Flash Point

37

Everyone on the carrier knew about the coming mission. They knew about the bomb, who was going to deliver it, and how. The men and women involved in that evening’s other strikes understood that theirs were secondary, or even diversionary. They didn’t care — in fact they were excited about it.

In VF-103 it was different. The squadron realized that Woods and Big with Wink and Sedge were the tip of the spear that would pierce the ground and the heart of Sheikh al-Jabal. Tonight victory meant the death of one person.

The early strikes had already gone and had reported heavy SAM fire with new AAA sites near the targets. It had been the hairiest night so far, which was discouraging since so much effort had been put into SEAD, the Suppression of Enemy Air Defenses.

Although the rhetoric had picked up, the Syrian Air Force had stayed on the ground.

Woods’s event was set to brief at midnight. Bark had decided to address all the aircrew fifteen minutes before the scheduled brief, and had called all the officers together. They were tired but enthusiastic.

“I won’t take much of your time, but I wanted us to gather together for a minute before this squadron launches a mission never before flown by a Navy plane.” He glanced at his watch. “Their brief will begin in about fifteen minutes. We are finally going to strike what we hope will be a fatal blow against the terrorism of Sheikh al-Jabal. He has killed our squadron mate and other innocent Americans, including a State Department official who was locking his car when he was murdered, a Naval attaché in Paris, out for a peaceful morning jog, and the Commanding Officer of an F-18 squadron and one of his Lieutenants. The Shiekh is a cold-blooded murderer. If I had the chance to cut his throat, I would do it in a second.

“Seriously. I don’t want to sound bloodthirsty, but I see no reason for this man to continue living. If it were up to me, he wouldn’t. And, amazingly, it is up to us. Actually up to Trey, and Big. And the LANTIRN gods, Wink and Sedge.”

Wink smiled, fighting his apprehension.

“I wanted each of us to tell them how much we are behind them. We will do our very best to make it happen tonight, whether we are on a strike mission, on decoys, doing maintenance support, or just praying. Whatever we’re going to do, we will do it. The Jolly Rogers will make it happen. So Trey, Big, Wink, Sedge, we’re with you. Do us proud.” His listeners fell silent and not sure what more to say, Bark ended it. “Dismissed,” he said abruptly, and walked out of the ready room.

The sudden end of Bark’s talk caught the squadron off guard. They weren’t certain whether to stay and slap Woods on the back, or go about their business. The opinion quickly formed that work was in order, not celebration or conversation.

Odd little speech, Woods thought. Bark puzzled him. Most of the time he was a straight-ahead, no-nonsense, you-always-know-what-he-wants kind of guy. But every once in a while he would do or say something that made the whole squadron wonder if they understood him at all. But most Squadron Commanders were on the verge of losing it at one point or another — there seemed to be something inherent in the job that made them nearly come apart. Woods wondered if Bark’s difficulties were his fault. From the moment he had allowed Vialli to go to Israel without telling Bark, he had dropped in his Commanding Officer’s regard. He knew it. He could feel it on an almost daily basis. What had started as a trusting relationship, with Bark as his mentor, grooming his protégé, someone in whom he saw himself, had become a cool senior/subordinate relationship. And Bark seemed to be taking it hard. He couldn’t identify with Woods anymore. Some invisible line had been crossed that couldn’t even be discussed. To bring it up would be to acknowledge too much. It had come to the point now where Bark didn’t trust him. But Bark also knew Woods was the right one to go. He was best suited for the job — he had the most training, and perhaps the very thing that had finally driven Bark away, reckless abandon. During his big speech about showing support for our guys going in harm’s way, Bark hadn’t looked at him once.

Woods and Big walked to the back of the ready room. They were alone. “You still up for this?” Big asked.

Woods looked around. “We’ve got a couple of minutes before the brief. Let’s go out on the catwalk.”

Big followed Woods directly outboard on the starboard side through the darken-ship black vinyl curtains onto the catwalk. They walked up to the steel grating and stood leaning on the railing. They could see the white foam of the water through the grating beneath them as the Washington steamed north through the Mediterranean. Seeing water race under their feet was unsettling to those who weren’t accustomed to it. Woods glanced out toward the dark sea and thought about their mission.

