Silver Tower

CHAPTER 19

"Skipper, the space station is back."

Captain Page acknowledged and put a few last sentences in his personal ship's log before snapping the ledger closed. "Right on time." He fixed the headset and keyed the microphone. "Armstrong, this is the USS California. How copy? Over."

"Loud and clear, California," said General Saint-Michael. "Are you receiving our data transmissions?"

Page glanced over at Meserve, who nodded. "Digital imagery coming in clear as a bell, Skipper."

"Affirmative, General. Congratulations on your promotion. When we'get back, sir, you're buying the bar."

"A deal."

"Advisory for those patrol planes," Colonel Walker cut in to the ship-to-orbit link. "Several fast patrol boats operating at their twelve o'clock, seventy nautical miles. Could be those new Iranian hydrofoils or the small corvettes they took out of mothballs. If they're corvettes they have naval Hawk-Four surface-to-air missiles that might give the Hornets trouble."

"Copy, Armstrong. We'll divert the Hornets around them. No telling who the Iranians might decide to shoot at right now."

"New contacts," Sergeant Jefferson reported. "Low altitude. Jet aircraft heading south along the west shore of the Caspian Sea. No definite number yet."

"Copy that, California?" Saint-Michael asked.

Meserve and Page were peering over the shoulders of the three radiomen who manned the data display unit of CIC's control console. The operators were switching the displays back and forth, trying to keep up with the volume of data being received. Finally Page punched the mike button in frustration. "Armstrong, we can't keep up with that thousand-mile display. We're going to cut ours back down to three hundred miles. Keep us advised of activity outside the three-hundred-mile radius of the Strait of Hormuz. We'll concentrate our surveillance in the area where the Nintitz's planes will be operating. "

Saint-Michael said over a closed interphone, "He must think I have a hundred people up here to watch the screens. He's got twice the people I have but he's only watching one-tenth of the area."

"I think I understand his situation," Walker said. "SBR is decades ahead of the California's technology. It's like trying to get a drink of water from a fire hose."

Saint-Michael shrugged and keyed the microphone. "Roger, California. Understand. "

"We've got a count on those newcomer Soviet planes," Jefferson said. His rising, excited voice made Saint-Michael swivel around to face him. "Total of twelve aircraft. Four slow-moving planes were joined with two flights of fastmoving planes. The group is turning slightly southeast, Skipper. I think they're heading for Tehran—"

"Aircraft launching from the Brezhnev, sir," a tech reported. "Two high-speed aircraft heading east-northeast."

Saint-Michael hit the mike button. "California, this is Armstrong. Fighters from Brezhnev heading your way."

The reply was immediate and, to no one's surprise, as excited as Jefferson's. "We got 'em, Armstrong."

"Be advised — twelve Soviet aircraft heading south from Lyaki, suspected target Tehran. No positive ID; it could either be another Backfire bomber strike force or a four-ship Condor troop transport formation with eight fighter escorts. Or both. Whatever, it looks like a major production."

"Armstrong, this is Nimitz." Even through the scrambler interference Admiral Clancy's rasping voice could easily be identified. "Copy all. Your execution code is Sierra Tango November one-zero. "

Saint-Michael had been anticipating that. "Armstrong copies Sierra Tango November one-zero. Out." He switched to stationwide intercom. "Attention on the station. Voice communications blackout is in effect. And repeat — this station is on red alert."

To Walker, Jefferson and the three sensor technicians, Saint-Michael said, "All right, listen up. We've just received an execution order directing the interception of that Soviet attack force apparently heading for Tehran. We'll maintain surveillance over the whole region, but if it gets too much to watch we'll keep on the northern attack group and let Clancy and the California watch the southern attack group—"

"New aircraft, sir… eight high-speed aircraft eastbound from… it looks like eastern Turkey."

"Right on the mark," Saint-Michael said. "That's Tango November, the F-15E Rapid Deployment Force alert birds from Kigzi Airbase in Turkey. We should have eight more F-15s ready for launch at Kigzi; I want them airborne with their tanker as soon as possible. Talk to the second group on channel eight. Remember, no voice. I want vectors for the first group of F-15s over data-link channel nine to bring them around behind that group of Soviet heavies and their escorts. "

"It will be my pleasure, Skipper," Sergeant Jefferson said, turning toward his screens.

