Red Metal

CHAPTER 54

The pilot turned to his copilot. “Tom, take the stick. I’m going to grab some coffee.”

“I’ve got it. Might be a bit burned by now, but that just concentrates the caffeine, right, boss?”

The pilot unbuckled his harness, grabbed the seat back, and pulled himself up, sliding between the cramped seats of the big bomber, carefully ducking to avoid the huge array of switches on the bulkhead above. He filled his cup, and smelled it. The scent alone put a smile on his tired, weathered face.

Yup, definitely burned, crap coffee, but it’s still coffee.

The Rockwell B-1B Lancer was one of America’s most advanced bombers. Stealthy, sleek, and modern, it could deliver a payload of Mark-84 “dumb” bombs or the current payload on this aircraft, the AGM-154 missile.

They had gotten an update via radio on the enemy flotilla concentration in the Gulf of Aden, and the defensive combat systems officer, doubling at the moment as the radio operator, radioed the information to the three other bombers in the squadron to confirm and deconflict their target designations. The update had come via a ground radio retransmission site in Greece, and the new location data for the spot report of the enemy fleet came from a submarine somewhere in the Gulf of Aden. It was a small shuffle of the deck from the original flight-attack plan they’d been given, but nothing the four B-1B Lancers of this flight out of Dyess Air Force Base in Texas couldn’t handle.

After all the fire and fury they had been briefed about happening in the European theater, they were sorry not to be hitting targets there, but hitting something the top brass had deemed a big deal here off the coast of Africa was a good enough second.

The motto of the 7th Bomb Wing was “Mors ab alto,” which meant “Death from above” in Latin, and that was their intention tonight.

The copilot checked the aircraft’s FOG, or fiber-optic gyroscope, part of its inertial navigation system. “Fix is certain, sir. Course correction is point-eight degrees. Negligible. No need for adjustment, just need confirmation.”

Since passing the mid-Atlantic, they’d had no GPS. It was still spotty in places, as the U.S. had retasked several satellites over the European theater. The Lancers were navigating by map and the FOG system.

The B-1B Lancer still had a digital map that could be updated by the crew as they took very careful instrument readings and tracked their course corrections and speed over land. It was difficult work, but it did allow them to input target-direction data and read terrain.

Their last “tank,” or midair refueling, had been off the coast of Egypt via a KC-135 from Italy. Fortunately they had been able to coordinate the linkup via radio and gassing up had not been an issue.

Their orders were to strike the target, then continue east to the island of Diego Garcia in the middle of the Indian Ocean. After a night’s stopover in Guam, they would return home. The trip back would be easier without any bombs on board.

As they said in the Air Force: “Lighter aircraft, longer legs.”

The copilot called off landmarks for the next few minutes as they followed their course, changing directions. Once they hit a predesignated imaginary point above a piece of water in the Red Sea, the 2nd Combat Systems officer hit a button indicating they were close enough to prepare for their bomb run. It sent a transmission to the other three aircraft, syncing their bombing computers.

He called over the radio to the aircraft commander, a lieutenant colonel. “I’ve got IGS lock. I have co-response from the flight. We’re ready to launch, sir. About twenty-two more nautical miles and we’ll be at the release point.”

“Copy. Fish in a barrel, Major. Update the targeting computers and keep feeding location data. I want my missiles to get deep inside their locking envelope with good coordinates.”

The aircraft shifted to the left as the bomber took over navigation. The first combat systems officer flicked the switch labeled “Master Arm.” Almost forty feet behind him, three banks of eight AGM-154 Joint Standoff Weapon (JSOW) cruise missiles in rotating carousels armed themselves.

The next procedures were simple, unchanged since aircraft had been purpose-built for delivering bombs: Close the distance, open the bomb bay doors, and hit the launch button. Then all three carousels would rotate, out of sequence with one another, and one by one they would launch twenty-four JSOW missiles at their targets.

Overkill, the pilot thought, but orders were to “wallop the enemy,” and the B-1B pilots aimed to please.

The Iranian ship’s captain called to the admiral, standing at the rear of the bridge near the Russian colonel. “Admiral, we have a report from our westernmost picket ship. A flight of four large aircraft, possibly American bombers, just crossed the Egyptian coastline and are headed in our direction. They are two hundred eight kilometers from the task force and closing. They will be within our antiair radius in minutes. Permission to fire?”

The admiral looked over at Colonel Borbikov, who stood next to an Iranian translator. After the translation was finished, Colonel Borbikov nodded.