“So,” Big said.

Woods waited. They could hear the sailors preparing the flight deck for the launch behind them. “You ever thought of Bark as stupid?”

“No.”

“Ever known him to leave anything unfinished?”

“Never,” Big said, surveying the stars over the black water.

“He knows what happened in Lebanon.”

“He didn’t seem too sure.”

“Big,” Woods said, “he saw the missile exhaust on our airplanes. He saw the PLAT tapes.”

Big shrugged. “He didn’t seem too convinced.”

“He knows it wasn’t from Roosevelt Roads.”

“What are you saying?”

“He could send us to Leavenworth with one phone call.”

Big thought about it. “So why hasn’t he?”

“A lot of people in his squadron would go down. He doesn’t know who. But he knows there had to be somebody in ordnance. And doesn’t know who else.”

“So why has he laid off?”

“Redemption.”

“Huh?” Big asked.

“If we get the Sheikh and make it back, we’ve redeemed ourselves in his eyes. If we don’t come back, we got what was coming to us.”

“That’s pretty calculated.”

“Yep.”

“What do you think? You still glad we went to Lebanon?”

Woods had thought of little else for weeks. It had haunted him. “It was stupid,” Woods said. “And reckless. But isn’t war made up of basically stupid acts? Things rational people would never do, given a choice? It seems like you have to get yourself into a position where you feel like you have no choice. Then you just do the inevitable. It’s a game your mind plays with you. I was absolutely convinced if we didn’t do something, no one would.”

“Would you do it again?”

“No.”

“What about now?”

“Now we’re at war. It’s the difference between dying as a soldier and dying as a criminal.”

“You’re just as dead.”

“One’s with honor.”

“What difference does that make?” Big said with a small, sarcastic chuckle.

“I don’t know. I just know it’s different.” Woods listened to the water hiss against the side of the carrier. “I used to think I knew it all. Not anymore. I just need to do my job and do it as well as I can.”

“Which tonight means flying into Iran,” Big said, smiling. “And you think Bark is setting us up?”

“No. He’s just given us an incredible opportunity which also happens to come with just enough rope to hang ourselves.”

“All the freedom we want to pull off our little scheme, on the off chance it will make up for last time.” Big shook his head as he thought of all the implications and all the machinations. “My wife will be so pissed if I don’t come back. Especially if she ever gets the whole story.”

“She’d lose it. Does she know about Lebanon?”

Big shook his head.

“We’re taking a big risk tonight.”

“It’s worth it. I still want to get this guy. And this time it’s legal. How about you?”

“Chance of a lifetime.”

“Trey, if anything happens to me, tell—”

“No chance. You’re going to have to tell her yourself.”

Big smiled. “Let’s go brief.”

“Yeah.” Woods glanced at the sky and the sea for one last time. “You know, if Leavenworth is waiting for us when we get back, I’d rather not come back.”

“According to your own paranoid theory, if Bark is setting us up, if we get the Sheikh, all is well.”

“That’s the theory. But we can’t very well ask him, can we?”

“No. But we can sure try to get the Sheikh.”

“There it is,” Woods smiled.

The squad of Assassins, candlelight dancing off their dirty faces and weapons, entered the cave room. Twenty or thirty men surrounded the Sheikh, sitting in his usual chair. The squad carefully lowered their fallen comrades to the floor and folded their hands on their chests. The blood of the dead men glistened on those who had carried them.

The man carrying the unidentified enemy stood motionless, not sure whether to put him down. As everyone watched, he finally walked to the corner and dumped the body onto the floor unceremoniously. The Sheikh rose more quickly than usual. “What has happened?”

“We found one of the invaders.”

“Three of our men were killed?” the Sheikh asked.

“We discovered a spy — very well hidden. He shot through his covering.” Farouk pulled out a piece of the cloth covering and the aluminum frame from under his robe and handed them to the Sheikh. “It looked like a boulder. Even from one meter away.”

