The Art of War

TWENTY-SIX

Batman turned to his air operations officer. Captain Bill “Copycat” Hart was a Tomcat driver himself, a post command senior aviator who knew how to take care of his people. Over the course of the cruise, Batman had developed the utmost respect for him. “Copycat, this whole thing stinks. Tell the helo squadron commander that I want a helo overhead that submarine within the next five minutes. Peel off a couple of our Tomcats as an escort.” Batman’s voice took on a peculiarly gentle note. “If that sub skipper is willing to risk his ass to talk to us about it, then I’m sure as hell going to get his boy out of there.”

It took a little longer than five minutes — more like seven — but a helo loaded with a doctor, two corpsmen, and life-support equipment was en route to the submarine immediately. And the skipper of the helo squadron took the mission himself, with his XO in the copilot’s seat. Between them, they had almost four decades of aviation experience.

A metal frame structure was attached to their hatch, and once overhead, it was lowered to the surface, now broached by Seawolf. The submarine officer on the deck held up a grounding wire to discharge the static electricity, and pulled the structure down to the conning tower. Moments later, the injured sailor was strapped in, hoisted up, and on his way to the carrier.

Petty Officer Apples gently slid the last electronic card home, and gave it a gentle pat. He refastened the cover plate for the data processor, then turned to look up at his chief. “If this doesn’t do it, I don’t know what will.”

Chief Clark looked down on him with approval. “I’ll tell the captain that we’re ready to go online.

Chief Clark found the captain on the bridge, making the conning officer nervous as he observed his station-keeping. “Captain, sir, ready to try it out.”

“It’d better work.”

“I can’t promise anything, sir. We swapped out every piece of every component we had. We should be able to bring up a good enough resolution off the radar for fire control, but the IFF is definitely shot.”

The captain grunted. “The aviators will just have to stay in their return corridors, then. Go on, light it off. We’ll deal with any problems as they arise.”

Chief Clark went back down to the data control center, and nodded at his petty officer. “Put her online.”

Fingers trembling, Apple toggled on the power switch. He let the components warm up, then energized the antenna. Slowly, he increased rotation speed until it was at max. Then he put it online.

In combat, the radar screens flash on with a salt-and-pepper clutter on every bearing. The pixels wavered on and off, creating a blurry, grainy pattern. As he watched, Chief Clark groaned. All those hours, all the time — dammit, where was the problem? Just as he started to despair, the radar picture snapped into sharp, clear resolution, and a computer began assigning identification tags to the contacts.

Chief Clark breathed a sigh of relief. He turned to tell the captain, only to find he was already standing behind him. There was a light of approval in the man’s eyes that did not show in his voice. “Excellent work. Tell Apple.” Saying no more, the captain picked up the tactical mike. “Jefferson, this is Lake Champlain. All systems online, standing by for orders.”

Wadi looked at the assembled pilots. They were the cream of the crop, the best that Iran had to offer. “I will lead the flight myself,” he said. “And now, let us go. It is time for us to retake our rightful place in the world.”

With a loud cheer, the pilots broke formation and raced to their aircraft. As their last duties, the Russians had been required to fuel the aircraft and have them ready for launch. After a quick preflight, the pilots scrambled up boarding ladders, assisted by plane captains, and strapped themselves in.

Rat studied the picture developing on her F-14’s TIDs and didn’t like what she was seeing at all: three large groups of blips inching their way toward the carrier battle group from Iraq. One of the early warning E-2C Hawkeyes had detected a flight of twelve Tu-22M Backfire-B bombers approaching at a range of 350 miles.

The Backfire was a Russian-built swing-wing bomber capable of carrying two AS-4 air-to-surface missiles. The AS-4, code-named “Kitchen” in NATO nomenclature, yielded a 2,205 pound warhead and had a maximum range of 450 miles, which meant it was already within range of striking Jefferson. Another group was forming over Iran while a third was taking shape over the U.A.E.

“Looks like they’re heading straight for the Jefferson Rat,” Fastball said to his RIO over the ICS as he glanced at his own TSD display. This was the strike that Intel had been predicting. The all-out attempt to get Jefferson before it could escape the Gulf. “See any fighters?”