"Picking up two more eastbound planes," a tech reported. "High speed, low altitude…" A hint of surprise was apparent in his voice. "It's an… intermittent return."

"Our aces in the hole," Saint-Michael said. "Those are the F-19 NightHawk stealth bombers from Kigzi — even the SBR is having trouble maintaining a solid track on them. They'll be on data-link channel ten. If anyone gets near them or if they get fired on, warn them — but I'm betting nobody will." Also hoping…

"Tango November flight closing within one hundred nautical miles of those Soviet formations," Jefferson broke in. "The Soviet strike formations still on course, now approaching Bandar-e Anzali on the south shore of the Caspian."

Saint-Michael turned to Sergeant Jefferson. "Jake, transmit code Foxtrot Bravo on channel nine. Get an acknowledgment by each flight lead."

Jefferson interrupted his digitized vectoring instructions and tapped out the simple instruction-code prefix and two-letter command. The code would be picked up on the heads-up display on each F-15 Eagle fighter. Each pilot would then check in with their formation leaders, who would then relay a reply via satellite communications system back to Armstrong Station.

"All elements of Tango November acknowledge your Foxtrot Bravo command, Skipper."

"Range?"

"Eighty miles and closing fast. Those two separate low-altitude aircraft are passing south of the Soviet formation. It looks like they're going to beat the Soviet strike formation in Tehran."

General Saint-Michael settled nervously back into his seat. Looks like… sure…

It took only ten minutes for the eight advanced F-15E Eagle fighter-bombers to cover the eighty miles between them and the huge Soviet formation. The Russian pilots were cautious — occasionally a pair of Su-27s would peel off from the formation, reverse course and scan the sky behind the formation to search for pursuers. Electronic eyes scanned for radar signals that might attack from surface-to-air missile sites, but the formation was safe from any Iranian defenses; Iran had all but used up its resources in its long struggle with Iraq, and the Russian pilots knew it.

Undetected, though, was the threat from American bushwhackers. With Silver Tower as their "eyes," the F-15 weapons system operators, WSOs, did not need to use their position-disclosing air-to-air radars to track the Soviet aircraft ahead, and when the Soviet fighters would backtrack to search behind their formation, Armstrong Station directed the Eagles away from the Flankers and then back together again once the danger of discovery was past.

Just as the latest pair of prowling Flankers had returned to their place in the twelve-ship formation, the Eagles made their move.

In full afterburner, consuming over sixteen hundred pounds of fuel per minute, Major Alan Fourier, the Eagle formation leader, took his eight fighters screaming toward the Soviet attack formation at twice the speed of sound. In less than two minutes they had eaten up the remaining fifteen miles between the two formations. As they drew within five miles the group split — four Eagles, led by Air Force Captain Jeff Cook, took the high-patrol Soviet aircraft, and Fourier took four Eagles down to the lower ones. By the time they caught up to the Russian planes their fuel supply was half-exhausted, but their tactic had its desired effect.

Fourier's group of four F-15s passed fifty feet below the first Soviet formation, flying over nine hundred miles an hour faster than the large Soviet aircraft. The Americans stayed in formation, in a mallard-like V formation, flying so close that they almost looked like one large aircraft. Fourier made mental notes as they made their fast observation pass… The Soviet formation had broken into two separate cells; the lower cell consisted of four Sukhoi-27 Flanker air-superiority fighters and two supersonic Tupolev-26 Backfire bombers. "Look at all the stuff on those Flankers," Fourier's WSO said as he hurriedly made notes in a logbook. "Wing-tip missile, one underwing missile each side, one underwing bomb each side, one long-range fuel tank under the belly. Major league boom-booms."

"Heavy," Fourier said, taking a deep breath. His WSO was typing all the information into his satellite transceiver unit. "You'd better be getting all this out."

"Sent, repeated twice, awaiting acknowledgment," the WSO told him. "It looked like one full rack of six hundred pounders each under each wing of those Backfires."

"Like you said: major league." Fourier keyed his microphone switch for the first time since takeoff. "Tango November flight two, this is lead. Did you blow the whistle?"

"Lead, this is flight two lead. That's a rog. Acknowledgment already received. We've got four Flankers, and two Condor tanker-transports up here."

"Copy, flight two lead. We've got four Flankers; with bombs and two Backfires with bombs down here."

