Exit Plan

24. BARRIER

8 April 2013

0440 Local Time/0140 Zulu

Over the Persian Gulf

General Yuri Tamir commanded Operation Halom, Israel’s strike on Iran, but he wasn’t in the lead aircraft, and he wouldn’t be delivering any ordnance. He’d flown both the F-15 and the F-16, but he was also an electronics specialist and the Israel Air Force’s most expert computer hacker.

Tamir rode to battle on board a plane named the “Shavit,” a Gulfstream 550 business jet converted by Israel Aircraft Industries. One side of the plane’s interior was lined with operator consoles. A narrow aisle separated them from racks of electronic equipment on the other side. Tamir’s battle staff sat at the front of the cabin, working with a large video screen on the forward cabin bulkhead.

Externally, the white-painted Shavit looked like any other business jet, especially with the blue IAF insignia painted over, as long as one didn’t get too close. A careful inspection would reveal a long “canoe” radome under the forward fuselage and smaller antennas sprouting from other places. The canoe radome did not house a radar dish. Instead, a bank of antennas inside swept the ether for hostile radar signals, radio, microwave transmissions, and computer data links.

The Israeli Air Force called the Shavit a “Special Mission Electronics Aircraft.” It could listen for hostile radars and passively plot their location. It could listen in to enemy communications and warn pilots of hostile aircraft movements. It could also collect data from other sources and build a comprehensive picture of the battle, which was very hard to do in a blacked-out fighter cockpit while also trying to fly the plane. That’s why Tamir would run the battle from here.

But the Shavit’s mission was also offensive. Once it was in range of enemy territory, it attacked not the radars or enemy SAMs, but the air defense network itself. Analyzing, transmitting, intruding, it used sophisticated hacking tools to gain access to an opponent’s air defense network. Digitally dressed in the enemy’s uniform, they could read their status boards and duty roster, then scramble orders and add some of their own.

The Shavit had help with its mission. Long before it had taken off, two Eitan long-endurance UAVs had launched from Palmachim Air Base. With straight wings wider than a 737’s, and a single turboprop engine, the Eitan cruised at a stately 120 knots — glacially slow compared to most military aircraft. But it could fly for thirty-six hours at forty thousand feet, and its composite airframe was almost invisible to radar. Each Eitan carried a full set of antennas like the Shavit. This let the Shavit’s operators instantly triangulate any signal, and hack into an enemy network from more than one location.

General Tamir had overseen the development of the Shavit’s electronics, designed the tactics, and had used them to great effect, not just in exercises, but in battle. When Israel attacked the secret Syrian reactor in 2007 during Operation Orchard, then-Colonel Tamir had run the electronic intrusion of the Syrian defenses. His tinkering with the Syrian air defense computer network had the same effect as a “Jedi mind trick,” obscuring the Israeli strike, hiding it while in plain sight. The Syrians never got off a shot.

Tamir’s aircraft had taken off from Nevatim Air Base in Israel an hour before the rest of the strike. Registered as a civilian private charter, the plane had crossed Saudi airspace, then turned right when it reached the coast. Slowing slightly, it was flying down the length of the Persian Gulf. In the forty-five minutes it had before the strike’s arrival, it scouted the electronic spectrum, preparing its attack.

Standing behind the operator’s chair, Tamir had grinned with almost predatory joy. The console displayed the complete Iranian air defense picture: the condition of its radars, the status of every fighter squadron. At the moment, the operator was simply gathering data and monitoring Iranian message traffic. It had proven easier to get in than they thought, and with the extra time, Tamir felt the temptation to get creative, but he fought it. “Let them sleep, Dvir.” The young lieutenant nodded.

Tamir let his deputy, Colonel Epher Okun, run the battle “up front.” The general preferred to move from console to console, watching operators work like gunners at their posts. He’d trained this team until they could think and work as a single entity, but this was the Big Show. No more simulators, and they would only get one chance.

The radar intercept station was next to the intrusion station. Its map of the region was overlaid with symbols for the different radars — friendly, hostile, and neutral. The Shavit’s computers matched the signals with known sources and plotted their position.

“Any changes, Ari?” Tamir asked the young lieutenant.

