OVER CHECHNYA
Fifteen miles from the airfield, Major Greg Jenkins put his hand on the control for his F-117A’s IRADS system, jacking up the contrast on the target. During the Gulf War, the Stealth fighters had had to rely on laser-guided bombs, which robbed the pilot of some flexibility during the attack as the system had to lase its target. But Jenkins and his flightmates were firing GPS-guided munitions. Their targets had been preprogrammed before takeoff, and while the pilot could override them, his gear showed him there was no reason to. He got a steering cue on his HUD, the computer compensating for the wind.
As he swung to the proper position, Jenkins hit the red button on his stick, which gave the computerized bombing system authority to drop the bomb. The bay doors behind him opened with a clunk—air buffeted the plane, and warning lights blinked on the dash, reminding him he was a sitting duck, an easy and very visible radar target as long as the plane’s symmetry was broken.
This was the longest part of the flight. Even though it took the automated systems only a few seconds to eject the bombs, in these few seconds Jenkins was the most mortal of
men, obvious to the radars and a slow, barely maneuverable black target in a light sky.
And then the buffeting stopped with a loud clunk, and the warning lights were gone, and though he was too busy to glance over his shoulder—and the view too obstructed to see—Major Jenkins knew he had just nailed his prize and would live to celebrate it.
Van Buren listened as the F-117A pilots checked in, announcing that their missiles had been launched. The Hercules with the first drop team was late, about three minutes behind schedule. But they were into it now, no turning back; the gunship was just coming on station, its first task the van that Ferguson was supposed to hit.
His hope that Ferg had somehow made it disintegrated a few seconds later as the gunship pilot reported a direct hit on the van, with “shitloads of secondaries.”
As the gunship began mopping up the two ZSU-23s left at the north end of the field, Van Buren said a silent prayer for his friend and Conners, then made himself get up and check on his men.