I met my good friend Jim Santos years ago while he was stationed at Fairchild Air Force Base in Spokane, Washington. He was a lieutenant then, and now, he’s a captain stationed in Florida. You know how it goes, especially with the military — friends move on. But I recently caught up with Jim. He’s a proud pilot of a KC-135 Stratotanker, and he told me about what happened during one of his deployments to Iraq.
In 2015, Jim was co-piloting his KC-135, patrolling a designated air refueling track near an Army ground operational area so that F-16s could refuel while providing air support. The F-16s, having completed their mission, returned to base. It had been a slow day, and Santos’s tanker still had plenty of fuel, so he and his commander decided not to return — a casual decision that would end up saving lives.
That night, Jim’s crew was monitoring the strike frequency, listening to Joint Terminal Air Controllers, enlisted airmen attached to Army units to coordinate air support. Out the aircraft window, in the dark distance below, Jim saw white muzzle flashes and glowing red streaks from tracer rounds, first from one direction and then from the other.
The JTAC radioed for A-10 ground attack planes to provide close air support. He wasn’t too concerned. His unit thought it was only facing a few pop shots. But Jim could see from the many muzzle flashes and tracers that our guys were facing a big ambush. The JTAC’s calls grew frantic.
But the A-10s were too far away and didn’t have fuel to reach the target and return to base. Jim had to act fast. He radioed his command and gained permission to move closer to the trouble.
“Firewall it!” the refueling boom operator, Tech. Sgt. Johnson, said over the aircraft’s communication. Jim cranked the KC-135 up to its max speed, 340 knots, and called in the A-10s.
The voices of the pilots in the inbound A-10s, call sign Thunder 1-1 and Thunder 1-2, were shaky. They knew they had to stop that ambush fast. Thunder 1-1 and 1-2 would engage in “yo-yo ops”: One would attack while the other refueled, each taking enough for the strafing run and a return for more gas.
Since A-10s have no radar, they fly with night vision, and Jim flashed lights on his otherwise dark aircraft to guide the pilots.
“Tally ho!” Thunder 1-1 radioed. He’d spotted Jim’s plane.
Once the A-10 was positioned behind the fuel boom, Jim called back to his tech sergeant. “Let’s go, Big Johnson. Put the pole in the hole!”
After the fueling, Jim watched Thunder 1-1 descend until it vanished in the inky dark. Then, he heard the famous BRRRT of the A-10’s 65-round-per-second 30 mm autocannon as it unleashed a storm of deadly fire and freedom upon those Islamic State monsters. Red-hot tracer rounds shot through the night like lasers.
“F— yeah! Smoked ’em!” the JTAC radioed.
Thunder 1-2 made its run. Each jet then repeated. Very quickly, half of the field of muzzle flashes went dark, and tracers were only flying in one direction. In 15 minutes, our A-10s and soldiers had shredded the ISIS ambush.
Thunder 1-2 was the last A-10 to fill up before returning to base. The pilot backed off the boom, rolled inverted, and popped flares to say thank you to the crew of the KC-135.
I asked Jim how he felt about the mission.
“The best part was knowing we made it happen. Almost relief rather than joy. Our guys were safe. I try to remind the young [airmen and officers], ‘You are important in this fight. The fighters can’t do what they do without gas.’”
Captain Jim Santos is a fine pilot, a good leader, and a great friend. He’s a true patriot who’s saved many lives. It’s an honor to know him.
Some names and call signs in this story may have been changed due to operational security or privacy concerns.
Trent Reedy served as a combat engineer in the Iowa National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
