I Said Shotgun,
Shoot It For They Run Now
Shotgun
Written by Jr. Walker, performed by Jr. Walker & The All Stars

CHAPTER 2

The world press only reported on the political and military situation in Iraq from the perspective of the West. At this time no one was the least bit interested in the embargo, the isolation, Iraq’s economy or the no-fly zone skirmishes from the viewpoint of the Iraqis. Military duty at an Iraqi missile defense installation was burdened by danger from the Western allies and ambivalence over any death or destruction the West might visit on them.

American and British air-to-ground missiles were so devastatingly accurate that most soldiers who manned the stations didn’t even light up their targeting radar for fear of drawing down a rain of death from the sky.

The only electromagnetic signals emanating from one particular installation on the southern edge of the northern no-fl y zone were from normal commercial radar, the kind used by any airport in the world; hardly a threat to any aircraft flying through the area.

The radar operator sat back in his chair in the command trailer with his feet up on the console and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he paged through a well-worn British girly magazine. Every once in a while he glanced at the radar screen when something showed at extreme range. But for the most part, he lost himself in his tired fantasies of the girls on the pages before him.

All at once a high-pitched tone started warbling from the console in front of him, signaling contact with an airborne intruder. The technician’s feet hit the floor hard and the magazine was tossed unceremoniously aside. He reached for the controls of his console to refi ne the focus of the radar array outside, hoping to get a better glimpse of the size, speed and direction of the intruder. He debated the pros and cons of switching from search mode to targeting mode and immediately rejected the idea. What if the intruder was a Western fighter that had strayed into their zone and retaliated with a radar-guided missile because the pilot thought he was under attack? No, a higher-powered sweep of the search radar was the safest bet for now.

While he was trying to develop a better lock on the intruder, the site commander climbed into the trailer. “What have we got?” he asked, making sure the radar was in search, not targeting, mode. He too was a veteran of the kind of  retaliation Western pilots dished out under the least provocation.

“Not much,” the junior technician replied. “It’s still pretty far away and is moving much slower than the Americans usually do. Maybe it’s someone who drifted off course and is trying to get back into the zone,” he added.

“What’s his heading?” the commander asked.

“According to the computer he’s angling in toward our location, but I can’t get his height readout. He’s not squawking any commercial or military identification and he’s going too slow to be a commercial aircraft that’s lost or off course.”

“All right. Alert sector command and see if we’ve got anyone in the air who can run an intercept. Try to sound casual, I don’t want them ordering us to do anything that arouses the Americans into sending a missile up our ass!” ordered the commander. As the technician was on the radiophone to command, he continued to watch the computer readout. The object didn’t really look like a fighter at all. It wasn’t lined up with any strategic target. No radar site or missile emplacements were anywhere near where the intruder was flying.

Putting the telephone handset back in its cradle, the technician informed the commander that headquarters had already received a report on the intruder and ordered them to keep a close watch.

“They also agreed that we should not adopt any aggressive posture against the aircraft,” the technician added. “I think they too do not want us to cause an incident that gets our remaining equipment destroyed.”

“Where is he now?” the commander inquired.

“Coming inbound, about thirty degrees off a direct course to this site,” the technician replied. “Do you think we will have to engage him?”

The commander considered the options. “I hope not,” he stated. “But I’m afraid that we may be ordered to try to shoot him down if he comes too much closer.

“Once he’s in range, see if you can get a heat track on him,” ordered the commander. “I’ll check on the missile crew, they should be up by now. Call me if there’s any change in the intruder’s direction, you got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And get rid of that magazine, you never know when we might get visitors,” the commander threw over his shoulder on his way down the trailer’s stairs. The technician’s computer had recorded the path the intruder had taken since it had been detected. Upon closer examination, the directional trace didn’t really look like the flight characteristics of any known aircraft. Its speed was too low for a fighter and its altitude began much higher than most military aircraft flew. The object had dropped from sixty thousand feet down to less than twenty thousand feet in moments, and then leveled off with a forward velocity of eighty knots. No known fighter, or any other aircraft, could make that rapid a drop and level off at such a slow forward speed. Maybe the computer was wrong. The technician recalled that the computer had a hard time initially getting a good reading of the object’s altitude. The Soviet-made equipment was over twelve years old, and since the fall of the Union replacement parts were getting harder to obtain. For the most part Iraq was forced to decommission older consoles and scanning equipment to consolidate parts for the newer.