“No changes to the Iranians, General, but the American E-2Ds are moving east and north. They may be picking up our strike. Calculated detection range for their radars is three hundred and fifty nautical miles.”

Tamir nodded. “The timing works. Don’t worry, those surveillance aircraft will keep their distance. They don’t want to be too close when we pass by. They’ll watch us as we attack, and they may learn a few things, but they won’t get close.”

The communications intercept station was next to the radar intercept console. Tamir turned to the operator, a senior captain, and asked, “Are you picking up any transmissions from those E-2s, Yoni?”

“No, sir. I can’t see their data link back to the carrier. It’s going via satellite, and it’s encrypted as well. I’ve watched them rotate the fighters escorting the Hawkeyes, and all their UHF stuff is encrypted.”

“And nothing new out of Bandar Abbas?” the general asked. The captain shook his head firmly. The headquarters for the Iranian Southern Air Defense Command was located there. If the incoming raid was detected, the Southern headquarters would start talking to many people, very fast. Tamir was prepared to do something about that, but not until it was necessary. Eventually the strike would be detected. One couldn’t hide a hundred tactical aircraft forever.

Okun’s voice came over his headset. “Yuri, feet wet in ten minutes.” Tamir checked his watch. The strike was on schedule, to the minute. In ten minutes the lead plane would cross the Saudi coast and be over the Persian Gulf. That was also the Initial Point, or “IP,” technically the start of their attack run, although they were still hundreds of miles from the target.

Tamir checked the intrusion display again. All quiet. He patted the lieutenant’s shoulder. “It should be about thirty more minutes, Dvir. Then we’ll have some fun. These are not the planes you’re looking for.”

And if they did their job right, the Iranians would never even know they’d been hacked.

8 April 2013

0445 Local Time/0145 Zulu

USS Ronald Reagan (CVN 76)

Commander Tom “Heretic” Dressier, squadron commander of VFA-147, the Argonauts, waited patiently in his Super Hornet for the deck crew to move into position and ready him for launch. He’d elected to be the last in his squadron to launch, both because it gave him a few more minutes in the air, and so he’d know if any of his guys had trouble getting off the deck. Besides, his tactical displays were already up. Even with his radar safely off, the data link from Reagan showed him exactly what was going on.

Nobody ever lit off their radar on the flight deck. The microwave energy it put out would cook someone where they stood before they could even feel what was happening and get out of the way. But more than that, Reagan’s air group was launching “quietly,” with no radio or radar transmissions by any of the aircraft. They wouldn’t energize their radars or break radio silence until Taz said to.

The squadrons were taking off in reverse order, the Black Knights of VFA-154 went first, then the Argonauts’ sister squadron VFA-146 the Blue Diamonds, then it would be the Argonauts’ turn. Theoretically, each catapult could launch a plane every two minutes, and Reagan had four, two at the bow and two at the waist. That meant one plane every thirty seconds, but it all depended on the plane handlers and the rest of the flight deck crew.

Flight deck operations on a carrier have been called a “ballet.” Like ballet, it’s a precise art, and the performers on Reagan practiced and rehearsed it daily. But imagine the precision of a ballet combined with the noise and danger of a stock car race, where the stock cars are carrying high explosives. To complicate matters further, it was pitch black and the wind was whipping down the length of the flight deck at over forty knots.

Ready to launch, each Hornet weighed twenty-five tons, and was parked inches apart from the next. Almost any collision between two planes would render one or both unable to fly. The plane handlers had to move each plane in the proper order to its assigned catapult, line up the nose gear so the launch bar on the strut was engaged by the catapult shoe, and not get sucked into an intake or fried by an exhaust in the process.

Reagan’s flight deck crew was putting over fifty aircraft, a full deckload, into the air. Everyone would be flying in fifteen minutes.

A plane handler in a bright blue shirt ran over and stood in front of his aircraft, holding lighted wands so Heretic could see his arm signals. As much as it depended on the plane handlers, Dressier had to do his part, and follow their orders precisely.

Heretic released his brakes and gently increased power, taxiing past the other aircraft to the outboard port waist catapult. To the commander’s eyes, with his nose pointed toward the portside edge of the flight deck, it looked like the handler was going to put him over the side, but at the right moment the petty officer ordered the squadron commander into a hard right turn, almost pivoting on the right wheel. The Hornet ended up aligned perfectly with the catapult. The handler inched him forward, and he felt the catapult shoe engage the launch bar on his nose gear.

