Imminent Threat Read online

  Imminent Threat

  AIR WAR #2

  THE INCREDIBLE TRUE STORY OF THE COMBAT FLYERS

  INCLUDES A SPECIAL FOREWORD

  BY THE AUTHOR

  William Robert Stanek

  RP MEDIA

  REAGENT PRESS

  Imminent Threat

  AIR WAR #2

  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.

  Imminent Threat: Air War #2. The Incredible Try 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

  EVENING, TUESDAY, 22 JANUARY 1991

  WEDNESDAY, 23 JANUARY 1991

  THURSDAY, 24 JANUARY 1991

  FRIDAY, 25 JANUARY 1991

  SATURDAY, 26 JANUARY 1991

  SUNDAY, 27 JANUARY 1991

  MONDAY, 28 JANUARY 1991

  TUESDAY, 29 JANUARY 1991

  WEDNESDAY, 30 JANUARY 1991

  THURSDAY, 31 JANUARY 1991

  GERMANY

  FRIDAY, 1 FEBRUARY 1991

  SATURDAY, 2 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 countr
y 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.

  Evening,

  Tuesday, 22 January 1991

  In lieu of the promised recreation tent, six crew dogs crowded around a picnic table that stood between the two small buildings of the PME. We listened to a news broadcast on Allen’s portable radio.

  It was still early evening, but as the light drained from the sky, cold air began moving in. This time of year, the long Turkish nights were so cold you could see your breath. We huddled around the radio in our winter flight gear and thermals as if it could offer some extra warmth. Bad Boy was the exception; he had lived in Alaska for three years, and the cold didn’t seem to affect him. Allen, Cosmo, and PBJ were part of the six, and we weren’t sitting out in the cold for nothing; we were waiting for Bobby to return with the promised case of Budweiser.

  There was a certain cohesiveness forming between members of the crews. You knew everyone else; you had your friends and associates, but your crew was your crew and you stuck with them. They’d been there with you when the shit had hit the fan. They’d been there with you when you’d seen the whole of your life flash before your eyes. They’d been there with you afterward while you waited the seemingly endless hours before you were to fly again.

  I wolfed down a can of pork and beans straight out of the can and icy cold. It was supper, and it tasted exceptionally good. A group of us had headed across base earlier on a sort of “recon” mission. We found that the commissary two blocks up the street was finally open.

  We discovered on our little sojourn that the air base, like us, seemed to be recovering from the mass confusion that had besieged it and us during those first few frantic days. Across the air base, though, there were still people housed in every possible nook and cranny. The base gym, the local YMCA, and the base rec center were all stuffed to overflowing with recent arrivals.

  There were troops crowded into barracks hallways and day rooms, all sleeping on surplus cots as we were. There seemed to be an abundance of cots, which they were unloading by the truckload all around the base. Tent City had grown two-fold since our arrival and they filled each new tent just as fast as it went up. Back at the PME, we were quite thankful for the rooms we were packed into like sardines.

  Happy, six-pack in hand, stepped outside and casually ambled to the picnic table. Where was Bobby with that case? I can’t stay awake much longer. “That bravo looks great, Happy! I’d die for one right about now,” I said.

  Happy turned around and held the six-pack out.

  “You shitting me?” I asked.

  “No, take one.”

  I accepted, no questions asked. “You got an opener?”

  “Nope.”

  I looked at the beer in my hand, “Where’s the opener?”

  Happy slapped me on the back, “You’ve been in Germany too long, my friend. It’s a twist top.”

  “Twist top. Imagine that!” I twisted the top and was raising the beer to my lips when the crew van pulled up.

  The duty driver called out my name and waved me over. I wondered whether if I pretended not to notice him, I’d be able to finish my beer. Deciding I wouldn’t, I took one long sip before handing the beer back to Happy, who just sort of looked at me.

  “Shit, I would’ve finished the bravo,” he whispered after me. Good old Happy.

  “What’s up?” I asked the duty driver.

  “You need to head down to ops ASAP!”

  The duty driver put the van in reverse. “Hey, wait a minute. You going to give me a ride? Do I need my gear? Is something wrong?”

  It became painfully obvious that either the duty driver didn’t know or he didn’t want to be the one to deliver bad news, so I hopped into the passenger seat without my gear.