“Fire.” Seconds later, the deck-mounted, upgraded HQ-9B Chinese missile launchers pivoted to the northwest.

There was enough moonlight to see all the ships in the fleet, and Colonel Borbikov looked out the side portholes as blasts of red rocket flame followed by plumes of smoke erupted from six ships. Each ship had been equipped with two missiles. Bolted on, their mountings were not as solid as if they were fully integrated into the ships’ hulls, but they served their purpose just fine, launching twelve of the expensive, state-of-the-art Chinese missiles.

Borbikov watched as the missiles arced skyward, long, slender smoke trails heading to the northwest, disappearing in the distance.

Inside the lead craft of the four-ship flight of B-1B Lancers, the defensive combat systems officer’s voice was tight with tension over the radio. “Captain, I have missile launch. There are multiple… I count twelve inbound missile systems headed our way.”

The two pilots looked at each other quickly. The commander said, “What the hell? There’s nothing in the Iranian navy that can launch from that far out. How close are we to the maximum engagement distance?”

“Sir, we’re still way outside the radius of our missiles.”

The copilot flicked his seat belt nervously. There were only seconds, not minutes, to make the decision.

The commander keyed his headset to transmit to all four aircraft. “Abort, abort, abort. Come to heading two-eight-nine. Increase to maximum speeds. Take evasive action. Maintain altitude, but individual actions are authorized. We’ll have to get them another day.

“Okay,” he said, turning back to the crew. “Tom, pull us to that heading. Weapons, give me a report.”

“Sir, these things are fast. Tough to tell without GPS, but they’ll be on us in less than two minutes — I say about a minute and a half. We’ll add a little time once we’re running from them.”

The Air Force officers all turned back to their duties and listened to the aircraft’s weapons officer as he ticked off the distances. In each of the other three bombers, their crews would be doing the same thing.

“One hundred fifty nautical miles and closing.”

Sweat formed on the men’s foreheads. They didn’t dare glance at one another; they remained focused on their individual duties. The commander had resumed control of the aircraft, and he looked out the windshield at the Egyptian coast as they retreated.

“One hundred nautical miles,” said the combat systems officer, his tone now ominous and dire. The missiles were approaching, streaking at more than four times the speed of sound.

“Copy. Prep countermeasures,” replied the commander. “We can spoof them and see if they are too fast to turn around. Chaff and flares ready?” It was an unnecessary question.

The defensive combat systems officer said, “Yes, sir. We’re ready.”

“Use everything. I’ll radio the split.”

The captain got on and relayed to the other aircraft to split. By splitting up they would stand a better chance of confusing the missiles. If they all released a cloud of chaff and banks of flares, their distance from one another would force the missiles to choose between the maximum number of targets, hopefully overloading their puny brains. The tactic was designed for Russian-style weapons and counted on the warheads picking the hottest and surest of the targets.

Unfortunately for these pilots, that was not how the Chinese missiles screaming toward them operated.

“Sir, distance thirty nautical miles and closing.”

“Copy. Coordinate that release of CM.”

“Releasing countermeasures now!” The four airplanes, now separated by over ten nautical miles apiece, each released the tiny tinfoil strips along with beads after beads of flares. The flares fanned out below the aircraft, tracks of fire and smoke following as they fell slowly.

One missile turned toward the flares, but after a moment it corrected itself and again began tracking the bomber it had been pursuing.

The bombers tried another round of flares and chaff, to no avail. As the missiles closed within three nautical miles and the aircraft fired a constant stream of flares and chaff, the missiles remained undeterred.

“Fuck!” shouted the commander. “I’m slowing to two hundred miles per hour. Stand by to eject! Check harnesses!”

Out their right window a bright flash of light signaled the destruction of one of the other bombers. Another flash outside their left window indicated a second hit.

The pilot realized he would not be able to slow down before they, too, were blown to bits.

“Eject! Eject!” They were flying at nearly five times the recommended ejection speed.

Each of the four officers punched out at about the same time. Their ejector seats were not designed to eject at speeds so high, and they failed to fire them clear. Three crew members were killed by the speed of the jet and their impact with the skin of the airplane. The fourth crew member survived for a brief moment, but the explosion of three HQ-9B Chinese missiles, each with over four hundred pounds of polymer-bonded HMX explosive, blasted apart thick chunks of the American aircraft and spun shrapnel through the air. Among an enormous amount of flying metal, a five-foot section of intake fan blade of number three engine blew out of its housing while still spinning like a commercial blender, slicing through the plane’s copilot and killing him.