“Negative on that.” Rat switched her radar from Range-While-Scan mode to Track-While-Scan and guided her targeting brackets to the lead Tu-22M. After hooking, then designating it, she allotted the remainder of her Phoenix missiles. The plan called for the three division wings to target the bomber formations, while the lead, flown by Lobo would hold her Phoenix in reserve in case any of the bombers launched on Jefferson.

“Fastball,” Davis said. “I’ve targeted the lead elements of the eastern group. They’re at one hundred miles and closing. It’s your dot.”

Morrow watched the flight of Backfires on his Tomcat’s Television Camera System (TCS) with great concern. The TCS, mounted under the Tomcat’s nose, provided passive target acquisition and identification at ranges far beyond the naked eye. At this range, they were nothing more than a small dot. But given the distance, Morrow was sure that what he was seeing was an enemy bomber of some sort.

“Roger, Rat. Let’s go to work.”

“Viper One, Two, we are Fox Three on the eastern lead. Fox Three!” Fastball triggered each of the Tomcat’s four AIM-54Cs then watched as each darted into the distance after their targets.

“Roger, Three’s Fox Three on the main group.”

“Four’s got the western group.”

“Tracking,” she said, watching the missiles on her TID. “Going active…” She counted softly to herself then out loud. “Contact in six… five… four… three… two… one… Shit hot! Splash one!” she hollered as the first Phoenix hit its mark. Then the second, then the third. “Damn it! One missed!”

“Red Crown, Viper Two, splash three bandits. Repeat, splash three bandits.” The other two Tomcats called similar hits. Now only six Backfires remained. Too many for Lobo’s load of Phoenix. The rest would have to be handled by Chancellorville’s Aegis system.

Bird Dog relaxed his grip on his control stick and steadied his throttles as his Tomcat rolled wings level. A second Tomcat took up position off his port wing, in a combat spread, with two F/A-18 Hornets flying two miles to his southeast. The two sections were part of an eight-plane Combat Air Patrol orbiting to the southeast of Jefferson and about sixty miles due west of the Straits of Hormuz. Tonight, under the cover of darkness, Jefferson and her battle group would make their run to break out of the Gulf.

But there were still two hours until nightfall. Intel had warned of a probable attack and the activity up north seemed to already confirm this as more than simply a “probable.” Bird Dog looked out his side window at the Gulf shores that surrounded him. Right now, he thought, darkness sounds better than a date with Lobo. Skirmishing with the ill-trained Iranian and Iraqi Air Forces was one thing, but to be trapped in the Gulf and limited in number of available fighters was another story altogether.

Music stopped his weapons status review when he saw a faint return at the edge of his scope. Adjusting his APG-71 radar to reach out to eighty miles, he waited a moment, then switched into Track-While-Scan mode. “Bird Dog, I’m picking up something. Looks like two heavy groups. Crossing the coastline… now. Heading for us at four hundred knots.”

“We were expecting something to happen.” Fastball reconfigured his TSD to reproduce Music’s radar scope, studying it for a moment. The two groups were attack aircraft headed for the Jefferson: one of MiG-23 Floggers and the second of the older, less-capable Su-22 Fitters. Neither were a match for Hornets or Tomcats, and that worried Bird Dog. There must be some fighters somewhere? But where?

“Dixie Flight, hold your course,” Music called. “We’re swinging right to get more separation.”

“Copy your call.”

“Fastball, we have a problem,” Rat called over the ICS, her voice picking up in pace with excitement. “I’ve got a new group of contacts, fast movers. Three-three-seven, seventy-five miles at angels ten, five hundred knots. Heading one-five-seven,” Johnnie called using the F-14 community’s bearing, range, altitude, speed, and heading, BRASH brevity code.

“Must be the fighter cover,” Morrow cursed. “Is there any backup? Radio the—”

Johnnie interrupted. “I’ve got a launch… multiple launches from the Backfires! Mother Goose, Viper Two,” she called the Jefferson by her call-sign. “Missile launch! We have incoming missiles at home plate. Request backup be dispatched at once. We have fighter escorts—”

A sharp deedle deedle deedle rang over her headset as a yellow light labeled LOCK flashed, signifying that radar somewhere had locked onto their aircraft.

“Where’s it at, Rat? Where’s it at?” Morrow’s head wrenched from side to side until he saw the two light gray shapes of MiG-29s Fulcrums closing on his rear. “Bandits! Bandits! Bandits! At our seven.”

