turn that dipped the wing nearly sixty degrees and left me once more staring straight down at the desert floor. For a moment, I listened to the Lady’s hum—the four turbo propellers of our venerable EC-130 churning in the wind—then chatter filled my headset.

  “Pilot, MCC, the last of the packages have egressed. Gypsy’s pulling out and Phantom left us five minutes ago. Let’s get the hell out of Dodge,” Tennessee Jim cried out. Bruce Springsteen was just finishing his last rendition on ship’s PA when it tweaked out.

  “Roger that, MCC. We’re coming off orbit.”

  “Crew, MCC, good job! The package got away safe, and the Buffs really smacked the hell out of Mosul.”

  “Pilot, Spotter, traffic high, at nine o’clock moving to twelve,” I called out.

  “Got him, that’s Gas Station. The KCs are heading back to base.”

  “Roger,” I responded. This rotation as spotter had gone without a hitch so far, yet I didn’t know which was worse—staring at a bunch of high-tech displays while frantically working the signal environment or watching explosions light up the sky.

  “Crew, Pilot, let me remind you that we are still airborne over the sensitive area. Our moment of fun is over. We’ll be clear in a few minutes; stay with me until then.

  “Spotter, stay alive back there! There’s been a lot of activity out there today. That AAA is thick as rain.”

  You don’t have to tell me, I wanted to say. I saw it. The flashes in the view port of the NVG made it seem like the Fourth of July.

  Minutes passed. The blood rushing in my ears calmed. The passing of time reverted back to minutes and seconds, and not heartbeats. To my five and six o’clock, I could still see a continuous flurry of artillery bursts flooding the skyline. Soon the guns would fall quiet. We would hopefully be long gone.

  “Crew, exiting the combat zone. Post-combat Entry Checklist.”

  The front-end crew went through their list: pilot, copilot, navigator, engineer, and the air maintenance technician, each calling out in order. The mission control commander said his bit as the mission compartment interior lights turned from combat red to a lusterless white. I shifted from port to starboard and continued my vigil, staring into the night sky. The guns were indeed silent as I turned to look back, but a vast POL storage area was still burning crimson far behind us.

  Soon mountains were below us, whitecaps mixed with jagged black outcroppings. Glancing down with my NVG, they seemed to be waiting, taunting me. I was confident that they wouldn’t get me today. I tugged at my survival vest and felt the reassuring weight of the government issue .38 revolver within it. I sighed; having a loaded weapon always seemed to put a part of my mind at ease.

  A four-ship of F-15 screamed by. I yelled out, “Traffic low, moving seven to twelve. Four-ship. There goes our support CAP. We’re on our own.”

  “Roger, Spotter. Got them; there they go,” responded Ice, our copilot.

  I watched the Falcons go, afterburners filling the NVG with green-white fire.

  I switched to the port side and saw another pair of afterburners. I was about to call it in when my heart stopped.
The green-white fire wasn’t coming from afterburners. It was coming from engine number two. A smoke trail was rushing past the window. “Pilot, Spotter, I see smoke and flames coming out of engine two.”

  At the same time I called out, the copilot spotted the warning lights, “Fire warning, engine two!”

  “Roger, Spotter. Roger, Co. Crew shutting down engine two. Spotter, what do you see?”

  “We’re trailing smoke, lots of smoke; but I don’t see any more flames.” I had my face pressed up against the plexiglass.

  The Lady jerked roughly. My heart jumped into my throat as we lost altitude quickly. It felt as if we’d hit a patch of clear air turbulence.

  “What’d we hit? Spotter, check starboard. You see anything?”

  “Dear Jesus, engine three warning light just died,” cried Ice.

  “Crew, we’re two engines out. Prepare to begin in-flight emergency procedures,” Sammy, the pilot called out. The copilot cut in and began reviewing emergency procedures on Ship’s Hot that included contingency plans for bailout, ditching, crash landing, and conditional destruction of our classified equipment. Things the thirteen of us, five in the front and eight in the mission crew had heard, memorized, and reviewed a hundred times.

  “Crew attention to brief, crash landing procedures! Don parachutes, helmets and gloves. Remember, six short rings, prepare for impact. Followed by one long ring, brace for impact. In the event of a crash landing, use any available exit to egress as quickly as possible. Formation site will be three hundred feet off the nose.”

  “Pilot, Spotter, you won’t believe this, but we lost the prop on three. There’s nothing turning out there!”

  Captain Sammy, who had been advising Control, cut in, “Shoulder harnesses fastened and in the locked positions. Gloves on, helmets on, parachutes on.” He was following his checklist per procedure.

  We’d been supporting a pre-dawn strike and now, of all times, the sun decided to begin its lofty climb. I saw engine two’s propellers come to a halt. I held my breath as they did so. I saw a spark of flames and fiery oil spilling out into the shadowy sky. The chute I’d already fitted was in the crew bunk beside me. I strapped it on. “Pilot, Spotter, there’s flames coming out of two again!”