Chapter 1

When one has shot down one's first, second, and third opponent, then one begins to find out how the trick is done. – Captain Manfred von Richthofen, German Air Force

0540L, 20 March 2003, Over Baghdad, 31,000 feet

"Falcon Zero-1, three bogeys. Bearing 3-1-5, altitude 5,000 feet."

Percy pulled the stick hard and to the left. The motion separated his Hornet, the furthest east of his division of four aircraft. Simultaneously, his left hand pushed the throttle forward. The enemy planes would not be one his nose, traveling at a reciprocal heading of 045. Three aircraft, he thought. He carried only two missiles and the five hundred and seventy-eight rounds of 20mm ammunition for the six-barreled M61A1 Vulcan cannon.

"Bogey aircraft, range forty-one miles. Closing speed, five hundred knots." A series of mathematical equations rushed through Percy's head. First: his and the bogeys' speeds combined to give him their speed in knots before converting it to miles per hour. Second: That speed divided into the nineteen miles necessary to close within missile range. Fifty seconds to Sidewinder range, he thought. Though admittedly, there was a problem. The problem was quite simple. A missile shot down their throat was much less likely to hit on target than up their ass. Rather, the infrared seeker upon the AIM-9 missile had a much higher probability of locking onto the target.

Percy's math checked out and he reached the twenty-two-mile mark for the Sidewinders. Fifteen seconds later, the bogey jets passed underneath Percy nearly five miles away. He could see the sun glinting off their metallic skins. It took mere seconds to identify them.

"Big Eye, identify two Fishbed and one Flogger. Positive identification as Iraqi aircraft. Winging over for attack." The NATO callsign for the MiG-21, Fishbeds were one of the oldest aircraft the Iraqis possessed. The MiG-23, NATO callsign Flogger, was newer. Percy flexed his hands and prepared to dive. Twenty-five thousand feet beneath him, the three Iraqi Air Force focused on the American Hornets streaming away from them, unaware of the bird of prey turning his talons upon them.

"Negative, Falcon Zero-1, this is Baseplate." Percy recognized the voice of the Constellation's Commander Air Group. The CAG's Bostonian accent continued talking. "Tomcats are inbound, bug out." Percy closed his eyes for a moment. Fuck it.

Several hundred miles away a young U.S. Air Force E-2 looked at their display. The Westinghouse AN/APY-2 radar circled loudly above the fuselage of the Boeing 707 aircraft. Her display revealed the aircraft track known as Falcon Zero-1 blatantly disobeying the order the retreat from the fight. Wide-eyed, she looked at the Master Sergeant beside her. The older man shrugged and returned his vision to her scope.

Percy could not articulate what it was that led him to his direct disobedience. At the time however, the reason did not matter. All that mattered were the three Iraqi aircraft approaching Baghdad. Soon more strike aircraft would enter the area to make their strikes.

A level of weightlessness washed over Percy as the Hornet traced a lazy arc through the Mesopotamian sky. Columns of smoke penetrated its azure color. Some pillars were white, the product of electrical fires. Gray revealed the burning of standard materials, wood, construction waste, fabrics. Most polarizing were the oil fires, swirls of blackness so dark that light ceased to penetrate it. Once again, I have brough hell to Iraq. He slowed his breathing and felt a calm pass through his body. The loop was complete, and Percy found himself inverted and diving at a shallow fifteen-degree angle toward the Iraqi threesome. "Why has killing become so easy?" he muttered.

Percy forced the stick to the right. After a slow barrel roll, he found himself fifteen thousand feet above and six miles behind the jets now vectoring toward the departing attack aircraft. He checked the settings on his AIM-9 Sidewinders, confirming their setting for infrared guidance. At best, he would kill two-thirds of his prey with missiles. One would have to be shot down with guns. Of the three, he would sacrifice both missiles to kill the Flogger. The Mikoyan-Gurevich 23 was more advanced than the Fishbeds. Of the available varieties, a MiG-23MS interceptor seemed the most likely. The export model of the Soviet aircraft carried six missiles and a 23mm autocannon. The Fishbeds carried four missiles each, all short-range varieties who range Percy already resided within. Percy maneuvered the Hornet until his nose was aimed at the Flogger's ass. The MiG-21s flanked the Flogger, separating themselves by fifty feet. Locking his speed in place, he placed one hand on his radar toggle. His right thumb ensured the missile launch selection fell into place and his finger wrapped around the red colored trigger.