Switching back to the live track, he noticed that the forward speed of the intruder was down to sixty knots, too slow for any conventional fighter to maintain flight. Only the British Harrier or the American V-22 Osprey could fl y at that speed. It couldn’t be an Osprey, they couldn’t get up over twenty-five or thirty thousand feet, and the latest intelligence reports didn’t mention any Harriers deployed in the area, although the term “intelligence” in this case was always suspect.

No, if this wasn’t an intelligence or computer glitch, this aircraft was something totally new.

As he watched, the intruder turned directly toward the radar installation. The computer started blasting the alarm recommending a change from passive to active tracking. The door to the trailer was thrown open and the commander and the offensive weapons officer charged into the command trailer.

“Status?” the commander shouted over the alarm.

“Intruder has changed track and is inbound directly for the installation,” replied the technician.

“Estimated time until he’s within the kill zone?”

“Eighteen minutes if he stays on track and at the same speed. Commander, the intruder’s track has changed in ways that do not fi t any Western aircraft flight characteristics. The computer cannot give better than an eighty-five percent predicted kill assessment.” The technician paused and then continued, “Forward batteries cannot get a lock on the intruder unless we go active with targeting radar. Should we activate, sir?”

“How long do you need in order to acquire the craft?” asked the commander.

“From initial sweep to acquisition, about fifteen seconds, sir.”

“Give it another thirty seconds and then light him up. Call the forward observers and see if they can spot the craft visually, or via infrared from behind,” the commander ordered, crossing over to the missile operator.

Looking up, the missile operator stated, “All systems show ready,” as he scanned the command console of the SA-10 missile launcher. This Russian-made mobile launch platform was comprised of four interlinked batteries, each holding four Grumble ground-to-air missiles, all pointed in the general direction of the aircraft. His radar screen in standby mode, the missile operator waited patiently to paint the incoming bogey with the targeting radar. He checked again that no stray signals were being sent out that might lead a missile to their location.

Their command trailer seemed to become smaller, almost claustrophobic with tension, as the three officers waited to find out what was inbound.

“Stand by,” said the commander, counting down in his head. “Three, two, one. Light him up!” he ordered.

He waited while the radar swept over the intruder twice so that the computer could get location and velocity.

Once the computer had a lock the technician shouted, “Acquired and locked in, sir,” as he shut down the transmitter. All three gathered around the screen reading the report at the same time.

“That can’t be right,” the commander shouted. “This craft is inbound at fifty knots and is still twenty thousand feet up?”

“No American helicopter would be so high up, they stay low down among the hills. And no fighter can sustain flight moving so slowly,” answered the missile operator, who had the most recent training on Western battle tactics. “Are we sure that the equipment is operating properly?” he asked.

“Time to kill zone?” asked the commander.

“Sir, the intruder will not close to within fifty miles for another six minutes at present speed.,” replied the technician.

“How long to run a diagnostic?”

“About three and a half minutes, sir. Although I would like to remind the commander that if the original track showing the craft over fifty thousand feet above ground was an error, or the Americans are jamming our signal somehow, it could be one of the American Marines’ Osprey aircraft.” The technician then added, “Why would the West send aircraft in this direction anyway?”

“I cannot answer that question,” the commander answered. “Alert sector command and see if they have any information on other craft entering our air space.”

While the radar technician was running his system diagnostics, the missile operator phoned in their status and inquired into any other activities along the border.