"Acknowledgment coming over the SATCOM," Fourier's WSO reported over interphone. "Message received says, 'Bravo November.' "

Fourier's grip tightened on the stick and throttle. He did not need the tiny codebook he carried on his kneeboard to decode that message. "Tango November flights one and two, check in with last message received. Red Lead has Bravo November."

"Two."

"Three."

"Four," came the short, jabbing replies from his own flight. "Blue Lead has Bravo November."

"Two."

"Three.

"Four. "

Fourier adjusted his oxygen mask, took a deep breath. "Send the reply," Fourier told his back-seater. Fourier heard a few keytaps, then: "Acknowledgment received."

The veteran F-15 pilot checked his heads-up display. The laser-derived threat-display projected onto his windscreen showed every aircraft around him, American and Russian, in detail — without one electron of energy coming from any of the American aircraft.

Up until now this had been just another routine fly-by patrol. Missions like this, shadowing Russian, Iranian, Syrian and Iraqi planes over the Persian Gulf and Saudi Arabia, were a common practice. Even playing "chicken" or "tag" with Soviet naval aviation Backfire bombers went on all the time.

But now the game turned dead-serious. Fourier felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck, felt the tension take over his body. His next command to his attack group — world wars had started over less… "Tango November flights, execute Bravo November… now."

The entire fly-by, the sending and receiving of all coded messages and the coordination to implement the order transmitted by Armstrong Station — all took a little over thirty seconds. In that time they had sped ahead of the startled Soviet aircraft by nearly ten miles.

On Fourier's order the two groups of four F-15 Eagles executed a hard left turn at ninety degrees of bank, pulling nearly seven "g" s as each pilot applied back-stick pressure. At the same time they decreased their throttles back from max afterburner to military power to avoid overstressing their fighters. They continued the hard turn until they were two hundred seventy degrees to the left of their original heading.

When the two groups rolled out of the turn they found the Russian planes dead ahead of them, less than eight miles away. "Fox One," Fourier said — and the skies were suddenly on fire.

Disorganized, with aircraft all around them in the pitchblack skies over Iran, the Russian pilots were forced to do the wrong thing: stay on their original heading. The four Backfire bombers accelerated and started a descent toward the protective radar clutter of the Elburz Mountains of northern Iran, but with escorts and wingmen all around them the huge bombers never strayed from their southeasterly course. The Flanker fighter-bombers followed the Backfire bombers down but dutifully stayed with the bombers in tight formation.

The Condor transport pilots, feeling safe with four of the Soviet's most advanced fighters surrounding them, took no evasive action. Two of the Condor's escorts accelerated to give chase to the undetected intruders, but their new and untried Kalskaya-651AG pulse-Doppler attack radars lost track of the American fighters when they went into their hard turns, and the two Flankers had begun to return to their formations. All twelve Soviet pilots felt safe from attack when the intruders disappeared… their threat-detectors and electronic countermeasures-equipment never gave any indication that the intruders had activated any airborne search or missile-guidance radars.

But with Silver Tower's space-based radar tracking both the American and Soviet aircraft, no airborne radars were needed. As soon as the eight F-15s were rolled out and heading directly broadside to the Soviets they launched their radar-guided AAM-155C Viper missiles, and with each Eagle launching six Viper missiles, the sky was suddenly filled with death-dealing fire.

The Viper missiles took their initial guidance vectors from the data-link between the Eagles and Armstrong Station, which helped to point the missiles toward their targets — no threatening radar signals that could have given the position of the Eagles away were transmitted. Once stabilized in flight, the Viper's own on-board terminal-guidance radars automatically switched on and started to seek targets on their own.

The two Sukhoi-27 Flanker fighters that had given chase were the only ones able to spot the missile launches and take evasive action in time, and the Viper missiles chasing them exploded harmlessly after their propellant was exhausted. One of the Backfire bombers had accidentally released a cloud of chaff as the bomber's defensive-systems officer activated his countermeasures equipment, and a Viper missile locked onto the radar-reflective tinsel and steered away a bare half-second before plowing into the bomber's left engine.

But those were the only three out of twelve Soviet aircraft survive. Forty-five Viper air-to-air missiles found targets that night, sending two and a half million pounds of Soviet machines, and men, crashing into the northern Iranian mountains.

