It is time. Lead us now, my God. Show me the way. I am so unworthy, yet I am all that there is. Guide me, that I might unite your nations into one powerful force, capable of showing the world the glory of our faith. Guide me, and show your face to us that all might come to your will.
Wadi lay facedown on the desert until he felt the still, cool peace descend over him. Then he rose, renewed, and headed back to the compound. He had work to do.
SIX
Lieutenant Brad “Fastball” Morrow slid the dual throttles of his F-14D back into idle, allowing his bird to slow as he turned into the northeastern leg of his combat air patrol (CAP). Morrow and his lead, Bird Dog, were flying a counter-rotating CAP along the northeastern threat axis toward Iran. Four such CAPs were stationed around Jefferson’s Battle Group; two consisted of F/A- 18s and two of F-14Ds. CAG would have used all Tomcats but for the fact that there were only ten available, and he needed the Tomcats for their LANTIRN and TARPS capabilities.
Fastball had joined the squadron just a few weeks prior to cruise and was still a “nugget.” The first thing anyone had learned about him was that he was a San Diego Padres fan — in fact, fan was too mild a word. If ever the beleagured team from southern California had had the perfect fan, it was in him. Fastball had a baseball shirt with Tony Gwinn’s number on it, and he could cite statistics and details of every game for the last ten years. He had compared flying the Tomcat to throwing the perfect fastball and the name had stuck. It was only with great difficulty that his squadron mates convinced him that playing baseball on the flight deck would not only result in a dinged aircraft and dangerous conditions, but that they would lose more balls over the side than could easily be replaced.
Fastball had been crushed. Somehow, he had gotten it in his head that it would be possible to form a battle group league and have teams from each ship ferried over to the carrier for games. No one had been able to convince him that as impossible as it was to play baseball on the flight deck, the smaller ships faced even more serious limitations.
Morrow checked the radar picture on his Tactical Situation Display (TSD), then clicked his mike. “What do you make of this, Rat?” he asked his RIO over the ICS.
Lieutenant Johnnie Davis had been watching several groups of aircraft forming up just about ten miles off the coast of Iran. The E-2C had told her of three separate groups: one group of four MiG-29 Fulcrums from Bandar Lengeh, and eight Su-24 Fencer-Ds from Chah Bahar. Four F-5E Tiger IIs were also airborne near Kish Island and circling. Two Iranian F-14As were circling far to the east, over Iran, probably providing AEW for the pending strike with their AWG-9 radar, she thought. The Iranian F-14s were already registering a feint return on her Radar Warning Receiver (RWR).
“I don’t know, Fastball. They did the same thing this morning, too, but then broke off at the last minute. It may be a feint to draw us in closer to their SAM range. They’ve got SA-2s all along the coast.” Rat focused on her Tactical Information Display, also called TIDs. She had selected the Link-16 data link, which fed radar information directly to her display from the E-2C via the JTIDS. The link tracks appeared as a small upside-down “Us” for friendlies and a upside-down “Vs” for hostile.
She then noticed the group had joined and had turned toward the picket destroyer, Algonquin. Jefferson had a smaller air wing (CVW-14) than normal, due to downsizing — about seventy aircraft. Also with the CVBG were two Middle East Task Force destroyers, HMS Liverpool (Sheffield-class) and the Canadian destroyer Algonquin.
CAP station two miles west of Tomcat 109
“Hammer, King, picture. Two groups, southeast Chicago, twenty miles,” came a monotone voice over the tactical comm. “Suspect second group are strikers. Both groups hostile, repeat, both groups hostile. Recommend commit.” The call was from the E-2C Hawkeye II airborne early warning aircraft circling near Jefferson. The Hawkeye II’s sophisticated APS-145 radar allowed it to see out some 300 miles over the horizon, spotting both air and surface threats. “Chicago” was the brevity code word for the Iranian airbase at Kish Island and served as a fixed reference point for all friendlies. The distance and direction was from that reference point.
“Hammer One, contact, your call,” Music responded. “Hammers committing.” Music checked his scope. “That’s it, Bird Dog. Let’s get ’em.”
“Hammers, committing bandits, southeast Chicago thirty miles. I’ve got four MiGs in-bound leading the strikers.” Music quickly sorted through the contacts with his powerful APG-71 radar confirming their formation, then called out a short target modification to the preflight brief. “Hammer Two, target trail group.”
“Two,” Rat acknowledged. She began to set up her shot, slewing the cursor over the lead Fencer-D of her group. Her Tomcat’s radar scanned ahead of her in Track-While-Scan mode, watching all of the in-bounds. “Just like we briefed, Fastball. Just like we briefed.”
“Don’t worry, Rat. I’ve got it under control.” Fastball jammed his throttles into full burner. The kick of the mighty F110s bumped her in the butt. She looked up from her TIDs for a moment considering Fastball’s comment. This new pilot’s arrogance was getting old fast. And Johnnie, as a rather diminutive female in what was still a man’s career, knew all too well what it was like to be on the receiving end of an attitude. But her demeanor usually kept her from acting on it. She didn’t expect to be treated special, but she was his senior, and she had two cruises under her belt. Plus, she was fresh from TOPGUN, which meant she knew a hell of a lot more of tactics than some “fresh-from-the-RAG” nugget. “Just watch the gas. Rats don’t swim well,” she finally replied.
Bird Dog swung his Tomcat southeasterly, separating from his wing. As he leveled, he glanced left, noticing that Fastball was well ahead of where he should be and speeding toward the Fulcrums.
“What’s that kid doing, Music?” Bird Dog hollered over the ICS. While he had only flown with the new kids on three occasions, he could already see himself a few years earlier — young, cocky, fully of overconfidence. And perhaps about to learn a few lessons. There’s one thing about rising in the ranks, Bird Dog thought. You see life come full circle.
Rat finished her Phoenix firing solution on the two Fencers. “Fastball, your dot,” she said, meaning that the shot was set up and ready to launch.
“Why aren’t we getting the MiGs, Rat? This doesn’t make any sense. We kill them and we can play with the Fencers all day.”
“Leave the strategy to Bird Dog. Just fire the damned missile.”
“But…”
“Fire the missile.”
“Fox Three on lead MiG, 20,000 feet, south group,” he finally called the shot, then watched as it soared ahead and climbed to its attack altitude. Although a Mach 5 missile, much of the Phoenix’s punch came from its death dive toward its target, rather than its engine thrust. The missile was “fire and forget,” which meant that, unlike the Sparrow, several Phoenix could be simultaneously targeted and launched without waiting for each missile to hit its target.