“All reports are negative, commander. Our bogey is the only aircraft showing along the entire front,” reported the missile operator. “Sector command is sending up a pair of fighters to check out the intruder. Estimated time of arrival is around twenty-five minutes.”

“By that time we’ll have either shot it down or they’ll be out of range. Even at fifty knots,” mused the commander. “Status?” he inquired.

The radar technician replied, “Diagnostics almost complete, no problems reported, sir.”

The radiotelephone buzzed. Answering, the commander asked, “No track at all? Are you sure?”

The commander slammed down the handset in disgust. The two techs exchanged glances, both thinking that this couldn’t be good news.

“Both observation posts report seeing an object in the sky, but neither could see any exhaust nor get an infrared lock on the craft. They claim that there was no heat signature or engine noise at all.”

The commander looked at the two of them and wondered aloud. “Perhaps this is some new kind of stealth aircraft, bringing in special forces to take out one of our strategic outposts.”

The radiophone buzzed again.

The commander answered, stiffened and merely said, “Yes, sir.”

After hanging up, he ordered the technician to bring up the targeting radar as soon as diagnostics were completed. Looking over at the missile operator he ordered, “Prepare the missiles for launch. Our orders are to take this intrusion as provocation to fi re, and possibly as a prelude to invasion.”

“Yes, sir,” said the operator. “Preparing to bring radar to targeting mode, all missiles show ready.”

“Any sign of jamming?” the commander asked the radar operator.

“Nothing, sir. No jamming, no transmitter aimed in our direction,” he replied.

“Except for its movement, for all practical purposes it appears dead. No ident, no radar, not even broadcasts on civilian frequencies.”

“Switch radar to active, targeting computer on,” ordered the commander.

“Yes, sir,” they both answered.

Once active, the SA-10 FLAP LID radar needed almost no time at all to lock on. In two sweeps of the radar beam the missile operator had his fi ring solution. His first bank of eight missiles were locked on and ready to fire.

“Hold fire!” shouted the radar operator. “The intruder just lost altitude, he’s dropping through fifteen thousand feet . . . thirteen thousand, twelve, eleven. Sir, intruder is holding at just under ten thousand feet. He has dropped his forward
speed to less than thirty knots.”

“He must be the US Marines, sir,” stated the missile man. “Nothing else makes sense. The Osprey is the only operational aircraft that behaves like this.”

“Are you still locked on target?” asked the commander.

Looking back at his screen the missile operator replied, “Yes sir, track is true, missiles are locked in.”

“Fire one and two!”

The trailer rumbled as the launchers disgorged the two SA-10s.

“Missiles away,” came the instantaneous report, “both missiles have lock and are traveling straight and true.”

Out in the nighttime sky over northern Iraq, the twin missiles were flying at over mach one and still accelerating, each with its own trail of vapor drawing a line from the launchers to their target.

The foreign craft still flew at slightly under forty knots and was slowly descending below nine thousand feet. The lack of jamming or evasive maneuvers made this intercept little more than target practice. Both missiles, guided by radar, homed in on the object. The fi rst, upon sensing that the target was within the kill radius of its warhead, exploded about twenty feet below the craft, sending hot metal completely through its undercarriage. The second warhead detonated just two-tenths of a second later, incinerating almost all of the remaining wreckage falling through the sky.
 
Both explosions were audible for miles and plainly visible from the stairs of the command trailer, down which all three crew members were running in an effort to get as far away as possible in fear of return fi re. As the fireball fell to the ground they stopped and stood watching until the wreckage was out of sight.

The reality of the kill was frankly shocking. None of the three had ever scored a hit on any Western aircraft in the no-fl y zone. The very idea was rarely even discussed in the ranks.

The commander jumped up with a whoop and began slapping the two technicians on the back in congratulations. The radar operator jumped up and down for a second or two before remembering his duties. Checking first for any visible sign of other aircraft or missile tracks headed in their direction, he climbed back into the trailer and sat down to scan for other bogeys.