“Got ’em, Fastball. Come left. Come left.”

Morrow pushed his stick hard to port and sliced the nose down trying to pick up speed. The two MiGs hung in tight formation angling toward the Tomcat.

“One, Two has bandits on our six. Get over here, fast!” she screamed at her lead. But Lobo and her RIO were still a mile and a half to the east.

“Roger, Rat, visual. We’re on him in ten seconds,” answered Lobo’s RIO.

Morrow shoved his throttles to the stops and held his turn as Rat glued her eyes on the fast-approaching MiGs. One of the MiGs started to climb while the second held a tight fix on her Tomcat.

“Launch!” screamed Rat, seeing a fire flash from under the MiG’s wing. “Launch at our six! It’s a heater.”

“Hang on, Rat.” Morrow held his grip and rolled his Tomcat inverted then pulled back on the stick, jerking both the pilot and RIO violently. Angling down toward the ocean, the F-14 released a steady stream of hot flares. The missile’s heat-seeking warhead tracked, then locked on to the burning magnesium and exploded well behind the Tomcat.

“It missed!”

“Where’d he go? Where is he?” she hollered, rolling her head from side to side. “Damn!”

“He’s in front! Switching to heat. Fox Two! Fox Two!” Morrow yelled. The AIM-9M Sidewinder ripped off his port wing mount and raced after the Fulcrum. The MiG had overshot and was now drifting out in front of his F-14. Morrow quickly released a second then watched as the two missiles exploded into the Iraqi MiG.

“MiG! MiG!” Johnnie yelled as tracers ricocheted off the Tomcat’s right wing then danced across the aircraft’s canopy. “Break left!” Glass shattered and Morrow felt his aircraft shudder as his Tomcat rolled left then rolled inverted out of control. Applying opposite rudder, he leveled his plane and fought with all his strength to keep it in the air.

“We’re hit!”

“Fastball!” she shouted. “I’ve got a warning light on our…” There was a loud bang and Morrow felt his Tomcat shudder again as more rounds from the MiG’s laser-guided 30mm gun tore into his fuselage. Thud… thud… thud they rang out as they walked along his starboard side. Morrow pulled his F-14D into a tight turn, causing the MiG to temporarily lose the Tomcat in his sites. Then the young pilot heard a groan from his backseat.

“Johnnie!” he shouted.

There was no response. “Talk to me, Rat!”

Looking around his Tomcat’s interior, he saw his engine pressure gauge read low. A red warning light flashed on his starboard engine. Morrow opened the tactical frequency and called to his lead. “Lobo, get this guy off me. I’ve lost an engine.”

“We’re on him, Fastball. He’s locked. Hold on!”

At that instant, he heard his radar warning device signal a lock. Now he was in trouble. The next sound would be a launch warning. If Lobo would just—

“Fox One on the MiG, break right. Two. Now!” he heard over his headset. Morrow complied and dove toward the ocean, now only a few thousand feet below. He prayed his damaged Tomcat would hold together. Looking back over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of the Iranian MiG seconds before Lobo’s Sparrow slammed into the Fulcrum’s left fuselage and exploded. The MiG wobbled, then veered off toward the coast trailing black smoke.

“Eagle, Dixie Flight committing on the eastern group.” Music confirmed the intercept called from the E-2C. Yankee Flight consisting of the remaining four F/A-18s, were tackling the westernmost group. The E-2 Controller guessed that group was made up of Su-22 Fitters and probably carried a shorter-ranged weapon than the Floggers.

“Floggers at forty and closing. Targeting western group. Two, target eastern group.”

“Copy.”

Music completed his switchology then hooked and designated the last MiG-23 in his formation before passing the dot to his pilot. The two Tomcats carried just enough AIM-54C between them to stop the entire raid. That is, if all worked properly. If not, the Hornets would clean up with their AIM-120s.

“Fox Three on lead MiG, angels seven, eastern group,” Bird Dog called the first shot, then “Fox Three on—”

“Bandits! Tally, four o’clock low. They’re climbing to us.”

“Can you make them?”

“Damn small. Look like F-5s.”

“Dixie Flight, One, Tally four F-5s at four o’clock,” Music called. “Range seven miles. Three and Four, stay after the strikers.”

