The Art of War

TWENTY-FOUR

Fastball leaned back in his seat for a moment, trying to ease the nervousness that filled his body. He was flying a northeasterly course over the Persian Gulf. His section was at about 10,000 feet. His RIO had been quiet for some time, no doubt setting up her LANTIRN and readying the two huge 2,000 lb.GBU-24 Paveway III laser-guided bombs his bird carried. They were meant for one of the hardened aircraft shelters at the MiG base near Bandar Lengeh.

He adjusted his night-vision goggles. This “strike stuff” was still new to him. He had always been a fan of the Tomcat’s air-to-air prowess and had selected the Tomcat community because of its primary fighter mission. But the events of the last few years, with the addition of the LANTIRN and the shortage of strike aircraft due to downsizing, had forced the Tomcat community to take a lead role in strike warfare. Now, because of its vastly superior FLIR over that carried by the Hornet, the Tomcat was considered the air wing’s preeminent strike platform.

Fastball was damned glad that he had an experienced RIO in his backseat. If Rat was anything, she was a good RIO. She was quiet and difficult to get to know, but she was one of the best RIOs in the squadron. Strike was her bag at the RAG and her specialty at TOPGUN. Some joked that she could find a cigarette on a busy street with her LANTIRN.

Fastball returned his attention to the flight. Glancing to his right, he saw Rat’s FLIR display on his TSD. She was quietly looking over an Iranian oil platform. Probably taking a GPS fix, he told himself. A quick glance outside his cockpit revealed an empty, black sky, tinted only by the greenish cast given by the night-vision goggles.

He reconfigured his display screen and checked his time. He still had a minute-thirty to reach his next way-point — right on time. So far everything checked out. This mission was key to the Jefferson’s ability to obtain air superiority over the Iranian coastal areas. The goal was to hit the air base with a combination of Tomahawk cruise missiles and strike aircraft from Jefferson. The first barrage of cruise missiles would hit the control tower and a few of the smaller structures. Hopefully, the explosions would cause the aircrews and maintenance personnel to rush to ready their MiGs to scramble. The second, albeit smaller, wave of cruise missiles would then hit, exploding their submunitions over the tarmac, tattering planes and men. The Tomcats would then strike the hardened shelters with their 2,000 lb. bunker-busters.

A similar strike was planned for the MiG base near Chah Bahar. If these strikes succeeded, they could well destroy the vast majority of MiG-29s, which would leave Iran with no credible night-capable fighters and give the U.S. air superiority for at least a portion of the day.

“Coming up on way-point four,” Rat said calmly. “Turn left, heading three-three-five. Mark.”

“Copy,” Fastball responded, banking his plane slightly for the turn.

“Start your descent to angels eight.” Rat changed her display. “We are fifty-five miles from the target. Confirm weapons armed.”

“Confirmed.”

“Come to course three-one-five. Feet dry.”

“Knocker’s up” she called, meaning that she was switching her focus from air-to-air to her attack mission.

“Football, Packers, we are blank,” radioed Lieutenant Tom “Lyfa” Riley, one of the F/A-18 Hornet pilots flying SEAD. A “blank” call meant that the suppression of enemy defenses (SEAD) aircraft did not detect any emitters of interest. Riley’s APG-73 radar scanned ahead in ground-mapping mode, his ESM gear listening for the telltale signs of air defense radars that might spring to life.

Fastball steadied his stick and throttle, settling into the designated speed and angle of attack. A blip now appeared on their radar fifty miles to the northeast of their position. A soft chirp also registered on their RWR. The Iranian Tomcats were out again, collecting airborne early warning data. Even though they were flown by considerably less capable pilots than those whom he had fought back in the States, Fastball was glad the Tomcats were staying clear of the fray. The Phoenix was still deadly, even in the hands of a green pilot.

Johnnie checked her radar predictions, comparing her hand-drawn maps against her FLIR picture. She could see the base of a few hills, a small cluster of buildings, and… there! “I’ve got the airport.” Rat’s thin voice interrupted. They were now at thirty miles. She slewed her crosshairs over the second hanger, locked, then sweetened the fix with her thumb switch. “Captured. Designating the northern hangar.” Rat clicked open her tactical mike. “Two captured.”

Three search radars suddenly appeared on Riley’s radar screen just south of the airfield. The Iranians were certain to know that something was en route. May be that’s good, Riley thought. More people would be in the open when the TLAMs hit. And if they were really lucky, some of them would be MiG pilots.

Johnnie checked the flight path against the mask curve on her screen. It looked fine, she thought. Fastball was flying right on course. She gave a quick check of her kneeboard card, which outlined the prebriefed release point, then depressed the hand-controller trigger, beginning the illumination. Unlike the smaller GBU-series bombs, the GBU-24’s release point had yet to be programed into the Tomcat’s computers, with the end result being that the bombs had to be released manually, based on visual and geographic cues. Johnnie began her range countdown, “three… two… one… pickle!”

Fastball triggered the first, then, on cue, the second GBU-24. The two bombs dropped from the Tomcat’s undercarriage with a noticeable thump, then deployed their glide wings.

Morrow angled his fighter away from the target to his left, giving the LANTIRN’s laser-designator its maximum unmasked field-of-view. Both crew members watched the display for a moment, seeing the men on the tarmac around the hanger scrambling about in reaction to the TLAM strikes. The brightness of the flash on their NVGs made them squint.

Johnnie had just switched back to air-to-air and was about to call the Hawkeye for a “picture” when a sharp deedle deedle deedle rang out over the RWR gear. Her eyes darted to her circular RWR display. “SAM launch. One o’clock. SA-2.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Music on. Packers, Steelers Two, SAM, north Bullseye at fifteen.”

