STEALTH FIGHTER DOWN

Flight Journal, Feb 2005 by Haun, Phil "Goldie"

"Overhead, you visual me? For Vega three-one, you got me?" Vega was concerned about the "bingo" call as well.

"Vega, give them a vector if you need to," Joe Bro suggested.

"Yeah; they got me right just about overhead."

Quiet for the last 10 minutes, the SAMs suddenly came back up. Joe Bro called that he was being tracked by one to the south. He put out chaff and beamed the threat.

"Sandy five-one is magnum that position." I made the magnum radio call again.

"Sandy five-two is naked." Expecting a HARM to head their way, the SAMs had shut down again.

We had lost track of the pickup, "Moccasin, say your status."

"We are outbound at this time ... about 20 miles from good-guy land." That was the best radio call I had ever received in my life. Vega was on board the helos, and they were heading back towards Bosnia.

"Sandy, you're being tracked with eyes by SAM," Moonbeam relayed the intel to us.

"Survivor authenticated; no injuries."

By the time the Serbs could launch a SAM at us, we were out of range and heading for the border. Ten minutes later, Moccasin let us know they had made it out.

I relayed this information on victor: "Miller time!"-the most rewarding call I had ever made.

Joe Bro and I turned toward home. We landed at Aviano, exhausted but exhilarated by our 5.8-hour mission. Celebrations galore were going on all over the ramp. I quickly shut down my A-10, got out and hugged everyone I met. I had trained for this moment all my life and simply could not contain the joy over what we had accomplished that night. We had gone in and plucked our man out from under their noses. The Serbs may have brought down a Stealth Fighter, but they would not claim the prize of an American pilot.

We eventually made it back to the squadron and were being debriefed when word came in that Vega was back at Aviano. We all piled into cars and drove out to the ramp where a C-130 was parked. On the ramp, a large group of men were clustered around Vega. There were hugs all around. I looked down at Vega's boots, which were covered in Serbian mud, and I reached down to scrape off a bit as a souvenir.

It was morning now, and most of us were starving. The only place open for breakfast was the bowling alley. The six Sandys, along with Rip Woodard, an A-10 pilot who had been aboard Moonbeam for the mission, were joined by some of the F-16CJ pilots, and we reveled in our accomplishments over pancakes and omelets. Unfortunately, we couldn't celebrate too long, as we needed rest before another night of strikes.

Oh, well. C'est la guerre.

By Lt. Col. Phil "Goldie" Haun