"Fox two," Percy said. The coldness carried over the radio channels to both the AWACS and the shipboard air controllers. He depressed the trigger. One hundred and eighty-eight pounds of missile dropped from the left wingtip mount. For one second it plummeted toward earth, now just twenty thousand feet below him. He saw the flash of light as the Hercules and Bermite Mk36 solid fuel rocket motor kicked in. The missile began to accelerate. The Flogger was just six miles away, the Raytheon made weapon would never reach its Mach 2.5 top speed.

While the missile was over three meters long, the twenty-pound annular blast-fragmentation warhead made the system. The explosion occurred just eight feet from the Flogger's engine exhaust. The Iraqi pilot's threat warning sensor had provided just one point five seconds Percy doubted that he could have made a move to survive such a shot. The Iraqi pilot was not in Percy's class. A fireball filled the sky, but Percy's eyes were already on the next target. He did not see the MiG-23, its three guidance fins nearly gone, begin to cartwheel through the sky as the lack of thrust hurled the now unbalanced aircraft through the sky. He did not see that the pilot, having travelled low in an attempt to avoid detection, did not have the required time to eject died with his plane in the Iraqi ground.

Percy flipped on his powerful radar, and it immediately found the first MiG-21. The radar was not necessarily necessary, as the infrared seeking missiles would not require it, but the sensor allowed him an increase in situational awareness. He admitted to himself that technically the aircraft he continued to call a MiG-21 could actually be the Chinese licensed knock-off – the Chengdu J-7. But that did not really matter. The Chinese version of the Fishbed would offer no great increase in survivability. A barrel roll to his left brought Percy's Hornet within sightline of the second Iraqi plane. Within a span of seven seconds the final Sidewinder dropped from its pilons, and a second Mikoyan-Gurevich single engine jet fell from the sky in flames.

Red lights began to flash in the cockpit. Percy's eyes focused on a single sensor. "Missile… Missile… Missile…" It was the only word the system would display; it was the only one that mattered. Shit.

0549L, 20 March 2003, U.S.S. Constellation, Persian Gulf

"Sir, splash number two. Bogey three has turned on him." CAPT William "Zeus" Lezewski, CAG of the U.S.S. Constellation's flight group looked at his air controller.

"How far out are the Toms?" The controller checked the display and the emblems corresponding to the F-14 Tomcats accompanying the second strike package.

"Ten minutes, sir."

"Tell the other Hornets to hold position and prepare for potential support." He saw CAPT Breese, the ship's CO looking at him. He leaned toward him.

"They're too far away at this point for the fight. They'll only cloud his display. They can go in if they need to afterward." The captain nodded. "Motherfucker," Lezewski muttered, "He knows we can't punish someone for shooting down the enemy on day one of a fucking war and he goes full fucking cowboy."

0552L, 20 March 2003, Over Baghdad, 21,400 ft

"Son of a bitch is good," Percy muttered as he cranked his stick back hard and to the left. Chaff and flares filled the sky behind him, the detritus of what Percy assumed to be an exploding Vympel R-60 missile soon joining it. A jolt threw Percy forward as the shockwave of the 6.6-pound high explosive fragmentation warhead detonated. Percy knew the plane could carry three more missiles. The R-60, known to NATO as the AA-8 Aphid, was the most dangerous of the infrared seeking missiles they knew the Soviets had sold to Saddam. Percy's personal opinion was that the Soviet fucks has probably sold more than those to the Iraqi's, but thankfully the Fishbed could not carry more advanced missiles.

Using both control stick and pedals, Percy pulled the Hornet into a tight 4G turn to his right. Looking "up" he caught a glimpse of the MiG as it shot past. He forced the Hornet's 40,000-pound airframe into a tighter turn and felt the G-suit compressing his body. The big aircraft, on what would probably be its last combat deployment, refused to keep up with the smaller and more maneuverable Soviet jet. Percy ran through all his options in his head. Climb motherfucker.