“Breaking right,” Morrow called. “Watch our mask.”

“Copy, downtown.” Riley loosed one HARM at the missile’s source, then a second. The missiles zoomed off his bird and sped away at nearly Mach 5. Riley loved the SEAD role. It reminded him of the Shrike-armed Iron Hand missions his father flew in his A-4 over the skies of North Vietnam. But the HARM was vastly superior, he thought. It could remember where the site was even if it shut down.

“Looking good.” Johnnie watched the bombs track and the LANTIRN’s mask or blind spot. “Come left!”

“Boom boom!” Rat hollered as the two bombs crashed into the hanger. “Free to maneuver.”

“Second launch!” Morrow slid into afterburner and banked into the SAM before rolling inverted and pulling toward the ground. Johnnie punched three clouds of chaff, just enough to confuse the guidance radar.

But the two HARMS loosed by Riley smashed into the SA-2’s Fan Song fire control radar, destroying the unit and sending the SAMs ballistic.

“Football, Talon, picture, two groups. Southeast, Bullseye for fifteen. East Bullseye for twenty. East group are Tomcats.”

“Copy your call,” came the response from each element.

“Steelers, eastern group. Packers, southeastern group.”

“Steelers One, copy your call.” Lieutenant Commander Steve “Jolly” Rogers quickly evaluated the developing scene. “Send Two after the AEW. Have Three-join on our wing.”

“Roger that,” his RIO acknowledged, then called the plan.

“Okay, Rat. Let’s get us a Tomcat.”

Johnnie studied the JTIDS picture on her TID. The two AEW birds were circling in a long, racetrack pattern at about twenty thousand feet and forty miles out. Either these two crews had yet to detect their Tomcat, or else there were other fighters in the area masked in the valleys of the coastal mountain range. Or, there was a SAM trap.

“Fastball, this bothers me. Something’s not right.” She glanced out her right then left side.

“Come on, Rat. We’ve got two sitting ducks straight ahead and you want to play war college tactician. I’m going to get me a Tomcat. Get some balls, girl. Switch to Phoenix!”

“Will you listen to me! Look at those guys. They’re just waiting. I’m telling you, we aren’t alone!” She waited for a response that never came.

“Phoenix selected, your dot.”

“Fox Three on the westbound Tomcat, angels two-zero at twenty-five.” The AIM-54C dropped momentarily, then raced ahead toward its victim.

“As soon as it’s active, we’re bugging,” Rat called.

Fastball’s fixation on the departing Phoenix was short-lived. Suddenly, his RWR chirped and showed two AIM-7 Sparrow missiles inbound off his port wing. “Rat, incoming. At our nine o’clock.” He jerked his Tomcat into the missiles, then angled them back on his right side, trying to force the missile’s gimbal to the extreme and break the radar’s lock.

Johnnie flipped the switch, sending the signal for the Phoenix to go active. “Counter measures,” she called. “Pumping chaff!”

One of the Sparrows shot over the canopy, failing to detonate.

“Geez that was close!”

A second exploded into one the chaff clouds.

“Two more! I’ve got two more! Three o’clock. Break right!”

Fastball broke into the missile and yanked his Tomcat down, just as the third Sparrow homed onto another chaff cloud. He brought his nose up, looking in the direction of the last missile.

“Where are they?” Johnnie’s head spun from side to side. “Where are they?”

“Phantom! Eleven o’clock. Heading across… he’s turning away!” The Iranian F-4E pulled a hard left slice turn, putting its hot pipes in Fastball’s face. He snaked around, angling his Tomcat for the kill.

“Switching to heat.”

“Watch for the second one. There’s always a second one!” Morrow swung out wide to the right then used his rudders to swing his tail around. His Sidewinders screamed at him, locking on the red-orange plumes of the Phantom’s J79 engines. “Tone! Fox Two!” He loosed a Sidewinder.

The F-4E exploded in a ball of fire, temporarily blinding the Tomcat crew. The fire lit the sky for miles as the debris cascaded to the ground. There was no way that there could have been a shot. It happened so fast.

“I’ve got two. He’s at our six.” Johnnie called. She was cranked around to her left, holding the turn bar with her right hand. “Swinging out to our right.” She flipped around.

Morrow pulled up and tried to angle back.

“He’s slowing. Must be GCI.” The F-4s lacked night gear and were undoubtedly being guided by a ground controller or the Tomcats. “Dive… burner out. Get below the mountains.”

Fastball reluctantly complied, tugging his throttles into idle and nosing over toward the desert below.

A flash appeared from the Phantom’s left wing.

“Launch! Break right!” She popped a string of flares. The maneuver jerked her to one side, throwing her against the cockpit instruments.

The Sidewinder raced harmlessly past the Tomcat after one of the flares. She was damned glad these were older modeled Ps. The Mikes, she thought, wouldn’t be so easily fooled.

“Missed!” shouted Fastball.

“We’re pulling away. He’s losing us. Come right… overshoot! There… at our eleven. Forty degrees high.”

Fastball jerked his nose up and shoved into afterburner, powering toward the confused Phantom with a vengeance. “Make it count!” he cried, punching his last heat-seeker at the twin plumes. “Fox Two!”

“It’s tracking!”

“Splash one Phantom!”

Johnnie looked away, then refocused her eyes on her radar. It took a second, but she noticed that one of the Tomcats that had been circling to the east was gone.

“Fastball, we got one of the F-14s! It’s gone!”