Primary Target

22

The Persian Gulf lay as flat as a millpond while the carrier and her battle group turned into the gentle breeze. Far to the south of the flotilla, a nearly transparent flame from a huge Iranian oil platform cast an eerie afterglow across the black waters.

Once the warships of the U.S. 5th Fleet were repositioned, Washington went to flight quarters. The deck came alive with a choreography of flight crews, airplanes, tow tractors, and deckhands hauling volatile fuel lines, hoisting missiles, loading bombs, prepping the catapults and arresting gear, and chocking and chaining aircraft to their assigned sections of the deck.

An environment particularly susceptible to catastrophic accidents, the mayhem on the flight deck is even more precarious during the black of night. Between the screaming jet engines, and the foul-smelling scent of steam mixed with salt water and jet fuel, duty on the flight deck is not for individuals who are easily distracted.

With the supercarrier steady on course and speed, the pilot of an HS-11 “Dragon Slayers” rescue helicopter lifted his craft into the horizonless, moonless night and flew toward a known Iranian eavesdropping trawler. After flying a wide circle around the surveillance vessel, the SH-60 Seahawk took up station on the starboard side of the carrier. The deadly serious business of flight operations was commencing, where seconds and inches often spell the difference between life and death.

Flight-deck crewmen in sweat-stained green pullovers hooked the duty E-2C Hawkeye to the port bow catapult, then waited for the launch signal from the air boss in Primary Flight Control. Located high on the port side of the island, Pri Fly served as the ship’s control tower during flight operations. The “boss” is the supreme ruler of the flight deck and everything that flies in the vicinity of the boat.

On the slippery flight deck, F-14 Tomcats and F/A-18 Hornets were standing by to protect one of the most formidable fighting machines in the world. Inside the cockpits of the powerful jets, the pilots of the Hornets and the pilots and radar intercept officers in the Tomcats were growing anxious. The growing speculation as to what they were doing in the Gulf had abruptly ended two hours before they manned their planes. Their CO had briefed them; the U.S. was going to send Tehran a wake-up call. If any Iranian fighter planes or surface ships wanted to contest the issue, they were to be dispatched as quickly as possible.

While they waited to taxi to the catapults, many of the pilots and naval flight officers silently went through their checklists a second time. In this unforgiving world, minor details could mean the difference between success and failure — living or dying.

Precisely at the scheduled launch time, Captain Nancy Jensen watched the shooter’s night wands signal the Hawkeye pilots to increase power. The aviator’s pulse rates rapidly went up as the airframe began to vibrate and shake from the power of the straining turboprops. The copilot keyed his intercom. “It’s darker than three foot up a bull’s ass.”

“Yeah, I love it,” the pilot grumbled as he surveyed the engine instruments, checking for any irregularity, anything that might kill them during a night catapult launch. Everything looked in order. “Let’s do it.”

A second later the E-2C’s external lights were switched on. At that second the fate of the flight crew was in the hands of God and a steam-powered catapult. Kaabooom! The pilots’ eyes literally flattened in their sockets as the aircraft accelerated down the track and disappeared into the gloomy night.

The flight crew of the Grumman surveillance platform, which could detect airborne targets anywhere in a three-million-cubic-mile envelope, checked in with the carrier and the Hawkeye crew they were scheduled to relieve. In addition to the normal flow of commercial air traffic in the Gulf area, the duty “Miniwacs” was monitoring two separate formations of suspected Iranian military aircraft. They were also watching several flights of U.S. warplanes and rescue helicopters that were taking up station over the Gulf.

Below deck in Washington’s darkened Combat Direction Center, the ship’s brain, tactical action officers monitored computerized wall screens showing the location of every ship, aircraft, and oil smuggler in the area. The air crackled with radio chatter as the men tracked an array of Iranian vessels as they navigated the Gulfs dark waters. Many of the contacts were flagged red on the giant computer screens, including the warships Peter the Great, Russia’s largest ballistic-missile cruiser, Pyotr Veliky, and Admiral Kuznetsov. The senior officer in CDC found it curious that the Russian flagship and her escorts had suddenly changed course and were distancing themselves from the U.S. battle group.

