The confused predawn sky over Yaz Kernoum was dotted with black clouds of AAA fire, SAM plumes arcing here and there, and laser-guided bombs enroute to their aimpoints. Waves of RF energy filled the air performing diverse tasks in the service of each adversary. The cockpits were populated by highly trained professionals in their 20’s and 30’s, their minds trying to grasp what they saw and heard, identifying who made terse, nervous radio transmissions to build a mental picture for themselves and their wingmen. The men struggled to maintain as much situational awareness as they could while maneuvering hard in three dimensions to survive and guide their weapons to impact. It was the culmination of years of training from habitual drill to replicating this type of power projection strike in a permissive environment, and in the low morning light over the central desert of Iran, the intensity of this mission was the most they had ever experienced.
Wilson picked up “his” missile, but it was drifting aft on his canopy and going ballistic as he pulled back to the target. He rolled out to unmask his FLIR and reacquire the aimpoint. His mind absorbed a transmission from Thor—the northern group was 20 miles away — as he found the middle building and held the aiming diamond on it, while taking peeks at his wingmen who were also heads-down in their cockpits. He heard a “Fox-3” call and looked right to see Sledge 23 and 24 launch AMRAAMs at the lead bandit group. Slender fingers of white smoke produced by the bright “lights” of the missile rocket motors moved away from the fighters at high speed and began a graceful climb to intercept the enemy aircraft the Americans could only see with their radars.
Ten seconds till impact. Wilson corrected some aiming diamond drift with a deft slew to the middle of the building. His ears picked up the voice calls of his wingmen and the deedles from his RWR, but they did not register now, lost as he was in the concentration needed to hold his aiming diamond on target. The seconds counted down and the FLIR view shifted as the Hornets flew over the target, the countdown always too slow for the impatient aviators who just wanted to get out of Indian Country as soon as they could.
On the FLIR he saw his bombs, two white dashes, enter the screen and hit the building, the infrared image turning white from heat and smoke generated from the impact. Selecting WIDE, he saw Weeds’ bombs explode on his aiming point with two concentric shock waves flying out from the middle of his target. Returning to NARROW, Wilson noticed a strong surface wind had blown away most of the smoke, and he could now see that a majority of his building was destroyed. A steady flame, resembling a blowtorch, shot from the target.
“Anvil’s Miller Time!” Wilson broadcast on the radio. He overbanked left to begin their direct route to the Gulf.
“Sledge two-one and two-two clear, visual on Anvil.”
“Sledge two-three, timeout on the lead bandit. Tally smoke! Splash one!”
“Sledge two-four, timeout on the trailer. Tally ho! Splash two! Visual, six clear!”
In the northern twilight the pilots saw two black puffs with fiery trails falling to the desert floor. Two down.
“Sledge two-three, flight visual, six clear, egressing.”
Having dispatched the lead group of bandits, their type still unknown to the Americans, Sledge 23 and 24 jinked through the target area to join the lead section who were now trailing the Anvils—with all aircraft heading southwest, the shortest direction to the coast. On the surface, the muzzle flashes of over a dozen guns sent familiar arcs of deadly tracers skyward. Though the AAA was heavy, it was ineffective, and the SAMs were still lifting off their rails. With the extent of the defenses, they now had no doubt this area was more than just a cement plant next to a rural village.
Wilson’s RWR lit off again. A SAM was tracking him from his 8 o’clock, and he picked it up visually. Breaking into it, he bunted the nose — and saw the missile mimic his move. Oh shit!
“Anvil one-one spiked, defending!”
Straining to keep sight of the missile against the dawn sky, Wilson bunted the nose again to pick up knots, and realized that he was surrounded by AAA puffs. He lit the burner and jinked into the missile, this one tracking his movements, watching it draw near from above the horizon, waiting for the right time… Damn, it’s fast! Now!
Wilson rolled and pulled into it, crushed by instantaneous g that made it difficult to keep sight. Trailing a residual plume, the missile flew underneath him. He flinched when it exploded close to his jet with a sharp BOOM heard through the Plexiglas canopy, the warhead making a blooming circle of flame and frag.
“You okay?” Weed called with concern.
Wilson rolled through the horizon and was relieved that he saw no cautions in the cockpit.
“Yeah, can you bug southwest?”
“Affirm, I’m at your right five, comin’ to four.”
“Visual, six clear. Let’s bug two-three-zero,” Wilson directed.
The strike package was now sprinting southwest to the coast and safety, leaving the heavily defended caldron of Yaz Kernoum behind, columns of smoke from burning aimpoints rising into the sky. The Tron escort was off a few miles to the northwest, prosecuting the western group of bandits, acting as a blocking force for the rest of the package. After defending from the SAM, the two Raven department heads were now supersonic, several miles behind the others, as they all ran to the safety of the Gulf.
Wilson noticed a contact on his radar inside 10 miles, crossing left to right. Alarmed, he locked it, and soon identified it as the Tron EA-6B, alone, and going in the wrong direction.
“Tron five-one, Anvil one-one is at your right two o’clock long. Bring it southwest!”
“Tron five-one, roger,” the Prowler answered, immediately turning southwest. The AWACS controller then called to inform them of a new threat.
“Thor, new group, bullseye, three-four-zero, fifteen, medium, heading one-eight-zero.”
From this call, Wilson knew the bandits were nearby and probably gaining. “Thor, Anvils on the egress. BRA from Anvil one-one. Declare!”
“Standby, Anvil… Anvil, Thor, hostile BRA zero-one-zero at twenty-three, medium, hot.”
“Heading?”
“Two-zero-zero.”
With his arm locked against the throttle stops and the airframe moaning from the supersonic airspeed, Wilson did some mental calculations. The Iranians were 20 miles aft and on an intercept course, with the Gulf sanctuary over 50 miles away. However, the Tron EA-6B was up ahead with Wilson and his roommate set to pass them soon. A heading change would buy a bit of time.
“Tron five-one, check left twenty! Gate—everything you’ve got! Unload for knots!”
“Five-one, roger!” Wilson saw the Prowler bank left a few miles ahead.
“Thor, picture. Tron five-two, hostile BRA, three-one-zero at twenty-five, medium, hot.”
“Tron five-two, sorted left.”
“Five-three sorted right!”