Flying the RC-26B in Iraq: Quiet Missions, Loud Characters, and Life Inside the Wire

Special ops, secret compounds, and the strange normalcy of war—from the cockpit of a little-known National Guard aircraft.

Aug 06, 2025

The War I Knew Was Quieter—But No Less Dangerous

I deployed to Iraq in March of 2008 and again in 2009. I flew the RC-26B, a little twin-engine ISR platform that most people in the military couldn’t pick out of a lineup.

We were the guys in the sky you didn’t notice—unless you were on a raid, deep in the middle of the night, and needed a set of eyes to guide you in, watch your exfil, or track a vehicle slipping away down an unlit road.

We worked almost exclusively with special operations teams. SEALs. Rangers. British SAS, etc. Quiet professionals who moved fast, hit hard, and left no fanfare in their wake. And we had to keep up.

The Compound With No Hats, No Salutes, and Way Too Much Indirect Fire

Our base was technically part of Balad Air Base, but we lived in a strange little compound-within-a-compound—a kind of secret bubble tucked behind fences and checkpoints.

We didn’t salute. We didn’t wear hats. And we definitely didn’t sprint to bunkers every time IDF (indirect fire) came in. After a while, the sirens just became background noise. Mortar hits were something you slept through, unless they were close enough to shake the walls or knock over your coffee.

The Crew: Wisconsin Guys and Cavemen

I flew with some unforgettable people. A bunch of the guys were from Wisconsin—(pictured above) National Guard aviators I’d later join formally. They were calm, competent, and always game for the mission, even when things got weird.

And then there was Caveman. Not to be confused with the other Caveman.

The first Caveman was a character straight out of central casting—prone to blowing up in sudden fits of anger, but always got the job done. You’d hear the cursing echo through the compound, followed by a slammed door, and five minutes later we’d be in the air like nothing happened.

I flew with the second Caveman. He was older, quieter, and flew F-16s in Desert Storm. He’d share stories during the long flights, or over cigars, about what it was like flying back then—flares, scuds, and missions that felt like Cold War chess matches with live ammo. He had wisdom we all respected, and a calmness that only comes from seeing a lot and surviving it.

Alcohol and the Brits

We were lucky enough to be co-located with a detachment of British Puma helicopter crews, who, unlike us, had access to real alcohol. Somehow, they always had something to share—whether it was whisky in a teacup or a questionable beer in a warm bottle. And it was always Turkish stuff.

We’d trade stories, jokes, and sometimes intelligence. And for a few minutes, the war would pause. It was those moments—huddled around a beat-up table in a tent or basic hangar that made it feel like we weren’t just operators. We were human. There was the one time, too, where they invited us to fly with them into Baghdad to see their operations and have a brew. I organized a few folks to go because, well, we wanted to have a brew. It wasn’t until they brought out the tea when I realized: brew means tea in the backwards language of the King. Needless to say the other Americans weren’t amused with my blunder.

What the RC-26B Actually Did

The mission wasn’t glamorous, but it was crucial.

We’d launch into the night with a list of coordinates, a few call signs, and a radio frequency. Our sensors picked up heat signatures, vehicle movement, foot traffic—whatever the teams needed to see. We'd stay overhead during raids, make sure no one was sneaking up on them, track fleeing vehicles, or quietly loiter while the ground force set up.

Sometimes, we’d get pulled into something hot. Other times, we’d orbit for hours, doing some stuff with cell phones (I’ll leave it at that), watching shadows, and waiting for something to happen. Most of the world never knew we were there. That was the point.

It Was the Kind of War You Had to Be There to Understand

There’s no Netflix doc about the RC-26. No action figure. No blockbuster film. But I’ll tell you this: we made a difference.

We gave good people on the ground the best possible chance to come home alive. We did it with a crew of National Guard pilots and operators who showed up every day, despite the rockets, the bureaucracy, and the grind of a war that never made sense—but still demanded our best.

And sometimes, when it was all too much, we’d laugh. We’d argue. We’d drink the Brits’ alcohol. And then we’d go fly again.

Because that’s what we were there to do.

If you flew the RC-26, or if you were ever on the ground and wondered who had eyes on your back—drop a comment. These stories deserve to be remembered, if only because most people never knew they happened.