He had time to watch the plane ahead of him in the launch order — the last of the Argonauts except for him — spool up his engines to full afterburner and launch. Heretic watched the catapult officer, reflexively bracing his helmet against the seat behind him. He felt the nose of the plane drop as the catapult put tension on. Then he hit full burner, waited for the displays to settle, saluted the catapult officer, and grasped the handhold with his right hand. The computer would handle takeoff.

Heretic hardly noticed the blackness around him as he climbed to join his squadron.

8 April 2013

0450 Local Time/0150 Zulu

Over Western Saudi Arabia

For Colonel David Zohar, it was all about fuel. Everything else had been argued over, rehearsed, modified, and polished until there was precious little left to manage except the fuel.

Zohar commanded 69 Squadron, “The Hammers,” which flew the F-15I Ra’am, or “Thunder.” The squadron’s name was especially appropriate on this raid. Each plane carried a five-thousand-pound GBU-28 on the centerline, a monster weapon that could penetrate meters of rock and concrete. Each of his twenty-four aircraft carried one GBU-28, two smaller GBU-31s, two drop tanks, and air-to-air missiles for self-defense.

The formation had just finished in-flight refueling from KC-707 tankers, something that would have been impossible without Saudi permission. But thanks to their agreement, every plane would start their attack run with virtually full internal and external tanks. Even so, it might not be enough, if they had to use too much throttle, or had to deviate from the planned flight path, or suffered battle damage.

The tanker aircraft were hurrying back to base as quickly as their portly airframes allowed, where they would fill up again and take off to meet the returning planes. Recovery tankers have saved many pilots and planes, and the Israeli Air Force would go to great lengths to make sure everyone came home.

Reflexively, he scanned the horizon, then the sky above and below them. There was precious little to see from that altitude at that time of day. The lights of a few urban areas, especially farther west, glowed against the dark landscape below them, but there was nothing on the horizon and nothing above them.

His radar was off, his radio unused since he’d climbed in the cockpit. He didn’t need the radar or radio to navigate. Modern nav systems and GPS laid rails for them in the sky.

And he wasn’t blind. A Shavit electronics aircraft had taken off before them and surveyed the enemy defenses. A data link from the Shavit via satellite gave Zohar a complete tactical picture without having to send out a single electron. He could see the Iranian defenses, the American carrier strike group and its aircraft, surface traffic in the gulf, even Saudi fighters patrolling to the east if he wanted to expand his view.

Right now, he kept the displays centered on his route, studying the Iranians. In ten minutes he would begin to descend from thirty-five thousand feet down to five hundred feet, a carefully calculated downward slope designed to keep them below the horizon of the enemy’s radars.

But he wanted to stay at high altitude as long as possible. The Ra’am’s jet engines worked best in the thin air up high. At low altitude, they’d guzzle fuel at almost twice the rate, and the thick air also slowed them down. As long as they were undetected, he wanted to stay high.

Zohar’s back-seater was working the problem, but wasn’t helpful. “Colonel, I recommend we descend as planned. The hostile radars are performing as expected. If we push it now and are detected, they gain ten or even fifteen minutes’ reaction time. We might have to fight our way to the target.”

Which they had all discussed, and planned for. If the Shavit’s efforts were detected, or some fluke of atmospherics increased detection ranges, the Iranians could be wide awake when the raid arrived. But what was the worst that could happen?

Every radar and SAM site along the raid’s path was being targeted, just in case. With enough warning, the Iranians could get some fighters in the air, or at least more fighters than with no warning, but none of the Iranian planes were a match for the Israeli aircraft. In fact, Zohar had been forced to punish a few of his boys who were too overconfident. But there were two squadrons of F-161 escorts between the Iranian interceptors and the strike aircraft, and once the two squadrons of strikers had delivered their load, they were equally lethal in the air. The Iranians would have better luck trying to take a bite from a chainsaw.

Daniel was a junior captain, but was one of the best back-seaters in the squadron. And it was best not to take chances. “Understood, Dan. We will descend as planned.”

