Chief Clark breathed a sigh of relief. He turned to tell the captain, only to find he was already standing behind him. There was a light of approval in the man’s eyes that did not show in his voice. “Excellent work. Tell Apple.” Saying no more, the captain picked up the tactical mike. “Jefferson, this is Lake Champlain. All systems online, standing by for orders.”
Wadi looked at the assembled pilots. They were the cream of the crop, the best that Iran had to offer. “I will lead the flight myself,” he said. “And now, let us go. It is time for us to retake our rightful place in the world.”
With a loud cheer, the pilots broke formation and raced to their aircraft. As their last duties, the Russians had been required to fuel the aircraft and have them ready for launch. After a quick preflight, the pilots scrambled up boarding ladders, assisted by plane captains, and strapped themselves in.
Rat studied the picture developing on her F-14’s TIDs and didn’t like what she was seeing at alclass="underline" three large groups of blips inching their way toward the carrier battle group from Iraq. One of the early warning E-2C Hawkeyes had detected a flight of twelve Tu-22M Backfire-B bombers approaching at a range of 350 miles.
The Backfire was a Russian-built swing-wing bomber capable of carrying two AS-4 air-to-surface missiles. The AS-4, code-named “Kitchen” in NATO nomenclature, yielded a 2,205 pound warhead and had a maximum range of 450 miles, which meant it was already within range of striking Jefferson. Another group was forming over Iran while a third was taking shape over the U.A.E.
“Looks like they’re heading straight for the Jefferson Rat,” Fastball said to his RIO over the ICS as he glanced at his own TSD display. This was the strike that Intel had been predicting. The all-out attempt to get Jefferson before it could escape the Gulf. “See any fighters?”
“Negative on that.” Rat switched her radar from Range-While-Scan mode to Track-While-Scan and guided her targeting brackets to the lead Tu-22M. After hooking, then designating it, she allotted the remainder of her Phoenix missiles. The plan called for the three division wings to target the bomber formations, while the lead, flown by Lobo would hold her Phoenix in reserve in case any of the bombers launched on Jefferson.
“Fastball,” Davis said. “I’ve targeted the lead elements of the eastern group. They’re at one hundred miles and closing. It’s your dot.”
Morrow watched the flight of Backfires on his Tomcat’s Television Camera System (TCS) with great concern. The TCS, mounted under the Tomcat’s nose, provided passive target acquisition and identification at ranges far beyond the naked eye. At this range, they were nothing more than a small dot. But given the distance, Morrow was sure that what he was seeing was an enemy bomber of some sort.
“Roger, Rat. Let’s go to work.”
“Viper One, Two, we are Fox Three on the eastern lead. Fox Three!” Fastball triggered each of the Tomcat’s four AIM-54Cs then watched as each darted into the distance after their targets.
“Roger, Three’s Fox Three on the main group.”
“Four’s got the western group.”
“Tracking,” she said, watching the missiles on her TID. “Going active…” She counted softly to herself then out loud. “Contact in six… five… four… three… two… one… Shit hot! Splash one!” she hollered as the first Phoenix hit its mark. Then the second, then the third. “Damn it! One missed!”
“Red Crown, Viper Two, splash three bandits. Repeat, splash three bandits.” The other two Tomcats called similar hits. Now only six Backfires remained. Too many for Lobo’s load of Phoenix. The rest would have to be handled by Chancellorville’s Aegis system.
Bird Dog relaxed his grip on his control stick and steadied his throttles as his Tomcat rolled wings level. A second Tomcat took up position off his port wing, in a combat spread, with two F/A-18 Hornets flying two miles to his southeast. The two sections were part of an eight-plane Combat Air Patrol orbiting to the southeast of Jefferson and about sixty miles due west of the Straits of Hormuz. Tonight, under the cover of darkness, Jefferson and her battle group would make their run to break out of the Gulf.
But there were still two hours until nightfall. Intel had warned of a probable attack and the activity up north seemed to already confirm this as more than simply a “probable.” Bird Dog looked out his side window at the Gulf shores that surrounded him. Right now, he thought, darkness sounds better than a date with Lobo. Skirmishing with the ill-trained Iranian and Iraqi Air Forces was one thing, but to be trapped in the Gulf and limited in number of available fighters was another story altogether.
Music stopped his weapons status review when he saw a faint return at the edge of his scope. Adjusting his APG-71 radar to reach out to eighty miles, he waited a moment, then switched into Track-While-Scan mode. “Bird Dog, I’m picking up something. Looks like two heavy groups. Crossing the coastline… now. Heading for us at four hundred knots.”
“We were expecting something to happen.” Fastball reconfigured his TSD to reproduce Music’s radar scope, studying it for a moment. The two groups were attack aircraft headed for the Jefferson: one of MiG-23 Floggers and the second of the older, less-capable Su-22 Fitters. Neither were a match for Hornets or Tomcats, and that worried Bird Dog. There must be some fighters somewhere? But where?
“Dixie Flight, hold your course,” Music called. “We’re swinging right to get more separation.”
“Copy your call.”
“Fastball, we have a problem,” Rat called over the ICS, her voice picking up in pace with excitement. “I’ve got a new group of contacts, fast movers. Three-three-seven, seventy-five miles at angels ten, five hundred knots. Heading one-five-seven,” Johnnie called using the F-14 community’s bearing, range, altitude, speed, and heading, BRASH brevity code.
“Must be the fighter cover,” Morrow cursed. “Is there any backup? Radio the—”
Johnnie interrupted. “I’ve got a launch… multiple launches from the Backfires! Mother Goose, Viper Two,” she called the Jefferson by her call-sign. “Missile launch! We have incoming missiles at home plate. Request backup be dispatched at once. We have fighter escorts—”
A sharp deedle deedle deedle rang over her headset as a yellow light labeled LOCK flashed, signifying that radar somewhere had locked onto their aircraft.
“Where’s it at, Rat? Where’s it at?” Morrow’s head wrenched from side to side until he saw the two light gray shapes of MiG-29s Fulcrums closing on his rear. “Bandits! Bandits! Bandits! At our seven.”
“Got ’em, Fastball. Come left. Come left.”
Morrow pushed his stick hard to port and sliced the nose down trying to pick up speed. The two MiGs hung in tight formation angling toward the Tomcat.
“One, Two has bandits on our six. Get over here, fast!” she screamed at her lead. But Lobo and her RIO were still a mile and a half to the east.
“Roger, Rat, visual. We’re on him in ten seconds,” answered Lobo’s RIO.
Morrow shoved his throttles to the stops and held his turn as Rat glued her eyes on the fast-approaching MiGs. One of the MiGs started to climb while the second held a tight fix on her Tomcat.