The Sheikh examined it. “Ingenious,” he said.

“Only by touching it could we tell the difference.”

“But you found him. You are to be rewarded… As to these men,” he said, indicating the fallen Assassins, “they have their reward.” The Sheikh touched each of the dead men on the forehead. He turned to the heap in the corner. “Bring him over here into the light,” he said to the two men closest to the dead intruder. They grabbed the dead body and dragged him to the center of the room. The Sheikh stood over him, studying his face. “Did you search him?”

“Yes. We did.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No. There is no identification of any kind.”

“Then he was certainly a spy. No uniform, no identification, not even an indication of what country he is from.” He thought about the spy for a while, standing stiffly, his hands behind his back. “What did you find in his hideout?”

“Much,” the leader of the section said. He crossed to the table, moved several charts aside, and reached into the bag he had hauled back from the dead man’s post. The first thing he took out was the sniper rifle.

The Sheikh took the rifle and held it, recognizing it instantly. “Remington five hundred. The sniper rifle preferred by the American Special Forces.” He took the next item handed him. “Night-vision binoculars. Very expensive,” he said, holding them in his hands. He lifted them to his eyes, flipping the switch to activate them. He glanced around the room and then turned them off. “The best I’ve ever seen. What else?”

“There was much ammunition, small arms, this device—” He handed a small unit to the Sheikh.

The Sheikh examined it, turning it over and back again. “There was a plate on the side of this that gave the manufacturer’s name. It has been removed.” He put the device on the table and stood back, watching the faces of his men to see if anyone recognized it. To his disappointment, no one did. “This is a laser designator.” They recognized the name. They knew exactly what that was, and what it meant. The Sheikh told them anyway. “He was here to designate us as a target for an airplane,” the Sheikh said, staring at the small device. He looked at the dead man. “He was certainly with the American Special Forces. We have acted just in time. The Americans are on their way… We’ll see what they can do without their spy. And we will be waiting.”

Woods attached the clip to his helmet and carefully removed the ANVIS-9 Night Vision Devices from their case. Wink, Big, and Sedge did the same right behind him. Woods expertly attached the binocular devices to the clips and folded them down in front of his eyes. “Lights,” he said to the para-rigger waiting by the switch. The lights were turned off inside the paraloft and it went completely dark. Woods flipped the small switch on the side of the lenses and the interior of the loft was clear in various shades of green. He crossed to the Hoffman box and gazed into its openings. He adjusted the four lenses on the goggles until he could see twenty/twenty inside the box. The others followed suit. Big was the last to focus his lenses. “Lights,” he said, and the four detached the goggles from their helmets and placed them in the carrying cases.

Woods walked toward the Tomcat, stopping when he caught a glimpse of the GBU-28 under the plane. It was as big as a small airplane, and heavier than many. He stared at the bomb, then glanced at the Gunner. “Big mother,” he commented as he handed his knee board to Airman Benson.

“Yes, sir,” Gunner Bailey replied, very pleased with his men that they had been able to load the bombs without incident.

Benson took Wink’s helmet bag and climbed aboard to set up the cockpits. Woods and Wink split up to do their counterrotating preflight and started down each side of the Tomcat. They checked the bomb repeatedly, studying the red arming pennants the ordies would remove on the catapult. Finished with that part of the check, they climbed up and strapped in.

The night weather had taken a turn for the worse, the sea rougher than it had been in many days. The other aircraft on the diversionary strike were to launch after them, except for the dedicated S-3 tanker, which would go off cat four just before they took off. Woods and Big were to take all the fuel their planes could hold.

In the darkness, Woods released the parking brake and moved forward slightly. The yellow shirt directing him moved his wands slowly, then crossed them quickly. Woods hit the brakes and felt the launch bar drop over the catapult shuttle as he had hundreds of times before. The yellow shirt saluted and passed him to the catapult officer. Woods found himself reassured by the familiarity as he thought of going down the catapult, accelerating to one hundred thirty-five knots in about two seconds carrying a howitzer barrel filled with high explosives under his belly, and being the first person in history to do it.