Concerned about the unusual concentration of Iranian aircraft, Admiral Coleman and his staff weighed their options. Coleman decided to leave well enough alone unless the airplanes appeared to be a direct threat to the task force. He didn’t want to provoke the Iranians into a premature confrontation.

Washington’s flight deck became extremely busy while various planes waited to be catapulted into the night sky. In short order, two all-weather electronic surveillance EA-6B Prowlers were airborne and climbing for altitude. The Marine Prowlers could quickly distinguish between friendly and enemy signals, then jam them.

Following the VMAQ-3 “Moondogs,” two high-endurance S-3B Vikings from VS-32 were launched and began snooping for submarines. With three of Iran’s Kilo subs thought to be at sea, CAG, the commander of the air group, was very nervous about their potential threat to the carrier battle group.

Losing a carrier, or other major surface combatants, could rapidly change the balance of power in the Gulf region.

Leading the division of F-14 BARCAP fighters — Barrier Combat Air Patrol — Lieutenant Commander Denby Kaywood and his backseater, Lieutenant Chet Hoffman, were anxious to get airborne. It was show time and the initial four Tomcats and four Marine F/A-18s would be backed by two Alert Five Hornets.

Sandwiched between the BARCAP birds and the Alert Hornets, Lieutenant Ridder Cromwell would be the deck launch interceptor. Cromwell, a former top gun instructor, would be parked on the starboard bow catapult with his Tomcat’s engines idling. With his F-14 connected to the fuel pits, Cromwell and his RIO, Lieutenant Fred Singleton, would be ready to launch in a matter of seconds. If the situation became touchy, the Alert Five fighters would immediately go to deck-launch-interceptor status.

When the executive officer loudly knocked on his cabin door, Commander Bob Gillmore’s eyes flew wide open and his heart rate instantly increased. He reluctantly opened the door and recognized the concerned look in Todd Lassiter’s eyes.

“It’s a go, skipper.”

“Okay,” Gillmore said as he yawned and rubbed his eyes. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fresh coffee all around.”

“It’s brewing, sir.”

“You do good work.”

After closing his door, Gillmore squinted at the multifunction display near his bunk, noting that Hampton was loitering in its assigned position in the Gulf of Oman. He quickly brushed his teeth, then dressed and opened his personal safe. He removed the sealed orders and then joined Lassiter in the officers’ wardroom.

Over a cup of fresh coffee, the two of them opened the orders and studied the details of the mission. Afterward they called the officers and the chief of the boat for a thorough briefing, then told the crew about the imminent strike on Iran.

Their reactions ranged from stunned silence to open excitement as the young sailors prepared to launch six Tomahawk surface-to-surface missiles. Gillmore and his senior officers went over the mission orders and reviewed the accompanying rules of engagement. When the last questions were answered, the petty officers manning the BSY-1 (busy one) combat system activated the power for the weapons and loaded targeting information and flight profiles into the missile’s memory systems. The flight paths of the Tomahawks were programmed to avoid population centers and remain below Iranian radar coverage. Using satellite navigation and sophisticated terrain-tracking electronics, the missiles would strike within a few feet of a target.

Shortly after the combat system was activated, Hampton rose to its launch depth twenty-five nautical miles north of the Tropic of Cancer. Moving slowly through the dark water, the attack submarine sprouted a mast to take a final navigational fix from the Global Positioning System satellite constellation. As a precaution, Lassiter used a slide rule, compass, and trigonometry to plan the attacks by hand.

Minutes after the XO had completed his calculations, the hydraulically actuated doors of the vertical launch system opened and an explosive charge propelled the first Tomahawk up through the protective covering over its stainless-steel container. Entering the water, the missile shot upward until the booster rocket fired, thrusting the Tomahawk clear of the Gulf.

