Data received from the AWACS radar plane orbiting over Saudi Arabia was transmitted via wireless datalink to the Valley Mistress, then to a receiver carried by the Stinger launcher crew, and presented on the tiny screen so that the launcher crewman could aim his Stinger system in total darkness.
When the electronic image of the fighter was centered in the screen, the launcher crewman first hit a button on the right hand grip, which fired a radio interrogation signal at the fighter. A friendly plane would have responded to the radio signal—this one did not. “IFF negative! Clear me to shoot!”
“Clear to shoot!” White shouted. Again, the Stinger crew fired.
The missile disappeared from view into the darkness … but far out on the horizon, they saw a bright flash of light and a stream of fire—another hit.
But there was no celebrating their victory. Everyone knew there were at least nineteen more fast-movers and six more fling-wings out there based on the aircraft carrier Khomeini, plus hundreds more based in Iran just a few hundred miles away, that could quickly send the Valley Mistress to the bottom of the Persian Gulf. Their little counterattack merely bought them a few precious minutes, perhaps a little hesitation or over-caution in the minds of the Iranian attackers, perhaps a mile or two closer to the Omani coast, where the Iranians might not pursue. But the fight was still on ABOARD THE KHOMEINI “Contact lost with Patrol Three!” the radar operator shouted on the intercom. He began reading off last position, altitude, and airspeed, which would be relayed to rescue forces. “Lost contact with attack two as well!”
“What in hell happened?” Admiral Tufayli shouted. “Did the pilot crash? Get me a report!”
“Message from scout helicopter, just before contact was lost,” General Badi interjected. “The pilot reported that a missile was fired from the deck of the American salvage ship shortly after they fired their warning shots.”
“Missiles? That American ship fired missiles?” Tufayli shouted.
“I want that damned ship on the bottom of the Gulf of Oman now!”
“The American vessel appears to be still under way. It is crossing into Omani territorial waters, now five kilometers offshore and less than twenty kilometers northeast of Ras Haffah, heading southwest at twenty knots. The pilot of Attack Two said he had contact on the target, but apparently he struck a decoy.”
“Decoys … antiaircraft missiles … this is no damned salvage ship, and it’s no spy ship, either—it is an American warship, and they have declared war with Iran and with my battle group!”
Tufayli shouted.
“Sir, Strike Unit Nine is ready for launch,” General Badi said.
Tufayli looked outside his flight deck windows and saw the long double tongues of flame erupting from the holdback spot, as the Sukhoi-33 fighter-bomber activated its afterburners. A second later, the fighter began to roll down the long flight deck, uncomfortably slow at first but rapidly picking up speed. The afterburner flames described a bright yellow arc through the sky as the fighter leapt off the ski jump, sank toward the water, slowly leveled off, then accelerated with a smooth, shallow ascent into the sky. Passing 200 meters’ altitude, the afterburner flames disappeared. “What are your instructions, sir?”
“Destroy that ship!” Tufayli screamed. “Destroy it “But, sir, the vessel is in Omani waters now,” Badi said. “It is within sight of land, and there are many small villages near.
“I do not care how many people will see this—I want that American warship destroyed!” Tufayli cried. “Divert another fighter with anti-ship weapons to follow if the second pilot fails as well, then rearm another fighter for anti-ship operations, and do it now!” Badi could do or say nothing else.
ABOARD THE S.S. VALLEY MISTRESS The first two lifeboats were loaded up with technicians from Sky Masters, crowded shoulder to shoulder in three rows of ten men in each boat. They had just been lowered to the water and were beginning to motor toward the UAE shoreline when the intercom blared, “Incoming aircraft bearing zero-three-zero, speed six hundred knots, range thirty-six miles and closing!”
“Go! Fast as you can!” White shouted to the crew of the second lifeboat as they finally detached from the lowering cables and started the lifeboat’s engine. A third lifeboat was being loaded with the rest of the civilian contractors plus the non-essential seamen—only a handful of seamen, the ten officers, and the thirty members of Madcap Magician remained aboard the Valley Mistress.
“Lower lifeboat!” White shouted. “Head for shore and don’t stop!” He keyed his intercom mike: “CM, release floater! Stinger crews, stand by!”
When White returned to the helicopter landing pad, the members of the crew assigned to the countermeasures crew were assembled there, waiting for him. He was shocked to see Jon Masters standing With them. “Masters, what in hell are you doing here? I ordered you to go in the third lifeboat.”
“They needed some help with the signal generator on the floater,” Masters replied. “It’s fixed.”
“That was the last floater, right?” White asked. He got a nod in reply. “Take lifeboat four and head for shore. Jon, bridge, crew, engineering, you go with them.”
“Lifeboat four is the last one,” Masters said. “You won’t have a boat.”
“We’re not leaving without the rest of you,” Master Sergeant Steven Cromwell, the senior member of the twenty-four-man Marine platoon attached to Madcap Magician, said sternly. “Our job is to protect the ISA technical group. We don’t split up and we don’t leave anyone behind.”
“If you all get captured by the fucking Iranians, we’ll all be in deep shit, Sergeant.”
“You said it yourself, Colonel,” Cromwell said. “‘Deep Shit’ is our middle name. We’re not leaving. We’ll man an extra Stinger crew if you want one.”
“What I want is a Stinger crew in lifeboat four to trail the others and provide air cover in case an Iranian helicopter tries to pursue,” White said. “Grab four men and as many tubes as you can carry and head toward the others. You’ll have a datalink as long as the ship is still operational—if you lose the datalink, you’ll just have to guide by hearing. Get going, Steve.” He looked at Jon Masters, then at Cromwell, and said, “Take Dr. Masters with you.”
“I’ll stay here if it’s all the same.”
“It is not,” White said. “Sergeant, your responsibility now is the safety of the disembarked crew and the civilians. You are to deliver all the members of the ship’s crew and the civilian contractors, including Dr. Masters here, safely to the U.S. embassy in Dubai or Abu Dhabi, or any friendly agency or military unit, to ensure the safe delivery of these men back to the United States. You are to take any and all steps necessary to ensure their safety and the security of the ISA cell. Is that clear?”
Cromwell appeared as if he were going to make another argument for staying, but he knew White was right. Most of the ISA cell members were going to be on shore, and White had four Marines to help him here. “Yes, sir,” Cromwell responded. He turned to the Stinger crew members and said, “Sergeant Reynard, you’re in charge of this detachment.” The young Stinger crewman acknowledged the order, and Cromwell saluted White and departed with his men.
Masters still hesitated: “Hey, Paul “Get moving, Doc. I want you on that lifeboat.”
“Why don’t you come with us?” Masters asked. “Can’t leave the ship,” White replied. “But if the Iranians get … you know, if they attack..