“Where do you think you’re going?” the doctor demanded. “Back in bed — both of you!”
“Not a chance,” Rat said tartly. She pointed at the overhead. “You hear that? They’re launching everything we’ve got onboard. We’re fine and you know it. And I’m not about to let an aircraft sit on the deck for lack of an aircrew, even if I have to fly with this idiot.”
“Yeah,” Fastball said, not entirely comfortable with agreeing that he was an idiot, but figuring that he’d settle that later with Rat. “We’re out of here, Doc.”
Bernie regarded them for a moment, and saw the determination on both faces. Really, there was no medical reason they couldn’t fly right now, although he would have been far happier keeping an eye on both of them for another couple of days just to be certain. But if there’s one place that you can’t wait around for certainty, it’s on an aircraft carrier.
“Go,” he said finally. “No punching out.”
Rat and Fastball grinned and sprinted out of the sick bay. Five minutes later, after wangling permission from a harried CAG who barely seemed to remember who they were, they were walking to the paraloft to get their gear.
TWENTY-FOUR
Fastball leaned back in his seat for a moment, trying to ease the nervousness that filled his body. He was flying a northeasterly course over the Persian Gulf. His section was at about 10,000 feet. His RIO had been quiet for some time, no doubt setting up her LANTIRN and readying the two huge 2,000 lb.GBU-24 Paveway III laser-guided bombs his bird carried. They were meant for one of the hardened aircraft shelters at the MiG base near Bandar Lengeh.
He adjusted his night-vision goggles. This “strike stuff” was still new to him. He had always been a fan of the Tomcat’s air-to-air prowess and had selected the Tomcat community because of its primary fighter mission. But the events of the last few years, with the addition of the LANTIRN and the shortage of strike aircraft due to downsizing, had forced the Tomcat community to take a lead role in strike warfare. Now, because of its vastly superior FLIR over that carried by the Hornet, the Tomcat was considered the air wing’s preeminent strike platform.
Fastball was damned glad that he had an experienced RIO in his backseat. If Rat was anything, she was a good RIO. She was quiet and difficult to get to know, but she was one of the best RIOs in the squadron. Strike was her bag at the RAG and her specialty at TOPGUN. Some joked that she could find a cigarette on a busy street with her LANTIRN.
Fastball returned his attention to the flight. Glancing to his right, he saw Rat’s FLIR display on his TSD. She was quietly looking over an Iranian oil platform. Probably taking a GPS fix, he told himself. A quick glance outside his cockpit revealed an empty, black sky, tinted only by the greenish cast given by the night-vision goggles.
He reconfigured his display screen and checked his time. He still had a minute-thirty to reach his next way-point — right on time. So far everything checked out. This mission was key to the Jefferson’s ability to obtain air superiority over the Iranian coastal areas. The goal was to hit the air base with a combination of Tomahawk cruise missiles and strike aircraft from Jefferson. The first barrage of cruise missiles would hit the control tower and a few of the smaller structures. Hopefully, the explosions would cause the aircrews and maintenance personnel to rush to ready their MiGs to scramble. The second, albeit smaller, wave of cruise missiles would then hit, exploding their submunitions over the tarmac, tattering planes and men. The Tomcats would then strike the hardened shelters with their 2,000 lb. bunker-busters.
A similar strike was planned for the MiG base near Chah Bahar. If these strikes succeeded, they could well destroy the vast majority of MiG-29s, which would leave Iran with no credible night-capable fighters and give the U.S. air superiority for at least a portion of the day.
“Coming up on way-point four,” Rat said calmly. “Turn left, heading three-three-five. Mark.”
“Copy,” Fastball responded, banking his plane slightly for the turn.
“Start your descent to angels eight.” Rat changed her display. “We are fifty-five miles from the target. Confirm weapons armed.”
“Confirmed.”
“Come to course three-one-five. Feet dry.”
“Knocker’s up” she called, meaning that she was switching her focus from air-to-air to her attack mission.
“Football, Packers, we are blank,” radioed Lieutenant Tom “Lyfa” Riley, one of the F/A-18 Hornet pilots flying SEAD. A “blank” call meant that the suppression of enemy defenses (SEAD) aircraft did not detect any emitters of interest. Riley’s APG-73 radar scanned ahead in ground-mapping mode, his ESM gear listening for the telltale signs of air defense radars that might spring to life.
Fastball steadied his stick and throttle, settling into the designated speed and angle of attack. A blip now appeared on their radar fifty miles to the northeast of their position. A soft chirp also registered on their RWR. The Iranian Tomcats were out again, collecting airborne early warning data. Even though they were flown by considerably less capable pilots than those whom he had fought back in the States, Fastball was glad the Tomcats were staying clear of the fray. The Phoenix was still deadly, even in the hands of a green pilot.
Johnnie checked her radar predictions, comparing her hand-drawn maps against her FLIR picture. She could see the base of a few hills, a small cluster of buildings, and… there! “I’ve got the airport.” Rat’s thin voice interrupted. They were now at thirty miles. She slewed her crosshairs over the second hanger, locked, then sweetened the fix with her thumb switch. “Captured. Designating the northern hangar.” Rat clicked open her tactical mike. “Two captured.”
Three search radars suddenly appeared on Riley’s radar screen just south of the airfield. The Iranians were certain to know that something was en route. May be that’s good, Riley thought. More people would be in the open when the TLAMs hit. And if they were really lucky, some of them would be MiG pilots.
Johnnie checked the flight path against the mask curve on her screen. It looked fine, she thought. Fastball was flying right on course. She gave a quick check of her kneeboard card, which outlined the prebriefed release point, then depressed the hand-controller trigger, beginning the illumination. Unlike the smaller GBU-series bombs, the GBU-24’s release point had yet to be programed into the Tomcat’s computers, with the end result being that the bombs had to be released manually, based on visual and geographic cues. Johnnie began her range countdown, “three… two… one… pickle!”
Fastball triggered the first, then, on cue, the second GBU-24. The two bombs dropped from the Tomcat’s undercarriage with a noticeable thump, then deployed their glide wings.
Morrow angled his fighter away from the target to his left, giving the LANTIRN’s laser-designator its maximum unmasked field-of-view. Both crew members watched the display for a moment, seeing the men on the tarmac around the hanger scrambling about in reaction to the TLAM strikes. The brightness of the flash on their NVGs made them squint.
Johnnie had just switched back to air-to-air and was about to call the Hawkeye for a “picture” when a sharp deedle deedle deedle rang out over the RWR gear. Her eyes darted to her circular RWR display. “SAM launch. One o’clock. SA-2.”