“Duke, Sting, not sure we got it. Recommend re-attack.”
We felt for the F-16 pilots. Nothing was more embarrassing than to miss with everybody watching. Their painful admission, however, allowed us to re-attack while the area of responsibility was still hot.
“Panther, Duke. Your turn. Cleared
The airborne commander had just called in F-15Es, the two-seat strike model, to roll in with their 2,000-pound “crowd pleasers.” This was going to be spectacular.
“Duke, Rambo, we’re going to reposition closer to Panther for a better look downrange.”
We moved about 15 miles to the west and were about five miles away as the F-15Es began their strike runs. Using laser-guided 2,000-pound bombs, it really wasn’t a matter of if they were going to hit the target, it was which window of the truck they wanted to guide the bombs through.
As the F-15Es pulled off target, we saw the bombs hit the missile site. While the remaining missiles on the SAM site cooked off, a black mushroom cloud billowed 5,000 feet.
“Duke, Panther, good secondaries.”