“This is Yuri to all squadrons. The lion sleeps. You are cleared through the IP.” General Tamir’s message was a little redundant, since they planned to proceed unless ordered otherwise, but positive confirmation was worth the effort. The voice transmission was via satellite, and encrypted like the data link, so the chance of detection was nil.

Zohar looked at the American surveillance aircraft on his display. They had a perfect position to watch the approach. There was nothing they could do to stop the Americans, but nothing they needed to do about it, either.

Daniel’s report came on schedule. “Five minutes to IP.”

The colonel was watching the clock count down and reviewing the descent plan when the symbols started appearing on the display. His threat warning receiver was almost shouting at him, displaying multiple air intercept radars — more than he could count — ahead of them.

“Daniel, do you have this?”

8 April 2013

0455 Local Time/0155 Zulu

Over Western Saudi Arabia

General Tamir forced himself to step away from the console operator. Breathing down Ari’s neck was not helpful, and he could see the screen fine from a few steps back. He just could not comprehend what he was seeing.

The raw sensor display was almost useless, covered with bearing lines from literally dozens of fighter radars, all appearing in the last ten seconds.

“They’re all American — APG-73 and APG-79 radars, General.” That meant Hornet and Super Hornet fighters from the U.S. carrier.

The shock filling the lieutenant’s voice was not just from the sudden appearance of so many signals, but their position. The fighters lay in a band directly across the raid’s path. Altitude was hard to determine based on passive signals, but Tamir would bet they were at the same altitude. That location could not be an accident.

Okun’s voice pulled the general away from the console. “Yuri, someone’s calling the raid on military distress.” The international military distress frequency was standardized at 243 megahertz, and was a good way to talk to a military aircraft if you didn’t know which frequencies he’d be using. Meeting his deputy’s eyes, Tamir tapped his headset with one finger, and Okun switched him over.

“Israeli aircraft, this is United States Navy carrier air group commander. Turn around and return to base. If you continue to approach Iranian airspace, we will fire on you.”

Tamir quickly hit the channel selector switch on his headset. “David, this is Yuri. Do not acknowledge. Do not respond to the American transmission. Confirm by voice.”

Colonel Zohar responded, “I heard the transmission, Yuri. I will not respond.” Zohar managed to sound like answering the Americans was the last thing he’d do. “Interrogative, over.”

“Stand by.” Interrogative was right, Tamir thought. What was the Americans’ game here? Did they really want to stop the attack? Although he’d been briefed about Israel’s disagreement with the U.S., he’d marked it up to caution and distance. They didn’t feel it was their fight, but the U.S. had as much to gain as Israel did, although he…

“General!” It was Dvir, watching the Iranian air defenses. “The Kolchuga array near Bushehr is picking up the American radars. They’re still trying to sort out the picture, but there’s a lot of traffic between the operators and southern sector headquarters.”

The Kolchuga was one of the few modern sensors in Iran’s air defense network. Designed by the Russians, Iran had bought the system from Ukraine after the collapse of the Soviet Union. It used broadband ground-based receiving stations to detect and quickly triangulate the position of planes using radar. Kolchuga could actually detect planes much farther out than radar, because the signal from a radar antenna continued to be detectable long after it was too weak to send an echo back to the plane that transmitted it.

That cut it. With the Iranians’ attention attracted to this part of the sky, the raid’s chances of catching the Iranians by surprise had just dropped from excellent to nil.

Tamir grimaced. “Ari, watch for changes in their radar status. Yoni, sit on Southern Command headquarters. Tell me if they start talking…”

“Yuri, the American is still calling for them to turn around. Distance is down to one hundred miles.” Colonel Okun sounded worried. Did he think the Americans would really shoot?

“I’m going to push them, Epher. They may be posturing. Being so openly against us may get them points with the Muslim world.” But we will remember how this tipped off the enemy, Tamir thought.

Switching voice channels back to the raid leader, he said, “David, energize your radars and lock up the Americans.” There’s no point in being quiet now.

“General, I’m getting jamming signals.” The intercept officer pointed to strobes on the screen. “It’s affecting communications as well as the radars. We’ve lost the data link to the raid. The Americans are jamming that, too.”

Tamir turned to the communications officer. “Get me a channel on military distress!”