The catapult officer faced Woods, raising her right hand slightly and slid her left hand quickly to the bow of the ship. The shuttle moved forward and grabbed the Tomcat’s launch bar. She signaled to run up the engines. Woods went to full throttle and finished his cockpit checks with Wink. They were ready. Woods moved the throttles and flames shot out of the F-14 as the engines went to afterburner. Flipping the switch, Woods turned on his exterior lights. The catapult officer saluted, signaled, and the catapult fired.

Woods, Wink, and their howitzer barrel rocketed down the catapult track, the acceleration throwing them back in their seats harder than usual. The Tomcat reached the end of the catapult stroke and they were pushed forward. The ship was done helping them fly.

The wheels cleared the deck and the aft half of the Tomcat rotated downward, lifting the nose of the plane above the horizon. Woods quickly scanned the instruments.

“We’re flying,” Wink called from the backseat after watching the airspeed indicator carefully.

“Head 076,” Wink said.

“Roger,” Woods replied. He put the Tomcat into a gentle right turn as they continued to rise. The rest of the strike group launched behind them and climbed after them.

They could see the formation lights on the other airplanes heading east with them. The two carrier Battle Groups had switched targets for the night so Woods’s flight could be better camouflaged. They wanted to be seen on the radar of whoever was watching with the airplanes heading east. After that they would simply vanish. It would take a truly special radar operator to pick them out of the clutter once they peeled away from the group.

The radios were silent as the ten airplanes broke over the beach together. There had been some talk that Syria was going to actually send up fighters against this strike, but so far, no sign.

The pilots in the formation had been briefed by the Air Wing Commander, who had chosen to personally lead this diversionary strike. He had been a lukewarm convert to the strike plan against Alamut. When he found out there would be “someone” on the ground to laser designate the exact spot, and that the Air Force had actually parted with two of its private reserve of perfectly aged GBU-28s, and that the DOD had actually signed off on letting two untested Tomcat crews carry them into Iran, he figured who was he to stand in the way? A great military leader, like a great politician, is great sometimes because he discerns a trend and gets in front of it.

Some of the pilots were hoping that the Syrians would in fact have the nerve to fight them tonight. Down deep, not one of them believed they would, but there was always the hope… The idea of air combat at night with lights off was almost too exciting, especially against someone who didn’t practice. For those not accustomed to night fighting it was disconcerting and disorienting. The chance of a mid-air or of shooting down the wrong airplane in the general pandemonium was extremely high. It was not an environment into which the poorly trained strode happily.

“Any bogeys?” Woods asked.

“Negative,” Wink said. The PTID was blank except for the strike aircraft. They crossed over the Syrian border and accelerated to five hundred knots. Woods glanced down to see if he could make out the coastline. A few small towns glittered below, but nothing substantial. He couldn’t tell where the Mediterranean stopped and Syria started. It was one great sea of blackness, with a few lights in the easternmost part.

The strike group continued east, deep into Syria. On a radar it would look as if the strike group had gone far inland to begin the attack from the east to avoid the SAMs. As they approached the break-off point Woods flew over to the S-3 tanker that was escorting the strike just to refuel Wink and Big. Tankers rarely went overland, but without getting fuel at the last possible moment, the Tomcats would never make it back to the ship.

“Hundred knots of closure,” Wink called.

Woods retarded his throttles slightly as he closed the distance.

“Fifty.”

Woods raised his right wing to slow the closure and increase his turn. He was a few hundred yards from the tanker. He controlled his rate of climb, closure, and turn instinctively as he rendezvoused on the tanker.

“Ten,” Wink said quietly.

Woods joined on the tanker’s left wing, slightly below, perfectly. He never took his eyes off the plane. He’d done it hundreds of times, even at night, but he was always careful. He glanced quickly left to confirm that Big was on his wing, right where he should be. Big had been in loose trail, a quarter mile behind. He had gone off the catapult just seconds after Woods and had followed him the whole way.