“Three, copy.” The two Hornets banked northeast and slid into burners, speeding toward the approaching MiG- 23s.

Deedle deedle deedle rang the RWR. “I’ve got a spike!” The F-5’s APQ-159 radar was sorting the American formation. Bird Dog was wide to the right and his wingman was low off his port.

“Missile inbound.” Bird Dog saw its plum of smoke.

Tomcat 104

Rat leaned forward in her seat fighting the pain in her arm and chest. It was a tremendous pain unlike anything she had ever experienced. She looked down at her right arm, which was covered with blood and twitching. Shrapnel from the MiG had slammed into her right elbow and a bone protruded through her flight suit. She felt dizzy and sick. For a moment, she looked up at the shattered glass in her cockpit. Cold air was rushing everywhere around her. Most of her controls were smashed.

“Brad,” she spoke in a faint voice. “It hurts… hurts real bad.”

“Hold on, Johnnie. We’re heading back to the boat. Hang on!”

He heard a few faint murmurs followed by a throaty cough.

“I’m not going home, Brad,” she forced her words. “I’m so cold….”

Her head bobbed again and her vision blurred. This is it. It’s over. In the last seconds before blackness closed in. In a split second, she thought of her husband and her daughter.

Two of the Iranian F-5s detected the Hornets breaking for the Floggers and disengaged the Tomcats, leaving a classic 2v2 engagement. But two still bore down on Bird Dog and his wing. The Iranian Sparrows fired by the F-5s had just missed both Tomcats, resulting in the two aircraft having become separated. Bird Dog was to the north and his wing was heading due south, swinging out to meet one of the F-5s that appeared to be setting up a “hook.”

“He’s closing fast, Music. Coming down our port side low.”

“I’ve got him locked. Let’s keep him guessing.” Music knew that the closure was too extreme for a Sparrow shot, but also knew that the tone over the F-5 driver’s headset would make him nervous and might cause him to make a fatal mistake.

ZOOM! Bird Dog’s head snapped back to his left as the jet whizzed by and started a turn into him.

“Got ’em!” Music hollered. “Coming around right. He’s climbing some.”

Bird Dog started a hard high-G left turn, then nosed up about ten degrees before dropping his nose down below the horizon. “Keep your eye on him!” If this worked, the two fighters would end up head-to-head. It was a classic two-circle fight where both fighters executed hard lead turns into one another at the merge. The trick was who could bring his nose around faster to place a heat-seeker on the other. Bird Dog was gambling that he would emerge first. But if he didn’t, his second bet was that the F-5s pilot, like many American pilots in the early days of Vietnam War, didn’t fully understand his missile’s envelope. In either case, Bird Dog would gun him with his superior all-aspect AIM-9M Sidewinder.

“Tally” called Bird Dog. “Switching to heat.” The F-5 was still pulling out of its turn when Bird Dog’s Tomcat nosed around. The warble of the Sidewinder’s seeker screamed in his headset, meaning a good lock. “Fox Two on the northern F-5.”

The missile loosed from the rail seconds before one sprang from the bottom of the F-5. Both raced after each other’s host, snaking across the sky. Bird Dog was first to react, jinking his Tomcat left, than right, while his RIO popped streams of phosphorous flares.

“Missed! Missile’s vertical.” Music called.

Bird Dog’s missile exploded on the starboard wing intake of the F-5, sending the plane into a slow right turn back toward the U.A.E.

“We hit him, but he’s still flying. He’s heading home.” Bird Dog recovered and entered a hard left slice turn, quickly setting up another shot on the F-5. “Fox Two!” The F-5 had little chance. The Sidewinder ran right up its port tailpipe, bisecting the plane in a fireball.

“Good kill!”

“We missed!” the Rio called, still watching his Sparrow head aimlessly toward the U.A.E. The F-5 had managed to defeat it, through maneuvering and chaff, but had now decided to head home, no match for the better-trained Americans.

The Pilot pulled his Tomcat’s nose up and pressed his throttles through to afterburner. “Let’s get this bastard. He’s not getting away that easy.”

“Sparrow, your dot.”

“Fox One, southbound F-5. Switching to heat.” The P3 thumbed his selector. “Fox Two.”