The commander stuck his head in the door and asked, “Anything on screen?”

“No, sir, still no jamming and no sign of any other aircraft, sir,” he replied.

Bidding the missile operator to remain outside and watch the skies for any more visual signs and any secondary ground-based explosions, the commander returned to the trailer and picked up the radiophone to report the shoot down. After giving the approximate location of the crash site, the commander hung up and fell into the missile operator’s chair sighing with relief.

“Pending confirmation in the morning, we have been credited with our first kill!” he exclaimed. “Not only is section command delighted with the kill, they were greatly impressed with the fact that we did it with only two missiles!”

The technician knew from this news that their triumph would be complete, with no recriminations for wasting expensive armaments. Sometimes the lot of a soldier left much to be desired, even when he did his job properly.

“Are we to investigate the crash site, commander?” the technician asked.

“Sector command is going to send air reconnaissance over the site in the morning, but we’ll probably be sent out to see if there’s anything to recover. Once our relief gets here, you and I will take the truck and see what we can bring back,” explained the commander.

“Yes, sir.”

The commander got up with a heavy sigh, thinking about the one or two hours of sleep he would be getting this night. Although the excitement over the shoot down was abating, the events of the evening still had him keyed up. Well, he thought, at least I’ll be up for early morning prayer, something he almost always missed when he commanded the overnight shift. He went outside, to check with the missile operator.

“No real visible signs, sir. There were no secondary explosions and there’s no sign of fi re on the horizon either,” he reported.

“Very good, carry on. Oh, and write up the report for my signature in the morning. I want to look it over before I head out to the crash site.”

“Yes, sir,” snapped the operator. He went to arrange for a missile load-out crew to reload the two expended tubes.

Inside the trailer, the radar tech downloaded the data from the computer to be sent to sector headquarters with the commander’s report, which the commander rarely wrote himself.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully.

The next morning, the commander, with the radar tech as his driver, took a truck out toward the low hills where the intruder had fallen. After about two hours they arrived at a burnt-off area of brush on the side of a hill covered with small pieces of metal reflecting the morning sunlight. Dismounting from the truck, the commander waved his driver back, telling him, “Wait until I photograph the hillside before you start poking around.”

After about a dozen photos, they both advanced into the burnt area, kicking at larger pieces of metal looking for anything with markings on it. While they were quartering the area a slow-moving, propeller-driven plane passed overhead, banked, and came back over them.

The commander waved at the pilot who wagged his wings in reply, circled a couple more times and flew off.

“Sir, there are no large pieces left of the aircraft. I’m sure the only thing he could see from up there was the burn mark,” shouted the driver.

“Keep your eyes on your work,” the commander admonished. “I want something to bring back to camp, anything with Western markings will do.”

“Yes, sir,” snapped the driver.

After twenty minutes of searching the driver shouted, “Over here!” to the commander. As he walked close enough to see what was on the ground, the commander’s stomach turned at the sight before him. It looked like a haunch of cooked goat, the smaller end wearing a man’s boot. The pilot’s foot had been severed and singed in the explosion. Looking around the immediate area, there were no signs of large pieces of the wreckage or additional remains of the pilot. The only remains they could see were finger-sized pieces of shiny metal and some charred, softer remains of the craft’s interior.

Pulling a large plastic bag from his pocket, the commander kicked the charred foot into it and immediately zipped it shut.

“Keep looking for anything with Western markings while I radio in my initial report,” ordered the commander. He walked off to the truck to make contact with headquarters.

The driver walked off the extent of the immediate crash site and made notations in his book. On his way back to the truck he saw the commander coming his way under a full head of steam.

“Find anything with Western writing on it?” the commander demanded.

“No, sir. I haven’t found anything larger than my hand, and none of it with any kind of writing on it at all,” the technician said.

“Did you look over to the south, where the craft came from?”

“No sir, I just covered the burnt spot.”

“Hang on, we’ll both go together. After all, you got even less sleep than I did,” offered the commander.