Percy pulled as far back on the stick as he could. The nose of the McDonnell-Douglas bird slowly rose until he felt himself climbing at a 60-degree angle. The single engine of the MiG produced just over 9,000 pound-feet of thrust. The twin General Electric F404-GE-402s gave Percy 22,000. The weight difference between the two would counter this advantage to an extent, but Percy's thrust to weight ratio was better than that of the MiG.

Within seconds of his ascent beginning the warning sensors shown another missile following him. A jink to the left and the release of flares fooled the missile again. Percy spun his head and looked at the small mirror, the sun glinted off the MiG climbing behind him. He smiled for the first time in several minutes. His altimeter passed 32,000 feet. The MiG still climbed after him.

Without warning, Percy ripped the stick to the side and applied full flaps. The Hornet seemed to skid through the air. The engines fought against both the turn and the flaps. In the middle of a climb, the MiG had no such maneuverability. From barely two hundred yards away, Percy could see the MiG's pilot staring at him open mouthed even as he eased his flaps the dual engines hurled him forward toward Fishbed. In less than four seconds he found himself on the enemy's tail.

Two half second bursts from the Vulcan cannon sent over one hundred rounds of M56A4 High Explosive Incendiary projectiles toward the MiG. Most missed, but Percy watched the aircraft shudder as four found a home in the aluminum wing. The MiG jinked left. Percy followed. A third burst ripped into the MiG's left wing. A fourth shorn the right from the aircraft. The death spiral began. Percy turned south as the uncontrollable spins of the MiG propellered it toward the ground. Why do I feel what I feel now? Percy asked himself, thinking for the first time in, he checked his watch, eight minutes.

Because the problem was, he felt nothing.

DATE-TIME 04/12/03 10:10 COPY 1 OF 1 OF CONSTELLATION AIR GROUP

REPORT CLEARED BY – LT LAVINIA TALOS, USN, PUBLIC AFFAIRS OFFICER

CARRIER STRIKE GROUP – CONSTELLATION

LOCATION – U.S.S. CONSTELLATION, PERSIAN GULF

SUBJ – TOP FLYER REPRIMANDED

BY DREW TANAKA

AP MILITARY CORRESPONDANT, CENTRAL COMMAND

It is an oddity within the U.S. military to reprimand someone at the top of the profession. Yet that is the very thing that recently happened aboard the Kitty Hawk – Class supercarrier, the U.S.S. Constellation. LCDR Percy Jackson, whom this reporter is well acquainted with, received a Letter of Instruction (LOI) for actions on 20 March 2003. An LOI is a method of "lightly-punitive" correction, this reporter was told by the legal officer for the ship. What actions, however, led to this? This reporter wanted to know and surely readers do was well. Only the destruction of Iraqi Mikoyan-Gurevich aircraft. The very weapons of war that we seek to remove from Saddam's hands.

Following a successful bombing attack, LCDR Jackson's Hornet squadron detected the approach of the three Iraqi planes. LCDR Jackson (still known as Demon as I have long known him as) protected his fellow pilots and attacked the MiG-23 and accompanying MiG-21s. Jackson, despite destroying all three planes, was reprimanded.** His LOI, received via an anonymous source, states "LCDR Jackson was reckless in his pursuit of enemy aircraft, seeking out their destruction in direct counter-logic to acceptable aviation standards."

When questioned, his wing-woman, LTJG Kinzie "Amazon" MacAndrews responded "The plane is a multi-role platform, fighter and attack, and he's a good pilot." Others within the Department of Defense might argue he is the best pilot, but his wing-woman's comments are surprisingly non-committal considering the praise former squadron mates have given (see my story dated 3/28/99). This brings to question, has LCDR Jackson lost his charisma or has his previous success driven him to pursue ever higher risks to meet his own satisfaction?

**These "kills" bring Jackson's total to 14.5 kills for his career. This puts him as the tenth highest scoring ace in USN history. All higher-ranking pilots flew during World War II.

2045L, 13 April 2003, U.S.S. Constellation, Persian Gulf

Percy threw down the paper in disgust. What the fuck is this? he thought. Kinzie had said exactly what he told her to. As soon as he learned the story was being written he knew she could not appear to take sides. It's a fucking war, why would she make it into a policy paper? God damn reporters to hell. He; CDR Ryan, his acting CO; and CAPT Lezewski were in agreement. He deserved tehb LOI. His actions were counter to all standard operating procedures. Two AIM-9s and guns were not the weapon set to take on three enemy. Afterward, Percy had been unable to speak to his decision process. Reaction alone governed his actions. It was Rear Admiral Stevens, commander of the strike group and an old acquaintance of Percy's, that pointed out the change the night after the return.