  We arrived to find a bustling ops center. One crew was leaving, another just coming in. I saw at once that the big board had changed. My name was now listed with a different crew, a crew that had an early morning alert. I tried to find out why the switch had been made. I asked the duty officer, but he didn’t know or wasn’t saying. I was certain I’d have to wait until pre-brief to discover exactly why the names had been swapped around.

  Wednesday, 23 January 1991

  Alert came all too early. It seemed my head had just touched my sleeping bag when I was awakened by a light shining in my eyes.

  Some hours later I found myself in intel. Thankfully, the briefing was short, yet I couldn’t help noticing that our orbit box was slowly pushing forward. We were scraping the edge of Iraq’s northern border now, a grim thought with the AAA and SAM units pushing into that mountainous region. Mounted on top of any of those hills, heavy caliber anti-aircraft artillery and any surface-air missile could cause our great fears to be realized.

  As we waited for a pre-brief from the pilot and the mission controller, we read through the various intelligence read files. When the pilot’s briefing finally came, it was short and oddly energetic.

  Tennessee Jim was my new mission crew commander. When he got up in front of the big map, his mouth full of chew and an almost filled spit cup in hand, I nearly broke into laughter. Spit dribbled down his chin as he spoke and described the myriad of scribbles spread across the map. To be honest, I never liked the guy; somehow, I’d always thought he’d be better off on that farm of his in Tennessee. He wasn’t Captain Willie, but then again he wasn’t anal retentive like some of the other MCCs I could’ve ended up with. I’d also find out real quick why the crews had been changed.

  “Today, we’ll be supporting the biggest package to date,” Tennessee Jim said, spitting into his cup as he spoke, adding after a momentary pause, “we’re stepping up the heat in that oven so to speak. Our mission remains the same: Command Communications and Control Counter Measures—C3CM. We’ll jam until we just can’t jam no more.”

  He went on and on in that Tennessee drawl of his, describing the missions of the Wild Weasels and the Ravens, the Screaming Eagles and the Fighting Falcons. When he finished, his spit cup was running over and dripping onto the floor. He seemed to notice it just then and he dumped it into a nearby trashcan. The wad of chew in his mouth followed the cup an instant later.

  I quickly found out that when he flew, he was all professional. It was only afterward that I could have transplanted him to that farm of his in Tennessee where he would have been perfectly in character.

  This new crew was a strange mix. The mission crew was three females and five males—Tammy, Zi
ggy, Sparrow, Chris, Mike, Popcorn, Tennessee Jim, and me. The front-end all males—Sammy, Bill, Ice, Crow, and Patrick.

  With the exception of poor Ziggy who Happy would replace, this would be the crew I’d fly with for almost all of my remaining flights. They were one strange bunch. I fit in just fine.

  Today was Ziggy’s first flight. She was visibly trembling as she climbed into the seat on position three. She’d been working as a daytime duty driver since arrival. Chris was the mission crew supervisor and an old friend. My opinion of Tennessee Jim had wavered somewhat. Still, I wasn’t sure if I’d like flying with him. I guessed I’d have to wait and see.

  “Lock ‘em and load ‘em,” called out Tennessee Jim, just after preflight checks. He was referring to our .38s. I loaded mine: one, two, three, four, five, six rounds, lickety-split.

  Ziggy on Three dropped all six rounds onto the deck, not once but twice. “Just put the damn thing away,” Tennessee Jim advised over Private A, which was a good suggestion.

  Crow, the AMT, screamed out, “Righteous!” onto ship’s Interphone, followed by, “Ready to rock and roll back here.”

  “Let’s get this damn thing up in the air,” Jim’s voice hissed into my headset immediately afterward.

  Bill, the Nav, responded with, “How many newbies you got back there?”

  “Three, I’d imagine.”

  “That’s three cases the way I see it,” called out the pilot.

  “Crew, MCC, you heard the pilot, bravos in my quarters after the flight. And you newbies know who you are.”

  It was right about then that I realized why the crew van had left the PME with only two people in it, the driver and me. This was the crew that was set up in billeting. They had been keeping a very low profile since then. I’d be glad on tomorrow’s flight when Happy signed on; at least the two of us would be leaving the PME together.