After securing the burnt limb in the truck’s cooler, and getting a drink of water, the driver led the way south. Although the way up into the hills was only slightly inclined, both soldiers were winded as they topped the first rise. Off in the distance the commander spotted a reflection of something metallic, a glint in the low, early-morning sunlight. The two split up and approached, flanking the object. As the driver got closer, he saw a mass of twisted metal about half the size of a man, with tattered fabric blowing in the light breeze.

The commander called a halt. “Don’t get too close, it may not be safe.”

He sniffed the air then waved the driver closer. They both approached, noting that there was no sign of burnt foliage or any discoloration of the surrounding ground.

“This part must have been blown free, commander. There are some pieces over here that are only ripped apart, no sign of fire or scorching on the metal,” said the driver.

“Do you see any markings on the pieces on your side?” asked the commander.

The driver lifted away a large, flat piece of metal, probably the outer skin of the craft.

“No, sir. There isn’t a single bit of writing on anything. Not even on this piece of what looks like a circuit board. Not a single letter or number anywhere, sir.”

“I am not familiar with any of the construction of these parts. No markings. This skin is so light, some kind of alloy that I have never seen before,” the commander observed.

“Sir, does this mean that we’re going to have to cart all this wreckage down the hill?” the driver asked, knowing the answer in advance.

“Unfortunately, yes. They won’t send a helicopter unless we have a compelling reason for them to do so. When I report that this craft is something we’ve never seen before, I’ll be questioned by those who will think I’m nothing but an old woman afraid to be decisive on my own. If I insist, they might dispatch a helicopter to confirm my observations. But, even you can see that there’s nothing here that is recognizable as being of Western manufacture. The Americans mark all their parts. Even those they get from Japan or China have Western numbers on them. These pieces have nothing.” He paused to consider, then continued, “Let’s just bring a few of the larger pieces and mark the coordinates from the truck’s GPS. Let sector decide whether or not they want to send a helicopter to recover this piece.”

“Yes, sir,” said the driver.

“Keep looking for more of the pilot of this thing, maybe we’ll find dog tags or some other identification.”

Pulling a canvas bag from his pack, the driver started picking up a number of the larger pieces, those that could be used for metallurgy or component analysis. The commander started pulling pieces from the main jumble of wreckage, trying to find something recognizable in the mess. He thanked Allah there was no sign of blood or body parts in the pieces he was pulling apart.

The driver, after putting a dozen or so pieces of wreckage in his sack, began to entertain a thought that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. This craft behaved like no military craft he knew of. Neither the Americans nor the Russians had an aircraft exhibiting the flight characteristics tracked on radar. If it was some kind of exotic helicopter or Harrier-type vertical-take-off jet, so far they had found no sign of an engine or blades. How was it powered? It flew above fifty thousand feet, dropped to under twenty thousand feet and slowed to under one hundred knots in a matter of moments. And furthermore, it emitted no form of radio, radar or infrared energy that he or the forward observers could detect.

If not for what looked like a foot in the wreckage on the lower hill, there was nothing that could even suggest that it was built on earth at all. The driver redoubled his search to find something, anything, to indicate this was an advanced craft sent from the West to attack his country.

Meanwhile the commander was entertaining thoughts of his own concerning the origin of the craft. He was thinking that if this was a Western aircraft of such an advanced design that the press, his government or even their slightly reserved former Russian allies knew nothing about it, he might be up for a promotion for shooting it down. The only drawback was that, because it was destroyed in the air, the remains would yield little information about its design. Perhaps that part would be overlooked should he produce proof that it was American, and that they were sending stealth craft to attack and invade his country. As one of upper ranks of the military, most of his actions were guided by a single purpose: “what’s in it for me?” In this case he was hoping the evening’s success would lead to a posting in Baghdad. Outpost duty left a lot to be desired.

For now, the commander and his driver were resigned to collecting as much of the wreckage as they could and getting it back to their base for analysis.