8 April 2013

0503 Local Time/0203 Zulu

Over the Saudi Coast

Zohar didn’t need the general’s order to energize his radar. Without the data link, the raid was blind, and he couldn’t afford that now.

The American was still talking on 243 megahertz. “Israeli raid commander, this is U.S. Navy carrier group commander. You must abort your attack. I am under direct orders from my president to open fire if you do not turn around. Please acknowledge.”

“David, I’m having trouble getting a lock.” Daniel’s voice on the intercom cut though the American’s voice. “The jamming knocks me off every time I try to track one of them. And detection range is way down as well.”

“Stands to reason, Daniel. The Americans sold us these radars. We’re lucky we can see anything at all. We’ll be in range for heat-seekers soon.” Zohar wondered how long they would continue to jam. Would the Americans stop if he could get the raid past them into Iran? Would they really shoot?

“Israeli commander, what’s your fuel margin? Can you afford to fight us and still attack your primary? We won’t let you divert to Iraq afterward. Any Israeli plane that lands there will be permanently impounded.”

That was bad news. Zohar had told all four squadrons that in spite of the deal with the Saudis, if they were damaged, to head for a U.S. air base in Iraq first, either Baghdad or Tallil. Better chance of getting both the plane and pilot back than with the Saudis, he’d thought.

The descent to low altitude had been forgotten. There was no point, now. In less than fifteen minutes they’d be across the gulf and into Iranian airspace. Zohar tried to buy time. “Why are you doing this?”

“Greetings to the Israeli Air Force. The time for explanations is long past. I have my orders.”

8 April 2013

0505 Local Time/0205 Zulu

Over the Persian Gulf

General Tamir listened to the dialogue but said nothing. Revealing his presence wouldn’t help. “Dvir, what can you do about the American jamming?

The lieutenant shook his head. “We’re not set up to hack the U.S. network. Even if we were, we’d have to abandon our intrusion into the Iranian air defenses.”

Tamir looked at the main display at the front of the cabin. Going around wasn’t an option. The American fighters lay between the Iranian coast and the strikers. They’d just shift the barrier left or right, with the range closing all the time.

He was confident of their ability to fight their way to the target against an alerted enemy, but he had never imagined fighting the Americans first. One of his staff had been tasked with figuring the odds. It was not a simple task. “Give me what you’ve got, Lev.”

The major shook his head. “It’s the multiple shots at close range. Even with good countermeasures, you need to see the missile coming at you to use them properly. We could lose twenty aircraft, maybe more. They’d lose less, because of the jamming, but still fifteen at least.”

The communications offer reported, “General, Tel Aviv is calling. It’s Minister Lavon.”

8 April 2013

0507 Local Time/0207 Zulu

Over the Persian Gulf

While Zohar had been talking, his back-seater had been working with the radar to find targets and set up Python shots. The Python was a good missile, bigger and longer-ranged than the American AIM-9X, and its seeker was just as smart. Normally, the first salvo in an air battle would be at long range with AMRAAMs, but American jamming had taken away that option. Instead, they’d start with Pythons. When they got closer, in the dogfight, they’d burn through the jamming and use the AMRAAMs in boresight mode.

Of course, the Americans would do the same thing with their AMRAAMs, and they weren’t being jammed.

“Israeli commander, our radars won’t give you any warning of when you’re locked up, so I’ll tell you you’re locked up, and you’ll just have to believe me.”

“You’re going to lose a lot of airplanes and pilots,” Zohar said angrily.

The American’s voice was calm, as if this were merely an exercise. “Your losses will be just as bad. Will your tactics work with a half-assed strike, an alerted enemy, and no fuel reserves? You will lose people to no purpose! Turn around.”

“Our purpose is clear.”

Daniel’s voice cut in again. “One minute to Python range for the lead aircraft.”

Zohar said, “If you shoot, the Iranians win.”

“So they tell me,” the American voice answered. “And if you shoot, you won’t either. Now you have to decide the best way to cut your losses.”

Frustrated, fuming, Zohar was about to give the order to engage when Tamir sent the abort order. “David, this is Yuri. Abort. I repeat, abort. Confirm by voice.”

Resigned, defeated, and still in a state of shock, Zohar responded, “Yuri, this is David. Confirm abort order. Returning to base.” The Iranians would still be there tomorrow.