Page 117 - Never Fly Solo

90 | NEVER FLY SOLO
“Two” . . . “Three” . . . “Four,” we respond with perfect
timing, and one by one, we take off northward into a star-
filled moonless sky.
I’ve flown this route two dozen times before and know
the way by heart. But tonight, I have no idea just how dark it
is about to get.
We hit the KC-135 tanker to top off our fuel and change
radios to the planned frequency. With only thirty miles till we
reach the Iraqi border, I have barely five minutes to run
through my combat checklist. Radar and transponder set,
missile cooled, fuel tanks feeding, and air-to-air system con-
figured, I am ready to cross the border. The only thing left to
do is move my master arm switch to “hot.” Three minutes
pass, and I realize Deetz hasn’t checked in on me over the
radios. Screaming toward the enemy border, all I hear is
silence.
I make a quick call to check on my wingmen: “Two’s up.”
Nothing.
I double-check the frequency I wrote down in the pre-
flight brief—233.9—and make another call. Still nothing.
Where are my wingmen? Things are starting to get very
dark.
I quickly refer to my checklist for radio-out procedures
and check my connections, radio circuit breakers, and switches
to make sure everything is operating properly. Am I on the
right frequency? Is my radio broken? I then remember to
cross-check my instruments. It’s obvious I’m way behind my
wingmen. My airspeed has dropped fifty knots, and I’m three
hundred feet off my last assigned altitude. I can’t even remem-
ber what my heading is supposed to be. I become “task satu-
rated,” a pilot’s term for being overloaded and overwhelmed
by a task. To make things worse, I can’t even find my wing-