The missile immediately tilted over and jettisoned the burned-out solid booster, sprouted wings and a tail, lighted the turbojet engine, made a small directional correction, then headed for its preprogrammed destination near Bandar-e Abbas. Skimming above the surface of the water, the Tomahawk tracked precisely on a course defined by the acutely accurate terrain-following navigation system. When the powerful missile approached land, it would follow the eastern shoreline of the Persian Gulf, then make a tiny heading change to strike its target at the nuclear storage-and-assembly facility adjacent to the port at Bandar-e Abbas.

A half minute later a second Tomahawk rocketed out of the water to follow the first missile to the same target. Like the first Tomahawk, it tilted down and the booster fell off, but the turbojet lighted a second late. The missile almost impacted the water before it gained speed, stabilized in the proper attitude, then flew unerringly toward its destination.

Gillmore tried to ignore his fear of being discovered by an Iranian Kilo-class diesel-powered attack submarine. If one or more of the subs happened to be lurking in the vicinity, they might have detected the extremely loud noises generated by the Tomahawk launches. Feared because of their super-quiet, stealthy traits, the Russian-manufactured 244-foot Kilos were almost impossible to detect passively when they were operating on their batteries.

The task of detecting them was made even more difficult when they were “sleeping” on the bottom of the Gulf in relatively warm, shallow water. Acquired for the purpose of controlling access to the vital Strait of Hormuz choke point, the 3,077-ton (submerged displacement) submarines were intended to be Iran’s equalizers when dealing with the overwhelming power of the United States Navy.

The missile launch sequence continued at thirty-second intervals until the last Tomahawk blasted out of the water and turned on course. The final three cruise missiles were targeted at a nuclear research-and-weapons storage warehouse located at Bushehr.

After the sixth vertical launch tube filled with water and the hatches were closed, Commander Gillmore breathed a sigh of relief and ordered a communications mast to be raised. Via satellite, he sent a short confirming message to the Pentagon, then prepared to dive deeper and set course for the middle of the Arabian Sea.

Less than a minute after Hampton launched her last Tomahawk, Cheyenne began launching her cruise missiles toward the same targets. Stabilized at her launch depth sixty-five nautical miles southwest of the border between Pakistan and Iran, Cheyenne’s Tomahawks were programmed to reach Bushehr and Bandar-e Abbas three minutes after Hampton’s last missile hit its target.

Startled by the first explosive noise that reverberated through Taregh, Captain Mehdi Rafiqdoust quickly recovered. With his heart racing, the Kilo-class submarine skipper anticipated the next loud report, as did the stunned operator of the acoustic receiver. After the second powerful explosion, Rafiqdoust had no doubt; he’d stumbled across an American submarine. An American sub that was launching missiles. This was obviously the reason Tehran had ordered his crew to go to combat readiness condition one.

His last communication with Dauntless confirmed that Taregh was loitering in a position where the American battle group had passed many hours before. Aware that U.S. nuclear attack submarines — sometimes more than one — generally accompanied carrier battle groups, Rafiqdoust hesitated a moment. Was the undeclared war between Iran and the United States now a shooting war? The rift had been the lead story on every news program for the past two months.

Rafiqdoust exchanged a glance with Commander Fathi Ashmar, his intensely fierce second in command. The small man’s unblinking stare left no question about his feelings. The men nodded in silent agreement. Convinced that his country was being attacked by the Great Satan, Rafiqdoust gave the order to attack the enemy submarine.

“We are at war,” he said grimly, then smoothed his thick mustache. “We will sink the American submarine.”

Well trained and motivated, the Iranian officers and sailors swung into action on the skipper’s command. Two Russian advisers gave Rafiqdoust weak, but polite smiles and made their way to their berthing quarters. The Varshavyanka-class sub experts had strict orders from their superiors in Moscow; they were not to take part in any hostile military engagement.

By the time the American’s fifth weapon was away, Rafiqdoust had the range and bearing to the noisy target. Elated by his good fortune, his mind raced in search of anything that might be questionable about his logic. One last analysis before he fired the first torpedo. Are the Americans launching their weapons at Iraq?

