“Hostile aircraft turning!” The Khomeini’s radar operator screamed over the intercom. General Tufayli made a mental note to tell his section chief to brief his men to remain calmer on the intercom—the operator’s voice had gone up at least one octave in the past few minutes as the unidentified attack planes closed in.
“Range sixty kilometers, decreasing slowly, altitude now below two thousand meters.
Heavy jamming detected.”
“They appear to be heading for Bandar Abbas,” Badi observed, “but they could turn in our direction at any moment. No report on what type of weapon they are using.”
“We must assume they have standoff weapons—unless they try a low-altitude suicide bombing run,” Tufayli said. He stared out the observation windows at the Khomeini’s flight deck. “How much longer on the interceptor launch?”
“Just a few minutes, sir.”
“Damn you, Badi, I want air cover up as soon as possible to chase down those attackers! I want those fighters airborne now!”
“Yes, sir,” Badi acknowledged. Badi could do nothing but pick up a phone and tell the air operations commander to speed up the launch.
Tufayli watched as crews raced for the rescue helicopters on deck forward of the island superstructure. The rescue helicopters always launched before the fighters, and took up stations beside and behind the carrier, ready to provide search-and-rescue services in case a fighter had to ditch after takeoff. “If any of those attackers penetrate within fifty kilometers of my battle group, I will execute every last air defense on this ship!”
The first rescue helicopter was just lifting off the deck and taking position on the port-side, ready to rescue any crewmen who might have to eject shortly after takeoff. It had taken more than five minutes to scramble a crew and get a helicopter airborne—that was totally unacceptable, thought Tufayli. He was going to whip this crew into shape first thing in the morning with nonstop drills The general turned from the helicopter deck forward to the short holdback point near the center of the carrier in front of the island superstructure, where a Sukhoi-33 fighter, loaded with two R-73 long-range air-to-air missiles and two R-51 short-range heat-seeking missiles, was readying itself for takeoff. This fighter had a small missile load and a partial fuel load so it could use the shorter 100-meter takeoff run, while another, heavily armed fighter could use the 200-meter run along the port-side of the ship.
Admiral Tufayli was impatient, but he knew that night carrier operations were the most dangerous and the crews were working at their best speed. “Range to those fighters?” he asked. n kilometers. They appear to be attacking the air defense sites at Bandar Abbas.
The GCC fighters had hesitated, Tufayli thought, they’d had second thoughts about attacking the carrier. Two had already paid for the hesitation and had been destroyed by missiles from Bandar Abbas. Soon the rest would be destroyed by Khomeini’s fighters.
Soon the world would know of the power of this Iranian carrier Suddenly a warning horn sounded throughout the ship—the collision-warning klaxon! At the same time, several missile and close-in weapon cannons began firing. “What is it?” Tufayli shouted. “What is going on? Report!”
“Unidentified aircraft, range … range, indeterminate!” a combat officer responded. “They seem to be right on top of us! Multiple contacts all around us! They are everywhere! Heavy jamming reported … sensors are overloaded!” Tufayli and Badi scanned the skies as missiles ripple-fired into the sky and defensive guns roared, but no aircraft could be seen—wait, there! “I see a hit!” Tufayli shouted. “Off the starboard bow … we hit one!”
“No!” Badi shouted over the roar of the erupting defensive systems. “That was our helicopter! We have accidentally shot down our rescue helicopter! Cease fire, damn it! Cease fire!”
It took several seconds for all of the Khomeini’s weapons to stop.
“Get another helicopter airborne immediately,” Tufayli shouted, “and then get those fighters up! And find those enemy aircraft!”
In just a few moments, another Mil-8 helicopter had its rotors turning, and had lifted off from the helo mooring pad aft of the carrier’s superstructure, and a few moments later, two Sukhoi-33 fighters launched from the Khomeini’s ski-jump flight deck.
But then it happened again—suddenly every radio and every radar screen was completely jammed, drowned out by noise, and the threat receivers and radars reported enemy threats all around the carrier group. The battle group’s air defense commander had no choice—he ordered his loaded and ready weapon systems to open fire at the identifiable targets. In just a few moments, the Khomeini, the Zhanjiang, and most of the rest of the larger warships in the battle group had expended most of their ordnance.
“We have lost radio contact with our fighter patrol,” General Badi reported. “His radios have malfunctioned. And the carrier commander feels it is too dangerous to continue flight operations.”
“And Bandar Abbas is under attack as well,” Tufayli said. “Order both fighters to continue their patrol for as long as possible, then recover at Chah Bahar.”
“Yes, sir,” Badi said. Then, stepping closer to his superior officer, he said in a low voice, “Sir, these strange jamming signals and the false targets they have generated have severely reduced our air defense capability. If we came under missile or bomber attack now, we would be highly vulnerable—we are down to less than fifty percent weapon load, and it will take almost an hour to service and reload some of our mounts!”
“So? Get on it, General.”
“I am suggesting, sir,” Badi said, “that perhaps it would be wise to evacuate the Khomeini. The battle group is virtually defenseless right now—no long-range detection, limited short-range detection, dwindling weapons stock, and limited or no fighter coverage. Even shore-based defenses cannot assist us. If this is a prelude to an attack, you have time to escape, perhaps with the prisoners.”
“I will not!” Tufayli retorted. “It will seem as if I am running in the face of an attack!”
“Sir, Chah Bahar can be notified that you are transferring prisoners to the naval security facility there, to begin their interrogation,” Badi suggested, emphasizing the word transferring so that Tufayli would be sure to catch his meaning. “You could see to their transfer personally.”
Tufayli considered the idea once again, then nodded. “See to it, General,” the admiral said. “Get the prisoners ready to transfer—I will see to their interrogation personally.” He clasped Badi on the arm in silent thanks, as his chief of staff hurried to carry out “his” instructions.
Surrounded by armed guards and staff members, Admiral Tufayli was spared the ignominy of looking into the faces of the sailors and Pasdaran troopers he passed as he made his way to the fantail to take the helicopter to Chah Bahar. Already waiting near the fantail was a group of men in ragged, oil-soaked clothing, handcuffed, with black cloth bags over their heads.
Tufayli stepped close to the man at the head of the group of prisoners and said over the roar of warning horns, shouting men, and helicopter rotors: “I see you are being treated well, Colonel White.”
“Why, it’s Admiral Akbar Tufayli,” Paul White said, his moisture-starved voice a hoarse croak. His face was still caked with grease, oil, and salt from the hours he spent in the ocean trying to escape after the Valley Mistress had been sunk. “What’s that I smell, Admiral? Smells like a war going on …”