Fourier and his seven attacking Eagles did not wait to check on the outcome of their assault; immediately after launching their Viper missiles they accelerated at max afterburner once again, climbed and turned westward for home.

Each had kept two Viper missiles on wingtip pylons ready to launch in case of pursuit.

But there was no pursuit. The two remaining Su-27 Flankers circled the area over the Elburz Mountains for a short time as the Russian emergency frequency was filled with the sounds of air-crew locator-beacons bleeping and buzzing, activated automatically on ejection or on impact with the ground. They copied a few calls for help and a few position coordinates of downed pilots or aircraft for possible rescue, then climbed out of the dark Iranian mountains and headed north for safer territory. The one remaining Backfire bomber decided to follow its escorts home instead of risk a lone penetration run toward Tehran.

"Tango November flight, post-release and station checks."

Fourier stripped off his oxygen mask as he received acknowledgments and bingo fuel-updates from his wingmen. He felt wrung out. He looked at the weapons-control and flight-director at his heads-up display with a sense of awe, and some mistrust. It was damned effective, this Armstrong Space Station. He'd always thought of the station in abstract terms, as an idea waiting to be made real, to have a real impact… He'd learned better this night…

Still, a fighter pilot liked his fights in the raw… radar against radar, missile against missile, gun against gun, pilot against pilot. This SBR, in a way, was too many legs up. But the Russians would be sure to make that same estimate… and even surer to do something about it. Question was… when, how?

"Pyekatah Rahz, pyekatah Rahz, ztah gryppa tpety Aviatsii, came the heavily garbled and barely readable radio call. "Awtvyet syeychahs shye. Infantry one, this is Aviation Group Three. Answer immediately."

The young Russian radioman of the Seventy-First Shock Troops quickly logged the time and frequency on which he had heard the call, picked up his microphone and replied, "I read you, Aviation Group Three. This is Seventy-First Shock Fire Base Seven. Proceed."

"Roger, Fire Base Seven. We are en route to your location for peripheral bombing strike. Requesting discrete forward combat controller frequency and vectors. Over."

"Copy, Group Three. You are weak and barely readable. This is the incorrect frequency. Repeat, incorrect frequency. I require authentication before assigning a combat controller."

"Roger, Fire Base Seven. Understand. That is the standard procedure. Standing by to authentication."

"I'm unable to give you an authentication," the radioman said. "Stand by." The young Russian infantryman stood up, went to the door of the administration office turned radio room of Tehran's Mehrabad International Airport, and waved down a senior starshiy praporshchik.

He returned to the radio. "Stand by for authentication, Group Three."

"Roger, Fire Base Seven." A pause, then: "Fire Base Seven, can you give us the weather and tactical condition there?"

The radioman checked for his senior warrant officer, who was being bombarded by requests from senior officers as he tried to make his way to the radio room.

"Fire Base Seven. Reply, pazhaloosta."

The infantryman made one last check; the warrant officer was still being intercepted by officers who wanted something done now. It was improper procedure to give any information on the radio without authentication, but this was a special headquarters-only frequency, and these flyboys were Russians, and the starshiy praporshchik was taking forever, and all they wanted was the weather…

"Fire Base Seven, do you read? Please reply. Over."

The infantryman went back to his seat. "Group Three, this is Fire Base Seven. I read you. I do not have the latest weather, but the temperature is cold and there are no clouds. Runway two-nine is open. Winds are variable from the west at ten kilometers per hour. We are under sporadic mortar and small-arms fire from outside the airport boundaries, but the SPETNAZ Special Forces and the Seventy-First have secured the airport and — the town of Mehrabad. You will probably attack the town of Akbarabad east-northeast of the airport. That's where most of the mortar attacks are—"

"Spakaystvey," came a shout from behind. The radioman turned, to see an enraged senior wan-ant officer descending on him. "Who are you talking to? Who?"

"Aviation Group Three…" The radioman let go the microphone like a child dropping a stolen cookie. "He called in requesting a combat strike controller—"

"Did you authenticate?"

"No, sir, I called you immediately."

"Then what were you giving him?"

"The weather. He asked for the weather and the tactical conditions here. There's nothing classified about the weather—"

"You idiot, we're in blackout conditions. The enemy can home-in on these radio transmissions and locate our headquarters here—"

"But they spoke perfect Russian…"

"That is your proof?" The warrant officer switched to broken English. "Am I now Amirikanskaya when since I speak English?" The warrant officer grabbed the microphone. "I think this is the medium bomber force from Lyaki. Whoever they are, I hope they won't report this major breach of radio security. We'll all be shot if they do." He keyed the microphone. "Aviation Group Three. Are you prepared to authenticate?"