If so, an unprovoked attack on a U.S. Navy submarine would be a huge political embarrassment. It could end his career and cost him his life. On the other hand, if Rafiqdoust was correct in his assumption, and he managed to sink the enemy sub, he would have enormous leverage to move to the highest circles in the Iranian Navy.

The civilian and military leadership of Iran enthusiastically endorsed the complex and expensive task of operating submarines; now it was time to deliver on the investment. If Rafiqdoust was successful in his efforts to destroy the sub, the U.S. government would think twice about further intervention in the affairs of the Islamic Republic of Iran. He smiled inwardly. Allahu is guiding me. I have made the right decision.

With two of Taregh’s six 533-millimeter torpedo tubes out of service, Rafiqdoust double checked his firing solution, then ordered four sub-killer torpedoes fired. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead and checked the time-to-target on the first torpedo. Would he be successful in his quest to kill the intruder? He wouldn’t have long to wait for an answer.

The control room was deathly quiet when Commander Gillmore gave the order to do a “baffle clear,” an S-shaped maneuver to make sure an enemy submarine wasn’t lurking in Hampton’s baffle zone. “Left ten degrees rudder, come to one-nine-five.”

“Left ten degrees rudder, aye,” the young helmsman repeated. “New course one-nine-five. Sir, my rudder is left ten degrees.”

The only noise came from the hum of the ventilation ducts as the attack sub began a turn to check the deaf area astern of the boat.

“Make your depth two hundred feet,” Gillmore said with obvious relief in his voice. His mouth and lips were so dry, he had to swallow before he issued each order.

“Two hundred feet, aye,” the diving officer replied.

A low murmur spread through the control room as the tension began to dissipate. The farther away they could get from the launch coordinates, the better chance they would have to evade any hunter/killers in the area.

Gillmore turned to the chief of the boat. “Let’s give the men some— “He stopped in mid-sentence, an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach — a feeling of primal fear. Along with the other men around him, the captain had heard a faint sound. In disbelief, Gillmore heard it again, louder this time. Much louder.

Ping-PING!

The sound was unmistakable, striking terror in the hearts of the crew. To a person, their faces contorted in a kind of horror that is something more than mere fright. They were about to die, and there wasn’t anything they could do about it.

“Emergency blow!” Gillmore ordered in frenzied desperation. “Let’s get on the roof!”

The petty officer at the ballast control panel lurched for the two handles located above his head. Panicked, he activated the controls, sending high-pressure air from the air banks into the ballast tanks. The sub immediately began ascending toward the surface.

The third ping came less than two seconds before Hampton’s double hull was ripped open by a powerful blast. Like a huge sledgehammer, the concussion-implosion slammed Gillmore backward into a bulkhead, knocking him down. With the wind knocked out of him, he gasped for air and tried to get to his feet. The lights flickered twice and went out as Hampton rapidly filled with seawater.

Gillmore groped in the dark as cold water gushed through the control room. He managed to get to his knees at the same time as the second torpedo smashed into the remains of the attack sub. With his eardrums ruptured and his scalp bleeding, Gillmore was swept through an opening in the hull. He frantically tried to orient himself in the dark, but the water was so disturbed he couldn’t determine which way was up. Panicked, he clawed at the water in an attempt to reach the surface. Twice, he bumped into other men as they struggled to save their lives.

Gillmore was making progress until the third torpedo detonated, tumbling him through the water. He struck his head against the remains of the forward escape trunk, knocking himself unconscious. He sank slowly, arriving on the floor of the Gulf fifteen minutes after Hampton.

The crackling and grinding sounds of a submarine breaking apart were clearly evident to the senior operator of Taregh’s acoustic receiver. When he signaled confirmation of the kill, the crew in the control room began to celebrate. The captain glared at them. “Quiet,” Rafiqdoust hissed under his breath. “There may be a second American sub out there.”

Commander Fathi Ashmar turned to Rafiqdoust and smiled with unconscious pride. “The Americans are getting their noses bloodied.”