Without air supremacy, you're doomed to be beaten.
The Iraqi Air Force is nothing but a worm.
Fielding Soviet-imported MiG-21s, MiG-23s, MiG-25s, plus French Mirage F1s, it can't match Iran's F-14 Tomcats, yet it shouldn't just take punches without hitting back; timidity is no match for Iran's ferocious flyers.
But the fault isn't the Air Force's—it's the system.
The Iraqi Air Force ranks low; Saddam Hussein distrusts its loyalty. Ever since a pilot bombed his palace, he's purged it repeatedly to ensure fealty, leaving it the lowest of services, stripped of initiative and training effectiveness.
When Southern Military Region commander Izzat urgently ordered air support for the Susangerd Swamp, a few strike jets could have obliterated masses of Chieftain Tanks—no need for the Thirty-Fifth Brigade to bleed for every yard. And with only a handful of Iran's Tomcats airworthy and the rest tied to city air-defense, the swamp skies were wide open.
Yet the Air Force needed a full day to plan routes, draft ops, and load bombs; dusk was falling. By the time the Hinds arrived it would be night battle, so Izzat told his attack helos to stand by for dawn.
Right now, the Susangerd Swamp belongs to Iranian helicopters.
The CH-47 is only a transport; even with side-mounted gun pods its bulky frame can't maneuver.
Not so the Cobra—built for one purpose: war.
Spotting their base in flames, the CH-47 crews radioed General Sharaf, who ordered them back to Ahvaz to haul fuel and ammo for the hard-pressed armored division.
Without fuel and shells, tanks are scrap metal.
Two Cobras stayed behind to deliver a killing blow to the bastards who'd torched their home.
Each Cobra now bore four TOW anti-tank missiles on the outer pylons, twin 70 mm rocket pods inboard, and an M61A1 Vulcan cannon in the nose.
That fleeing convoy had run wild inside the base, setting off the ammo dump, killing and maiming and stranding the frontline armor.
Kill them first, then help the tanks—both Cobra crews made the call.
They swung behind the convoy and suddenly pitched up.
"Target locked."
"Fire!"
The weapons officer pressed the trigger; a TOW spat flame and white smoke, streaking toward the toughest Chieftain.
Watching the ammo dump's fireworks had been almost beautiful.
Only after the fight did Marwan realize he needed to piss; he hopped from his Chieftain for a quick leak.
Carelessly glancing back, he froze: a missile arrowing straight at him beneath the sunset glow.
The solid motor had already burned out; no tell-tale smoke trail remained.
Then he saw the hulking helicopter behind it.
Huge rotor blades whirled, exuding menace; the angular canopy framed two pilots who looked demonic. One pylon was now empty, an invisible wire guiding the missile like a kite string.
"Cobra—enemy attack, take cover!" Marwan yelled, sprinting for his tank, desperate to start the engine and dodge.
Three comrades waited inside; as driver it was his duty.
Too late—one step and the blast hurled him aside.
The TOW's shaped-charge warhead, able to pierce 600 mm of steel, struck from above, slicing through the Chieftain's roof as if it were paper.
Super-heated jet ignited the ammo; the turret rocketed skyward, leaving only a burning hull.
The men who'd fought beside him moments ago were gone.
Qusay heard Marwan's shout and instinct kicked in from brutal training.
"Out—find cover!" He flung open the door, leapt from the truck, a SAM-7 launcher already in hand.
After linking up with the Chieftains he'd moved his SAM-7 to the pickup; now he snatched it, rolled into the reeds.
Hades lunged for the wheel, trying to drive off.
"Hades—abandon ship!" Qusay yelled.
Under an attack helo trucks are ants under boots; even unguided rockets would shred them.
Ignoring the warning, Hades fired the engine, slammed the gear, and the pickup shot forward.
"I'll draw them off!" he shouted over his shoulder.
He knew the risk—he was bait so the others could escape.
Qusay's eyes blurred; he thought of WWII martyrs who died for comrades, of Dong Cunrui holding the bomb, of Huang Jiguang blocking muzzles with his chest. No nation's grunts are cowards—they're its best; only the rulers differ.
He vowed to lead Iraq toward a brilliant future.
Most men in the second pickup had already dismounted; on the warning they dove into the reeds, and its driver too gunned the engine to lure the Cobra.
From above, a truck is easier to spot than a soldier.
Lying in the swamp, Qusay watched the burning Chieftain, guilt gnawing at him.
Past life firefights had been low-intensity anti-drug skirmishes; real battlefield chaos was new to him.
Success in the raid had made him cocky, dulling vigilance—a deadly lapse. Earlier warning could have let them fight the helo on equal terms.
Three crewmen were now pyre and smoke; Marwan lay motionless; the two brave drivers would soon follow.
This is war—no room for luck, only kill or be killed.
Come on, Cobra—let's see who's tougher: you or the Sidewinder Special Forces!