The S-3 tanker pilot signaled, and Woods flipped a switch. The refueling probe climbed out of the right side of the Tomcat and made its customary loud noises as it rose hard and rigid into the two-hundred-fifty knot airstream. Woods slid back and approached the S-3 from behind. The refueling basket bobbed along at the end of the long invisible hose waiting for the Tomcat to pull up. Woods lined up behind the S-3 and accelerated straight ahead. The probe caught the basket and drove home, hitting right in the center. The basket squeezed the probe and the green light flickered. Good seat.

Woods pulled the throttles back slightly to enable him to fly formation on the tanker ahead of him. He glanced down at the fuel indicator. No change. He looked at the lights. Good green light over the drogue. “What’s up?” he asked Wink.

“Don’t know. I’m showing no transfer. Push it up a little. Give him a little slack.”

Woods adjusted his speed to drive the drogue toward the tanker, then away. No change. They weren’t getting any fuel. “Tell ’em.”

Wink transmitted, “No transfer. Check your switches.”

“Switches are fine. Pull out and try it again.”

“Arrr,” Woods said as he pulled the throttles back a little quicker than he needed to. The Tomcat slowed and the drogue came free. He accelerated again to catch it, and approached the drogue exactly the same way as the time before. “If we don’t get fuel, we’ve got to abort. We can’t get back without it.”

Wink didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. He looked at his fuel indicator. They were already behind where they expected to be in their fuel specs. The bomb must have more drag than they had calculated.

Woods plugged in again and got another green light from the drogue. Then an amber, a red, then green again. He watched the fuel indicator stop decreasing and reverse itself and head up. “Good transfer,” he said to Wink.

“Roger,” Wink said, relieved.

They watched the digital fuel readout march upward until the Tomcat was completely topped off, over nineteen thousand pounds of fuel. They had replaced all the fuel they had used in start-up, taxi, takeoff, and climb. As Woods backed away from the basket, banking to his right and coming up to the right side of the tanker, Big moved over quickly to top off. When he was done he pulled out and joined on Woods’s right wing. They pulled away from the tanker and banked right, toward the remainder of the strike group.

The planes on the strike had reached the point of separation. They split up to approach the target from different directions, making the air defense calculations immeasurably harder for the defenders — not just one piece of sky to look for.

The breakup was Woods’s cue. “Goggle up,” he said to Wink. They took their NVDs out of the cases and clipped them to the brackets on their helmets, folding them down and turning them on. Woods could now see everything, the horizon, the mountains, the puffy cloud twenty miles away, and every airplane within ten miles. Everything was green. He immediately pushed the nose of the Tomcat over and headed toward the deck, watching his instruments carefully to ensure he stayed under thirty degrees of nose-down attitude. The airplane felt heavy and sluggish. Wink turned his radar to standby. They were going in totally EMCON, emissions controlled — no electronic signals emanating from the plane at all — until near their target. They didn’t want anybody picking up on them heading toward Iran with their radar blasting away, detectable for hundreds of miles.

He eased the stick back to slow his rate of descent as they neared the ground — gullies, bushes, and rocks were now clearly visible. He pulled harder and brought the nose up to the horizon, steadying out two hundred feet above the ground. Low enough that no radar would pick them up outside of thirty miles or so, and high enough that he was unlikely to hit most obstacles. They had the wires and cables of each area emblazoned on their chart.

Big joined on his wing in comfortable trail formation about a quarter of a mile behind him and slightly higher.

The radar warning detector was quiet. No surface to air missiles or AAA were trained on them as they started their race through eastern Syria. The Tomcat bounced slightly as the desert air rose from hills causing minor turbulence.

In the back, the LANTIRN god was fine-tuning his picture from the FLIR, the passive forward-looking infrared that was such a significant part of the LANTIRN system. It was working perfectly. Wink settled into his navigation and was comfortable with everything he saw. One of his favorite things about LANTIRN was it had a self-contained GPS unit that confirmed its position from satellites. It gave them their position three dimensionally.

“How we looking, Wink?”

“Coming up on our turnoff,” Wink replied. “See the bridge just to the right?”

“Yeah.”

“Stand by.” As they came upon it Wink called, “Come port to 065,” and Woods turned northeast toward the mountains of Iran.