Both missiles raced toward the F-5 just seconds apart. The pilot detected the incoming Sparrow and ejected, leaving his empty plane without a chance. The Sparrow hit first, ripping the F-5s right wing from the fuselage, followed moments later by the Sidewinder tearing through the port engine. The F-5 crumbled, then began to roll before disintegrating.

“Splash One F-5, southbound, angels eight.”

Morrow looked at his displays. He was still too far for her in this condition.

“Lobo,” he called over the tactical. “Move in and check out Rat. She’s not responding.”

“Roger, be there in a flash.”

Morrow clicked his mike again. “Come on, girl. Talk to me.”

“Tell Doug, I… tell him… I… Hanna…” Her head fell against the headrest then hung off her left shoulder.

“Johnnie! Johnnie! Respond!” Morrow closed his eyes.

Morrow shut down his remaining engine and hit the canopy release button, then started to loosen his restraints. He had to see what was wrong with his RIO. Lobo had said that the back canopy was shattered and that she could see splotches of red on the instrument console. In her estimation, Rat was either unconscious or dead.

Fastball managed to escape just as one of the flight surgeons scaled the right side of his Tomcat and peered into the backseat. “She’s alive — for now,” the flight surgeon shouted down at the corpsmen following him up the bounding ladder. “Come on, people — move! I want her in surgery in the next three minutes. Tell the orthopedic surgeon and neurologist to stand by. If we move fast enough, we may be able to save this arm!”

Morrow leaned back into his cockpit and lowered his head. His squadron had lost two aviators — would Rat make it three? Taking a deep breath, he fought the urge to throw up. Was it his fault? Should he have seen those MiGs or at least anticipated that they would be there? The long-range contacts had been a mere diversion for the MiGs on the deck.

“Damn it,” he swore and punched the side of his Tomcat. Rat couldn’t die — she just couldn’t.

He turned his gaze toward Iran. The gray-blue waters of the Persian Gulf were rough tonight, the big warship rising and falling in the swells. Somewhere out there, he thought, an Iranian pilot is telling his squadron mates about the “great shot” he had gotten on an American Tomcat. A good shot, they’d say, but “not a kill.” How ironic.

Wadi glanced at his fuel gauge, and saw how critically low he was. The last stretch of afterburner had done him in. He had forgotten how easy it was to lose track of time and expend fuel.

No matter, the second wave was launching now. As he had planned, the initial strike would return to base, refuel, and then relieve the second wave. They could keep this up almost indefinitely, until the American aircraft carrier and cruiser were worn down.

Reluctantly, he turned away from the fur ball of aircraft radar contacts. He clicked on his mike. “First flight, bingo.” One by one, the aircraft broke off from their engagements and turned back for the base.

As he came in, he saw the fuel trucks lined up, waiting to begin the refueling. He taxied into position next to the first one, eager to be off the ground and back in the air.

While the refueling truck positioned itself, a technician scurried up the boarding ladder and offered him a high sugar, high protein snack and a drink of water. He gulped both down. Then he glanced over at his wing. Two of the refueling technicians were poking uncertainly at the fueling port, a look of concern on their faces. Fury boiled over in him. After all he had done, to be stymied by incompetence on the ground was too much to bear. He stood up, leaned out of the cockpit, and said, “You’ll fuel this aircraft or you will die. You understand that?” He was so angry he almost leaped out onto the wing to complete the refueling himself.

The technicians drew back. Fear flooded their faces.

“What is wrong with you?” he screamed, now almost oblivious to everything around him. “Refuel my aircraft!”

Finally, one of them spoke, his voice trembling. “We… we cannot, sir. The fuel pump ports… they’re welded shut.”

Wadi took his pistol out of his survival and shot the man. Then he turned the second. “Refuel my aircraft.”

The technician shuddered, aware that he would die within the next five minutes. “It is… it is impossible, sir.” He shut his eyes and composed himself for death.

Wadi put pressure on the trigger again, then a sick feeling of horror swept over him. Those bastard Russians — had they dared? He scrambled out of the aircraft onto the wing, shoving the dead technician out of the way. He put his hand into the fueling port himself, and his fingers scrabbled against a mass of immovable metal.

Up and down the flight line, the other pilots were encountering the same problem. And he knew with a cold, dreadful certainty that every aircraft now in the air, all of his second precious flight, would also have fuel ports welded shut. They could sustain the battle for another fifteen minutes, but after that, it would be impossible.