The anger Waters felt did not match the calm in his voice. “Jack, I’ve got a job for you. How’s Thunder with the Pave Spike?”
Jack was puzzled by Waters’ reference to the laser illuminator. The accuracy of the system was phenomenal but the aircraft carrying the laser pod had to orbit while the wizzo kept the laser’s beam centered on the target until another aircraft could toss a “smart bomb” that would home on the reflected energy. The target had to be relatively undefended for them to hang around that long. “Good, but I imagine he’s rusty. Anyway, I think those ships are too heavily defended—”
Waters shook his head. “I want you to illuminate that trawler while Bull tosses a bomb into the basket. We’re going to sink that son of a bitch. Without an air cover you shouldn’t have trouble.”
“But why, Colonel? That trawler isn’t going to help them now and it’s a noncombatant.”
“It became a combatant when it pulled C.J. and Stan out of the water and turned them over to a PSI patrol boat. The PSI executed them on the spot. I’m going to return the favor.”
Jack set up a standard pylon turn around the slow-moving trawler, feeling naked, while Thunder illuminated the target. His back seater’s crisp voice came over the radio signaling that he had a lock on and clearing Bull to toss his bomb. Bull Morgan’s precision was legendary, but without some type of smart bomb, hitting the trawler would have been more luck than skill. Jack watched, fascinated, as the two thousand-pound bomb separated from under Morgan’s F-4 and arced downward toward the trawler, and then as it picked up the reflected laser energy and refined its trajectory it showed a series of little jerks and wobbles as it fell toward the trawler. It impacted three feet from the point that Thunder had laid the crosshairs on and penetrated to the keel before its delayed-time fuse activated, and it exploded. The ship buckled upward, splitting in two and sinking a half-minute later. Jack broke out of orbit and headed for base.
It was twilight when Jack taxied in and swung the Phantom around on the concrete apron in front of the bunker, pointing its tail into the waiting cavern. As soon as he dropped F-4’s arresting hook, one of the waiting crew chiefs connected a tow cable to pull it inside while the other attached a steering bar to the nose gear and signaled for power to the winch, which guided the Phantom into its nest. Since 512’s bunker did not have in-bunker refueling, a fuel truck was waiting for them, hose outstretched and ready. Before Jack or Thunder could climb down, refueling was underway and a dolly had been wheeled under the Pave Spiker laser pod for downloading. A maintenance stand had been pushed up against the tail and a fresh drag-chute was being jammed into its compartment in the empennage. The gun-plumbers pushed a munitions dolly with three Mavericks already hung on a LAU-88 launcher under each wing for upload… The phone in the bunker rang. Jack and Thunder were wanted in the command post.
“The C-130 will be taking off on its fifth shuttle in a few minutes and will be back in two hours from Dhahran,” Waters told the assembled men in the command post. “I want a hundred bodies on board every time it takes off. Have your people ready to go. We should have a second C-130 shuttling in around 2100. We’ll pick the pace up then and should be able to move two hundred people out every two hours. Okay, that’s it. Get back to your troops, tell them what’s going down and make it happen.”
“Jack, Thunder,” Waters called, motioning them to follow him, and the three walked over to the COIC, where they found thirty-six aircrews waiting and eager for their chance to be assigned to a mission. Having an extra crew for every two aircraft should now pay off, Waters figured… the fifty-one mission-capable aircraft the 45th possessed were standing loaded and ready to go, but many of the crews had already flown two combat missions and all were dog tired. A fresh and welcome team was about to be rotated into the fight.
Waters got right to the point: “The ships coming toward us are about halfway here. We’re going after them with twenty birds as soon as it’s dark. You’ll be using Mavericks so you can stand off, launch and leave. The four Weasels we’ve got left will go in with you and try to suppress their air defenses. Intel says they’ve got shipboard SAMs and Triple A. Your job isn’t to sink them but to get them turned away. As long as they keep coming, we keep hitting them. The other twelve crews are CAP, but they’ll sit alert in the bunkers. Any MiGs supporting those ships will have to come to us now. Our GCI will give us warning to scramble on them. Captain Locke will help you plan and coordinate the attack. That’s it. Any questions?”
There was none, except from Jack: “Sir, can I fly this one?”
“No, you’ve flown once. You’ll get another chance. For now I want you to hang around while these crews brief; you should be able to help. Then get some rest, it’s going to be a long night.”
Evening twilight had ended and the quarter-moon would not rise until two in the morning, creating the conditions Waters wanted: use darkness as a cover and at the same time catch the ships away from any coverage the MiGs might give them. Experience told him that Weasel operations forced the PSI missileers to shut their radars off and rely on visual sightings to track and fire, a bad nighttime tactic. Now, at 8:30 P.M., the big blast doors on thirty-six bunkers swung open and twenty-four Phantoms cranked engines. The other twelve crews sat in their cockpits, waiting for a scramble order on any MiGs that might challenge them.
The Weasels taxied out, the first pair turning onto the active runway, setting their brakes, the caged power of the J-79 engines driving the nose of each bird down, and rolling at the first green wink from the tower. In less than two minutes twenty-two aircraft followed them into the night sky.
Jack returned to the Command Post, joining Waters in what seemed an interminable waiting game. Both knew the risks without talking about them… The enemy ships mounted SA-N-5, a naval version of the Strela, nasty little missiles, and Intel had established that there were SA-8s and 9s on the decks. But who knew how many Triple A or Strelas they had to throw at the 45th? It was going to be tough, no question…
The Phantoms’ pilots didn’t have time for such thoughts as they skimmed the surface, eating up the sixty-five miles to the oncoming fleet. None had any illusions about getting onto the ships undetected and all hoped the eight minutes flying time would be too short a reaction time for the ships to bring up their defenses. Three minutes out, the bear in the lead Weasel reported he was picking up a signal. “Probably an SA-8,” he told his pilot. He studied his radar for a moment. “I’m painting a lot of small craft in front of the big stuff.” The pilot started doing easy jinks back and forth, which at their speed should, he figured, defeat Strelas, the small shoulder-held SAM that might be fired at them from a small boat.
The Ukrainian on the Shershen-class torpedo boat leading the fleet pressed his headset to his ears, listening to the constant flow of information being radioed by the Sirri, the Alligator-class landing ship that served as the fleet’s flagship. The Soviets had given the PSI the Alexander Tortsev, a four-thousand-ton amphibious assault vessel, and the PSI had renamed it the Sirri, following the Iranian practice of naming assault vessels after islands in the Gulf. Its main cargo deck was loaded with eighteen T-62 tanks and ten BTR-40P scout cars, all capable of wading ashore.
The radar on the Sirri had picked up the fast-moving attackers and was sending out warnings. When he was sure of the incoming track of the Phantoms, the Ukrainian picked up the small heat-seeking missile and waited. He caught a glimpse of the bird moving toward him at over 500 miles per hour. The man barely had time to swing the shoulder-held missile into the path of the F-4 and pull the trigger. He had time, however, to watch with satisfaction as the U.S.-made Stinger homed on the Phantom’s tailpipe, scoring a direct hit. A small explosion then engulfed the rear-half of the Phantom as it tumbled into the water. The Ukrainian silently thanked his Iranian allies and was pleased to know they had more Stingers.