A slight pause, then: "Da, pyekatah syedmay." The two infantrymen looked at each other in relief.

"Proceed, Group Three. Another slight pause, then in crisp, clear English they heard, "Authenticate my ass, jerk-offs."

The warrant officer stared at the young infantryman long enough to see the man's face drain of all color, then lunged at the large red button on the portable communications console and activated the emergency attack-alert signal.

The horn had only echoed through the airport grounds for ten seconds when the first bombs hit.

The two F/A-19C supersonic Nighdiawk stealth bombers raced across Tehran-Mehrabad International Airport at six hundred knots and barely one hundred feet above ground. The six Soviet SA-13 Gopher motorized surface-to-air missile batteries surrounding the airport saw nothing but faint radar echoes until the two bombers were less than ten miles from the airport, and by the time the missiles were ready to fire, the NightHawk's two-thousand-pound, laser-guided, runway-cratering smart bombs and antipersonnel bomblets were already falling.

The two NightHawk fighter bombers did not survive the killing battlefield air defenses the Soviet army had established around Tehran Airport, but before the NightHawks were destroyed by gunfire from a battery of three ZSU-23/A radar-guided antiaircraft artillery weapons, they had reduced the peripheral defenses and central command and control units to nibble.

The hundred Soviet army troops that survived the bombing had to face an even worse threat than a surprise American stealth bomber attack: the sight of hundreds of vehicles of all descriptions slowly moving, unopposed, down Makhsus Road from Akbarabad and Tehran toward the airport. The pop-pop-pop of gunfire and the cries of blood-anger from the advancing Muslim hordes could be heard for miles.

"Attention on the station. We're passing under target-area horizon. Stand by for recon data transmission and reconfiguration. This station is on yellow alert."

The command-module people relaxed, rubbing aching muscles and tired eyes — all but Saint-Michael, who watched the last transmitted picture of the northern Iran area, a hand cupped to his earset. The display was already twenty minutes old but he watched it as intently as ever, especially the IFF transponder images of the F-15E Eagle strike force, designated Tango November, and the last images of the two F/A-19C NightHawk bombers over Tehran.

A few moments later Colonel Walker maneuvered over to him. "Message from Kigzi Airbase, General. Tango November flight is checking in. All eight of them."

Saint-Michael nodded. "That's great news. We should be getting their report in—"

He stopped. Walker obviously had more. "Tango Sierra flight…?"

"The navy intercepted a broadcast in the clear from Tehran. Two American fighter bombers shot down over Mehrabad Airport."

Saint-Michael brought his hand down hard on the arm of his commander's chair.

"That Russian radio message also reported the destruction of Seventy-First Shock Troops' headquarters at Tehran Airport," Walker quickly added. "Thirty-eight dead or injured. Last report was that the airport was being overrun by Iranian militiamen."

Saint-Michael rubbed his throbbing temple. "I'd hate to be a Russian ground-pounder in Tehran right about now."

Walker handed Saint-Michael a printout. "I saved the best for last, General. The navy also sent along an intercepted radio message from a Russian rescue patrol in the Elburz Mountains. They're describing debris scattered across five hundred square miles of mountains. At least seven fires out of control in the area from aircraft-crash debris."

Saint-Michael nodded, but his mind was still on the four men of the downed Nightliawk fighter-bombers. "After twenty-one years in the service, Jim, that was the first time men under my command have died. Goddamn, and I'm sitting up here out of it—"

"Then this is also your first major battle victory," Walker said. "Ten American aircraft have destroyed at least seven Soviet aircraft, including a Soviet transport and supersonic bombers, plus they've knocked out a major occupation force headquarters and allowed local forces to retake a major airfield from hostile forces. Losses to our own have been low — two advanced aircraft, four men. Losses to the enemy… well, this battle could have been pivotal, sir. That's not a bad day's work, no matter where you sit."

Saint-Michael stared at Walker. "Thanks, but if this is what victory feels are, I'm glad I haven't had a taste of it before this." The general's eyes flitted back to the SBR display and the frozen images of the NightHawk bombers.