“Major, I have an ELINT readout that says at least one of those fighters is a Flanker, Russian export version. Islamyah doesn’t have Flankers.” It was Lieutenant Moore back in intel. “Could be Syria or Iran, maybe even Iraq.”
Johnson switched the display on his screen to see how close they were to Kuwaiti airspace. They had leveled off at 3,000 feet over the Gulf immediately south of Khafji, a few minutes from feet dry over Kuwait. As he watched, an icon blipped on the map at Khafji: “SAM: PATRIOT (X).” Now a Patriot missile’s air defense radar was emitting, one of the export versions the U.S. had sold the Saudis. The neighborhood had gone from quiet to chaotic pretty fast. What the hell was going on out there? He called to Troy White at the master radar console.
“Major, its fuckin’ amazing. They — whoever they are, the second group of fighters — splashed one of the first group at range with a Slammer, AIM-120. Shot ’em down! And now they’re all mixing it up. There are a bunch of ALQ-135s jammers fuckin’ up some of the lock-on radars. But Major,” the sergeant said, catching his breath, “one of these guys is still coming at us.”
Two of the Islamyah F-15S Eagles soared to 40,000 feet and hit afterburners, sending them into supersonic flight toward the fleeing Iranian Flanker. Below them, four Eagles and three Flankers had begun firing close-in heat-seeking missiles at one another and using their guns as they banked and rolled, weaving in and out in a confused interlaced dogfight. Then the lead Islamyah Eagle got radar lock-on of the lone Iranian Flanker still heading toward the Gulf. The F-15’s flat screen flashed “Probability of Kilclass="underline" 60 %.” The Islamyah pilot was trained to wait until he was closer, had at least 80 percent, but his fuel light was blinking red. The afterburners had drained what was left of his tank. He flicked back the safety cover over the firing button on his joystick and hit Launch. The Slammer missile shot off the wing, leaving a trail of smoke as it sped toward the Flanker.
Below, on the beach near the Kuwait border, another Islamyah officer was watching the chase and the aerial ballet on a flat screen in a tan camouflaged trailer. He was the commander of a Patriot missile battery that had just set up there the day before. He had a cursor over the icon for the Iranian Flanker as it moved closer to the U.S. AWACS. “Fire two,” he said and almost instantly heard the whoooshh of missiles leaving launchers behind sand berms to his right and left.
In the Iranian Flanker, “Air-to-Air Missile Away” and “Surface Missiles Away” messages were flashing. A horn and a beeper were blaring in the pilot’s ears. His radar lock-on with the AWACS was intermittent. There was intense jamming, and he suddenly had four distinct radar images for the 767. He had no idea which one was real or where the missiles would go if he fired. He punched anyway. A missile left each wing, one heading left and the other banking straight up. He thought he could see the AWACS below and in the distance, through the glare. If he went to afterburners, he could get a gun kill with the Flanker’s cannon….
Standing in the door of the Patriot launch control trailer, Lieutenant Colonel Yousef Izzeldin saw the airburst as the Iranian Flanker exploded into an orange ball and chunks of aircraft were thrown higher and to the side. The colonel was convinced it was his Patriot missiles that had hit the Iranian.
On the American AWACS, Major Johnson sat slack-jawed in front of his screen. He had seen the Islamyah battery fire Patriot missiles and thought he was about to die. Then he’d realized the Patriots were aimed at the lead fighter, which had exploded a second later. The frequencies were being so heavily jammed, it was hard to tell what else was going on. Then he heard Sergeant White in his earphone. “Well, it looks like it’s over. Six aircraft down. Seven, if you count the one the Patriot got. Can you fuckin’ believe it? Does anyone have any fuckin’ idea what that was all about? What the hell was that? Who were all those guys?”
White’s voice was overridden by a high-priority secure voice message from Headquarters, United States Air Force, Air Combat Command, Langley Air Force Base, Virginia: “Quarterback Golf, this is Blue Squire. Can you confirm your CRITIC message: Missile Launch? Over.
“Turn it up, Andy. I want to hear this,” Admiral Adams asked the Reagan’s captain, Andrew Rucker. The captain grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the MSNBC broadcast appearing on the screen. A reporter was standing in front of the large blue-and-white 747 used by the Secretary of Defense:
… an apparently unsuccessful revolt within the Islamyah Air Force, according to a senior Pentagon official on Secretary of Defense Conrad’s aircraft as we flew here to Cairo with him today. The source said several pilots, apparently unhappy with the new regime in Riyadh, seized fighter aircraft and took off, but were chased and shot down by forces loyal to the regime. The senior Pentagon source makes it clear that there is widespread discontent in what used to be called Saudi Arabia and we should expect to see more such revolts in the weeks and months ahead. Barbara Nichols, Cairo.
The news anchor added, “Earlier today an Islamyah government announcement said that several foreign aircraft were shot down after violating the country’s airspace. When we come back, the new diet craze…”
“Bullshit!” Adams spat out. “That’s utter and complete nonsense.”
“Sir?” Captain Rucker asked.
“Look, you read the tactical reports coming off the AWACS, just like I did. It was an ambush and it saved our ass, saved the AWACS. The Islamyah Air Force somehow knew these guys were coming and they were waiting for them. If they hadn’t been there, those bandits woulda shot down the AWACS. Our own limp-dick Air Force couldn’t save its own plane, you saw that.” Adams waved a stack of message traffic printouts at the ship’s captain.
“Yes, sir, but if they weren’t rebel Islamyah pilots, who were those guys?” Rucker asked sheepishly.
“Well, let’s see, they were the new export version of the Flanker, which Iraq does not have. That kinda leaves Iran, doesn’t it?” Adams walked up to the large map of the Gulf on the wall.
“Yeah, but the AWACS or the Global Hawk would have seen them flying across the Gulf, no?” Rucker said, pointing to that section of the relief map.
The admiral moved around Captain Rucker to a point farther down on the map. “Not if they started up here somewhere in Iran and cut across Iraq on the deck below radar coverage. Then bang, they pop up in Islamyah.”
“But why would someone on SECDEF’s plane say…?” Rucker asked with a smile.
Adams just gave him a frown. “Let’s go up to the tower, Andy,” the admiral said, spinning about and heading toward the door.
Several minutes later, the two emerged onto the observation deck ten stories above the flight deck of the Reagan, twenty-five stories above the surface of the water below. “Admiral on deck!” a seaman barked as they entered, and then, “Skipper on deck.” The fleet’s chief intelligence officer, Captain John Hardy, had already found this pleasant perch and was staring out through heavy binoculars when the additional brass appeared.