Shank pulled left pitch and looked through his canopy down at the large Polish city of Wrocław. He could see tracers, explosions, and smoke. It was tough to discern who was who, but he was pretty clear that the armor he could make out was all Russian. The Poles seemed to be attacking with anti-tank weapons, using buildings for cover, and a thick pall of gray hung low in the air.

A platoon of Russian tanks advanced across an open square in front of a set of high-rise apartments. Behind them, Shank could see another company of tanks and a company-sized element of infantry in and around some BTRs. He took their stance to mean they were being held back, waiting for the right moment to be called forward.

Armored reconnaissance in force, thought Shank as he watched. A classic Russian tactic.

He saw damaged and destroyed Russian armor, but the different columns of tanks and APCs now seemed to be moving out of the city with authority. He suspected the Poles had expended their biggest and best anti-tank weapons, and they had little way of pestering the Russian armor further.

The fleeing Russians hammered the militia, dropping entire buildings in the process. From his vantage point up here he got the feeling they were minutes away from crashing through the remnants of the militia on the eastern and northern sides of the Oder, and from there they would be able to race out of the kill zone and continue their push back to the safety of neutral Belarus.

Shank was certain the Poles did not have any tanks down there in the city, so all the armor below him was fair game, but without someone on the ground to clear him hot onto Russian tanks, firing on them would be going against procedure.

If there even was a procedure. Manuals didn’t cover situations like this: a mix between conventional and nonconventional forces in close contact.

Shank knew he’d have to do what the A-10 community did best: improvise.

Through his mic he called the other pilots in his flight. “Here’s the pattern of attack. We’re going to set up a round-robin. Loiter with our battle position as the center. Give me a wide, seven-craft Hog circle. Keep spotting and IDing the enemy ground targets. Keep the net alive with chatter; we’re all responsible for everyone’s situational awareness. I want to hear you all cross-talking every new item you see on the battlefield.”

The other pilots rogered up.

“Then we go in one at a time. One dive-bomb run, one missile, one gun. Rinse and repeat. I want to keep up a continuous pressure on the armor, hopefully force them to withdraw and relieve the Poles. As you come off the target, you call your shot away and ID the targets; then immediately the next man in the stack peels off and attacks. We’ve got the fuel to keep us drilling armor targets for up to an hour. Watch the MANPADS. Copy?”

In quick succession, the other pilots in his understrength squadron confirmed their readiness to commit to Shank’s plan.

Shank searched for his first victim.

He spotted a set of high-rise apartments and a broad courtyard, but it was an explosion on about the tenth floor that caught his attention. A Russian main tank round pounded the building, and he could see an armored company moving up to the edge of the courtyard opposite the high-rise.

Shank circled back and skyrocketed up to 8,000 feet; then he entered into a stomach-lurching dive directly onto the square. He couldn’t make out individual tank targets yet, but within a few seconds he saw white puffs of smoke as two Russian T-14s fired in rapid succession. Diving rapidly below 5,000 feet, he locked his Maverick onto one of the hot spots at the edge of the square and flipped off the gun’s safety.

At 4,000 feet, he continued his dive, the g-forces pinning him back into his seat as he pushed the throttle forward.

At 3,000 feet, Shank fine-tuned his lock for the lead tank. The most forward T-14 in the square would get a big, fat Maverick through its turret as a reward for advancing first.

At 2,500 feet, he punched the button, launching one Raytheon AGM-65 precision-guided missile. The smoke and flame of the missile’s booster rockets momentarily blinded him. Then the Maverick accelerated to 600 knots as Shank followed in its smoky trail.

Shank let rip with the 30mm main gun as he dove below 2,000 feet.

The tank’s reactive armor fired an instant before the missile hit in order to destroy it, but it didn’t save the big Armata. A spout of flame and a large fireball told him the Maverick had penetrated the turret and blown everything inside to bits. Holding down the trigger, he could see the impacts of his gun in the middle of the company. He shifted his feet to slew the aircraft left and right, peppering the target area with high-explosive rounds. The bursts looked to have caught the second T-14 in the blast.

At 1,000 feet Shank pulled back on the stick, sinking deep into his seat as the g-forces counteracted the dive. He checked his altitude and leveled off. Coming off the target area, he would power glide flat to lessen the chance of any MANPADS lock ons, skimming the building tops to mask his egress and foil any antiair attack.

He keyed the radio and called out the position of the Russian tanks, then looked over his left shoulder as he began climbing back into the circle to watch another of his A-10s diving onto the target.

He smiled as he pushed the throttle up. Keying his radio, he said, “Keep up the heat!”