One (one!) Hornet had been shot down by antiaircraft guns over Bandar Abbas. He was surprised the Americans even continued their strikes after that loss, so risk averse and pampered a people. The intelligence collectors said the dead pilot was the commander of Wilson’s squadron, and Hariri reflected that Wilson may have been inspired by the example of this man, a commander who led from the front. Pity that more in the IRIAF did not lead that way. They were worried, instead, about currying favor in Tehran!
Wilson. Surely he was involved with the actions to the south, and Hariri chafed to get another shot at him. He realized, though, it would be most coincidental if fate put them together again. He was certain he would have at least gotten a chance last night, the reason he spent the night here, hoping for a scramble in his fully fueled monster that would have covered the distance to Hormuz in minutes at Mach 2. But the Klaxon had never sounded, and his excited junior pilots had returned hours ago with their weapons still attached to their aircraft and bogus stories of “standing up to the Americans.” Knowing the pilots had been safe on CAP stations miles away from the Hornets while the enemy attacked his homeland with impunity, the stories had filled Hariri with contempt. At least the Pasdaran, and even the Islamic Republic Navy, was willing to shed blood against the Great Satan. Hariri would have sacrificed himself, and a squadron of his pilots, to down just one American fighter last night.
Indications were that the Americans had accomplished whatever goal they had after two nights of limited retaliatory strikes along the coast: an example of their clumsy and predictable military-stick-followed-by-diplomatic-carrot approach. Exhausted and unable to believe he and the IRIAF had missed the opportunity of a lifetime, he fell into his alert bed with his boots on, thinking of fat generals in Tehran, and fighting a TOPGUN, and squeezing the trigger one last time.
Vehicle headlights moved east on a desolate stretch of the two-lane coastal road — just as the Anvils approached from the south at low level. “Damn!” Wilson muttered to himself. Too late to avoid them, he led the Hornets feet dry into Iran as the vehicles passed underneath. Wilson imagined their startled drivers reaching for their cell phones to warn authorities of a sudden roar of jets crossing the beach in the twilight. He rolled up on a wing for a second to ascertain the vehicle types, which looked like sedans in the early morning murk. Wilson whispered more than transmitted, “Fly ball,” on strike common. The code word commanded the strikers to arm up and signified to Thor they were feet dry, a fact that was soon transmitted to eager staff officers monitoring their progress at command centers in the region, in Tampa, and in Washington.
If they had not been spotted until now, Wilson liked their chances. That meant they had avoided detection from sailors on “innocent” vessels in the GOO and Gulf and Iran’s own early warning net… a combination of luck and solid planning. He noted 10 miles to the “pop” point. Within minutes, the Iranians would be alerted to their presence, and if Wilson’s plan worked, they would be powerless to counter the Americans with anything like defense in depth.
Because of the rugged terrain, he elevated the division a bit but remained under the radar horizon and out of the shadowy darkness of the desert floor. The desert was now a dim, gray-blue surface, but the growing radiance from the east was beginning to highlight the ridgeline off to his right. This low-light situation at low altitude was dangerous, and once they crossed the coastline, the strikers moved out into combat spread formation. In 15 seconds, they could climb.
Wilson brought the throttles up, eased back on the stick, and commanded his Hornet to enter a shallow energy-sustaining climb; his wingmen followed in mirror image. Off to the east a few miles, he saw the Sledges, four dark Super Hornets, outlined against the pink sky as they, too, started up. The radar cursors in every cockpit swept back and forth in search of any airborne threat on their nose. With their senses sharpened by fear and adrenaline, the pilots scanned the horizon for threats, monitored their navigation, checked their fuel state, and fiddled with their weapons programs. Throughout, they kept their knots up in a steady climb as they pressed further into Iran.
About halfway up, Wilson looked over his right shoulder and saw the orange sun burst above the eastern horizon and spread its warm rays of light from north to south. While observing this tranquil scene, he noted his first RWR hit — an early warning radar at 4 o’clock. Not bad, he thought. They had avoided Iranian radar detection until now, exposing themselves only when they had gotten behind the lines, minutes from the target. The strikers continued their transonic climb, knowing they were now drawing the attention of a hostile and surprised integrated air defense system.
In his semicomatose state, Hariri’s mind attempted to grasp the meaning of the first sounding of the alert Klaxon. With open eyes, he heard it again accompanied by rapid footsteps and excited shouting outside. He bolted out of bed as a junior pilot, running to his own alert fighter, flung the door open and shouted, “Sarhang Hariri, the Americans are coming!”
Knowing every second counted, Hariri whipped his g-suit on with swift tugs on the zippers, grabbed his helmet and dashed to his jet. His mind raced. Where? What are they doing? How many? He bounded up the ladder and dropped himself into the cockpit in the same manner he had 20 years ago defending his homeland from the Iraqis. Sergeants shouted commands and linemen pushed open the shelter doors as Hariri, with help from his crew chief, hooked himself into his parachute harness. With a loud whoosh, a giant hose connected to the MiG became rigid and forced air through the turbines as Hariri initiated the fuel and spark required to begin the continuous cycle of jet propulsion.
Hariri taxied out from under the fluorescent lights and into the dawn twilight, cleared for immediate takeoff. He was given an initial vector of southeast, following a section of F-4 Phantoms that were already thundering down the runway ahead of him. He looked over his shoulder into the adjacent shelter and saw that the other alert MiG-35 had its canopy up and was surrounded by maintenance technicians. Russian morons! he shouted to himself before ignoring his wingman’s plight.
The alert shelters were located adjacent to the runway, and Hariri didn’t even stop as he taxied onto it. He brought the throttles up to afterburner, and his jet roared over the concrete behind two giant pillars of white-hot fire: a horizontal rocket ship accelerating to flying speed within 2,000 feet. Hariri picked the nose up and rolled right on course, in his single-minded focus to find and kill the enemy.
CHAPTER 66
The strike package leveled off high over a stark desert landscape of erosion-scarred ridges. The predawn light showed deep crags and fissures on every surface. During the planning, Wilson had picked this area for the ingress because it was devoid of surface threats but, as he looked at the dim surface from high above, he thought it the most uninviting terrain he’d ever seen. Harsh. Foreboding. The land below was ugly, and Wilson wanted to minimize his time over it, if for no other reason than to get to the target before the Iranians could mount a threat.