"Four years, Demon, you flew like nothing could keep you from returning. Now? You fly like killing is all you care about. The end state may be the same, but the execution ain't even fucking close." The admiral paused before continuing. "I had a waiver to early promote you to commander and give you command of squadron. You should fucking think about the fact that four years ago I would have endorsed it. And don't think I fucking can anymore."

"I don't think you should." They turned to see Annabeth Chase enter the combat ops center. "Sir, can I talk with Demon privately?" The admiral nodded and the two flyers made their exit. As soon as the hatch to the smoking bridge closed, Annabeth turned on him. "What the fuck, Percy?" He ignored her and continued to the railing. Once there, he pulled a packet of Camel cigarettes from his calf pocket. With one hand on an ancient Zippo lighter, he lit the one in his mouth while extending the pack to her. To his surprise, she turned them down. His eyes narrowed in question, but she did not respond. He inhaled deeply, the nicotine piercing his lungs in a stab of relief.

"I see them, Annabeth." He exhaled the smoke. "The dead, the wounded, my SEALs, Afghan kids, all of them. Every fucking night. They're there." The first cigarette had been killed. He lit another and destroyed a third in a single drag. "Maybe Apollo had it right. It's easier to just go out in a blaze of glory and be done." Annabeth's gray eyes studied him, unwilling to respond. Eventually she forced herself to.

"Are you fucking serious?" Percy watched her reach for her own calf pocket, then stop herself. Her eyes lingered on his cigarette. She snatched it from his hands. Immediately he reached for another and lit it. Annabeth held the smoldering cigarette between her ring and index fingers. She pointed it at him. "You're the best goddamn pilot in generations. You're married to an amazing woman. Have two kids and a third on the way, and more people look up to you than any other pilot in the Navy. They think you're a hero, and what the hell would they think that you seem to be prepared to fuck it away by trying to get yourself fucking killed?" Her fingers jabbed into his chest and cigarette ash dropped down his flight suit. "It was different, yeah, I don't understand it, but I get it. But I saw you after Leo, Charles, Apollo, you," another jab, "did what you had to do because you had to do it. You still have to do it; you mean that much to pilots around the fleet." She jabbed him again. "Too many people rely on or look up to you for you to get yourself killed by some raghead motherfucking pilot over Iraq." She flicked the cigarette butt over the side. Percy noticed she had not actually taken a drag upon it. Her face softened. "Your family needs you. Your godson will too, because God knows his father's fucking worthless."

"The hell," he muttered as his eyes shot to her.

"You won't say a goddamn word. I'll be back in the states before anyone can tell." Annabeth disappeared into the carrier. Percy flicked another cigarette butt over the side and peered into the darkening sky.

"Fuck me."

"I would," the suggestiveness of the tone revealed the sincerity of the statement. "But your wife scares me." Percy turned to see LTJG MacAndrews approaching. It struck him that she wore her flight suit remarkably similar to Reyna. She would not smoke cigarettes, but she pulled a Cuban cigar from her flight suit, bit off the tip, and accepted Percy's Zippo.

"That makes two of us," Percy responded with an exhale of smoke.

"Those will kill you." His eyes looked at her cigar.

"Do tell."

"So will acting like a fifteen-year-old whose girlfriend told him her parents were out of town when you hear that enemy aircraft are in the area." He glared at her. She shrugged. "Be angry at me all you want. Just know this. Today, when you flew off was the first time flying I was ever afraid. You don't understand it, but to the pilots my age, you being here is the equivalent of a goddamn curtain of missiles. When you're around, people believe they're coming home."

"What if I'm not that man anymore?" Percy shocked himself with his own question. Never before had he revealed so much to someone that was not Zoe.

"Frankly, sir." She puffed on the cigar a couple of times. "People don't give a shit. They have in their minds what they need from you, unfortunately people are selfish and don't really care what it does to you." Kinzie reached into her flight suit and retrieved a flask of something. She extended it to him. "But I do, so start fucking talking."